What's new
  • This section is for roleplays only.
    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

    Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.

Fantasy Guild of Heroes: Recall Protocol - Lore

Created at
Index progress

Guild of Heroes: Recall Protocol is a parallel-continuity, side-expansive, hyper-achronological mega-crossover pseudo-sequel roleplay to the Guild of Heroes franchise.

Which never seems to die, and perhaps never will.

As its basic premise, Recall Protocol will tell the story of the Guild of Heroes and its glorious (or not-so-glorious) return to the conflict-shorn kingdom of Albion, as well as its surrounding territories. Although the focus will be on the Guild's return and its activities, you can play as anyone - a villain, a non-member, or a mere bystander whose fate happens to be entangled with the events brewing around them. Around you unfolds an endless fractal beach of possibility, whose waters are dreams, and whose shore is the mind's creative spark.


The God-Emperor of Mankind
A thread for lore-keeping. All lore/setting details created through group effort or personal invention - which may become relevant to the plot - should be stored here, in these archives.

A few basic rules/guidelines for this section:
- Do not clutter up your posts with extremely large images.
- If possible, use accordions, tabs, or spoilers, as doing otherwise takes up a lot of page space. It's efficient to compartmentalize - it makes it much easier to find what you're looking for.
- Do not use too much colored text for any of the posts here; it can be a strain on the eyes. It's much better to simply write in a clear and cohesive manner, and divide the text into sections.
- As always, one idea per paragraph is optimal for clear readability.


Civilized Nations of the World (major/relevant)

The Kingdom of Albion is the global superpower located to the west of the Gaelian continent.

Until recently, it prided itself on being one of the oldest sovereign powers in the world, never conquered and never cowed.

However, five years ago, a man known as Kyro Script formed an alliance with the Archlich Turenval. Turenval banished the vast majority of the Guild of Heroes into the Void Dimension, while Script dealt with the rest of the royalty, then made an example of the Royal Knights. At the end of it, Kyro Script seized power from the empty throne, crowning himself Overlord.

Now, the Script family arises in glory and rules. And its most powerful scion to date is the emergent master of this superpower. There is no resistance against his word - and if he calls for his Court Enchanter then know you shall be undone.

Script's rule borders the state of an absolute monarchy, but it has introduced several genuine improvements as well; taxes have been lowered for the commoners, and the peasants have more rights in general. The Overlord is harsh but fair, and his presence improved trade and relations with Albion's neighbors; Overlord Script also founded several organizations that keep the corrupt nobles and reckless archmages in check. In that sense, he is a tyrant, but also a stabilizing influence.

Aesthetically and superficially, Albion resembles the rustic picture of a magical England in the midst of its medieval years. There are knights clad in lively heraldries, scaled green drakes prowling the mountainous regions, towers whose sole inhabitants are barmy marble druids, and the military power of the Kingdom is concentrated in its almighty fleets, both naval and airfaring. However, there are anachronistic elements, such as the relative commonality of gunpowder, alchemical synthesis of purple dye, and import of cultural elements from other, distant worlds, such as pop-culture magazines or basic technologies, like the radio or the television (however, only the wealthy can afford them.)
Espania is the second major superpower. It is Albion's eastern neighbor, separated from it by several rivers and forests, as well as a long and treacherous mountain range that is infamous for its monstrous inhabitants, as well as the tribe of Storm Giants that lives there.

On the surface, Espania is much less controlling of its people than Albion had ever been, considered by many to be a cosmopolitan nation whose rulers are genuinely concerned with liberty and tolerance. The royalty has always supported those as the codewords of their state.

However, beneath the surface, the ugly truth dwells. Espania's kings and councils are puppets living in the shadow of the hidden masters, the Order of the Golden Campaña, once known as the noble Ainarja. The Order's secret mission is to protect the Espanian national interests, but it has strayed from its roots and now works primarily for the self-benefit of its members. It uses mentalism and hypnotic spellwork to subtly influence the actions of all of the Espanian authorities from the ground to the very top, including some of its greatest adventurers. There are memory removals, brainwashing sessions, and brutal interrogations: there is no conflict or corruption in Espania, these walls are safe.

There is a resistance hidden in the shadows, but its members are unprepared, weak, and fearful of the Order's power. The Guild cannot protect them anymore. Espania is a nation desperately clinging onto old glories while going through a mid-life crisis. Its alabaster-bricked cities are well-maintained and mask their extensive criminal underworld with a flimsy shell of positivity and tourist attractions. Its citizens put on a veneer of cheery happiness, both for themselves, the tourists, and the authorities who keep a watchful eye to ensure that everything is in check. It's very much the paradise it was advertised to be... until one looks too deep, or too hard.
The Stockade of Irons is a free trading republic, founded by the hand of Archwizard Ygrasmundhil only five decades ago to the north of the Espanian border. Most of its lands also surround the tower belonging to that same wizard in a single metropolitan area constructed primarily from stone and metal, giving it its name.

Although much smaller than a vast majority of the nations in the world, the Stockade's laws and magical protection ensure that it stays as relevant on the international scene. It is among the most permissible in terms of tax, import, and travel, and in a strategically advantageous location upon the leylines. These combined traits are the masterful recipe for an epic trading country; the bottleneck through which an incredibly vast amount of the world's economy goes through at one point or another. One could even go so far as to call it the melting pot of modern civilization.

Due to the fame of its founder, the Stockade had started drawing in attention from other planes, so it is currently something of a xenocratic state, with countless monsters, outsiders, spirits, celestials, and even infernals living within the borders as legalized citizens. As strange as it might be, the average human or elf has very little space or power to participate in the Stockade Council elections, or even to vote for a candidate. Likewise, the average citizen either considers a human to be a weak, detestable beast to be pitied and condescended to, or a crunchy snack...

The Stockade is also, on a pure technicality, the largest spaceport on Melicau, and sees the largest import in off-world goods, such as rare and precious otherworld technology, alien magic, or interesting foreign currency. The question is whether the average citizen would be able to afford such things, or if they'd be legally enslaved for being unable to pay their rent.
The island provinces of Mokushu lie southeast of Thrymheim, and the Mokushujin people prefer an isolated lifestyle. Closed to most outsiders, save for a few trading vessels, Mokushu is a relatively under-developed country but has managed a stable empire for almost two millennia. Due to their lack of most raw materials, including iron and salt, the Mokushujin typically use force to acquire materials from other nearby provinces.

The Mokushujin capital, Chon'Sin, has been widely regarded as one of the best vacation spots currently existing. The people host many celebrations and feature enormous firework displays on New Year's Eve. There have been many different dynasties to try and unify all of Mokushu, the longest of which is the Ji Dynasty, lasting close to five centuries. Other notable dynasties include the Shu, Han, and Kori.

Despite more common rumors of a weak government, the Saito family, current Rulers of Mokushu, are very strict. A curfew is regularly held every evening, during which law enforcement officials seek out violations and burglary, often arresting innocent people based on a neighbor's accusations. There is little freedom of speech, and most, if not all, businesses are run by corrupt officials.

Mokushu also has a long history of training fantastic swordsmen. Notable examples include Tadashi the Bold, Temujin Hokari, Osata Nitakura, and many others.
The Empire of Rivannes lies to the east of Espania and is, presently, the largest of the known nations in the world (on Melicau, at least.) The Empire is an expansionist domain feared and known for its monumental ground army counting almost a million trained soldiers in number, with another near-million of levies in reserve.

A few decades ago, the Empire - then a kingdom - experienced a series of interesting events, including its king becoming a genocidal maniac and puppet of an ancient deity, dying, and then being replaced by another, resurrected ancient deity that slew the first one. Followed by many other, strange happenings. All of these events were stopped by a group of heroes who had nothing to do with the Guild.

After the passage of several decades, Rivannes is hardly as xenophobic as it used to be. Although it remains strong, powerful, broad, and expansive, its current Emperor sees fit to remain a neutral voice on the international stage, directing his nation mostly towards the bulk production of useful goods for sale to Albion, the Stockade, or anyone who'll buy them..
A dime-a-dozen minor nations that sprawl around the others mentioned above: the freedom-loving republic of Laurellia to the north of Albion, the pious elven city of Leceth to the west, and the frosted barbaric land of Thrymheim to the far north, much beyond the edges of the usual maps afforded to casual travelers. Among these are a baker's dozen of other countries: kingdoms, principalities, fiefdoms, city-states, faerie freeholds, spirit sanctums, and other locations. Feel more than free to invent as you please.


Red = Albion
Cyan = Laurellia
Dark Gray = Stockade
Yellow-ish = Espania
Pink = Rivannes

June Verles

Depression? Never heard of her.
Sasha Korneev's Diary

Hidden in the most secure part of her pocket dimension where she stores her equipment, locked in a box with a 20 character long combination lock compromised of all the letters in the english alphabet plus 0-9, or otherwise 13367494538843734067838845976576 possible combinations, which change hourly, is the operative's most treasured possessions she has kept with her since before becoming a hero and escaping from her family.

That's right, her hello kitty branded diaries. This post will hold entries from the diary and will be periodically updated as Sasha writes about events in her life.

Last edited:


New Member
A breeze came in from an open window near the bar facing away from the road though with a scent of fresh earth and grass. As the other Hero's story finished a few coins sailed through the air with a flash of red. A surprised bartender flails to catch a bouncing coin but drops the first. The second and third are easier to catch once he regains some focus. Next to it added an empty glass with a slow fluid that clung to its sides raised to the windowsill by short blood-colored fingers that then retreated. Then a small box was placed beside it with the clink of a small kickstand.

Out from that box rings out a voice of smooth tones, "If you want a tale I've arrived with one not long ago, Sir. A refill of vegetable oil please, bartender, I am still lean."

Through faint munching below the window a voice from that box continued unabated and breathless.

Within the days the High Matriarch still remembers of our earliest times there was war. Bvetin was a young seeker an epoch season ago though no less capable than her peers. A gestalt mind of many powers rather than one a rarity that saved our people. In this, a wider impulsive directive from her Matriarch but unlike her other fellow seekers found it mad. Ramblings and wrath among orders of incontinent colors cause violent interpretation instead of understanding. The Matriarch's children confused, untrained, and impulsive, struck at everything that threatened them. A blood war unending and fierce. Matriarchs raged storms of sky and earth to immolate helpless children. Mountains lifted and crushed to grind what tried to hide from madness within. Their collective hunger depleted the soil as much as a contagion there even as countless warriors fed it with corpses and blood. Each set to defend their Matriarch set at each other to stain the soil."

"As her mind grew her peers did as well but found them sickly and disturbed workers clear but empty. A grey menace picked at their minds and crept across itching flesh. Seekers itching themselves and barking color with white noise cultivated in the palettes in their minds. Workers among them afflicted but made clean by her right searched for high soldiers as herself pure. Still, her field was too small and unworked a canvas to contain any such deranged seeds of color. Yet the High Matriarch could make true wisdom for the untithed following Bvetin.

Thus the first high soldiers were given the tiniest seed of wisdom set to create for her food than capture it. As a canvas to paint a will of her own began to grow more ever-loyal children flock desperately for the only light of wisdom. Wisdom in her peers had long since grown into a pestilent weed instead. A grey not of their own colors poisoning the wisdom at the center of our people. Tired but unfailing efforts slowly cleanse those first untithed to join them into her power by choice.

With Bvetin entering her brooding phase toward the end of that age began an assault directly on the noise using that boundless color of a gestalt. Direct children of her own a growing immunity to poisonous crawling noise. High soldiers to paint over endless ruined earth sparking the disease upon their canvas. The first apostate Matriarch lost, the canvas of her mind broken and dirtied beyond repair, was the second to have a name from those smallest of seeds. Something in unison to mourn the loss for her children to see of themselves from without.

In the light of her vivid canvas, Bvetin learned the truth as the apostate Matriarch's mind faded away. A pattern of thought revealed by a beleaguered and dying garden's noise fading to dust. Chains hungering to shape the seed of wisdom within the Matriarchy by constraint. Each trying to spread shackles around the breadth of the Matriarchs' explosions of color. Overextension to breach the bonds thus not submit the gray the Matriarchs would strain at the chains. It drove them mad but would not kneel. In Bvetin, these chains sundered, the itching matter torn apart in consumption. A solitary enemy apart from the Matriarchy now known as the first hive of hives saw its enemy in the tools of defilers.

The Defilers proved lethargic as Her garden grew to add ever more color. Our world was large, their strength broad, but their awareness was small so Bvetin could hide when she found their fell eye upon them. A canvas for a gestalt Matriarch with both subtlety and beauty. So she went as the chains intended but instead painted a comfortable lie not as they directed. With the old Matriarch's tithe finally loosened, Bvetin entered instead to claim her brood of lost children. The first brood to quiet their rage toward another. Thus her campaign erupted in earnest as strategy and control brought Matriarchs low. Some subdued and purged of the grey and some gardens too despoiled to grow anything anymore.

Demesne expanded with a strategy her peers did not share; the Defilers above soon watched her works to the end. Another though not of endless color but a verdant one that broke the chains that bound Her with will and fury alone. The Lineage of Wrath, High Matriarch Nemesis. Both with the seeds of Wisdom and knowledge once shared found a solution within them. Long roads Nemesis and Bvetin carved unseen into the supports which housed the Defilers. Concerned for herself and her children if She committed to purging the defilers. The pact of lineages was made, a canvas of transit wrought between them, as the first Quickening plucked from a spar the Defilers. Emptied into space far from rightful Gardener earth they rained from the blackness afire.

The Defilers were not prepared. A now-empty spar to a ring far above the sky taken with ease as the Lineage of Wrath loosed their children upon them with Bvetin's own to fuel their advance. This time as they learned the things that bound the mad Matriarchs they broke the will behind the noise. Chains falling from mad matriarch too weak the lost children staunch the blood war as they lamented their fallen wisdom. Seekers that remained, not left Derelict as ages past, but instead welcomed to Her garden and helped with wisdom from her canvas to grow. Spars fell from all sides as Nemesis directed her children with the assistance of Bvetin's canvas that writ inks for baleful violence. Though defilers tried to lay waste to the children with the same chains they tried to enslave us, the indignity laid upon us had made us strong. Defenses found lacking the end of the Blood War saw an ocean to drown the grey.

Weakened even with victory, land damaged but not beyond repair, Bvetin set to rebuilding Her people. Burying corpses of the Defilers to grow food for her children and purge remnants of the white noise that defilers had set to killing the soil. The gestalt with which to seed all canvas of colors named Matriarch Croana to the last verdancy within which may grow food for the children. Bvetin named Nemesis the keeper of the Lineage of Wrath as she tithed lost children and sent their harsh colors to the Matriarch they deserved. A specific palette of color with the strength of mind to destroy remnants of the Defilers where Bvetin found herself lacking else should the Defilers return.

The voice grows softer, "Later through provenance and thieving defilers, Bvetin found her Dreamer, another tale, with the knowledge to heal our scarred land. Thus now High Matriarch Bvetin quickens us to other lands in search of her Dreamer's home. Though Nemesis and the Lineage of Wrath have not forgotten the Defilers."

What seems like a flat curved board the color of blood-covered suede emerges into view flexing to the sill. Hard nubs at top length stretch up revealing a deep row of sharp talons and a hard spike at the end of the sickle arm. Another joins it the slow pair flicking one set inward lodging at each corner of the sill. Jaunt pushes himself upward, a cruor-colored spider to meet the stunned gaze of human eyes. A panic abated by the seals of better men that festoon his underside.

The voice continues from the speaker, not the head and its gesticulating fangs, "We will find the defilers. We will till them into our cracked soil. Bvetin will not forgive them. Nemesis will not seek forgiveness."


The Ace of Spades, in a Uno deck
The Silver Clock Tower​
“A door with a silver clock, give a coin to the lock. Abandoned door no more, The Silver Clock Tower shall give you power.”

Owned by the Galvor family, and passed down through the generations, it is traditionally given to the member with the ability to copy spells into items, the ability known as 'The Collector'. This is because the Silver Clock Tower trades spells and knowledge. Due to the shop owner’s ability, you don’t require mana or any knowledge to use the spells.

The shop has become quite popular with resistance leaders, as well as members of such governments, both looking for an edge on the other. As such, any and all violence is prohibited inside the shop, or be willing to face all that are currently inside, as well as the shop owner.

The exact location of the shop is unknown, as it sports a number of teleporting doors to enter and exit. This is also a service of sorts.

For quite some time, the shop was known for its horrible drinks and lack of entertainment. Customers often criticized Jamazon saying they don't shop here for the drinks or that his black cat was the most interesting thing about this place. Those that were around, told him his grandfather couldn't make drinks either.

Annoyed, Jamazon finally hired a lovely assistant to prepare drinks, as well as music and games to play. Although the place has become livelier, you can no longer joke about the drinks.

Users who are viewing this thread