Obsidianserpent
Senior Member
Hello, RPers!
I'm looking for an advanced RPer to join me in a light magic, fantasy adventure set in 257 B.C. during the Warring States period of Chinese history. I would play as Zang, a psychic who narrowly escaped an assassination attempt made by the brothers and sisters of his coven, known as the Viper's Maw. The remaining disciples of the order have betrayed its original tenets and been seduced by a powerful Yaoguai from the hells of Naraka. Seeking to put some distance between himself and the forces that stalk him, Zang has booked passage aboard a mighty vessel known as the "Painted Lady" en route to Shanghai. There, he hopes to meet the mysterious woman who's been speaking to him through dreams, claiming that her coven of yore has likewise fallen to corruption. Along the voyage, the vessel is attacked by a mighty sea demon. The journey suddenly takes an unexpected turn and our party (the passengers aboard the ship) finds itself transported to the hellish realm of Naraka itself.
I have a tentative plot in mind for this that we can discuss OOC, but I would love input in creating the lore for this.
A few notes about my RP requirements:
- 21+, no exceptions. Sorry, it's just odd to RP with people who are over a decade younger than me.
- Must write exclusively in past tense from the third-person limited perspective. I will as well.
- I don't expect perfection, but I need my partner to be competent in English spelling and grammar (I use the Grammarly app).
- Please put time and effort into your posts. I very much prefer quality over quantity.
Morcant knelt beside the corpse and collected a piece of talc from his rucksack. Ancient spells ushered from his lips as he drew a circle around the body. It was strange that the rotting slab before him, so harmless and decomposed, was once the most dangerous thief in Vogos. Nothing remained of him but his legacy of pain. He recalled Judoc's words. Death, time; these were the true gods of heaven and earth, and it was through their power that the vanity of man's pursuits was laid bare for all to see.
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas.'' Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. An earthy aroma filled the Morcant’s nostrils, like that of a spring forest, moments before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or 'soul spark' as it was known in the common tongue: the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world growing thinner with each word the Skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears as he retched. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals that required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir.” Vitality and form abandoned the surrounding greenery, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy flooded into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming in the air. Morcant lowered his hands deep into the corpse’s cavity and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots buried beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Fighting back the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air. “Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain that began at the base of his spine and rushed throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty sienna gowns, three women with locks of auburn danced around the post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. The coarse and raspy tones of their voices resembled those, not of fair maidens, but demons; a tri-tonal, guttural retching that Morcant wouldn't soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet malevolent smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him, and purred. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath. With stained fingertips, she softly caressed Morcant’s jawline.
“Do you thirst, child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a low-pitched cachinnation as she forced her fingers between his lips. A caustic, acrid flavor overwhelmed him. His mouth began to swelter, as though he were cradling a lump of smoldering coal upon his tongue. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle that crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas.'' Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. An earthy aroma filled the Morcant’s nostrils, like that of a spring forest, moments before a storm. It was the Anem Cira, or 'soul spark' as it was known in the common tongue: the veil between the Ghost Land and the corporeal world growing thinner with each word the Skinwalker uttered. He pulled a sharpened ceremonial blade, thin and needle-like from a leather sheath upon his ankle and pitched it high above the sternum of the rotting corpse. With all the force he could muster, he drove the blade into the center of its chest, twisting it back and forth until an audible crack relieved the pressure beneath him. A puff of noxious odor spewed from the freshly formed cavity. Morcant’s eyes welled up with tears as he retched. He’d only invoked Albiach Cineadhia on three prior occasions, and never on a corpse so late into decomposition. Under the tutelage of Judoc, he had performed many spells and rituals that required dabbling in the macabre. He’d grown accustomed to writing in the blood of goats, horses, and men, and creating salves and elixirs from the organs of all manner of vermin. But no invocation had thus far required him to work with a specimen so repugnant.
“Vamarus...Danir.” Vitality and form abandoned the surrounding greenery, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy flooded into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming in the air. Morcant lowered his hands deep into the corpse’s cavity and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots buried beneath the fleshy surface wriggled to and fro. He felt a lukewarm mixture of stale water and bodily fluids trickle down his arm and soak his plain linen shirt. Fighting back the impulse to vomit, he gripped the heart firmly in his hand and elevated it into the air. “Sabnatha…”
His eyes turned black as smoke. Blurred images, one after the other flashed before him in his mind’s eye, each accompanied by a prickling pain that began at the base of his spine and rushed throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty sienna gowns, three women with locks of auburn danced around the post to which he was bound. Their lithe bodies moved in unison as though they were of a single mind. He did not recognize the curious tongue in which they spoke. The coarse and raspy tones of their voices resembled those, not of fair maidens, but demons; a tri-tonal, guttural retching that Morcant wouldn't soon forget. The tallest of the three slowly approached him like a dancer in a city brothel, her hips swaying from side to side and a coy, yet malevolent smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him, and purred. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath. With stained fingertips, she softly caressed Morcant’s jawline.
“Do you thirst, child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a low-pitched cachinnation as she forced her fingers between his lips. A caustic, acrid flavor overwhelmed him. His mouth began to swelter, as though he were cradling a lump of smoldering coal upon his tongue. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle that crept along his trachea and constricted his airways. As he struggled in vain for faded breath, he heard Dyana’s voice in the peripheries of his mind, calling to him with an air of desperation he’d yet to perceive in the ranger’s self-assured voice.
“Morcant...wake up!”
PM me if this piques your interest!
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