Raparth
Oracle of Dimensional Science
It seemed infinitely harder, walking down the mountain. Three days ago, he had reached the top, or as near to it as one could be without entering the temple grounds. Three days of praying, fasting, meditating on the Immaculate texts. They had tested his limits, here on this cold mountain. And yet he was denied. The stairs twisted, turned, almost flowing down the mountainside like the streams he had tried to emulate. His muscles strained, but they were nothing compared to the torment in his heart. It was not three days he had waited, but years... decades of training under the eyes of the Immaculate Dragons. A lifetime spent seeking the closest thing to the grace of Exaltation that had been denied him. And yet he failed. Despair twisted his mind in ways that seemed to mock these holy grounds. Anger at himself and anger at those who had not helped him, those who had cast him down, those who surely laughed at his soul's desolation. Peleps Deled. He has received the grace of the Dragons and yet not I? He laughs at me, downcast, a faithful soul discarded because he does not find me worthy? Strength returned, hardened by bitterness, but it cost the monk his concentration. And the road to glories of the Dragons is not a path for the inattentive.
His foot slipped on a bit of the frozen rainwater, hiding in the shadow of the stone steps. Reflexes honed by years of training attempted to counter. They may even have overcome the obstacle of three days of exposure and fasting, but... The anger, bolstered by despair, turned his heel. Down went the bald man in ragged tunic, down went the mortal who dared question the decision of the Immaculate Dragons and their Chosen, down went the man who had forsaken all other identity for the name 'Student'... Limbs jumbled, bones broken, his body turned in the fall so that his head crashed on the last, bottommost, step. Eyes stared up, up the mountain path at the soaring temples of the Wyld Hunt, at the goal from which he had fallen so far, at the very embodiment of the mission he had so deeply failed...
The world darkened, the cold pressing down on him as his blood painted the snow. His heart beat slower, slower, trying to hold off the inevitable. His breath caught, escaping slowly out of blue and blood-splattered lips as his heart gave its last...
It is they that have failed you.
It all stopped. He stopped. Death itself stopped, as if waiting with bated breath. Instead of the Pinnacle of the Eye, he saw… Her. She was too short for a northerner, yet the mountain seemed so small in comparison. Her hair was pulled back harshly, bound behind her head with long hair sticks of a shimmering-black. Her skin was purest ivory, holding dark almond-shaped eyes that seemed to draw in his very soul. Her lips, the vibrant red of blood just split, matched her hair and stirred something in his lower chakras. Her voluptuous form was covered by a sleek dress the color of a starless night, its collar rising nearly to her chin. Five thin chains of jet lay around her neck and on her breast and seemed to be covered in some tiny inscriptions that he could not make out. Ashen prayer scrolls wove about her waist, shoulders, and arms, pulling the cloth closer still. A few scrolls eventually trailed loosely from her wrists and hips. The prayers, from what he could bring himself to see, were written in red and black and were the darkest blasphemies imaginable, calling the Dragons traitorous putrescent dogs and far worse.
I offer you the chance to continue. To exceed those who judged you unworthy. To cast down those who denied you.
“P-p-please…” He somehow coughed out the word.
You would give up your name, your destiny, and what is left of your life? You would serve me, until Creation itself dies?
“Y-yes,” it was easier this time, as if Death was ready to release its hold.
You would destroy the travesty of life and end this broken world?
The monk would say he paused, but time itself seemed to have cease its motion. To end Creation itself? To go against the Immaculate Dragons and their teachings? It would be a betrayal of everyth- Peleps Deled, his mind provided.
“I will,” said the student with strength and certainty.
Our pact is sealed. Arise.
And so he stood, body made whole, then knelt before his new master.
His foot slipped on a bit of the frozen rainwater, hiding in the shadow of the stone steps. Reflexes honed by years of training attempted to counter. They may even have overcome the obstacle of three days of exposure and fasting, but... The anger, bolstered by despair, turned his heel. Down went the bald man in ragged tunic, down went the mortal who dared question the decision of the Immaculate Dragons and their Chosen, down went the man who had forsaken all other identity for the name 'Student'... Limbs jumbled, bones broken, his body turned in the fall so that his head crashed on the last, bottommost, step. Eyes stared up, up the mountain path at the soaring temples of the Wyld Hunt, at the goal from which he had fallen so far, at the very embodiment of the mission he had so deeply failed...
The world darkened, the cold pressing down on him as his blood painted the snow. His heart beat slower, slower, trying to hold off the inevitable. His breath caught, escaping slowly out of blue and blood-splattered lips as his heart gave its last...
It is they that have failed you.
It all stopped. He stopped. Death itself stopped, as if waiting with bated breath. Instead of the Pinnacle of the Eye, he saw… Her. She was too short for a northerner, yet the mountain seemed so small in comparison. Her hair was pulled back harshly, bound behind her head with long hair sticks of a shimmering-black. Her skin was purest ivory, holding dark almond-shaped eyes that seemed to draw in his very soul. Her lips, the vibrant red of blood just split, matched her hair and stirred something in his lower chakras. Her voluptuous form was covered by a sleek dress the color of a starless night, its collar rising nearly to her chin. Five thin chains of jet lay around her neck and on her breast and seemed to be covered in some tiny inscriptions that he could not make out. Ashen prayer scrolls wove about her waist, shoulders, and arms, pulling the cloth closer still. A few scrolls eventually trailed loosely from her wrists and hips. The prayers, from what he could bring himself to see, were written in red and black and were the darkest blasphemies imaginable, calling the Dragons traitorous putrescent dogs and far worse.
I offer you the chance to continue. To exceed those who judged you unworthy. To cast down those who denied you.
“P-p-please…” He somehow coughed out the word.
You would give up your name, your destiny, and what is left of your life? You would serve me, until Creation itself dies?
“Y-yes,” it was easier this time, as if Death was ready to release its hold.
You would destroy the travesty of life and end this broken world?
The monk would say he paused, but time itself seemed to have cease its motion. To end Creation itself? To go against the Immaculate Dragons and their teachings? It would be a betrayal of everyth- Peleps Deled, his mind provided.
“I will,” said the student with strength and certainty.
Our pact is sealed. Arise.
And so he stood, body made whole, then knelt before his new master.
Conjured from the depths of a forgotten history, the Abyssal Exalted are the champions of death. They ride forth from the Underworld wearing the finery of long-buried kings, or clad in armor forged from forfeit souls. Funereal incense is their perfume. They are mighty warrior-poets, and their battle prowess, dark sorcery, and elegant words are a match for the Solar Exalted themselves.
The Abyssals represent a new threat to Creation—the Realm and its Sidereal masters can find no historical records which speak of these beings, not even those forbidden tomes dating back to the First Age. These deathknights first appeared at the siege of Thorns where they cut down the city’s Dragon-Blooded defenders. Now they openly claim manses in Creation’s shadowlands, and attend the courts of the Deathlords. Their purpose is clear: They are Death’s Lawgivers, come to impose a new order.
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Hello, everyone! I am interested in running a game of Exalted's third edition, with Abyssals. Obviously, they aren't out yet in official form, so we're going to be using Abyssals: Whom Death Has Called as a starting point, and fixing anything else as we go along.
Abyssals have always been interesting to me, because, well, in the world of Exalted, being a mortal is horrible, unless you are very, very lucky. You live a life of suffering, trying to avoid being crushed by forces far beyond you, and then inevitably die. After you die, you're likely to become a ghost trapped by its attachments to the past as it struggles not to fall in Oblivion. In such a world, when you are in that moment between life and death, could you turn down an offer to live again, more powerful than your wildest dreams? You could strike back against those that wronged you, destroy all that is wrong with the world... all for the price of a name and a destiny. Your name is dead, for if you do not accept, so too will you be, and in the world of Exalted, there is no true return from death. Your destiny is finished, unless you cast it off to take a new one. Why not take this deal, take up this destiny to watch Creation die on the Last Day? It will happen anyway. You had no real choice in your life or your world. Why not have a choice in how that world ends?
This will be a game where the players start as newly trained deathknights in service to the Keeper of Truths Most Forbidden. Also called the Mistress of Soulbound Pacts Written in Blood, she is a Deathlord whose citadel (the Chapterhouse of Obdurate Fetters) sits on the same mountain that, in Creation, holds the Pinnacle of the Eye of the Hunt. The story begins with the characters as "Loyalists," but I promise that even within that group there is far more than just kill-kill-kill (unless you join the First and Forsaken Lion, I suppose). That said, if people decide they want to go some flavor of renegade, whether freelance or even redemptive, I am fine with the story progressing in a different direction. I am cautious of the label "sandbox," because I've often seen that lead to games where the world just sits and waits for you to interact with it. In games I run, I have a fair amount of other forces I know are have their own goals and plans in the background. The players are free to pursue whatever direction they like, but their enemies (or allies) aren't just sitting around waiting while they go on a vacation.
We will see more of the world (beyond what we have in Exalted 3rd right now) as we go, but for now I will say that the Underworld, at least, is more similar with its 2nd Edition form. By this, I mean that it is more of a dark reflection of Creation, with a similar land mass, than the archipelago Underworld described in 3rd edition. As a big fan of the Lore facts system in Ex3, I would be very happy to have players help build up the setting and the various things going on.
A perfect circle is desirable, but it is not obligatory. I have had some interest expressed from some previous players of mine (like
Vivisector
), so I'm going to give them priority, but that only matters if there is some massive expression of interest here. I'm used to running big games in in-person tabletop games, so I'm not too worried about numbers being overwhelming (protip: do not run a 10 player Scion game, as cool as it is for the first few sessions), but we'll just see what people are feeling.
I'm definitely interested in this. Not sure which direction to go yet, but I have wanted to play a poet or artist for a while.
