Virgil

The Vestiges Of Krolm

(Make sure to edit your post if you need to tack on an additional comment - makes it easier to read and less traffic-throttling)

Hmmm...well, I can see that going in one of three directions:

1. He's a shaman/shaman's apprentice that particularly loves battle (despite the usual wisdom of shamans) - perhaps he feels he'd put his "skills" to better use against the enemy than his friends.

2. He's a warrior with some small, random level of talent in conjuring; He uses these random outbursts of unexpected power (spitting acid, scalding people with his hand, sneezing fire, et-cetera) to compliment a serious lack of combat skill...and/or to supplement a weaker physique (perhaps he unknowingly has a tape-worm and can never seem to get enough food to build up a good amount of muscle).

3. He's the child of a Ranaruun slave, a byproduct of those brought with certain clans during their exodus, those made to serve as generational stewards and lackeys to powerful members within these "families." Having been brought up among the Iron Elks, he considers himself an Ulgothen, and seeks to prove his loyalty (and perhaps earn his freedom) by tapping into the power of his particular genetic disposition. Also, his master(s) may or may not be attempting to get rid of a potential risk by simply chucking him into the first battle available - even barbarians are somewhat wary of the dangers of an enraged or underappreciated magic-user.

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@Shadow Dragon

(>_>) - "It's not a phase!" (...he says while unknowingly melting into the wall.)

Anyway, I'll get on to working up the introductory post - the clans make camp atop Krolm's Anvil after a weary march, preparing for the traditional bloodshed to come in the morning.

(...and there isn't a way to delete posts, sadly - so be careful in how you execute them!)

The Vestiges Of Krolm

@Shadow Dragon
Hey there Shadow - magic is quite rare in this universe, mainly performed by Gods and other powerful humans (because what's a powerful sorcerer/shaman if not a God yet to have staked a claim in the world?). In the societies of the Ulgothe Mountains, shamans are generally the only ones performing it at a consistent and perhaps even moderately powerful rate - but it is possible to have, say...a warrior capable of coating his middle-finger in flames and singeing an enemy with it when they least expect it (barbarians aren't known for much outside of their reverence for nature and prowess in battle). The main bad guys of our story (the people of Ranaruun) are somewhat more adept, but a powerful mage is still a rarity in their society; You'll definitely be fighting one at some point, and it will (probably) end in the quick death of anyone dumb enough to rush them head-on, but other than that magic is generally weak, enigmatic, and often far more dangerous to the user than their victims. As we'll see later on in the RP, even Gods don't have a tendency to cast particularly powerful magic on a common basis - because of course, anyone wise enough to make it to that point would immediately recognize the aftermath associated with the use of such power.

The setting itself is more Classical period, with the barbarians being based on the Gauls that fought the ancient Romans; In fact, the Ranaruun will be kind of like the Early Republic - they're a growing power with some strong potential, but're still learning their stride amidst the chaos of war and politics.

So in short, it's less Sword & Sorcery and more Rip & Tear.

The Vestiges Of Krolm

The Laughing Captain

War Captain Yullar "Laxtongue":

Age: 28
Height: 5'3"
Build: Stout & Pot-Bellied - Strong Upperbody Muscle.
Skin: Light Tan
Eyes: Grey
Hair: Light Brown, Shoulder-Length & Shaggy

Equipment:
—Winged Bronze Nasal Helm (head)
—Iron Torc (around neck)
—Iron Scalemail (torso)
—Wolf Pelt "Gambeson" (under scalemail, torso to thighs)
—Iron Spear (right hand)
—Bronze Shield (left hand)
—Bronze Scalemail Skirt (waist to knees)
—Fox Pelt Skirt (under scalemail skirt)
—Bronze Greaves
—Leather Sandals
—Fox Skin Backpack

Distinguishing Features:
—Perpetual "smile" around the corners of his lips
—Hooked nose
—Drooping handlebar mustache
—Big ears
—Wild eyes

Company Sentiments:
—(Guards) As of yet, Yullar keeps only the company of his guard. They're a solid lot...but not exactly talkative; Sure, war changes you a bit after the first few bouts of screaming, but it seemed like certain folks REALLY couldn't take a laugh to save their own hides. Hopefully some more interesting personalities would be accompanying their side of the field when the time for battle arrived.

—(The Pale Boy) A strange one, certainly - pale skin, odd speech, dark eyes; altogether it didn't seem entirely unreasonable for others to try avoiding him, what with his apparent detachment from the world. Still...such was the way of youth, surely - either hot or coldblooded, and rarely inbetween. And surely it could be tempered either way - whether by heart or steel, it seemed unlikely that the boy would always remain this way.

The Vestiges Of Krolm - Vengeance Upon The "Civilized" Ones!

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Are you tired of the usual tales of sword and swoorcery? All that shiny armor gotcha down? Do you feel the sudden urge to violently take the unfortunate frustrations of your life out on those very same sword-wielding sorcerers? Well then, BOY do I have an offer for YOU! For the LOW LOW LOW (low) price of several days/weeks/months of your time, you could take on the role of a savage (or maybe not-so-savage) Gaelic-esc clans-person duking it out with both snobby-nosed riverlands soldiers and your own grizzled (and/or grizzly) neighbors in the lush and definitely populous mountains of Ulgothe...otherwise known as the Realm Of Krolm, patron saint of Nature! (And who doesn't love Nature?)

So come on over and choke yourself up an axe - we've got friendly enemy skulls to split!

The Vestiges Of Krolm

.

. . .Hum the hymn of battle, an ancient tune to which the sounds of spear and shield clash in a frenzied air. Hear it sing all the way from the steep mountains of Ulgothe to the deep valleys of Ranaruun - known to some as Honor, and by others..."Diplomacy". Yet listen closer still and know the truth that lies within, for war is but a plague - intoxicating to the mad, a pestilence within nobility, and overbearing upon the frail of heart. Worse than that, listen too greatly and you may heed its warnings no longer - for wisdom falls deaf on the hollow ear.

The detriments of conflict are not to be taken lightly - yet for the clans of the mountain-homes, as nurturing as they are brutal, war is life. Theirs in an archaic and savage way, staking claims upon their neighbors' by taking up the sword and axe...but it is also a necessity; For when the lion and bear put down their arms and cease to struggle, the Vulture comes out to play...

Welcome To The Mountain-Homes

In the time before time, Krolm descended from his throne atop the Ulgothe mountains to cast forth the various clans of his children. Under his watchful eye, there was peace and harmony with the land...yet strife is inevitable, and so too was the realm of Krolm eventually plagued by its presence. In the absence of wisdom, justice was soon lent out by the sword, and the children of Krolm violated his tenant of Unity and split apart from one another. Rivalry forged Strength, Strength forged Envy, and Envy gave Honor and Compassion a miss and skipped straight on into Bloodshed. Krolm grew weary of their petty disputes and constant struggles, and eventually retreated back atop his throne above the cover of the clouds and the sky, conveying his wishes to those wise few who would contact him only with the intent to listen...

...But Krolm's impatience was a foolish mistake - and in abandoning his children to their internal disputes and relative ignorance, he could do little to warn them of the impending threat of the river peoples: the rising collective of the Ranaruun. Blind to the opportunity they'd presented, the clans were pushed out of the valley beneath and up into the most inhospitable territories known to civilization...the Steps Of Krolm carry little compassion for those unworthy of it. Even in repression, the children of Krolm could not unite, and so must be content to bicker and quarrel as they do amidst craggy cliffs and death-threatening slopes - far away from the realm of progress...a poorly-aged memory of a forgotten time.

Yet, theirs is a danger not wholly forgotten - and the realm below would be better served by their absence than continued threat. The age of the Lion & Bear is drawing to its end...and by law of Nature, the Vulture must usurp them both.

. . .

...But as of now you have no need to be concerned with the cowardly existence of Ranaruun. The balance of power is shifting, and as the fading weeks of the fall come to a close, each clan now musters a warhost to meet atop the ancient battlegrounds of Krolm's Anvil. On this mighty plateau the weak will be decided through combat, and the strong will know who's best to elect tribute from in the coming winter. This battle could be an interesting one, for even the warriors of the Iron Elks (your family, your clan) seem particularly strong this generation; All those who value their strength and honor would surely rather die than forgo their family's claim for victory...

How-To-Not-Make-An-Ass-Of-Yourself: 101

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1. Be courteous and respectful - you ought to know the drill.

2. Come prepared to make an impact: This isn't to say that you need to go out of your way to progress your own character at the expense of everyone elses' (Don't be a Mary/Larry Sue), but recognize that drama comes in many forms. If your character gets themselves into a bad and/or lethal position, don't just let them go, send them out with a bang (...or at least a sympathetic whimper). Remember to also be true to your character - if they need to go against the tide to fulfill their own desires and personalities, then don't be afraid to lash out into unexpected territory...Within Reason. Similarly, recognize that every character has their strengths and weaknesses - the limits of the human ability are often a lot more commonplace than we believe them to be.

3. Posts should be a minimum of two paragraphs, but feel free to extend it out as long as need be...Within Reason. Posts will be made in a round-the-table fashion, but you may skip an inactive player if they haven't posted by the end of the week. Try to tell us if you can't make a post or just aren't feeling invested in the plot or your character - remember that you can join and leave At Any Time without consequence, as we'll simply wrap up your end as best we can or adapt on the fly if you suddenly appear!

4. Remember your surroundings: Recognize that the execution of another player's post is in part dependent upon your own; Try not to leave everybody scratching their heads trying to figure out how to work around the construction of your post. Note: This is less a complaint against what your character does within the RP, and more so about how you need to remember to adapt those actions within a way that (hopefully) doesn't stagnate the progress of the plot and those playing within it.

5. Try not to spam OOC too much - if you're looking to chit-chat more than usual, check in to the Discord (discord.gg/KxppQcw) and while your time away like you've got no tomorrow! If you have any questions at any time, speak your mind! Other than that, enjoy the RP.

The ALL NEW, 100% Biodegradable, Compact Luxury Edition

Name:

Age:
Height:
Build:
Skin:
Eyes:
Hair:

Equipment:
—

Distinguishing Features:
—

Company Sentiments:
—

(The introductory post will arrive. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."shortly." Also, note that the "barbarians" in this universe are more equivalent to Gaelic tribes-people than Conan...but that's not to say you can't bridge the gap between those two aesthetics.)

The Eye Of Etorhn

The ground was soft, loam-like in nature - no harder a trail for a hunter than the fleeting ripples left for the fisherman's eye. The tall, almost ethereal presence of the man's figure remained masked by the density of the trees - his own eye crept along after the muddy imprints with a collected ease, tracing snapped twig and trampled leaf alike in its quiet analysis; West...Southwest, to be specific. . .and close. He released a quiet breath, gently alleviating a stone-tipped arrow from its stuffy quarters, ears on the alert for the slightest creak or huff of the stag's powerful lungs. Yet for the odd mocking rustle of the larch, the forest floor remained silent, continuing to mask the beast's presence.

The bright-star's rays glittered softly through the peaceable canopies, but he could already make out the dim edge of The Black just beyond the way. With any luck, they'd finish their game under the nurturing rays of The Light, and he could pack in his prize without much undo hassle. The hunter stopped to contemplate his chances, easing his slouched posture closer to the ground as he reexamined the situation. There was always the possibility that he'd simply underestimated the brute - though he couldn't help but pull a soft smile at that thought. No doubt it knew this place better than the most vigilant scout, but it was still a rare thing for their kind to risk an unwanted encounter with a Shadow Cat, or a Crying Woman. Etorhn rested his cheek on his hand while he thought, playing between the subtle boundaries of dark and light with the drifting composure of pensive eyes.

"...What're you up to, four-toed friend..."

The Eye Of Etorhn

The Aged Acolyte

Etorhn Sagot Gull:

Age: 44
Height: 6'4"
Build: Gaunt and lanky, with a slight hunch around the shoulders.
Skin: Light tan.
Eyes: Grey.
Hair: Short cut, greasy, straight black - with a short/prim black-gray beard poking out from the chin.

Equipment:
—Checkered blue-black robe, exposing one half of the chest as it lies draped over the other.
—Leather belt with hanging carving knife, small ram's horn, wooden "key" and brown cloth sack secured around hips/midsection.
—Short bow in right hand.
—Quiver secured around back by cloth string.
—Light grey wolf-pelt pants.
—Plain brown sandals.

Distinguishing Features:
—Calculating eyes.
—Gaunt face.
—Slight limp to the right leg.

The Eye Of Etorhn

"...The infinite light and dark cast forth sea, and within sea they placed land, and the Gods were born of the land to toil there. Yet these beings grew weary of their task - some gave up their immortality, grew old and died, while others chose to wander the boundless waters in search of greater things. As their numbers dwindled, Man was cast forth from the sea to help the few remaining Gods to continue their nurture - and eventually Man usurped this task as their own, and the Gods toiled no longer.

...Goaded on by their rising importance, and noting the relative complacency of the Gods, vile men rebelled, set fire to their masters' robes and painted the oceans red with the products of their greed. If not for the wisdom of The Mother, they may have succeeded in their despicable ambitions - and if not for her subsequent mercy, they might have condemned all Man to death for their deeds. Yet The Mother was merciful, and so Man was spared and granted continued life on land, to toil as the Gods of old once did. . .and to Forget their wicked aspirations forevermore."

Setting

Welcome to Urtha, an ever-shifting island perfectly divided between a realm of endless day, and a plane of eternal night. Within this land dwell two races - that of the "Gods" or Cyclopes, and that of "Man" or the Sea-People. Standing at about 7-9 feet tall, the Gods are a race of lithe, hairless, magically-gifted beings with pointed ears and an absolute reverence for the land. It commands such respect from them, in fact, that they're entirely carnivorous, preferring to feast on fish, sheep, fowl and (if they're particularly angry), undisciplined workers. They're protected and ruled over by The Mother - an ancient God who remembers all through her dreams, and sees even more through the use of her eight eyes. With these eyes, she sees many things - life, death, the elements...and even visions of time itself; Of late, the sights she has seen have disturbed her deeply - terrible visions of death, decay, and unknown forms from unknown realms. Perhaps these are only apart of her imagination, perhaps she's simply growing old...but there's a strange truth to these images, and she's certain that somehow, some way, great change is on the horizon.

You, on the other hand, are apart of the subservient race of Man. You have no official leader but The Mother, and since the days of the rebellion, it'd seem that your kind is meant only to continue to nurture these ever-changing lands...- but fate is a fickle thing, and unbeknownst to the majority, an almighty shift is taking place between the dynamic of master and servant; though, as of yet, fewer still really know to what end. In the meanwhile, you'll continue to farm, herd and craft for the benefit of this Neolithic-esc economy. The island itself constantly shifts in dimensions and nature, changing whole environments in the blink of an eye.

Note: This will primarily be a character-driven RP; while there's inevitably going to be action taking place, combat will be less prevalent than you might normally expect. Make no mistake though - when it comes time for violence, there will be blood.

Rules

1. Don't be an idiot or a dick - adhere to common courtesy.

2. RP accordingly - no one character can do it all, and everyone must accept defeat at some point. Still, you can join or leave at any time with characters both new or old - they'll only be registered as "missing" if you establish them as such within the story itself...just be willing to adapt to any changes in circumstances. Also remember to reach out whenever possible to the players of the characters with which yours will be interacting - permissions are important to any player, and brainstorming is usually a little easier between two heads.

3. Posts must be at least one paragraph (ideally two or more) and at least once per week. If someone isn't able to reply before the week's end, you're free to get creative and write around them for the purposes of continuing the story. Try not to drop a ten-paragraph monolith unless the situation absolutely demands it - even in RP, "Show, Don't Tell" will yield the most dramatic and interesting stories.

4. You're welcome to add to the world-building so long as you run it by me. Character-related changes won't be vetted unless they drastically impact other players or the world in an unfair way (OP, Mary-Sue, Et-Cetera). Remember that I will require you to rewrite some posts if they don't fit well enough within the contexts of the world and/or in-the-moment.

5. Try not to overuse the OOC tab for chatting - I encourage you to use our Discord for general chatter: discord.gg/MgBcnwQ

Character Sheet Outline

As I believe more in showing over telling, all I require is a good physical description of your character, and regular updates to suite changes made through the story. Everyone will always have a good idea of their characters look like, and you won't waste time musing over how they're "supposed" to behave. Create the rest of the character within their actions/interactions in the story, but remember to be consistent. Note: You can ignore the structure of the Name Outline for anything you find more desirable ("Macy" or "Tellar, Obron", for example).

(Insert Character Portrait Here, If Desired)

Forename Midname Famname:

Age: 87.
Height: 5'8".
Build: Withered, lean-muscle with exposed veins.
Skin: Caucasian, old and wrinkled.
Eyes: Singular blue eye.
Hair: Scraggly, disheveled white mess extending to shoulders.

Equipment:
—Example Rapped, ragged black robe.
—Example Elaborately gilded, "winged" gold&silver nasal helm.
—Example Plain brown sandals.
—Example Crooked staff in left hand.

Distinguishing Features:
—Example Scraggly-beard.
—Example Missing left eye.
—Example Hunched posture.
—Example Ravens perched over shoulders.

Don't hesitate to hit me up with any questions!

(Nil

(Removed.)

The Lines Between Us

Haban's face contorted in perplexed anguish; A Collector, here - and so soon? He scratched idly at his chest, eyes wandering between the drone, its victim, and their armed onlooker. He sat motionless as the Azurei violently succumbed to the effects of the neurotoxin and the streetrat haphazardly whipped his pistol about; Only the redirection of the officer's lucent eye betrayed the inner workings of his mind: Up.

Like lightning, it flashed with a sudden, faint understanding.

As it happened, the thunderous roar of a 6-cylindered engine would soon confirm just how rapidly the rising storm was closing in...

The sedan stopped a few meters shy of the Collector's shivering plaything, and all at once three black-clad figures emerged from within. They moved with authority and confidence, masked from identity by the tinted visors of their helms, and fortified in stature by extensive levels of physical augmentation. There was a strange, almost muscular way in which metallic coils wrapped around the skeleton and joints, exposed without its plating...yet showing no signs of tarnish - Aug-Tech unlike anything Haban had ever seen before. And though their footsteps planted heavy heels across the sand-swept pavement, a ghost-like silence radiated from about their persons, as if their presence was only a trick of the light - a mirage cast by the heat of the midday sun. . .

"IDENTIFIED, BRAHNEIAN: HABAN, ARMUN, MIRZA - OUTLOOK. REGISTERED TO. . ."

Haban's attention was briefly retracted from the sight of an Azurei being hauled one-armed into the car's reclusive interior. He locked eyes with the intimidating black ball hovering over him, slipping a hand down into his pantspocket as it whirred quietly, calculating.

". . .OUTLOOK 1_5; PLEASE BE PATIENT DURING TRANSIT. YOUR SAFETY IS OF OUR UTMOST CONCERN."

The drone tilted down towards his chin, a small hole flicking open beneath its core guidance sensors; A puff of air escaped its hollow.

The crimson glow of the officer's mechanical eye twitched in irritation, readjusting from its hyper-focused state - it trained ever-vigilantly upon the bile-bespeckled pipe cupped over the tranquilizer-shaft, and a smirk crept up around the corners of his mouth once more.

"...Bless you."

There was a time, he thought, when one serpent could find shelter in the house of another; it seemed that time was gone now.

The Collector stopped to recalculate - then, noting the obstruction, made to reverse and reload; Yet an unaccounted hand blocked its passage backward, and without warning the majority of the officer's upperbody-weight was atop the droid, clasped to it like an anchor as the pair gently descended down to the ground below. The drone's analytics-camera struggled to shutter and refocus, finally fixating on the intrusion of a small, sharp point placed on its lens. Too close - whatever it was, it was simply too close to focus on; Protocol: Distance From and Refocus On Target. The shutter made to snap shut and protect the glass behind it. . .yet the point remained stuck to its surface - and with a sudden, violent impulse, it d r a g g e d gleefully across the screen, gouging a faint, blurry trail in its wake. The point stopped, then reversed, pulling back across and holding...before maniacally skating over the scratched surface in a carnival-act of mad squiggles and repeating loop-de-loops. Haban reasserted the weight of his chest and metal hand over the droid's mouth, wheezing frantically as he scribbled the unsheathed blade about the lens and shouted: "IDENTIFIED, HAZARDOUS VISUAL INTERFERENCE! PLEASE BE PATIENT DURING MAINTENANCE - YOUR WELL-BEING IS OF OUR UTMOST CONCERN!"

A harsh, ear-splitting whistle shrieked down the alley, pulsating in a powerful, stomach-churning monotone. The sound hit like a tidalwave, causing the officer to seize upon himself in agony as he rolled off the droid, which hovered back to head-level with a sort of dazed sputter and shaking. Amidst the deafening ringing cascading throughout his skull, the ragged outlook made out a flurry of confused "ERROR - ERROR"s. Yet as soon as it had come, the noise cut its auditory rampage short, and reopening his eyes Haban caught the faintest trace of blue fade into obscurity from behind one of the strangers' visors; it was staring down at him. . .no, They were staring down at him - two of them, in fact. All too late, he realized that the numbing weight in his limbs wasn't due to a sudden oncoming bout of diplegia - and from his helpless position, he watched in horror as one of them dragged the disorderly drone into view with a singular hand, paying little heed to its incessant warnings:

"ERROR - NO TARGET RECOGNIZED."

"ERROR - NO TARGET RECOGNIZED."

"ERROR - NO TA--g--nizzz..."

The sound of a strong puff of air preceded the sharp sting of the tranquilizer, forcing a surprised gasp from the officer as it penetrated beneath his collarbone. A bitter chill crept through his blood, out through his chest...down his spine. Satisfied, the principle wraith walked out of frame, lugging the spasming drone along by their side with the same ease as if it were a paperweight.

A flicker in the shape of the Azurei caught his mind's eye; the officer went limp, attempting to track the neurotoxin as the second wraith dragged his ragdoll of a body by the scruff of his jacket across the grating pavement. Surprisingly, his left fingers were the first to go quiet - to be followed by his right toes and heel, left forearm...left arm. . .right calf. . . . . .right leg. His organic eye sluggishly relapsed to the dark as he shifted from the exterior sunlight to the dim internals of the sedan, propped up against a couple plush pillows. He stared quietly at the ceiling. . .waiting.

. . .

...

...He was staring.

...

. . .

A glimmer of red flickered out behind the retreating stranger's back, tracing the steady pace of their figure. It crawled along the open edge of the car door, sliding down along the upholstery...up a twitching mechanical knee...and finally, resting on its prize.

...The silvery fingers of Haban's augmented hand rose with a start, padding his breast in a motion not that dissimilar to an arachnid. It sniffed and scratched with uncertain legs along the scorch-marked burgundy of its host, inwards - upwards. . .

Bingo.

. . .

...Come on, you weaselly fucker...

. . .

...Just...

...A little...

...GOTCHA...

...Lucent crimson trailed after the roguish digits as they lugged pill and limb up over the side of his face despite their draining speed, intuitively slipping the two between the blurry mounds above it. The officer expelled a sigh of relief, propelling the metal palm down over the seat, away from the evidence. Once more, his gaze affixed itself to the dim ceiling above, growing cloudier by the second as his breaths drew weary. . .slow. . .

...Blessed be the lepers - for theirs is a faith unhindered in the face of great despair.