Coin
world's okayest lobotomite
The Human Senescence
Belar was once beautiful, before the Mortalis, before the Ninth Winter.
Where delicate flowers once lined the spring valleys of Rytomi, only a rime waste remains. The pristine rivers of Hektar’e, now frozen over with a sluice of ichor, filth, and rot trapped beneath. The Forest Grand, once green and abound, now stands only a wall of spears in the biting cold and snow. Belar was once beautiful, before it was devoured by death and ice.
Only a decade ago, the first Monolith was found. In the grassy foothills, a massive ochre crystal erupted from soil, piercing the heart of Belar. The peculiar crystal was brittle, crumbling at the slightest pick’s fall, and resonated with inhuman frequency. Before the first samples of the Monolith could be studied by royal scholars, yet another crystal rose from the depths at the edge of the Forest Grand, then another below the docks of Syramie. Every week thereafter, a new Monolith would emerge. The same, strange, old power emanated from every fragment, from every Monolith.
It did not take long for the resonance of the Monoliths to be harvested by man. Talismans were created from fragments small and large, a simple conduit to harvest the bountiful potential each crystal contained. First, torches and candles were replaced by the gentle glow of talismans. Then, furnaces, carriages, and plows. Soon, whole towns were powered by ethereal resonance. Mankind had made technological and industrial bounds because of resonance power. However, no golden age was ever meant to last.
Nine winters after the coming of the Monoliths, a new anomaly arrived: the one Mortalis -- strange creatures, small and large, with beating crystalline hearts much like the talismans man had harvested. Alien compared to the fauna of Belar, the Mortalis have but one purpose, to feast upon the crystals. At first, mankind was more than capable of fending off the monstrous fiends, but it was soon clear that the Mortalis had brought something else with them: a winter eternal.
Spring days came, but the snow upon the ground remained, lakes were yet frozen coffins, and the soil still unworkable. Colder, and colder the days became as summer arrived. Starvation and panic gripped all of Belar, and through prayers and pleas to forgotten gods, the blizzards still continued. Winter came again, and only silence remained. In but one long year, Belar had become a grave. The howling winds of the Ninth Winter was the herald of the end times.
Belar’s own Sovereign and remaining pockets of survivors fled north into the Barrier Mountains to escape the growing Mortalis threat. Underground greenhouses and shelter cities were constructed out of desperation. They are the last, precious cradle of humanity -- hanging by a thread.
Lost at Sea
The isle of Cask is but a mere thirty leagues from the Belarian mainland. Cask was a port thriving in the midst of its own golden age before it was cut down by the Ninth Winter. Once, it was common to see many dozens of fishing vessels and freighters coming and going between the harborage and the open water. Now, the sea has frozen and locked the isle in an icy siege. Fishermen, freighters, shipbuilders, merchants, travelers -- all trapped on a prison in the middle of a frozen sea. After three years of famine and frost, Cask is one more winter away from becoming nothing more than a grave. Hundreds of linen-wrapped bodies lay in many neat rows on the ice just beyond the docks. The mummified dead of Cask on the ice account for three years worth at-sea burials that simply could not be. Only a fraction of the isle's inhabitants have survived until now.
Many of those that have survived live on hollowed and stripped ships locked in sea ice, while the luckier few live in slightly less cramped shelters on the island proper. Preciously rationed resonant crystals that once catapulted mankind into a new age, now power dim auxiliary lights and life-saving flameless heaters that not only keep Cask's survivors alive, but also the handful of hardy root vegetables grown in a few scrap greenhouses. With preserved food long gone, these crops and the occasional haul of gaunt fish pulled from underneath the stubborn ice are the last sources of food for the people of Cask. As resources dwindle into critical levels once again, desperation grips the isle. Over a dozen expeditions have been sent out onto the unforgiving ice fields, but with over a hundred miles to cover on foot, to venture is practically suicide. Only a single reconnaissance team has returned to date.
Last summer, when the blizzards were mildest, a trio of Cask's best departed from the isle and ventured into the bleak ice fields where so many of their colleagues had fallen before them. They, along with so many more, were certain that the key to Cask's salvation lay just beyond the sea. The thought of Belar's growing industrial cities collapsing under the weight of the cold was unthinkable, impossible even. Surely someone, somewhere on the mainland could save Cask.
Two long months passed before the people of Cask had their answer. The expedition had returned with empty hands, and not a scrap of hope. They were frostbitten and haggard, and brought with them one grim message to report: Belar has fallen.
The settlements the expedition had come across were coffins. Dead from the cold, starvation, or infighting. Sometimes, all three. Nearly all of the wild game were driven to extinction, and not a living thing was growing underneath the unforgiving frost. All that remained were the echoes of the long dead.
Still, hope is not easily extinguished on Cask. Where some would describe coffins, others see an opportunity at salvage. Supplies like excess wood and iron were long depleted, and Cask will simply not survive another winter on the remaining resonant crystals powering their reserve generators. In a final act of desperation, a single freighter was freed from the ice and modified with an icebreaker bow made from several smaller ships' hulls cobbled together. With the begrudging approval of the acting mayor, the new icebreaker Ophelia was given enough resonance fuel to make a one way trek to the mainland in search of salvage. On the mainland, it would be the duty of the salvage team to locate enough fuel to power the ship's return voyage on top of the loot that the isle desperately needed.
The mission is suicide, but volunteers are aplenty. Among their ranks: laborers, sailors, scientists, cartographers, and even Sentinels -- the hand of the elite in Belarian hierarchy. Now more than ever, Cask needs saviors. Cask needs a miracle.
Your character is one of those aboard the Ophelia, a volunteer on perhaps the most important task of their life. Are they an adventurer at heart jumping at the first chance to explore a ruined land? Are they are wayward soul with nothing left to lose? Perhaps they are seeking closure for friends and family on the mainland? Regardless, I look forward to seeing what everyone will come up with.
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Genre/Theme: Victorian-fantasy, cold weather apocalypse, survival, player versus environment, drama, exploration.
Type: Character group-centric, plot-driven.
Level: Moderate to detailed.
Commitment: A few times per week maximum.
Character expectations: Avoid unrealistic, uninteresting, and inherently overpowered characters.
Player expectations: Mature, flexible, reliable, and open to communication.
Storytelling: Semi-linear. Plot in mind, but characters have agency.
Group size: Open.
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Lore and References
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