Obsidianserpent
Senior Member
Hello, everyone. Are there any experienced writers who might be interested in a dark, medieval, eastern European, light-magic fantasy setting for an RP (somewhat like that of the Witcher or Castelvania series)? I'm looking for 2 or 3 other serious RPers for what I think will be a fun adventure. Depending on what you guys think, I may also employ a VERY rudimentary dice mechanic when running the RP to provide a degree of randomness. Everything would operate based on a four sided dice, and it would be so easy that players wouldn't even need to crunch any of numbers; I want to focus to be on quality storytelling, not complicated mechanics. In any case, I'm not married to the idea of implementing a mechanic, and we can plan every detail out in PM if that's what everyone would prefer.
Here are the plot details so far; we can flesh these out further once I find a couple committed players. My character (MC, since I haven't landed on a name yet), is a reclusive sorcerer known as a "skinwalker"; one with a unique connection to the Ghost Land (spirit world) and the innate ability to possess and control the minds of animals and creatures of non-human intelligence. A month prior to the beginning of the RP, a wagon sized meteor plummeted into the wilderness several miles from MC's dwelling. Through various research, MC has learned that the stone is, in fact, conscious, and harbors the spirit of an insidious demon. MC learns that the stone and the demon it contains can be exiled from the mortal world by taking it to a shrine within a vast and dangerous mountain range. Suspecting that the journey would be perilous, MC hired a mercenary company (you guys) to help him securely transport the stone to the shrine. The RP would begin with our caravan nearing our destination, when we are attacked by a band of cultists. During the battle, the stone intervenes, sapping the cultists of life and transporting us to the depths of a large castle/fortress that seems to exist in a dimension all its own. Our characters will have to work together to determine the stone's intentions and escape the hellish hold.
I'm looking for players that pay attention to spelling/grammar, avoid run-on sentences, write exclusively in the past tense and are willing to commit to this for a bit. With the right group I think this could be a lot of fun.
Below is a sample of my work (the picture above is by me as well). Please PM me if you're interested
Morcant knelt beside the corpse and gathered a minute piece of talc from his rucksack. Ancient spells ushered from his lips as he carefully drew a circle around the body. It was strange to him that this rotting slab before him was once a member of the most feared thieves guild in Vogos. Decades of scheming, murdering, and hiding from the civilized world, and this is what the rogue had to show for it. He recalled Judoc's words. Death, time; these were the only true lords of heaven and earth, and it was through their power that the vanity of man's petty pursuits was laid bare for all to see.
“Anala...Sabtain...Mithrakas…”Each syllable echoed on the cold wind. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just 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 was 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. 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 which 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…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed 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 which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the vacant 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. Their coarse and raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tritonal, guttural retching which Morcant would not 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 devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred quietly as a placated feline. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath. She slipped her hand beneath her garments and gently caressed the tit of her breast. Her eyes rolled with pleasure into the back of her head, her mouth barely ajar. A dark, virescent fluid soaked through the thin garment covering her bosom and trailed down the pale flesh of her breasts. With stained fingertips, she sensually caressed Morcant’s jawline.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth began to swelter, as though he were cradling a smoldering coal upon the rear of his tongue. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which 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. A distinctively earthy aroma filled the air, like that of a fertile forest just 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 was 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. 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 which 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…” The surrounding greenery was sapped of its vitality and form, leaving behind a ring of withered husks. From the Ghost Land energy continued to flood into the corporeal world unabated, creating a subtle humming on the air. Morcant extended his hands deep into the corpse’s hollow chest, and tore what little remained of the heart from the side of its ribcage. Maggots which had burrowed 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 which began at the base of his spine and spread throughout the length of his torso like a surge of electricity. Clad in scanty sienna gowns, three beautiful women with locks of auburn danced around the vacant 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. Their coarse and raspy tones of their voices resembled not those of fair maidens but demons; a tritonal, guttural retching which Morcant would not 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 devious smile upon her lips. She arched her spine, pressed herself against him and purred quietly as a placated feline. Her teeth were sharp as arrowheads and the smell of rancid meat was heavy upon her breath. She slipped her hand beneath her garments and gently caressed the tit of her breast. Her eyes rolled with pleasure into the back of her head, her mouth barely ajar. A dark, virescent fluid soaked through the thin garment covering her bosom and trailed down the pale flesh of her breasts. With stained fingertips, she sensually caressed Morcant’s jawline.
“Do you hunger child?” the woman whispered gently into his ear. Her words devolved into a maniacal cackle as she forced her fingers between his clenched lips. The taste of tar and vinegar was overpowering. His mouth began to swelter, as though he were cradling a smoldering coal upon the rear of his tongue. The sensation spread to the lining of his throat: a dry, torrid tingle which 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!”
