d1uni5ys24si3o
One Thousand Club
ALWAYS ACCEPTING, JUST MAKE A CS, GET ACCEPTED BY THE GM AND JOIN (full freedom of creativity, anything is integrated in the lore).
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[/class] [class name=rootBgTwo] --bgImg: url(https://i.imgur.com/RGaycg9.jpg); --bgImgPosition: 0% 0%; --bgImgSize: 100% 100%; [/class] [class name=rootBgThree] --bgImg: url(https://i.imgur.com/Sl6HJKS.jpg); --bgImgPosition: 0% 0%; --bgImgSize: 100% 100%; [/class] [div class=genVar] [div class=mainNavBgVar] [div class=aspectRatio] [div class=root] [div class=mainFlexContainer] [div class=translucentBox] [div class=menuText] [div class=menuFlex] [div class="menuButton"] [div class="tabName"] oneTAB [/div] Rules [/div] [div class="menuButton"] [div class="tabName"] twoTAB [/div] Demon Heir [/div] [div class="menuButton menuCenter" style="padding: 2%; flex: 1 0 10%;"] [div class="tabName"] threeTAB [/div] - [/div] [div class="menuButton"] [div class="tabName"] fourTAB [/div] Refugee Aid [/div] [div class="menuButton"] [div class="tabName"] fiveTAB [/div] Dancing Fever [/div] [/div][/div] [div class=menuDivider]Divide[/div] [div class="scrollBox one"] [div class="mainHeader"] In Character Rules [/div] [div class=mainText] [div class="imageBorder"]
- One post per week minimum
- No Metagaming
- No overpowering
- Any unmentioned rules that falls under the typical rules.
- Pls indicate at the top of your post the name, the location/time, as well as general summary of ur characters actions. [/div][/div] [div class="scrollBox two"] [div class=mainHeader] Symbols, blood, demons maybe? [/div] [div class=mainText] [div class="imageBorder"]
In a particularly rural area, close to the slave trade post, there was a crowd. They weren’t some polite crowd from the rich end of town, they were hungry for justice. Rumors twisted along the narrow corridors of the city of Galmoor, telling a tortuous tale of a brutal scene. Something of its own deep and indescribable horror. These people had had their hearts torn out and slammed bloody against a warehouse door. Desecrated, dissected, ripped, ravaged, carved, cut. Silenced.
Herein the horror is described.
When the steam and smoke of the morning had settled, and the ashy morning light began to breach the horizon as did the whales deep out into the foreign seas of indescribable and unending in nature, a boy was found. Young boy. Perhaps. Seven. Eight. Perhaps even older. Difficult to properly discern given the circumstances. One thing was certain, however. He was a Human child.
The first man to arrive was a street sweeper. He saw the blood stains tracking through the mud and filth behind the warehouse. The mud there was black and thick, an ichor in its own right, and had been stomped to pieces by some oddities. Likely feet and hooves of men and horses respectively. Then dragging and scuffing around the front of the building where the black ichor turned to red blood stains on the orange-bleached bricks of the street.
He was found unconscious on the ground, having fainted. The woman that found him while walking her dog was of a stronger stomach. The scene that she laid out was... a brutality. To save one the stomach spilling that the viewing would provoke: the innocent had been pinned to the warehouse door postmortem with nails perhaps a foot long by his wrists and ankles, butterflied open, and carved into and around. Twisted symbols that were universally recognized as demon tongue.
Others from other subcultures called it many things. Blackspeech, darktongue, gobbledygook, elephantine chatter, redspeech, demonic, demon speech, hellspoken. What the crowds chanted was universal, however.
Justice.
Rising, shambling voices of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. The mother and father hadn’t been identified and the rumor abound was that the woman who found the corpse had recognized a slave brand on the bottom of the child’s foot. The child had already been moved, however, by the district’s law enforcement. The figuring was that they weren’t talking and wouldn’t. A woman, named Charelle, reported that her uncle worked for the law enforcement office of the Emprie, and that Imperials from the inner districts had demanded the corpse be returned to the slavers.
And so the blockage on the street had piled thick by the mid-afternoon, and pamphlets described the above had been distributed by the local gossips and rumormongers. Hell had been risen. So the thick, steamy, ashy, humid days of the mid-town and down-town were no longer the priority thought of the people. Today, they sought justice. Most in Galmoor knew the basics of the rumor, now.
The crowd, in your way or your purpose itself, was present. Speakers shouted either through the amplification of foreign wizards, witches, and warlocks, or through loudspeakers and microphones and retrofitted sound systems. A young man with a brand on his neck indicating himself as a free slave stood in soot covered clothes, with soot covered hands that looked black as night while he spoke into one of these microphones. Injustice was grand here, today. Something was afoot. The occult had overrun the local mind’s eye.
The Imperial Law Office had sent several dispatches in clumsy attempts to calm the riled crowd, to little avail. So it was that this small district had to, some extent, been quarantined by grand and imposing men in the black and white uniforms of the Imperial Law Office. Clubs in hand waiting for the first sign of trouble, while riotgas canisters at their belt were occasionally checked and fiddled with.
Few noticed something though. The crowd whispered that a man and a woman had stepped out of the carved, bloody symbols still hanging from the wall. They burned a low orange when clouds cast over them. The whispers demanded a magical solution be reached.
Summary of the Situation: Demon lords flamboyantly created a portal for their bloodlines to notice them and get summoned.
[/div][/div] [div class="coverFlexContainer three"] [div class="coverFlexBox expositionLeft"] [div class="coverExpositionText"] Ultimately, only you can decide who you'll become. [/div][/div] [div class="coverFlexBox coverTitle" style="flex: 1 0 50%"] [div class="coverText coverCenter"] Legends Never Die [/div][/div] [div class="coverFlexBox expositionRight"] [div class="coverExpositionText"] Relentless, you survive to be written down in eternity. [/div][/div][/div] [div class="scrollBox four"] [div class=mainHeader] Refugee Aid [/div] [div class=mainText] [div class="imageBorder"]
Shadow-steepled Fratta Principalis.
Busy space-ports scattered across the city shuttled people from all across the dreamlands with rip-jump portal drives powered by the ancient secrets of some inspired madman. Delirious discoverer of a practical means to achieve what the twisted magicians had been doing for an eternity.
When multiple freighters and trade ships of refugees had arrived at the same time on the same night a week ago, there was pandemonium. Ships were rerouted from the affected zones in the dreamlands. These refugees were primarily Deep Elves of varying species. Some hobbled low on crooked backs and eyeless faces, while others slithered into the shadows on slender figures with wicked purple eyes that reflected back at whomever viewed them.
Within the hour the refugee settlements had been printed and deployed on the less busy outskirts of the city, where easy access to the rim districts allowed for the provision of medical attention, the establishment of a quarantine, and deployment of Principalis Police Peabodies.
The Peabodies themselves were slender, monocular humanoid drones. A central core system attached to a supplementary mobility shell. They stood not five feet tall, but could kick down a steel door and heft five or six grown individuals at once if necessary. They were armed with MURD-34 class defense rifles. Hand-held rocket launchers with a lithe, automatic frame of the rifle. Too dangerous to threaten. At the edges of the refugee camp were holograms that repeated a video clip.
A cartoon-ized elf walked towards and strikes a cartoon-ized peabody. The peabody fires the murd-34 rifle. The cartoon elf explodes into bile and gore. A simple warning. They would be fed and protected, but the people of Fratta Principalis would be protected from them.
In the week since the arrival of the refugees, the Elves had become a bit of a tourist attraction. They gathered together by their race. The skilled laborers began collecting citizenship status points for Fratta Principalis. People visited and provided aid and support under heavy peabody guard.
The government, a council of democratically elected plutocrats, had published no comment as to what had caused the refugee crisis. Journalists were blocked from entering by the peabodies for fear of invoking trauma or promoting an anti-government stance in the Deep Elves of various species that were present.
Rumors had been slipping through the gates, however, that only a handful of the refugees had even seen the threat. Many described smells and sounds, but only the two or three dozen Drows from the territory had actually achieved sight-contact with the threat. They had mobilized the refugees to scatter before they were over-run. And few were to be found. Drow did not like to be seen.
So the high standing borders of the refugee camp had become a seemingly permanent fixture as the government remained silent and the few drow elves slipped out into the streets and into the sewers where they were more comfortable than they ever could be in the cookie-cutter stacks of homes that had been created to house them and the other refugees.
Only the citizen volunteers had any real idea of what was going on, and the Career Kindness Core was demanding that the details be contained. So it was with them and the refugees that the answers lay. A refugee crisis on this scale, afterall, had never happened before. Food shortages were likely to result. Few deals were bigger than this rather big deal.
Summary of the Situation: A realm within Eiriond (dreamworld) completely vanished, a bunch of refugees managed to escape the collapsed realm and have been shifted around through portals, mostly being dispatched in higher tech nations despite being a more medieval type of plane. Cultural clashes, economical strains, and promising missions with the right connections.
[/div][/div] [div class="scrollBox five"] [div class=mainHeader] Dancing Fever [/div]
“Have you ever been out to the outskirts? Simple places. Simple people. Y’know. Where I’m from, place called Earth, they’re like the uh—I forget what we called ‘em... wait. That’s it! Right. Sorry. Like the Amish. Civilizations is backwards. Use magic and agriculture and all that stuffs. Barely any proper urbanization or advancement.”
—Ninth Arbiter Of The Kingdom Of Quebec, Franny McFrenchy
On the lonely edge of the Dreamlands, if any edge does exist, are the Simple Folk. Not any one culture or group. Just. A Folk. Deep below the lands that the Simple Folk live in there is a place called the Underdark. Below the Underdark is a many-named Hellish place. Above them is a ghastly, spiritual heaven decorated in beleaguering, spiraling towers that make blasphemy of the senses when witnessed.
So it is a simple place of Simple Folk. Farmers and traders. Knights and Lords. Old fashioned ideas. Something perhaps out of the annals of Monty Python And The Holy Grail. Actors and tricksters. For those foreign it is a difficult thing to tell at.
The illusory and the legitimate is often such a thin line.
Great stretching forests. Flat lands.
And here, a village.
To its South, farmland stretching out. A population perhaps no greater than a hundred individuals filling the various necessary roles that society demands of each individual. To its North, a black wood. Deeply drowned in an unholy shade.
A story spidered out from the long roads into the dark, shadowy bars of even the furthest city. Here, the people were cursed. A black rumor had descended upon the township.
Here There Be Madmen marked maps in nearly every territory.
“Here There Be Madmen, Beware Their Uproarious Brigade Of Dance.”
A phrase only the Simple Folk could conjure into reality. Regardless, some shady benefactor from Galmoor was offering stocks in companies based in mega-cities, gold, and Galmoor City property for the settlement to be investigated. Apparently a rather wealthy individual had family here and wanted mercenaries to ensure the settlement was safe and that its citizens were alive.
Perhaps the worry was fueled with the many rumors abound. These were strange times.
Summary of the Situation: In a medievalesque town, towns were cursed with what is called the dancing fever. Perhaps the forest witch has a solution for this fever or maybe she's the instigator of the curse.
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Scarlet SwanHunter
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