A Dance of Deities

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A Dance of Deities

Postby Goldsaver » Wed Aug 06, 2014 9:52 pm

A Dance of Deities

The Great Game

A great conflict is brewing in the Godlands, a Great Game of Gods vying for power over the mortals inhabiting the land. Eleven known settlements dot the landscape, each town as unique as the individuals that reside in them. These settlements have grown and developed on their own, but on this day, a new group of powers are thrust into the land. These new Gods have found themselves in the Great Heaven Above, incorporeal beings of immense power with the ability to exert their influence on the mortal realm. But the life of a God is fleeting. If a God should exert too much power, too quickly, They shall be overwhelmed with divine energy and lose Themselves in the Heavens. Likewise, if they are forgotten by the mortals below, and are unable to remind the mortals of their existence, they may simply fade into the Ether, a forgotten power.
But the Gods are here now, still in existence, still very much capable of great and terrible feats.
History will know this day as Day Zero, of the Year of the Divine.

The village of Stonesun is well renowned for its industrious miners and master smiths. The bronze armor and weapons that come from this small mountain settlement are considered the best in the known world, and are very sought after by the wealthy merchants of Gatestown. However, today is not a happy day for the prosperous village. A major mine shaft, carved deep into the ground, has collapsed, trapping many miners and killing many more. Despite the continued efforts of the other miners, the fate for those trapped looks grim, and the dozen dying men huddle together, whispering words of prayer to their ancestors, to long dead deities, to whoever they believe will listen.

The poor, peaceful shepherds of Grassmarch are not faring much better. The men who were wise enough to hide through the night are just now coming out to clean up the corpses of their compatriots. They were taken by surprise during the night by raiders from the warrior settlement of Screamsoul, who are now on the march back to their home settlement with their loot-animals, crops, and people. Mothers cradle their dead sons, and young boys pray for vengeance for their fallen fathers. Unbeknownst to them, their prayers may soon be answered.
The warrior men and women of Screamsoul march swiftly back to their small fortress, unaware of the ambush waiting for them in the mountain valley just before their settlement. The warriors of Freefoot are there, ready to put the slavers to the sword.

Meanwhile, cut off from the rest of the world and each other, the villages of Feyfawn and Mediton deal with similar threats. The druids and rangers of Feyfawn face constant raids from malicious animal spirits, spirits that are resistant both to their magic and their bronze and stone weapons. The monks of Mediton have started to find their fellows murdered in their sleep, leaving behind twisted shadows that resemble the forms of the fallen monks. Both fist and spear have proven useless against these apparitions.

The City of Gatewatch is hosting an outlander envoy, and the presence of the strange green-skinned foreigners has prompted suspicion from the local folk. On the outskirts of the city, the villages of Songrun and Tinkson are at each other's throats after a group of Songrun revelers trashed the Tinkson town hall, prompting the people of Tinkson to kill the men with primitive explosive devices. Many believe it will come to war between Songrun berserkers and Tinkson rogues.

Sharebon suffers continued hardship as food becomes more and more scarce, while rumors of a monster attacking Mertail fisher boats has prompted many adventurers to scour the coast on both land and sea in search of the attackers.
The people of this land suffer many hardships, and it is in the power of these new deities to grant them boons to allow them to grow and prosper-or curse them and watch them wither and die.

The Waken Gods

The Forge-Father, The Lord of the Harvest, The Underking and Master of the Earth, played by G-Tech Corporation
Powerpoints: 65
Human Worshipers: 244
Stone-Men Worshipers: 5

God of Passion, Fire, Creativity, Inspiration, Creation, and Beauty, played by Raktio
Powerpoints: 98
Worshipers: 6

The Divine Raider, Master of the West, the True Slaver, Father of Vampires
God of Raiding, Greed, Slavery, Domination, Blood Magic, and Vampirism, played by Ralnis
Powerpoints: 117
Worshipers: 72

"Father" Sinterklaas
God of Freedom, Revolution, Healing, Scholarly Knowledge of the Humanities and Social Sciences, and Charity, played by The Grim Reaper
Powerpoints: 103
Worshipers: 93

Goddess of Nature, Wilderness, Plants, and the Forest, played by Alleniana
Powerpoints: 76
Worshipers: 1

The Sea Maiden, Lady Of The Lakes, Mistress Of The Deep Blue, Goddess of Water, Rivers, Storms, and Fishing
Powerpoints: 75
Worshipers: 4

The Sleeping Gods
Also known as Hishir
God of Madness and Imagination, The Innocent One, played by Khyrznistria
Powerpoints: 50
Worshipers: 1

God of The Occult, Fear, Fanaticism, Superstition, Darkness, and Inclement Weather played by Legital
Powerpoints: 54
Worshipers: 19

God of War, Violence, Aggression, Expansion, Fighting, and Forcefulness, played by Alleniana
Powerpoints: 52
Worshipers: 7

God of War, Imperialism, Nationalism, and Militarism, played by Fascist Republic Of Bermuda
Powerpoints: 50
Worshipers: 1

Somatidion Kollat
"The Lore"
God of Scholarly Knowledge, Healing, Craftsmanship, the Arts, Peace, and Order, played by Carcharhinidae Primari
Powerpoints: 50
Worshipers: 7

The Soul Gatherer, the Great Mother
Goddess of Death, Dreams, Memory, and Childbirth, played by Mnar Secundus
Powerpoints: 50
Worshipers: 1

The Lady, The Thief, The Huntress, the Sorceress
Goddess of the Night, Shadows, Deep Magic, Sex, Luck, and the Hunt, played by Vellond-Hexter
Powerpoints: 45
Worshipers: 1

The Lifebringer
God of the Sun, Glory, Fire, Heavens, Life, and Illumination, played by Kromar
Powerpoints: 55
Worshipers: 21

The Vengeful-One, the Tormentor, Lord of the Damned, Demon of Woe
God of Vengance, Damnation, Curses, Evil Omens, Nightmares, Doom, and Misfortune, played by Esconelle
Powerpoints: 65
Worshipers: 1

Map Made by G-Tech
Last edited by Goldsaver on Fri Jan 09, 2015 10:44 am, edited 29 times in total.
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"No Evil Shall Survive Our Wrath"

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Postby Khyrznistria » Thu Aug 07, 2014 1:11 am

Zara had stayed in her home for six days and six nights, watching as the eviscerated carcass of her husband slowly melt away and turn to butterflies, landing on her arms and feet and gently tickling her skin. She giggled and watched the spiral, in all its iridescent colors, pulsate and whisper sweet music to her. She reached out and touched it again, tracing it with her fingertips, listening to the soft voice coming within. It told her to get up, to move, to do its bidding. She complied, wobbling on her unsteady legs like a fresh fawn.

She washed, changed, and slowly the colors started to fade to black and white, the world becoming melancholy and real now as she moved farther away from the spiral. Stumbling out of her door, she shut it, listening to the muted night sounds around her as everything moved like drying mud. As the closed the door, the fog dissipated, and her vision and hearing were suddenly sharp again. She sniffed the air, smelling the salt and sand on the wind. Where was she again?

Ah, yes. Mertail. She straightened her dress, feeling the soft sand beneath her toes, and began to walk. To where, she did not know. She merely walked, towards something inevitable, though, perhaps, slightly changeable if fate would allow it.

Of course, on the immortal plane, Hishir was growing quite bored with the lack of entertaining mortals in the world. So many to choose from, so little time... They moved their attentions from Mertail, to the icey Sharebon. What an interesting situation, for an interesting god. With food so scarce, families were starving, and dropping like flies. Hiszir smiled (well, as well as they could, for an incorporeal embodiment of madness) sympathetically down at the punitive mortals, crawling around down there in the dirt.

A poor family of three huddled together for warmth, shivering and coughing. They had been abandoned; cast aside by the very society they depended on. Yes, they would do perfectly.

Hishir worked their magic, proverbially touching the heads of the two youngest: a boy and his sister, Jonik and Sanzsa. Hiszir would keep a close eye on them from afar, and would make sure they had enough to eat, but they didn't want to break the poor things. Yet.

The children soon started displaying strange behavior, carving spirals on the walls, sometimes staring at them or lighting candles before them. The family dog went missing, and its bones were soon found not far from the shack, arranged in a spiral symbol. On top of Sharebon's other problems, pets and small livestock began disappearing all over the village, with no clue as to whom the culprits were. The madness had only begun.
Spend 5 points each to influence Jonik and Sanzsa's minds.
Last edited by Khyrznistria on Thu Aug 07, 2014 9:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby G-Tech Corporation » Thu Aug 07, 2014 10:29 am

Silverair Mine, Stonesun

Finnius pushed aside the rubble with his arms, the linen cloth tied about his face barely keeping out the cloying rock dust. All about him men coughed and swore, hefting with beefy arms the crushed rock of the cave in. Down below the faint cries of the miners could be heard, damned souls wailing in the depths; some of them had to be injured, from the tenor of their cries. His sun-bronzed hands grabbed another jagged fragment of basalt, and the burly smith cautiously pulled it out. In a circumstance like this one had to be careful. Moving the wrong stone at the wrong time could cause another collapse, trapping the rescuers with their comrades. About him the cautious tapping noise of the bronze picks that the miners echoed at times. Thankfully there had been some of the tools at the surface, in the entrance chamber, so the men of Stonesun could use them to tunnel down to the injured workers. Beside the brawny man Terovingian, one of his friends, stopped for a moment to wipe his brow with a muddy cloth. It was hot, and all the men were sweating like stuck pigs, here far away from where the beating light of the sun and the fresh mountain breezes blew.

Terovingian's deep green eyes were full of sorrow. "I don't think we'll be able to get to them before they run out of air, Finnius." A slow hush fell over the mineshaft, and the work slowed as the other laborers cast weary glances towards the smith. A leading man in the community, it was Finnius who had mobilized the rescue party, and begun the process of clearing the collapsed tunnel. His brief blue eyes burned with cold fire as he turned to speak to his friend. "They would do the same for us, Terovingian, you know that." He waved his arm towards the rubble. "Only a hundred feet and more away are they, upon that I would stake my hammer. They must still have air down there, to speak so. But your backs into it lads, and ale is on me tonight when they're safe at home in their beds." Some of the men chuckled, and the labor began again, hauling away heavy stones towards the baskets that would drawn them back to the surface. But in his heart Finnius' hope dwindled; though he said a hundred feet to the men, to keep their spirits up, the cries were five hundred yards away by their sound, if not more. Few could judge distance by sound, but Finnius could, and chill winter was in his veins at the thought of his friends, his colleagues, slowly drowning in stale air by nightfall. Rousing himself to desperate effort, the smith threw himself into the work, and forward the men clambered, agonizingly slowly clearing away the depths of the tin mine of the fallen rock.

Several hours later, the cries of the miners began to get louder, but more feeble. They were closer, but the time was drawing short. Almost words could be made out from the trapped men, and Finnius cupped his hands against the wall to shout to them through the stone. "Speak not, brothers! Save your air; we are coming." He wasn't sure if the miners heard him or not, through that inky blackness and the feet of rock, for they continued to speak. Terovingian shook his head, and hefted a great boulder of cracked tin ore. "At least we will be able to give them a proper burial." Finnius shook his head sadly, but the other men seemed to be of a similar opinion. It was too far, and the laborers were tired, spent. With a heave Finnius moved another stone, and one of the younger men fell backwards with a cry. There, as white and cold as limestone in the depths of the earth, lay an arm. Lifeless, alone, dead so far from the family and light of day that he loved. The smith cleared away about the body.

"Dammit, that's Garasov." spoke one of the other workers. It was- Finnius knew the man. A great brute, the foreman of the mine. None could best him in a fistfight, and he had slain many enemies of the village in his time, only to be brought low here by forces far away from his control. Slaughtered, as a helpless beast, a newborn infant before the power of rock and stone. Sighing, Finnius pulled his body free of the stone. The man looked almost peaceful, no wound upon him save his right leg which was bent unnaturally where he must have been trapped by a rock, suffocating slowly in a tiny pocket of air amidst the collapsed tunnel. Not a way the smith wanted to die, or one he would wish on any man, even the most evil of bandits. "May better fortune find you in the halls of our fathers, friend." spoke the smith, and he fished two copper pieces out of his belt pouch and closed the staring black eyes of the giant. "Onwards, we can still save the others!"

They found more bodies. Some had had their heads staved in by falling stone, others their chests crushed under mountains of earth, others merely trapped by the sudden shifting of the rock. The cries grew fainter, and Finnius beat his hand against the rock, frustration and shame filling his body. He would not be able to save them; even now they were still far away. The men with him were only digging to find a tomb. But they were alive now, damnation! At his wits end, Finnius did a thing he had never done before. Slumped against the wall, his friends staring at him, their eyes too full of pain and despair, Finnius prayed. Not to anyone, but to the earth, to the stone. Let me pass. Give me back my friends.

Somewhere, somewhere deep below, a power unfathomable heard him. Behind him the chest of Garasov began to rise and fall, and some of the suffocated men too breathed once more. The hundred feet of stone before him began to rumble as if an earthquake were moving through the mountains, though this region never saw such calamities. Like water the stone parted, and Finnius fell forwards, not expecting such a turn of events, staring with wonder as the rubble and rock crushed itself into the walls. A path of smooth stone formed, as if polished, and at the end of it he could make out the light of a torch, and along the passageway came the astonished shouts of the formerly trapped miners.

Wild terror filled his heart then; this was not natural, unlike anything he had seen before. In awe and fear the men with him fell on their faces, as if they thought the earth would devour them in its sudden movement. Starkly his mind was filled with a single sentence. I am Maerios.

10 Power used to open a reinforced tunnel to the trapped miners
20 Power used to restart the hearts of the dozen miners who suffocated
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Postby Legital » Thu Aug 07, 2014 12:31 pm


The three men stood hesitantly in the small circular hovel, standing just by the entrance and peering within. A small fire flickered in the middle of the single room, though it had been neglected for most of the night and created only an orange eerie glow. Few objects in the room were casting shadows due to their particular arrangement, but several suspended clay pots hung from the roof and swung slowly in the light wind coming from the door. As the pots swung, their shadows moved slowly like creeping figures pacing back and forth. But such shadows were not the only ones which moved.

On opposite side of the hovel, across the fire, was the shadow of a man. Three living men occupied the room, standing hesitantly facing in, facing the fourth shadow which had no owner.

Many odd things had occurred within and around the town in the past. It was simply the price to pay when living near the woodlands. But never had such a malicious omen fallen upon the people. The recent cases where monks have perished in their sleep (mind, even those of fit constitution and young age) has nearly brought the entire town to a frenzy. What ill spirit was causing this? Was this the doing of a mortal? None had an answer, and for the past few days, none knew how to proceed. The huts which held shadows were locked off and burned down, but some spoke of seeing the shadows escape into the woods. If that was so, than more ill spirits lurked about. Something had to be done to remove them, or otherwise allow them to move on to whatever life existed after death.

Saanos felt his chest tighten as the shadow twisted and turned, or so he believed, as he and two monks stood watching it. He had heard and seen many a strange things on his journeys into the woods with fellow lumberers, but never had he thought of something like this. He was no monk, and his connection with his own spirit was lousy to say the least, but what had happened to him during the devil storm was fresh in his mind as well as the monks. They believed he, and some of the other survivors, had some connection with spirits and demons as they were spared from the storm by ravens.

And, as it their point was being proven, a raven rested casually on Saanos' arm as if he were a limb of a tree. The bird was not ill tempered nor petrified at being amongst people, let alone allowing to be held. It offered warning calls to other humans who attempted to get near and reach out, causing all to retreat. Except Saanos. It allowed him to come near, and he was able to bring the bird with him into the hovel. The two monks beside him, holding fistfuls of scented flowers to ward away evil, watched the man and bird carefully.

"You believe that this creature will help us?" One of the monks asked again for what could have been the seventh time that night. Saanos nodded slowly, watching the shadow on the other side of the room. "I do. I think these creatures are coming to our help as they had during the storm. Whether of their free will or of another force, I know not." He explained, silencing the monk.

Saanos crept further into the room and the shadow appeared to grow agitated as he and the bird grew near. Silently, he whispered to the raven. "Creature of the forest, save us from the horror which walks among us. You have done it once before, now I beg you to do so again." Saanos extended his arm outwards, and the raven croaked and yelled at the shadow, which twisted and writhed against the canvas wall. Suddenly, the bird leaped from his arm and flew at the ghostly apparition on the wall, and just before it would have made contact with the canvas, a great wind rushed into the hovel, extinguishing the flames and sending the room into pitch darkness.

Saanos felt his blood run cold and he began to shake out of fear. One of the monks let out a whimper. Just as suddenly as darkness drowned the hovel, the fire flared to life with a great force and reached for the very top of the ceiling. Saanos feared that the entire hovel would catch afire, and he and the monks shied away from it towards the walls, shielding their eyes from the intense flames.

A form appeared in the fire, and Saanos instantly recognized it as a raven with its wings outstretched. The figure was harder for the monks to make out as the flames were restless.

"Saanossss." A voice called out from thin air, both a whisper and a yell at once. "You have received assistance twiceeee. What have you to offer meee?" The voice continued before the fire flared up once more before returning to a healthy small flame.

Saanos fell to his knees and bowed his head, clasping his hands before his chest. "Your power is mighty." He said, his voice quivering. "I will dedicate my mortal life to you, Mighty Raum, Lord of the Darkness." He said. His blood ran cold once more, and the monks stared wide eyed at him, unmoving.

How did I come to know that name? He thought, his hair standing up along his skin.


5 Power used for providing docile raven
10 Power used for banishing dark shadow
Last edited by Legital on Thu Aug 07, 2014 12:33 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Goldsaver » Sat Aug 09, 2014 7:22 pm

Day Zero YD, Late Night

Maston Ridge, Near Grassmarch

The wails of dying men and women broke the silence of the night.
"The town of Screamsoul was named for its brutal nature. It was said that in ever battle the mighty warriors fought they sent a hundred enemy souls screaming into the heavens..."
The scrawny man looked down on the field full of bodies, his stone club coated in brain matter.
"Tonight, it was they who cried out as they were struck down."
A massive, burly man nodded his head, one hand carrying a bronze axe, the other holding the gaping head of the Screamsoul commander by his ragged black hair.
"But there will be no heavens for the like of these."

The two men stood on top of the ridge, overlooking the field of carnage, watching as the ragged band of freedmen looted the bodies, stripping them of their famed bronze weapons and armor. Frightened men, women and children were being escorted up the ridge. A few carried themselves with pride, some went to their knees in thanks. Many seemed grateful. Others seemed detached, broken, staring far in the distance.
"You fought well, little man."
He made no response, and instead looked at the gathering of freed captives, one women on her knees, wailing in tears, clutching the bloody corpse of her infant in her arms.
The scrawny man felt the other's heavy hand fall on his shoulder.
"We did all we could for them. We gave them vengeance, and we gave them their freedom back."
"Many of the Screamers still live. They fled further down the road; if you truly cut off every path that leads to Screamsoul...Well, the survivors are going to have to go somewhere, and their desperate, and will quickly die of exposure in the mountains. They have only one place to go..."
"Stonesun. Very observant of you, Scroll. Stonesun will be the anvil upon which we will smash the last of the slavers. The smiths and miners have been victims of these damnable raiders as much as Grassmarch. They'll be glad to fight off another raid, and I daresay they may join us when we march against Screamsoul to put an end to these slaughters once and for all. That'll get Stonesun, Grassmarch, maybe even those monks from Mediton at our backs. We'll need everyone friend we can get if we're going to take Gateswatch..."
"Can you get rid of that thing?"
The large man lifted the severed head up happily.
"This? Ol' Motow won't be making anyone scream any more, except for squeamish little men like yourself. Every slaver head is going on a stick, to show what Freefoot does to their like."

A group of Freefoot warriors came towards the two men, carrying a large chest between them.
"We gotta a lot of nice stuff off the Screamers, Cleave. Figured you ought to have the first pick, killing the Screamer Lord like that." They dropped the chest, opening it to revealing a disorganized collection of swords, axes, and bronze chest plates and helmets.
"Take yourself a nice axe or a sword, Scroll. Some armor too. We'll camp out for the night, and in the morning I'll send you and a group of greener folks to escort the freed-men and women back to their homes in Grassmarch. The ones who want to join us will stay here, of course."
Scroll nodded, taking the gifts from Cleave as expected. He turned back to the woman, still on her knees, still wailing to the sky. In the distance, on the ground below the ridge, the dying continued with their screams and their prayers. The warriors were still doing their work, granting the dying the gift of mercy. Somewhere, he heard an eagle give a loud caw. He felt a shiver run down his spine. The bustle of warriors setting up camp surrounded him, but Scroll simply sprawled out across the rocks, looking up to the stars before fading into sleep.

(The Battle of Maston Ridge was completed without divine intervention; the warriors of Freefoot won a devastating victory over the slavers of Screamsoul. However, many innocent captives were slain in the cross-fire.
Hishir gains five power points from men and women driven mad by what happened to them during the battle.)

As the miners began to emerge from the collapsed mine, wives, sons, and daughters cried out in praise. The men who were once dead felt themselves changed by the experience, seeming detached and disconnected from the world around them. Many go into a state of fervent prayer, feeling the power of being touched by the divine. The saviors of the miners are treated as heroes.

(The families of the miners and the miners themselves give words of praise to the Heavens.
Maerios gains 20 Power Points; the resurrected miners are now treated as worshippers)

Stonesun Outskirts
As the last surviving miners were taken from the mine, saved by an unnatural movement of the Earth, some even returning from the dead, a woman stumbled towards the town, her feet bare red ruins. She wore the bronze armor typical of a warrior of Screamsoul. Arrows protruded out of her legs and shoulder. She moved almost drunkenly into the village, before collapsing onto the ground, muttering words of hatred under her breath.

Word begins to spread among the hermitages of the Shadow-Banisher and his Lord Raum. Many of the more orthodox monks fear that Lord Raum may be a being of evil, and perhaps even the creator of these dark shadows. More monks, including those who witnessed the original banishing, fear the shadows more, and seek for the Shadow-Banisher to purge their sleepy town of shadows.

(The monks of Mediton now look to the Shadow-Banisher to cure their village of the remaining shadows.
Raum gains ten points from the spread of fear and superstition caused by the banishing of the shadow.)

"Show me Wisdom."
She threw the bone into the fire, watching it crack and split, attempting to discern some meaning.
"Show me Wisdom, that I may save my people."
The young druid muttered something in a mysterious language, singing up to the heavens, begging for aid. The bone gave a loud crack as it split in half.
The woman began to do a wild dance, naked in the moonlight, swirling around the fire. Tears began to stream down her cheeks.
"Please, return my brother safely, oh Lords Above."

She turned around suddenly as she heard footsteps behind her.
"He is gone, my love."
She threw a grass skirt over her to cover herself, as she shook her head. "You are wrong. He is still out there, frightened, in thrall of these evil spirits."
"And you believe Gods will help you? The Gods have never helped us before. Why would they start now?" The man approached her slowly, a deep sadness in his eyes. "They took your brother, they took my mother...they'll take us if we don't go." She noticed he was wearing his sword.
" know the Elders have forbidden us to wield weapons, after what happened...and you know we can't leave, Siter... the Elders have forbidden it..."

He stepped up to her face fiercely, and she could smell the wine on his breath.
"Damn the Elders! We can get out of here, you and me...we can start a new life together, Masiy..." He reached to touch her face, and she noticed the blood dripping from his hands.
"What have you done?"
He drew his sword, coated in blood. "What had to be done. I'm not letting the spirits take us...I'm not going to let the spirits take you. Come with me, or I'll have to make sure they have nothing to take."

She jumped back from him so fast she almost tripped, and she absently noted her foot being cut by a jagged rock. He lunged towards her drunkenly, and stumbled past her. She reached down, and grasped the rock in her hand. Tears began to run down her cheeks as Siter turned back to her, raising his sword above his head in a killing stroke. She threw the rock, and struck true. The sword tumbled to the ground, and Siter reached to cover his eye, hit directly with the sharp end of the rock.

She found herself holding the sword, standing over Siter's fallen form. Tears ran down her cheeks as Siter made an effort to guard himself with his hands.
"Lords above. See the offering I present to you."
She stabbed him in the stomach, and the man cried out in pain.
"I offer you a life to save the life of my brother. To save my people. Please, any who would hear me."
She pulled the sword free, and gave another stab to his heart, before falling to her knees.
"Please. Hear me."

(All across the village of Feyfawn, Druids practice old and almost forgotten magic to try and find something to push the animal spirits back. Many villagers have been possessed by these spirits, taking on the personas of feral animals.
Raum gains ten power points from the practice of Occult magic by the Druids, as well as the fear caused by the spirit attacks themselves.
Hishir gains five points from the madness inflicted by the animal spirits)

The smiths of Gateswatch were pumping out weapons as fast as they could. Hundreds of warriors from both Tinkson and Songrun needed to be armed. It was an open secret that Gateswatch was arming both sides, seeking merely to profit off of the conflict between the two villages. In truth, Erik didn't care about that. He just cared about making the finest weapons he could.

Two messages had come to him, asking for his craftsmanship. The warrior leader of Songrun asked for a "blade like the world has never seen, so that the earth may drink on tinkerer blood." The mayor of Tinkson asked for "several hollow metal balls, with a cap that can seal on top, so that we may give the Songrun berserkers an unpleasant surprise." In truth, he could probably complete both jobs easily and quickly. He was more considered with another job, one requested by the Lord of Gateswatch himself, to make a sword that all the world would be in awe of, so that the Lord may make of gift of it to his outlander envoy. He had no idea what he could do to make such a blade, and he often spent long periods in thought, hoping for some inspiration.

(Gateswatch is abuzz with excitement over the upcoming war between Tinkson and Songrun, and the presence of an outlander envoy in the city
Maerios, gain eleven points from the Industry of Gateswatch.)

The food shortage in Sharebon continues to be a serious problem. Three sick elders were put to death in order to lighten the demand on their dwindling food stockpiles. What food there was distributed equally among able-bodied adults, each given a light meal enough to feed one person. Children, viewed as useless, were excluded from the rationing.

Mertail Outskirts
The young man gripped his bronze sword tightly as he stalked through the cave. Noises had been noted as coming from the cave, like a sweet song. He heard it even now. A beautiful song, compelling him to go forward, through the dark and dank cave. He came to where the cave opened out into the ocean.

He saw a figure in the distance, a women it seemed, sitting on the water through some magic. He heard her sweet voice, and he move forward, into the water, letting his sword drop and drift into the ocean.
As he began to tread water, he felt something wrap around his foot, and drag him underwater.
(People from the village of Mertail are disappearing on the sea and on the coast, and as of yet no one has come back to report what might be doing this.)
On this day, a hundred prayers were answered, and a hundred more were screamed up to the heavens. Day Zero of the Year of The Divine is passed, and will be remembered in history. But the sun has risen again. It is Day One of the Year of the Divine. The actions of the New Gods will decide the fate of this land and people.

(Total Results:
Maerios gains thirty-one power points and a dozen worshippers.
Raum gains twenty power points.
Hishir gained ten power points.)
The Free Federation of the Golden Lands
Free Federation Q&A
Liberal Democracy; Militaristic; Federation; Feminist
"None Shall be Held in Chains"
"All May Find Shelter Behind Our Walls"
"No Evil Shall Survive Our Wrath"

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Postby Legital » Sun Aug 10, 2014 1:25 pm


Raum is pleased with the sacrifice given to the Gods, despite it only being one soul. However, the emotion present during the sacrifice brought him enough pleasure and the occult practices being used by the druids has sufficiently gained his attention. Shifting a fraction of his attention over the weary human settlement, Raum sees the belligerent spirits and possessed, along with the suffering that is being brought upon the humans.

Reveling in the occult magic and auroras which swirl around Feyfawn, Raum decides to alleviate the suffering. Seeking out the woman who offered a sacrifice to the gods, Raum instills within her the knowledge of what shall occur and what she must do.

'Hear me, mortal. Fog shall come and stay for three nights. On the first, it shall surround your village. On the second, it shall enter it. And on the third, it shall stay until the fourth night. On the next day, the spirits shall be gone and the possessed returned to themselves. However, heed these words: no mortal shall step outside their homes after sun down when the fog exists, for if they do, they shall have their souls taken. Spread the word, for you are the one which brought this upon your people.


On the morning after the first banishing, Saanos sits alone in his one room hovel, meditating. It is the first time he has done such, as he had never been compelled to pray or meditate for the gods or spirits. But after the events which had occurred the night before, he knew that a mighty being had it's eye upon him. A being which could unleash power that is good could also unleash power which is terrifying, and Saanos had no desire to upset whoever looked over him.

Several nights ago, after he had survived the storm by the help of a raven, he had constructed a small shrine within his home to the spirit of the ravens. It was a simple thing, several feathers arranged in an eight pronged star, with two small bowls of smouldering plant twigs and leaves which provide a pleasant smell. A small candle sits before the shrine, constantly alight.

"Raum, the Shadow-Banisher and Lord of Darkness, I call upon you to finish the task of cleaning my village of the shadows. Your strength is unmatched as we have seen what you are capable of. If you banish the rest of the shadows, I shall seek out those worthy enough to worship your name. If I fail, you may enact rightful vengeance upon my village and myself. Please, Lord Raum, save us, or damn us."

Saanos, knowing that he had pledged his life to Raum the night before, reaches for a small bronze cutting daggar and slices his left palm. He winces slightly, but reaches out for the candle before him, and allows the blood to drip down his palm and into the candle flame. At first, the blood simply sizzles and stains the area around the candle red, but soon enough, the flame grows larger and takes on the color of human blood. Saanos holds back his fear as he knows that it is simply Raum showing his reaction to his prayers and offering.

Suddenly, he hears frantic voices from outside his hovel, and he turns in time to see a man, Leonis, enter. "Saanos, come quickly. Something unnatural is occurring; ravens and crows are gathering outside our village around the forests edge. They appeared so suddenly!" Leonis says, and Saanos, believing this is the work of Raum responding to his prayers, stands and follows.

Sure enough, hundreds of the dark feathered birds appear around the village. Many townsfolk come out to observe the event, and Saanos, both fearful and excited, awaits for something to happen. Sure enough, the entire flock takes flight almost at once. The birds fly over the village and begin to take up perches everywhere; atop of homes, near wells, around the market, the monk lodge, and anywhere they seemingly please. Notably, many birds come down upon the homes in which shadows exist within, and anyone who attempts to enter is attacked by the birds.

Elsewhere, however, the birds sit in silent judgement, watching the villagers. As night once again falls, Saanos believes Raum will destroy the shadows.

15 Power Points used in Feyfawn to bring forth the cleansing fog.
15 Power Points used in Mediton to bring forth the ravens and crows to banish the shadows.
"Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere."- Carl Sagan
"The Emperor Protects."
Male, Agnostic, Transhumanist, Independent (USA, politics)

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Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Alleniana » Tue Aug 12, 2014 4:21 am

It was a deep, bellowing laugh that pierced through the emptiness, seeming to give it a chance at liveliness and action. The emptiness regretted it soon after, though; the laugh continued, massive and booming, but mirthless, joyless, a laugh of cruelty and idle fancy, even if it committed silence to action.

Basrudi had watched that wretched fray upon Maston Ridge with much enthusiasm, if that word could be applied to the deity. Eager, at least, he had been, but... happy? As close to happy as he had ever been, but if he was happy, it was in a perverted, untrue, twisted version of the concept; a shame to the word itself. Eager, that, could at least be applied without such perversion.

So, eagerly, he watched, and reluctantly, he saw the battle end from his lofty viewpoint, drinking in the sights of death, violence, destruction and hateful violence; it had been almost an ideological conflict, and for that, he was even gladder than he would normally be at such aggression; once again, if gladness may be used without disgust that it is used thusly.

And now, the scene having been laid out was folding up again, so he laughed, bellowed, nearly hooted in one of the only ways he could express emotion; emotion to the degree that he possessed, undoubtedly a low one. He had, for lack of a better word, enjoyed it.

For what was an eternity, in his private power's domain, he belly-giggled, slowly, eventually fading to malevolent chuckling, and finally down to a thankfully silent grim smirk. The silence was golden, even to him, as the terrible sound ceased. That was... nice? Nice. No, perhaps not nice. The thought was driven out by whip-wielding chariot riders, and replaced with a living effigy.

That was excellent.

Particularly close to his god's omniscient eye, Aktar crouched behind some bushes.
How would I put it to you... glorious? Magnificent? Those things, was it not?
"Aye, aye. Bloody and vicious. A great show."
A cross between a grin and a grimace crossed his features for a fleeting moment before he spoke again.
"Nice, but what do I do now?"
The word he spoke at the beginning of his sentence wriggled into Basrudi's omniconsciousness, but the worm was quashed and the response came.
I want you to go to Grassmarch. I will stir them, you... lead them. Provoke them, startle them. Play with them, even. There is destruction to be had, methinks.
Aktar looked forward - something his god could not do - to what was coming. He knew not what it was, but surely, it would be good.
"I will go, then. I will meet you there, I am supposing."
Do not suppose. Go, and the violence will be given unto you, as rain upon a flower I would crush.
He stood as the Freefoot folk departed, and turned from the blood to cause more.

In the distance, but still visible, he might have seen a few wisps of smoke had he looked closely. He did not, but his master did not mind. He would see it clearly enough soon.

The smoke twirled up, dancing and spinning as thatch caught alight. Ash came from the dried grasses and rained upon broken, tumbling pottery, crushed underfoot by terrified fools.

Basrudi imbued more of his power into the village; household items jiggled ever faster, ever more forcefully, throwing themselves around, smashing and hitting things. Candles and lamps toppled, but nobody put out the fires. The people held their heads in agony, stumbling and shuffling and falling to the ground.

The first one turned, and his blood boiled.

Surely, nobody, for the life of them, could have figured out what was going on as the residents of this peaceful town so recently raided began shaking so energetically, and suddenly taking up arms and clashing with each other and everything. It was perfect chaos as random, uncoordinated movements of varied objects combined with the forceful thrusts of the sentient and semi-sentient; birds, rats, livestock.

Grassmarch shook with violence. And it bled. And then it ended.

That'd teach them, no?

25 power points used
Last edited by Alleniana on Tue Aug 12, 2014 4:28 am, edited 3 times in total.

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Postby Carcharhinidae primari » Tue Aug 12, 2014 6:50 pm

Ysdir looked about the city of Gateswatch with interest. having come to its gates in the early morning. Though it was not as learned as some in Tinkson, the city nonetheless had a reputation that would be of interest to him. Tales had said that for a great time now there had been a settlement here, and that the art of writing had originated within it's walls.
As he walked past the smiths he took notice of many things. of the way the fires burnt, of the glow of the metal, of the one smith seemingly frustrated at what his mind would not let his hands create.
His interest further piqued, Ysdir walked closer, looking at the man's work. The bronze was well-shaped, and as Ysdir carefully picked up a bronze pot the smith stirred and looked at him.
"Careful with that, unless you intend to pay for it. What can I do for you?"
Ysdir smiles; setting the pot down and looking around the workshop.
"That depends. All the others are busy, I am merely curious why you would not be?" He sighed slightly; watching a man in a workshop opposite break the mould from around a new bronze sword.
"So many weapons.. so much fighting." he muttered softly; looking back at the smith, seeming to recall himself. He would appear almost dreamy, always remembering and taking notes as it were.
"I have several orders that need doing, but I do not know where to begin with one. I must make a sword to awe the world for our lord as a gift to the outlanders, whatever that may mean." The smith answered, leaning back. He was a great craftsman, but his inspiration had left him for once. Ydir moved to stop him, but was too late to stop the man resting his hand on a hot piece of metal, with a cry he pulled his hand back, quickly pushing it under the water of the trough beside him.
"Inspiration? I find my inspiration in nature. in looking around. in finding the patterns in the stars, the earth. studying plant, metal and creatures." Ysdir said, setting down his pack and rummaging in it "And from that I have some skill as a healer, this should help." He added, picking out a small ceramic jar and pouring a little oil from it over the smiths burned hand. it cooled slightly, and numbed the pain a little as well.
"But there may be other help you could ask. I was stuck, like you are, on a problem a few moons back. I have since found a way to overcome such things." his demeanour changed a little, and his face livened slightly as he began to talk with a little more energy, moving his hands to punctuate his words, "You may have heard that some people, and a few have called them foolish, try to call on beings that we cannot percieve to grant them fortune, or a good harvest. Not all those beings grant such gifts, and I have seen little evidence of most of them. But I have recently found that there is at least one that you can call on for knowledge and inspiration. This being is called Somatidion Kollat, and he-"
Ysdir was interrupted by the good-natured laugh of the blacksmith, as he faintly rubbed the oil into his injured hand. "Hah! you can tell good stories stranger, but I would sooner believe in your oil then something I cannot see, especially with such a strange name. I shape metal, and that is a craft I am good at" Here he hefted his hammer, then he almost dropped it in surprise, lightly touching the formerly injured hand he'd used to lift the hammer with. the burn was healed, and not even a scar could be seen. When he looked up the sight of the city beyond his workshop was gone, and only Ysdir was with him, The workshop seemed to float in a starry sky for a few moments, before the city returned. but an echo, as of a voice spoken in the instant they'd been removed came to the smith.
"Well do you speak. believe not without some proof, and your skill with metal is deep. mine is likewise with knowledge, healing and inspiration, Somatidion Kollat, The Lore."
The smith had a faint glint in his eyes as he looked at Ydris, for the starred vision was still clear in his mind.
"I think you heard that too, whoever you are. your speech sounds like you're from Tinkson, but i won't ask more. I have nothing to lose in this, so how would I go about calling this.. Lore?"
Ydris smiled broadly, gesturing at the workshop around him. various pieces of excellent metalwork were presented here and there. "Simple, call on him, in your case, tell him about metal, and he will tell you something that he finds it good for you to know. or, in this case maybe, see."

The smith gave one more doubtful look, before taking a deep breath. he still felt a bit of a fool, but closed his eyes and muttered under his breath. asking The Lore to bring him inspiration for his sword, and after a moment he added some words concerning his forge work. how long he works the bellows before pouring. how heavy he wants the clay for the mould. for a few moments nothing seems to happen, though a faint tenseness grows in the workshop, as if a great work is already begun. as the smith opens his eyes again he can see for an instant a bronze sword, the handle long and ending in a hollow pommel, the guard shaped like two hands clasped in friendship about the blade. as the image fades from his sight it grows in his memory, and as he closed his eyes again he can see it clearly, the pattern running along the blade in the writing of Gateswatch and strange symbols he doesn't understand, but supposes is the writing of the outlanders, carrying words of friendship and trade.
Ydris stayed most of the morning with the smith, helping the man form the mould, and learning a few things about a forge himself before he pours the metal and leaves the smith to his finishing.

(5 power for the healing, 5 power for the initial vision. 10 power for the vision of the blade that stays with the blacksmith for the making)
Last edited by Carcharhinidae primari on Tue Aug 12, 2014 7:13 pm, edited 5 times in total.
Curious and industrious, PMT sharks in an FT setting.
factbook is WiP. but a basic overview of our species is below:
population (remaining, estimated) 6000
State religion: not enforced but every member of the species follows the Cult of Pas Mathéma in some fashion.
Goverment type: Council of 5 heading a technocratic fuedalist society
Govermental sovereignty: protectorate of the 44th independant legion; large independant but ceding to them for interstellar politics and trade
Military power: on an FT schale next to nothing, since our total number of starships is for now 0.

Carch, friendly anthro blue shark. got any kalamari?
... Am I the only sane scientist out here? Even if I'm Cult Mechanicus, I still count as sane given the rest of you...

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Postby Vellond-Hexter » Thu Aug 14, 2014 9:21 pm

Selene had been divided. Her essence split into four aspects that were called upon by many walks of life--The Lady, The Huntress, The Thief, The Sorceress. Barely anyone remembered her true name, and those that did were old scholars who had no reason to call on her, to worship her as she had once been worshiped in times of old. The Star-Kindler, they had called her, the Goddess who sung the stars into existence and formed the moon from her own beating heart. That last part was an exaggeration, of course, but oh what a wonderful story it had been. The only shrine that remained to her resided within her holy woods, just outside Feyfawn. Her influence had grown so weak that malevolent spirits dared to invade her realm, and other gods tried to exert their influence in her domain. The reason that so many from that village were skilled in the occult was due to her presence at the shrine, her connection to the deep magics of the world that had allowed her to create the nightscape that so many gazed in wonder at.

Selene had gathered up the remains of her original Godly power and sent it out, finding her prophet and bringing her to the shrine. That woman had been changed into something that was near-identical to the avatar that she took when she assumed human form as Selene, instead of the Lady or whatever else they called her. She had granted her new prophet an understanding of the Deep Magics, taught her how she would keep the spirits at bay once that other God had cleared them out of her wood... something that she was quite grateful for. After all, he was doing his work within her domain, the night, meaning that while he worked she was free to exert her influence.


The girl who had once been Maleen rode into the village of Feyfawn just as the fog began to swirl around it, borne atop a gleaming silver doe and appearing in the form that had been granted her by Selene herself. Those who first saw her cried out, thinking her a spirit, and ran to get help from others, and it wasn't long until a crowd of warriors, witches, and wizards had formed a half-circle around her, charging up spells and brandishing swords and torches as they prepared to fight yet another spirit that threatened their village. Cirith Ungolia--The Moon Rises-- raised her hand in greeting to them and spoke, her voice a musical note that brought joy to those that heard it.

"My friends, do you not know me? I was Maleen, apprentice to Kathryn. Yes, I see her among you, and she does not believe me either," she intoned, causing many of the villagers to falter and look about in confusion. Never before had one of the spirits spoken to them, and never had one appeared so fair as this, nor seemed less foul. "The Goddess Selene has touched me, my friends, and changed me in her image. You may know her as The Lady, The Sorceress, The Huntress, or The Thief. She is all of these and none, for her true nature is Selene, Goddess of the Night, Herald and Creator of the Moon and Stars. She brought me to her shrine in the wood and showed me a great many things, some of which I cannot put into words. But I can tell you this: I know how to keep the spirits at bay forever," she claimed.

Many of the villagers were awe-struck, for the Maleen that they had known was a light-hearted, if somewhat airheaded, girl who wasn't very adept at magic, and who could never claim to know of a solution to the problem that plagued them. The other girl had told the villagers that the God Raum was going to cleanse the village of the spirits, but she had never claimed to know how to keep them away forever, nor that the God had promised such. "And what would you do, that not even our greatest druids could accomplish?" one of the mages called out, still skeptical about her claim.

"Selene said to me: 'Every night, while Raum does his work on the spirits, you are to go to the center of the village. There, you will call forth the magics of the moon and stars to call down one of my creations to the Earth. On the fourth night, when you have gathered enough magic, I will add my power to your own and bring down the star Vigil, the guardian. So long as that star remains, and so long as your people remember my true name, no spirit shall ever dare enter within a hundred leagues of your village without invitation.' I will do this in Her name, my friends, so that all of our children might remember her kindness. Now go, night is almost upon us. Selene shall protect me from harm whilst I am in her domain, but you others cannot say the same, and Raum will take your souls," she commanded, causing the crowd to realize that it was growing dark and rush back to their homes, lest they face the wrath of a God.

Cirith rode the Doe to the center of the village just as night fell, causing the mist to surround the village in its entirety. Cirith looked up to the moon and began chanting in the True Tongue, the same that had been used to sing creation into existence. The stars and moon grew more brightly as she sung the True names of the most powerful, turning their attention towards her and her village. Shadows wreathed themselves around Cirith, hiding her from Raum's gaze and protecting her from his power as she invoked the power of the Night as it had not been invoked since the times of old.

Changing a Mortal Form: 5 Power Points
Conjuring a Silver Doe: 5 Power Points
Granting Magical Knowledge: 10 Power Points
Shrouding Cirith in Shadows: 5 Power Points (Due to it being at night, within her domain, it cost less than it normally would, i.e. 15 Power Points during the day)
Last edited by Vellond-Hexter on Fri Aug 15, 2014 1:19 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Postby Kromar » Fri Aug 15, 2014 4:07 pm

Three years after his harvest frosted over and he lost his daughter, the cold threatened to take his harvest away from him again. He had felt the cold coming for a week, hoping vainly that he was wrong, but when the frost began to form around his crops he remembered the exact same feeling from three years ago. At two in the morning he woke up with an icy chill in his bones, and he hastily donned his clothes and went into his field with a candle. As bitter as the cold was, he refused to sit by and let the Gods take another family member from him. He had to do something. Upon inspecting his crops, he saw that the frost had almost taken them. He looked up into the night sky, and just felt angry. He thought as loudly as he could: "If anyone up there gives a damn, you'll save me now. I've lost sleep, health, friends, and family to cruel fate already. I've had to make choices no honest man should have to make just to protect the family I've got left... Please... save me now."
His prayer reached Koran, and Koran could not turn away. Harold's candle flame flared up for a moment, as if in response. He stayed in the field for the rest of the night, shivering in the cold. At last, just before his candle burned out, the first rays of the sun reached him. The Sun rose like a blazing conquerer into the sky, banishing the frost from the fields. Koran then invigorated Harold's crops, reviving those that had wilted, and engorging those that had weathered.
Harold looked into the Sun, and Koran spoke to him. "I am Koran, the God of the Sun, the Lifebringer. I have spared your town from starvation, but my grace is not limitless. Make thy kin know of me, and build fires in my name, and the Sun will shine favorably on you. Forsake me, and you will slip back into the cold."
Harold obeyed, and called the farmers of Sharebon to his farm, where he told his story to the others beneath the blazing Sun. "We must not be ungrateful of the miracle we have all witnessed today. Tonight we must build a bonfire in his honor. We have all hardened our hearts against hope for miracles, myself as much as any of you, but we must not be too cowardly to believe what stands plainly before us. Now go, tend your fields. Reap what Koran has given you, but tonight, we will meet again, and light a bonfire in the center of town."

Koran spent 10 points to undo a cold snap in Sharebon (and brighten the Sun across the region, should that have any effect)
Koran spent 5 points to invigorate crops in Harold's field.
The Emerald Dawn wrote:Round and round, and up and down, and back and forth again; Nobody ever loses, 'cause nobody ever wins.

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Postby Esconelle » Sat Aug 16, 2014 10:22 am

On the Road to Grassmarch

Naphene stood there for what seemed like eternity; mouth agape, eyes wide in wonderment, unable to move. She had just been visited by a god—although demon may be a more precise term—and she could barely register it all. He had given her a chance of redemption, although, perhaps redemption wasn't the correct term; he had strong-armed and bullied her to swear fealty to him in exchange for righting her wrongs, wrongs he had devised; that she for sure knew. Whether or not she could trust him was another matter, he was a God after all, but after all this she wasn't quite so sure she should be putting her faith with him to say the least. Reprocessing the encounter, she looked down at her bloodied hand, which had miraculously healed in a blink of an eye, and saw that in the place where one might expect a scar, a peculiar set of markings stood there. Perhaps this is his way of branding me? she scoffed at the thought; she had assumed that deities had a modicum of decency in them, yet this fiend seemed to transcend her expectations. Well, he seemed certainly clear on the totality of all this, mired in thought, she may have stayed in that position had a snake not approached her and hissed at her, as if saying move before promptly slithering away in the direction of the country road. That fiend! she thought to herself, he had his way with her and yet he still couldn't refrain from continuing toying with her.

Casting aside her curiosity, Naphene bent down and grabbed the bloody dagger, proceeding to wash it in the now clear blue waters of the spring, she certainly wasn't going to be lugging around a bloody weapon on the way home. She couldn't help but studying the blade; although rusted from god-knows-what, she could still make out some rather peculiar and outlandish engravings on it, and as she ran her finger through the dagger's blade, both the marking on her hand and the engravings began to glow. How peculiar! She thought to herself, she slowly began to press harder on the blade, yet no matter how hard she pressed she couldn't draw her own blood. Hrmm...I wonder..., grabbing the blade in both hands, she held the dagger right above her own heart, this better work..., and suddenly, in one fell swoop, she thrusted the dagger to her heart. At the moment of contact between her flesh and the blade, both the engraving and marking one again glowed, far more intensely this time though, but no matter how hard she pressed or thrusted; she couldn't even break skin, she only managed in making the marking glow so brightly it began to burn her skin.

Nothing. Damnit.

Suddenly the demon's voice, from what seemed to be coming from all directions, spoke once more to her;

"Did you truly think that I, the Lord of the Damned, would let you, bound by blood to be a servant of my every whim, go so easily?"

"Well you certainly aren't making a compelling case to stay," she replied cynically.

Scoffing at her antipathy, he bluntly replied, "Ah, but sweet child of mine; that is exactly why you should be groveling before me, because, should you so happen to meet your premature demise before your debt has been paid, well, let's just say, your soul will nicely compensate for your temporal whining. Now, begone my child; dare to linger more and I may just be forced to expedite your journey."

With a short 'hmph', she began to collect herself and as she grabbed her rucksack, she couldn't help but be surprised at her overnight metamorphosis; yesterday's anguish and hysteria had given way to today's nihilism and apathy. The demon certainly was to blame for blowing all this to such proportions, but well, Naphene certainly couldn't escape the blame of starting it all. As she slung the rucksack over her back, she felt compelled once more to look at the peculiar dagger, I wonder what you are... She would have to bring it to Mendas once she got back, he certainly had a way with weaponry, and running her finger along the blade she quickly found herself lost in thought, Maybe if I-

"Hello?" Inquired a gruff, raspy voice.

That bastard! She couldn't help but stifle a laugh, but her laughter slowly gave way to anxiety; he wasn't going to...he wouldn't could he?!? quickly collecting herself, she concealed the dagger; she still wasn't quite sure what he had meant by expedite, however, she did know he wasn't the most benevolent of gods.

"Hello," she replied, her voice fluttering.

Turning toward her discoverer, she noticed his muscular and lean frame and most importantly, his drawn sword, Here's to hoping this doesn't come to blows she thought, orienting her view skyward in a prayerful look You better not.... Turning her head back to her discoverer she skittish continued,

"You know my brothers know exactly where I am, I've got 6 of them you know, and my fathers with them and they'llbebacksoonjustyouwait," cursing the demon internally, her discoverer, startled by her jitteriness, looked at her curiously before looking down at his drawn-sword and realizing the source of her anxiety,

"oh, apologies Miss, I didn't-" as he sheathed his sword, "well, never mind then. I'm Glendvor milady," extending a gloved hand to her.

"Oh," she said, a wave of relief washing over her, before shaking his hand and sarcastically curtseying, "Fair Lady Naphene at your service," suppressing a grin and giggles. With his cheeks quickly becoming flushed with embarrassment a flustered Glendvor blushingly replied, "Oh, sorry, I'm so used to talking to nobles, I-, never mind."

A short 'hmph' was all Naphene could muster, her anxiety quickly turning into some unforeseen confidence, before sashay her way past Glendvor, Don't you dare do this again, you hear? She thought to herself.

"Aren't you going to wait for them?"

Naphene, caught off guard, turned back to him, "Who?"

"Your father and six brothers, no?"

"Oh well, they'll catch up with me," she said before continuing her way to the country road, Glendvor, not so easily dismissed, continued, "you know a woman like yourself shouldn't be on this dangerous road alone, I hear bandits and slavers like to prey on passerby's."

"That's why I have a father and six brothers," she replied rather curtly, before turning to him again, "Who are you again?"

"Oh, I'm a courier from Gatewatch, one of the noble houses asked me to check up on their son. Perhaps you've heard about him, his name is Andreus." Blinking, she stared at him for a second, Oh how you like to twist that knife around! "No, I don't think I've had the pleasure."

After continuing on the road in silence for a few moments, Glendvor, turning to her once more, inquired, "so I take it you're from Grassmarch or around there?"

"Yes! Yes! I am from Grassmarch," she replied, throwing her hands up in exasperation, Glendvor startled by her frustration took a few steps back and Naphene after calming down in a few seconds turned back to him, "I'm sorry, I've just been under quite a bit of stress lately." Glendvor, seeing that his unlikely companion was in no mood for small talk, simply nodded, and the two continued their journey in silence.

Naphene, who had already been in a pensive mood before this encounter, couldn't help but once more lose herself in her thoughts; turning toward her companion she once again looked him over; he was undeniably human and his awkward manners certainly didn't betray anything about him. Failing to discover anything remotely linked to the divine, she thought back to their encounter, had it truly been a meeting of chance? Or was there any divine intervention leading up to their encounter? She had been warned that he might, expedite the process, but if this was what he meant, he certainly was punching below his weight. Hrmmm... It certainly was a lot to take in, best leave it until your home. Casting aside her questions, she couldn't help but take in the environment around her; the autumn sun seemed particularly brilliant this day, the Summershade's had yet to lose their radiant leaves, and around the road she could make out a dozen of native flora, from Nyx Root to Dawnblooms and Red Queen's, all of them yet to lose their vitality. Yet all of these only conjured up images of home, home. What a peculiar thought after all that had happened she couldn't help but long to be with her family, and as they had no means of knowing the truth of her transgressions, she yearned for them even more. It was these thoughts of home and hearth that carried her and her companion ever-closer to their destination.

By the Gods...This can't be...

Entering the clearing where Grassmarch, or what remained of it, stood, Naphene once again stood still for what seemed like an eternity; mouth agape, eye's wide in wonderment, unable to move. Before her, the carnage of yesterdays raid still lay almost untouched, corpses, rubble, and other remains lay there, uncleared. Clenching her fists and teeth, with her breathing becoming evermore harder and labored, nostrils flaring, it seemed almost as if time stopped for young Naphene. Yet just as time stopped, it began to accelerate faster and faster, and Naphene, with a fire in her eyes, bolting toward home; Glendvor on her heels.

Bagatelles - 5 PP
Last edited by Esconelle on Sat Aug 16, 2014 12:24 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Le République Populaire d'Esçonelle

Pardon my French; I don't speak it, but I have enough interest in it to warrant the creation of a French-themed nation so it would be appreciated if you could TG me any grammatical or spelling errors that you see, merci.

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Democratic Socialists

Postby G-Tech Corporation » Sat Aug 16, 2014 5:25 pm


From the rooftops and eaves, chimneys and smoke stacks, pillars of smoke and door rose high over the metropolis. The inky columns of obsidian filled the sky with darkness, the pleasing incense of industry quite agreeable to the Forge-Lord. On the fire of their kilns and in the hearts of their smelteries he breathed deep, savoring the aroma of labor and achievement. Perfection, struggle, attainment; these workers were wheels in the engine of the world, driving it forward along the course the Fire-Father had ordained for it. Civilization advanced, barbarism foundered. Even in the war that drove the gears of commerce could this been seen; as the weak perished beneath blade and bolt, the strong rose higher towards their potential, the first love of Maerios.

But all was not as it should be. In the weft of the tapestry, the harmony of the song, an errant thread was displayed. Discord, distress, dissonance; these could not be borne. Though chaos provoked imagination, and anarchy fostered innovation, this was not that color of paint for the canvas. Before the forge of a street, a tiny byway in the massive city-scape, a man stands. Metal cools before him in a mold, the finest purity of tin bronze. He draws it forth, concentrating on his work, and thrusts it into the furnace; crystals diffuse and recombine, cold-work and grain patterns disappearing before the onslaught of heat. Maerios feels the metal; the fineness of the mold, the skill of the smith's hands. But frustration is in the man's countenance; his brow is furrowed, his eyes hot with wroth, and his mouth a thin line.

In his hand is not the skill in craft to do what his mind has set forth. As hammer meets blade, pounding into pliant blood of the earth, the metal groans. Warp and change are in it's hand, the requirements of craft unfulfilled to do as desired. With a gentle breath of the heat of the core of the world the Smith-Lord smiles, and the metal flexes. The smith- Timur his name is- wonders for a brief moment. His hands are steady, his lame leg no longer twinges; it is not a suspension of human frailty, for to deprive of weakness is to deprive of growth. To overcome is greater than to be healed. Instead in the mind and bones of the lame forger a new life kindles, knowledge and experience unearned and unfathomable subsuming all thought of fragility and inadequacy. Timur's swarthy face, streaked with soot and charcoal, rivulets of sweat chiseled in the layers of caked fuel, shines dully as does heated iron.

The deity's hands are with him, guiding hammer, measuring reactant, forging weapon. A thin breeze raises the heat of the forge, but the smith works on. As the hours pass his body shows no sign of weariness, no trembling of the hands, and awe grows in the smith's awareness even as he works. A tightness grows in the air, and the street is still, silent save for the ringing clash of anvil and beating; no soul stirs, perhaps for mundane reasons, perhaps because the splendor and unseen majesty prevent them from breaking the emptiness' sanctity.

The last inscription is made, graven in the still warm bronze, angular symbol laid in immortal medium, and suddenly Timur is himself again. His shaggy mane is drenched in sweat, his limbs are weak with exhaustion, and he scrambles away from the anvil where his creation rests. His eyes are as wide as saucers, emerald orbs showing white all around their edges as the smith absorbs the immensity of what he has created.

It is as his mind's eye saw it, but so much more. The lines are immaculate, without even the tiniest flaw, the hands so well formed as to make his own scarred and battered instruments look like the work of a very earnest sculptor who was a bit of a blockhead. The bronze, formerly the color of golden amber and earth, is as dark as night, deepest abyss and midnight crystallized and captured by man's hand. A hungry look it bears, but the overlapping and intertwining runes he set upon it are a mystery to behold; warmth they bear, speaking of legends of great men and friendship, but many are strange to the smith. Though he is a man of the world, working as he does for lords of power who are well traveled, he realizes not that some of the stories are those of the Outlanders, which will impress them greatly.

With a cautious hand Timur takes the hilt of the wondrous weapon, and as he raises it the shard of starlight drinks in a ray of setting sun from beyond the low gables of Gateswatch. He gasps, for it flames; hues of vermillion and amethyst, aquamarine and scarlet, turquoise and citrine, all these leap up as if alive, twining about the blade, living and beautiful. Terrible is his desire for the weapon, his fascination with it's glory. Swinging it through the air, the broken light follows it as a cloak, and a note of purest song fills his humble forge, high and as full as the breadth of the Mountains of Sunset, but as fell and sorrowful as the depths of the ocean tempest. Tears spark in his eyes, and naked longing only fills his heart. Then into his mind creep a few simple words.

I am Maerios. Behold my wonders.

This would be a gift beyond price, one which would establish Timur the Lame forever in the annals of the smiths of Gateswatch. The Blade Black, greatest of the crafts of men. Jealousy and covetous thoughts faded from the smith's mind as quickly as they had come. Here was beauty to be shared, to be treasured, not to be hidden away and kept secret. Timur bowed his head in worship to thank the giver of this gift beyond price, as tears rolled down his cheeks, his heart too full to even speak. The echoing strains of the song rose high into the air and danced through the alleyways and streets, transcendent and resonant with delight and poignancy.

All throughout the city it sounded, beautiful and fey, a madcap melody of the work of men's hands, and achievement previously unknown. Merchants stopped in their haggles to savor it, weavers let their shuttles fall silent, potters ceased their endless treading as clay spun before their heedless hands. A clarion call it seemed, to create, to love, to do, to live. Hearts were softened, minds freed, and the task of fond endeavor rose like a wave over the city. It was said in days after that that was the hour magnificent, when man was unbounded, freed from shackles he knew not he wore, and he found himself a lord of splendor untrammeled. Apprentices worked as their masters, and respected artisans created works which would be lauded for generations to come. And through the bars and houses, markets and guild halls, the whispered word spread; Maerios was his name, the singer of the song, the Forge-Father, Mastercrafter, giver of glory, and men wondered at his works and praised him even as the days passed and normalcy returned, their memories recalling that which they could achieve.


Garasov was the first man to see the injured warrioress stagger into the village; his strong hands caught her even as she fell senseless, heedless of her blood covering them. A tender soul by nature, the pain and agony these wounds inflicted wrenched at him. But his gray eyes saw the signs aright; a soldier of the enemies of Stonesun she was, bearing the marks of a raider and slaver. Clearly the women had been injured grievously in some battle, and come here only as a last resort. His voice rose quick as the worshiper of Stone called out. "Marina, come quick. Bring your medicines. She is sore wounded."

About him quickly gathered a small crowd as the burly foreman carried the broken woman back to his own house, laying her almost fondly upon his own bed. It was so strange, to see a creature of fury laid low. Unconscious, she was no more a threat than his table; harsh handsomeness lay in her features, utterly vulnerable as her blood slowly seeped into his linen covers. Some muttered against the act, saying that the woman deserved to die, swine and brigand that she was. But Marina came; her hands were cool and gentle as she pulled the arrows through where she could, breaking off the points and bandaging all the injuries after anointing the with ointment to fight off evil spirits and sickness. Not a whimper did the woman give off as the wise healer worked; dead to the world was she, her mind mercifully vacant from the mortal plane due to her pain. Outside the sound of clinking mail filled the air, and men exclaimed as soldiers ran past; the foreman nodded to himself. Idrius, now captain of the Guard of the Citadel, was no fool. One Screamer injured meant a battle had gone wrong nearby, and injured Screamers with less dangerous wounds would be volatile, violent, as was their way. If they came to Stonesun... there would be blood. Upon the wooden palisade and gate the guards deployed, peering out at the land, the immense pine logs of the entryway shut against foes.

It should be fine, and Garasov relaxed, breathing out as the woman-warrior seemed to regain color in her appearance. Her wounds were grave, but he had seen men survive worse. A tumult seemed to be gathering outside though; voices were loud, and angry. He opened his door, and a mob of some forty men and women was there gathered, their faces twisted into garish masks by hatred.

"Bring out the Screamer, Garasov! Throw her to the jackals. Her kind deserve no better." The old man's voice was harsh like a crow, full of bile, and many shouted agreement with him. Stonesun was a village of long memory, and her sons had suffered depravities at the hands of Screamers before; outlying settlements burned, travelers enslaved, women violated, men slain. Their hands were turned against their neighbors, and this their neighbors despised them bitterly. But the foreman stepped forward, filling the doorway with his body, a barrier between the frail pallid form upon his bed and those who bayed for her to perish, passed judgement and who would swing the executioner's axe. Garasov felt strange as he spoke; reviling the Screamers was an attitude he has suckled with his mother's milk, but it burned not hot in his breast. Revulsion filled his voice when he gave voice to his thoughts, but not disgust with the woman.

"Friends, brothers, sisters. Listen to yourselves. You, who would take a guest into your homes and feed them, clothe them. You, of great hearts and fair minds. You would cast a woman out to be torn by beasts? You would have an injured soul who never did us harm thrown from our walls to certain death?"

Some faces fell at his words, and feet shuffled uncomfortably. This was a way of untamed savages; revenge and death, suspicion, anger. Garasov saw this clearly; The Ordered Liege had opened his eyes to the truth. Civilization was not petty mobs slaying injured woman for their heritage, nor cold blooded murder done out of spite.

But his countrymen did not see it so. Though a few coughed and seemed embarrassed, more called still for her death, to pay her with the coin the Screamers shared so freely. He heard it in their voices; soon they would shove past him, bear her away to be slaughtered like some base animal. In their tones and eyes Garasov saw it. Primal fear of death, the howling beast wailing against it's fate; these men and women feared the Screamers, feared battle and war that the mad warriors could bring to them, and would laugh as the injured soldier died to deny to themselves for a time that death could find then easily, to forget the fragility of their existence. A blade could end it, a cough, an accident, a wild beast of the field. The brief candle would gutter out, blown to smoke by the cold wind of finality. And they were terrified, his friends, of their own deaths. No person stared blithely into the blackness beyond, and this injured warrior has troubled their spirits, a jagged tooth that the tongue worried without recourse. They had to put her away quickly, or confront the truth of their ever passing lives, the horror of the unknown and uncertain. With her death, they would live easy again, though their hands would be stained scarlet.

Bowing his head, Garasov prayed. He still wasn't very much of a religious man, speaking only infrequently to the power that had returned him to the land of the living. No requests did he ply upon the deity, figuring that being alive was gift enough from the Fire-Father; but in the long watches of the night it had comforted the foreman, talking to his God, knowing someone stronger and greater was aware of his little trials and tribulations. Now though, he prayed in earnest, not for himself, but for the sake of the woman who would die if he could not stop this primal fear.

Maerios, Lord of the Earth, aid me. Teach us not to fear. Teach us civilization, not savagery, light, not darkness. Order, not chaos. I beg you.

A sense of peace stole over Garasov, like wrapping himself in a fur during the long winter nights, or plunging from the heat of summer into a crystal clear pool of chill and refreshing water. Even as he looked out on the angry crowd and roiling emotion before him, he knew it would be alright. Beneath his laced leather saddles, the earth stirred, hearing his prayer. The roars of anger and rage subsided as the ground moved, men and women casting their eyes about at this quaking of the soil upon which they stood, fear in their faces.

About the wooden walls of the palisade, and the lower stone terrace edges, tendrils of rock sprouted from the grassy slopes and packed dirt. Guards cried out in alarm, and traders ran from the walls into the city, raising their voices in confusion. Slowly the vines of grey mountain rose, creeping up logs, twining and overlapping, cracking wood and splitting planks. Brown shaven trees gave way to the bones of the peaks, suddenly mobile, rising towards the heavens, solid and sure. Garasov and the mob watched with eyes open wide, mouths agape, the woman completely forgotten. For several minutes the shaking continued, and then like dreamers waking, the people of Stonesun walked out in a daze to look what Maerios had wrought.

High walls, broad enough for six men to walk abreast, and as tall as forest giants, ringed the cliff side city. Five they were, each lower than the one above it, and in each a single great gate was set, forged of a smokey dark metal none of the smiths had set eyes upon before. All of smooth stone they were, with no sign of workmanship nor builder's tools upon them; even chink or natural defect could not be found. With trepidation one of the miners swung a pick against the stone, and it fell back ringing, jarring his hands. Not a scratch did it leave upon the wall. Garasov smiled, standing in the uppermost gate and speaking to his fellows, his callused had resting in the cold black metal.

"Now cast aside fear, friends, and praise he who has done this. Maerios, savior of our kin in the black depths, has heard my prayer; no enemy can breach these walls, no force prevail against them. Rejoice!"

Many voices were lifted up then in wonder and song, prayers of glad praise anew filling the heights of the mountains. The foreman returned to his home to nurse the soldier, taking her weapons from her. No villagers troubled him further. In gleaming bronze and with smiles on their lips, the Guards took up the keeping of their new walls, marveling at the tall towers and thick parapets.

15 Points for the Day Magnificent and the Forging of the Blade Black - (60 points effective due to Craftsmanship and Industry/Earth/Acheivement)
10 Points for Stonesun Wall - (20 points effective due to Earth)
2 Point to stabilize injured woman from battle (normal points effect due to Healing)
TG if you have questions about RP. If I don't know the answer, I know someone who does.

Quite the unofficial fellow. P2TM Mentor specializing in faction and nation RPs, as well as RPGs.

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Father Knows Best State

Postby Ralnis » Sat Aug 16, 2014 6:28 pm

In the Mountains

Three Days Earlier
While Glu'ciel was watching the battle of Matson Ridge, and was watching the raiders get pushed by former slaves. Pretty much he spit in disgust as he saw them ran and their leader killed so easily while Krudic said," so those slavers are going to be my army, they look desperate and pathetic" and Glu'ciel looked down to earth to see his no good weakling of a worshiper, Krudic, who Glu'ciel had saved as he heard his prayers for help and the lust for conquest, he wanted to be a warlord and Glu'ciel listened. Glu'ciel said in response to Krudic's comment," desperate and pathetic are the most easy minds to grasp for and known that they come from Soulscream, they probably want vengeance, not my cup of tea but it's worth the time and effort on these pitiful excuse of slavers. Now, go track them down and show them my brand of raiding, besides if you don't do as I say, I will take your blood and your dreams will never come true."

Three Days Later

The upstart warlord and the Divine Raider had found the survivors broken and surrounded by the former slaves. Krudic said when he looked at the sight," so, this is the army you sought for me to find, doesn't look like much." Glu'ciel responded in his whisper, dark voice," of course not, their leader was killed and they were broken by the freefooters, all they need is leader, someone who can give them the power they need to fight back to their settlement. That leader, just so happens to be you." Krudic looked at his hands and his thin body and said," what can I do, I am no trained warrior."

Glu'ciel responded," but some warriors don't need strength as much as they need a helping hand. These former slaves will slaughter the slavers without your help, without my help. Walk and guide them and I will imbued you with the strength of the dead Soulscream raiders that were once slaughtered by them, they will sing with vigor and fight with them as they battle to protect their slaves as their vengeance will be and they will march back to Soulscream with their bounty and their hero, which will be you."

Krudic said" you want me to fight for these slavers and give them the retreat they need, don't you." Glu'ciel responded," that is what I said, get in the fray, be their beacon of raiders, the champion of slavers, and watch as the power of the West is shown against those wish to escape enslavement. Now go, and fight for your place, and theirs in this worlds of yours."

Krudic got into the fray with nothing but the clothes on his backs and a club but he new that the Divine Raider will move the spirits of the dead Screamers, howling at the Freefooters and they marched to protect their own against the assault for the bounty was that which is Soulscream, and that which is Glu'ciel. Krudic shouted to the slavers as he got in the high tops and said," Slavers of Soulscream, your dead ones had saw your bounty and the Divine Raider, Glu'ciel, looks upon you with favor from the West and he says that your retreat is assured and Soulscream will have their slaves, all you have to do is march and fight with the strength your raider blood has given you and the Divine Raider has sent the raider spirits of those dead to protect you and fight with you as you shall have your bounty and your greed is secure, now follow me into battle!"

The slavers at first laughed at him, but then a word was whispered with the wind and echoed to the minds of the slavers," WESSSSSSST" and thus the wind brought the ethereal energies of the Divine Raider and those that they once called brother and sister came to them and they all looked puzzled as the spirits bowed before Krudic as they recognized him as the mouthpiece of Glu'ciel and Krudic said," come now! Slavers and raiders of Soulscream, pick up your sword and shield for one last march back to your home with the same brethren who died trying to capture the slaves you have at the battle of Matson Ridge, for they will also get their vengeance and enslave the souls of the former slaves who have cut them down, so march for Soulscream and Glu'ciel, the Divine Raider and Master of the West!"

Spent 15 power points on the raider aspect( guessing it is more powerful and cost less, still don't know how this goes) and called upon the raider and slaver spirits of the recent dead of Soulscream to protect the broken army as Krudic leads them into the fray and fights to go back to Soulscream
Last edited by Ralnis on Sat Aug 16, 2014 8:10 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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The Grim Reaper
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Founded: Oct 08, 2011
Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby The Grim Reaper » Sat Aug 16, 2014 6:41 pm

Maston Ridge

The tantalizing taste of freedom, slowly ekking its way into the heavens. Delicious. Blood spilled to achieve freedom, brave warriors giving up their lives by the burning torches.

And many dead. So many slaves will not have the gift brought to them by the people of Freefoot. The home of Vladimir Nikolas - foremost (and only) cleric of Father Sinterklaas. He did not fight this battle. He stayed in Freefoot, safe - tending to his farm, encouraging those left behind to practice their crafts, their skills, whatever would be required to keep the village running.

But something stirred.

Last year was a great year for the divine powers. Mine collapses suddenly rescued by miraculous feats - towns falling to shadow, to feral spirits.

And yet, one in particular was left to wake. And this was his awakening. For many months, Vladimir had interpreted his dreams, faithfully carried out the service of Father without promise of reward. Merely of philosophy, of a desire to serve his people.

Sinterklaas could not leave such a humbling gift without returning one of his own. But not yet. There were more urgent matters.

And so the ethereal spirits of Sinterklaas passed by the warriors of Freefoot as they slept. For the first time, Sinterklaas started to drain away his power. There was a gift of freedom to be taken by both hands.

A dozen slaves had died, but eight freemen and women will be raised, including an infant, still in the care of its anguished mother in the camp of the Freefoot warriors. Another dozen prepared themselves to make the choice between returning to Freefoot, or to Greenmarsh.

The spirits of Sinterklaas' future started to stir, slowly shaking the atmosphere of the Ridge. Freedom from slavery, freedom from death.

As they stirred, each of the eight saw a fleeting vision of the freedom that had raised them - a picture of Freefoot, with...some power, over it. Clouds of white, and a cold, bracing breeze. A name..."Father Sinterklaas".

And then, they saw a vision of a torch, the torch outside Cleave's tent.

The baby cried.

Cleave did not hear the cry of the baby. He was stirred in the night by a different cry - a vision. "Take your men to save the dead slaves. They will serve Freefoot in the name of my divinity, that saved them. When you take your axe tonight, it will for only tonight show you the way to each of the 7 slaves you must rescue."

At the same time, a vision touched Vladimir, in Freefoot. It was not a typical vision. It was...a conversation, of sorts. A mere suggestion. Start preparing gifts, a feast, food. Hungry freemen are coming, and they will need shelter until they can make their own way.

24 Powerpoints (Freedom, to raise 8 of the dead slaves, inc. the infant at the camp)
6 Powerpoints (Visions of Sinterklaas - 4PP for 7 of the slaves, exc. the infant, and 1PP each for the dreams to Cleave, and Vladimir)
2 Powerpoints, to make Cleave's axe show the way to each of the 7 slaves for tonight only.

(Remainder: 18 PP)
Last edited by The Grim Reaper on Sat Aug 16, 2014 7:00 pm, edited 2 times in total.
If I can't play bass, I don't want to be part of your revolution.
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Is "not a blood diamond" a high enough bar for a wedding ring? Artificial gemstones are better-looking, more ethical, and made out of PURE SCIENCE™.

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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby Goldsaver » Sat Aug 16, 2014 8:50 pm

(This is only half the update, the rest will be edited in tomorrow; feel free to post if you decide you want to work with the first half, you can always edit for the second half)

Day One YD

The crows flew, and the shadows fled. The ghosts of dead men fled from the divine-touched birds. The crows and ravens struck a few, pecking at the incorporeal shadows the way they may peck at a real corpse, biting out shadowy eyes and bits of flesh. These shadows disintegrated at the assault, leaving behind a permanent black stain on the ground where they once were. Many more shadows fled deep into the mountains, pursued by the dark birds sent by Raum. All the living monks stayed within their huts, deep in prayful meditation. Many prayed to ancestral gods, long dead divine beings that the monks had prayed to for generations. Others gave prayers up to nameless beings, to whatever divine beings would here. Thirteen of the monks, however, gathered together to pray to the new deity the Shadowbanisher had revealed to them. They offered their blood to candles, mimicking the way Saanos pledged himself to the God of Ravens. Thirteen blood red candles burnt, positioned in such a way to form an outline of a crow, and the men prayed, pledging their souls to Raum so that He may keep the shadows at bay forever.
Once the candles were lit, they began the spells. The monks had always studied the witchcraft to have a scholarly understanding of the Occult. Now, they practiced these magic spells, a spell to bind their souls to the power of the great Lord of Occult Raum. More blood was offered, and each man was tattooed with the symbol of Raum on their backs.
(Raum: Gain 13 Powerpoints, 13 Worshipers)

She knelt in prayer, crying out softly to the God who had revealed the path to salvation.
"Bringer-of-Fog, Destroyer-of-Spirits, I have told my people what must be done."
Four other druids sat to either side of her, responding.
"And we have done what You have revealed to your servant, and beg us to allow us to join our Sister in servitude to you, Bringer-of-Fog."
The God had seemed please by the offer of her sacrifice, though she did it in anger and desperation. She felt a bit of disgust at herself- Siter was her promised love, one who she would of wed. In place of a human, a litter of five wolf pups would be offered instead, in the practice of an ancient spell that was said to grant the Druids who casted it the power of the aspects of the animals sacrificed.
The pup yelped a loud, sad, pained scream as she cut its throat, before the small body went limp. She held it over the flame, letting the blood fall into the boiling pot. The other four druids went to work, mixing in leaves and herbs with the boiling pot, and the young druid continued with her prayer.
"Grant me the cunning and strength of the Wolf, so that I may lead my people into your protection. My people hear my words and obey Your command, save for one woman, a blue skinned...spirit-woman, who claims to serve another God. Grant me wisdom, so that I may know how I should deal with her."
The four druids put the pot before her, and she reached in, taking the hot blood-paste that had formed and painting her body with it, covering herself with blood markings temple-to-ankle.
"Grant me power, so that I may spread your word to all my people, and crush those who would oppose you."
The night passed, the fog surrounded the village, and the worshiper of Selene worked her magic unharmed, protected by her Goddess. Most of the villagers prayed; some to the nature spirits they worshipped before, some to the Bringer-of-Fog, who the Druid Saria now worshipped, others to the Goddess Selene, who was followed by the being that was once Maleen. Some prayed to all, hoping that they would all feel sympathy for their plight.
(Raum: Gain 21 Powerpoints, Gain 5 Worshipers)
(Selene: Gain 15 Powerpoints)

Erik took another swig of the strange blue liquid. It's a miracle elixir from the Outlands, it'll give you the inspiration you need. Erik looked over the blade laid across the table, his eyes still watery. It was not-quite a perfect match for the sword the Lore had shown him, but it was still the best blade he had ever made. He had thought to deliver the blade to the Lord of Gateswatch a week early, but as he stepped outside, he saw it.
The Blade Black.
It was a beautiful sword-the most beautiful sword he had laid eyes upon. More beautiful than even the perfect sword he dreamed of. When he saw it, he could not contain himself. He wept uncontrollably, both in awe and in despair. How could he ever hope to create something so beautiful? He needed inspiration, something that could enhance the ideas the Lore had given him.
So here he was, sipping unknown liquid given to him by a Songrun hedonist. The man sat across from him, doing an odd dance with his head and hands. Erik felt no effect from the liquid, though he did feel it loosen his tongue.

"What if...What if I just stole it from that smith? I could kick him in his good knee, send him to the ground, and run off with it."
The Songrunian stopped his odd motions and responded.
"What's the smith's name again? It sounds...odd."
"They call him Timur the Lame."
The Songrunian shrieked at that, jumped up, and ran out of the tavern. Erik looked at the Elixir, decided it was useless, and poured it out on the ground, before walking back to his smithy.

All the town was abuzz with the word of the Black Blade. Smiths attempting to emulate the work find themselves failing utterly, but do manage to produce fine blades better than any they had produced before.

Erik, for his part, decided to try making an axe instead. The Lord did ask for a blade, but no blade could hope to hold a candle to the Blade Black. With luck, maybe he could produce the greatest axe ever seen. He found his apprentice, a young boy named Babl, working on a bronze dirk. He had not heard him enter, and Erik heard him in prayer.
"Maerios, Forge-Father, grant me your wisdom...."

Erik shook his head at that. All around the city, people were praising the name of Maerios. Before he had worked the blade the Lore had shown him, he had told a few of his fellows of the Lore's healing powers. A local wound-binder had began to say his praises to the Lore, and a few of the patients he treated did so as well, but the world of Smiths and crafters was now dominated by Maerios. Erik looked to the ceiling of his smithy, and said a silent prayer.
My God, the Lore, grant me your power, that I may craft a weapon even grander than the Blade Black.
Then, he collapsed on the ground in a huff, blue saliva leaking out of his mouth.

(Maerios, gain 25 Powerpoints, 12 worshipers)
(Somatidon, gain 20 powerpoints, 6 worshipers)

(Written by: G-Tech Corporation)
The village convulsed with violence, a wriggling snake with its head bashed in, lashing about and biting any who came near. Man raised hand against woman, child against father, husband against wife. In the packed earth byways and mud-daub huts shadows leapt everywhere, little fires and bigger ones illuminating the orgy of bloodletting and fury that had overcome the normally peaceful agricultural settlement. A woman ran down the street that led through the center of the village, pursued by three men; in her arms a child was cradled, though her mind was full of anger and fear. Fear, for the strong men bore farming mattocks; not normally weapons, but in their arms the implements would be deadly. Anger, for her irrational mind was filled with it, and this child was slowing her down. She passed many bodies, most moaning and bruised heavily, some unmoving and silent. Scythes, hoes, even mere staffs were in the hands of many; Grassmarch was not a place of violence, and their real weapons were few. But fists and hatred could be enough, enough and more. Her feet carried her swiftly towards the edge of the village. Maybe beyond the huts and people and chaos she could find safety for her son, whose deep black eyes looked up at her with wonder even as her face was taunt with effort. The infant struggled at times, perhaps touched by the madness afflicting everyone it seemed. Her breath came ragged though, and a quick glance past her untidy brunette locks told the mother that the men were gaining on her.

Then ahead of her a voice spoke out of the darkness, calm and reason in its voice. The men behind the mother slowed, and she too looked out into the darkness, where a young woman stood, her face irate. The words were not important, but what they meant reverberated in the breasts of all those who heard her. Vengeance. That was what Grassmarch needed. All this mindless aggression and destruction, it should be turned on those who deserved it, not on their own people. With mumbled words the men apologized, and her infant slept peacefully once more, though the men took their weapons and began gathering in the village square. Some Freefooters showed up at some point with freed slaves, and much was the rejoicing! A tale of mighty battle came and all listened with hushed voices to the story of the crushing of the slavers, and many cheered as they heard of the downfall of the lord of the plague upon these lands. The men spoke, anger in their tones, and eagerness; Screamsoul was weak now, and the Freefooters were moving against them. Now was the time for what the young girl, this Naphene had told them, to take blood for blood and life for life, as the raiders had done. As the morning dawned, the people of Grassmarch put out the fires, and buried their dead, treating their wounded. Then the men gathered, taking what weapons they could find, and set out for Screamsoul, urged on by words of vengeance and bloody battle. In their hearts some called upon the aspect of slaughter to work through them, to strengthen their hands in revenge.
(Basrudi gains 15 Power Points and 6 Followers)
(Merus-Lyg gains 20 Power Points)

(Written by: Legital
It was another seemingly lazy day in lands surrounding the fishing village of Mertail. Ships plowed through the waters, entering and leaving the bay, with fishermen returning and setting off to get another catch. Along the busy wharf, ships bobbed gently along the waves as people sought out fishermen to haggle with. Those returning from fishing in the early hours of the day were often sold out of fish a few hours before noon; everyone wanted fresh fish. Those that didn't get or couldn't afford fresh fish had to either purchase what was left, or wait several hours before the other vessels returned bearing whatever they managed to catch. Some days there just wasn't enough fish.
However, an approaching ship seemed to mark out that a fresh catch was returning, just in the nick of time. Some people waited along the wharfs, items of bartering in their hands or pretty metals and stones used for currency, as the ship grew near. The vessel in particular didn't appear to be made in Mertail, given the designs along the hull and the three masts instead of a single large one along the middle. For now, though, the sails were furled up and the oars were taken out as the ship was guided into the bay towards the wharf. Only a few men stood on the deck, though, watching the wharfs.

As soon as the ship came to a stop at the docks, it was apparent this was no fishing vessel. The upper deck was relatively clear of anything besides barrels and general sailing equipment, and the men, who wore very light armor and had swords, certainly were not fishermen. It was too late for most of the eagerly awaiting people when armed and shouting men appeared from the holds of the ship. People began to panic and flee, with many falling into the water as they were shoved or willingly jumped in the face of the attacking raiders. Several guards met the attackers on the docks and fought, but they were too killed and their bodies were looted and dumped into the bay.

Anyone who was too slow and unarmed was grabbed and pulled back to the ship, be them men, woman, or children. More and more men came down from the village to stop the attackers, but the docks were too narrow to put up a good defense, and before too long, almost twenty people had been taken onto the ship. As they grew to be outnumbered, the raiders shoved off with all the speed their oarsmen could muster, and three Mertail ships were set off in pursuit. However, the raider ship was made for speed and as soon as she could set sail, the ship caught the winds and was carried out of the coast and into the horizon with it's new catch of slaves.
The slave nabbing raiders rejoiced, and some thanked the gods for their easy catch.
(Glu'ciel, gain 15 Powerpoints, 5 worshipers)
(Basrudi, gain 10 Powerpoints)

Maston Ridge, Freefoot Force
Cleave awoke with a start, a voice still fresh in his head. Take your men to save the dead slaves. He reached for his axes, and sat himself up. This was madness, he knew. But it was the first time in years he did not dream of awful things. The wailing of the mother cradling her dead child still rung in his ears. When he stepped out of his tent, a different cry filled the air. The hungry cry of an infant. He felt gooseflesh prickle on his arms and legs.
No. It can't be.
He still remembered the way the baby died. He saw the arrow fly from one of his own men. He saw it arc over the head of a damnable Screamer warrior. It flew towards the mother, cradling her child beneath her body, only the smallest portion of the infant's stomach exposed. It was a one in a billion shot. Madly, he had tried to put himself between them and the arrow. It was foolishness, he knew. He was Cleave. He was made to be strong, to cut through heads. He wasn't made to save people. He was far away when the arrow passed over, tears streaming down his cheeks. The wail of the mother had pierced the sky, drowning out the clash of bronze and the screams of dying men.
He found himself walking towards her shelter. The woman had refused to go with her compatriots, still mad with grief for her child. Cleave had allowed her to stay, so that she may grieve and recover herself before eventually returning home. As he approached where she was camped, the cry grew louder, closer.
Then he saw, and he wept.
There he was- a young boy not quite one year of age, a brown scar on his stomach where once there was a red ruin. The mother wept joyfully, unable to truly comprehend. Cleave understood. This was no act by a mortal man. Something was watching over them, something...something good.
He left quickly, going to the ground where the dead were interned. The dead were stripped of everything valuable and set down in the ridge in a messy pile for the carrion crows. If this God was speaking true, there were seven living people trapped in there.
He spent the night with ten men digging through the corpses, pulling free-as promised-seven still living men and women. Cleave looked over the seven, all scarred from the wounds that once killed them. He raised his bronze axe into the sky, praying silently for a moment, before looking back down on the revived slaves. The god had promised him they would join Freefoot, and when he saw their eyes he knew that was true. Slaves died, free men rose.
"Others might say that you were raised by a God, and that you must serve that God the rest of your life in supplication and gratitude. Fuck that. You were slaves, you died slaves, and this God has given you your life so that you may die free. You are your own men now, but it would be my honor to welcome you into the brotherhood of Freefoot. If you will join me, chief of the Freefoot raiders, not as a servant, but as brothers and sisters, then you will live and die fighting for the freedom of others. My name is Cleave. Once, as a slave, I had another name. But I threw off my shackles, and the identity my masters tried to force upon me. It is tradition; once you join the Brotherhood, you leave your past life and take on your new one. Pick your names, and join me, and I will promise you that you will find a meaningful end."
All the seven bowed, and muttered words. Single, simple words, as is the tradition for a new brother of Freefoot. Wheat, Shear, Scythe, Hoe, Harvest, Slayer, and Riser bowed their heads slightly, speaking praise of Freefoot-while all eight, in their hearts, praised the god who allowed this moment to happen.
(Sinkerlass, gain 30 Powerpoints, nine worshipers, including Cleave)

They made it. Against all odds, with enemies on all sides, they made it.
But it was supposed to be a simple raid on the sheep-loving Grassies
Instead, when the new Commander Hel looked upon his force, he knew only one in every three men made it back alive. They were supposed to bring in dozens of new slaves to work the fields and enough food for months. Instead, they had six slaves, and barely enough food to feed his remaining men for a week.
Even that was a blessing. The Freefooters has descended upon them like men possessed. Only half of the men made it out, and Commander Motow had been cut down by the beast of a man known only as Cleave. The Freefooters had never ventured that far north; they had always been a problem of Gateswatch. Were it not for their shouts of "Death to the Slavers" and "Freefoot for Freedom," they would not even have known the identities of their attackers. They had been trapped between Stonesun and the Freefoot force. By all accounts, it seemed hopeless.
Than the mad prophet spoke, and the spirits of their dead rose to deliver them home.
The spirits had rushed one of the forces sent by Freefoot to block their pass home; the Freedmen scattered, giving the Screamers the chance to run through before they reorganized. Very few Freefooters died, but most of the Screamers made it through alright.
All of the survivors had pledged themselves to the new God. This Divine Raider had saved them so they may continue to strike out against the weak. Those still in the town thought them mad, but bowed in respect when Commander Hel gave the word to build a shrine in honor of this new God.
Now, with the makeshift altar completed, Hel looked upon the slave tied to its slab. A sacrifice for their new God.
"Glu'cel delivered us so that we might make real use of these sheep-lovers. In his honor, I deliver one of them to tend to His needs." He gave a simple prayer, before thrusting his blade into the slave's heart.
(Glu'cel, gain 20 powerpoints, thirteen worshipers; Basrudi, gain 2 powerpoints from the battle)

The Screamsoul woman woke up to find herself still alive, not in chains, and in the town of Stonesun. All three of these things were shocking to her, but the pain she still felt from her wounds prevented her from really questioning it. She forced herself up, wondering what the Stonesunians had planned for her. She couldn't run, not in her state. She couldn't fight; that would be madness that would lead to her quick death. Instead, she cried out for water, an incredible thirst almost overcoming her.
The miners in Stonesun marveled at the new stone wall. Already, they began to build other fortifications on top of it-watcher towers, palisades on top the wall for archers. All sung the praises of Maerios, and the great wonders he has wrought.
(Maerios: Gain ten powerpoints, twenty worshipers)

The fire blazed in glory, in honor of the new god that had brought an end to their hardships. The food shortage was brought to an end by the sudden revelation of Koran's power. The villagers ate their given portion, the combination of the newly filled food stores and Sharebon's careful rationing ensuring the town would be fed for the rest of the year. So they blazed the bonfire, and along each side they burned the bodies of those who had died during the famine. One of the village elders led the prayer.

"This new god has delivered us from our troubled times. We honor Him by offering up the souls of our dead, so they may live in plenty for all eternity. We honor Him by blazing this fire, though it is but a candle to the almighty blaze of his Sun. Glory to Koran, and may He give us many years of plenty."

(Koran gain twenty points, twenty worshipers)
Last edited by Goldsaver on Tue Aug 19, 2014 4:57 pm, edited 6 times in total.
The Free Federation of the Golden Lands
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Liberal Democracy; Militaristic; Federation; Feminist
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"All May Find Shelter Behind Our Walls"
"No Evil Shall Survive Our Wrath"

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Psychotic Dictatorship

Postby Raktio » Sat Aug 16, 2014 9:03 pm

Men were easily driven by passion, passion which strengthened Neirus-Sudta, the people of Freefoot, Songrun, and to an extent Songrun had developed deep within themselves. First he found someone in Freefoot, a brave soul who wanted above all else to end slavery so that people may enjoy their lives. Her soul was one of fire, and with a simple change Neirus-Sudta made it so that she would be able to physically manifest her soulfire which glowed very bright, at the same time he slipped a dream into her mind that she would remember vividly. The dream was of him standing in flames unharmed, "I, Neirus-Sudta, have opened the way for you to bring about your love for freedom of others. You are to figure out how to use it on your own, and the stronger you spirit, the stronger your flames will shine. Leaving the knowledge of him in her with a 'I just know' sense he let her waken.

Aesrain woke from her dream to an early morning, stretched and climbed out of bed, remembering the dream she tried creating fire by willing it into existence, but nothing happened. She tried a few more times slightly more disencouraged each time until she sighed and gave up, and got changed to head out. She took for the practice grounds, which on the way she was intercepted by one of her friends, "hey you going to fight Banro again today?"
"Of course I'm going to fight him, I need to beat him to get into the freedom fighters," she tossed right back, and continued on head strong as usual. At the practice grounds she got armored up and warmed up and got ready for the fight with Banro. When Banro arrive at the practice grounds, he was always a slow fellow she challenged him, "I challenge you to a duel!" Like usual Banra accepted the challenge as he was supposed to do whenever someone not part of the fighting force yet challenged him.
A short time later once the fighting grounds was set up the duel started, like usual Aesrain attacked him with a flurry of blows which he blocked successfully. What came soon after nobody expected, her practice sword ignited into flames, however the hunk of metal did not burn. Her sword sliced through Banro's shield like a knife through fat, leaving it in two un even halves, and just barely missed his arm. She recovered first and stick her sword through his shield right to his chin where it singed his beard, "I've been granted this victory by the god known as Neirus-Sudta, and I believe it's a sign I will have more victories." She soon was explaining everything she could in detail to any who would listen.

- 10 points for the dream
- 8 for making her be able to use soulfire (magical fire which is shaped and powered by the person's heart)
Last edited by Raktio on Thu Jan 01, 2015 1:26 am, edited 5 times in total.
Broadside dead ahead!

No, this comment is not meant to be sarcastic.

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Postby Khyrznistria » Sat Aug 16, 2014 10:22 pm

Zara hugged herself as she walked. The bare stones along the sea shore cut into the soles of her feet, leaving a red trail behind her in the rocky sand. The ocean was choppy, its waves crashing against the cliff sides angrily. The cool waves licked at her ankles as she made her way along the beach, tugged by an invisible string towards the caves, following the cool air to the gaping mouth of a wet cavern. She ran her hand along the cool rocky surface, listening to the steady drip drip of the water.

The wind whispered from the cave, beckoning her to enter. It was dark, but her god would guide her. Suddenly there was a tingling in her eyes, almost a burning sensation, and darkness became light, and the blue water of the puddles was clearly visible. She rubbed her cheeks, feeling her eyelids to see that nothing was different about her eyes in size or shape. She moved over to a glassy puddle and gasped at what she saw. Her face was gaunt, yes, and her hair was a rat's nest of tangles, but this was not new. What was new, however, were her eyes; the iris and the pupils had become wider, nearly feline, and the color glowed with a faint unnatural light.

She smiled. Yes, her god would guide her. She pressed her hand against the wall of the cave and walked on, looking around with her new found vision.

In Songrun, Hiszir delighted in the drunken, drug-induced reveling of the townspeople, enjoying the madness brought by the wine and mushrooms so fondly consumed by the inhabitants. To make it a little more fun, Hishir touched the heads of a small group of berserkers, and watched as they screamed and ravaged the town, their maniacal cackles ringing through the night.

Spend 10 points to give Zara "night vision."
Spend 15 points to drive a group of Songrun berserkers mad.
"I have no idea where that cocaine came from officer; I'm just a bored teenager who happens to have a chemistry set and a potted cocoa plant."
"I keep forgetting about the tiny metal skulls in my brain." "Have you gotten that checked?"

Female, agnostic/non-observant Jew, USA. I like to dip strawberries in strawberry cream cheese because it's meta as fuck.

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Postby Vellond-Hexter » Sun Aug 17, 2014 1:32 pm

Selene's presence hovered over the village of Feyfawn as she protected her prophet from the weaker magics of Raum, who's occult practices were a mere shadow of the Deep Magics that the Old Gods, herself included among them, had used to craft all things. And because her resence was concentrated over Feyfawn, she was aware of the sacrifice that the druid-woman and her cult had made to the younger deity, and it repulsed and angered her.

She was the goddess of the hunt, and the predators of the earth were among those that she counted within her domain. She had no problem with humans hunting and killing full-grown wolves, as this was the nature of things and it was proper. But the slaughter of these pups wasn't hunting, it was butchery, and she let this be known as a great howl went up from the wood upon their death, all the wolves of the wilds turning their thoughts to the deaths of those helpless creatures. She influened the mind of a pack, the same one that the pup had been stolen from, and sent them to her prophet with strict instructions to follow her command.

She reached down just before the twilight came and touched the mind of her prophet, whispering a message into her mind for the villagers and followers of the Lord of the Occult. As the night passed she retreated her presene and began conserving her power, content to watch from the shadows created by the light of the sun.

Cirith Ungolia walked from the heart of the village as day broke over it, anger clear in her gaze as the villagers began emerging from their homes, amazed to find that all of them were still alive and that none of them had died. But that amazement was short lived as they saw the entourage that followed Cirith and retreated back into their homes at the sight, for they grew afraid. At least nine wolves followed at her heels and the silver doe walked by her side, and yet none of the canines showed even a mild interest in the herbivorous beast. Cirith stopped at the house of Siter and the pack of wolves that followed her began circling the home, snarling and yapping as if they smelled prey.

The villagers looked upon the scene with awe, and some came from their homes to watch the scene with trepidation and curiosity warring in equal measure; what could this mean? "Siter, servant of the dark God Raum, you have brought shame upon this village!" Cirith cried out, her voice magically amplified so that the entire village could hear it. "You slaughtered a wolf pup, a noble predator, as a sacrifice to appease that evil being. Selene came to me last night and showed me this as I finished working my magic, and shared with me her revulsion at this butchery. Humans are meant to be hunters! We stalk our prey, we engage them in a battle of skill during the chase, but we do not slaughter younglings who have not yet learned to hunt," she declared before stretching out one hand and speaking in the True Tongue, causing shadows to grow from under the house and form a primal-looking sigil on her front door, which stayed even as the shadows receded.

"Barguam the Goddess Selene names you, Lathespell do I, enemy of all who hunt and practitioner of corrupted arts. The predators of the world will know you, no matter where you are, and will seek you out should you ever leave civilization. Your shots shall not be true, your luck shall be non-existent. Shadows will not conceal you, and the stars will dim when you seek to find your way. All who follow you shall forsake the blessing of Selene, and her eye will be turned from them. This pack that you stole from shall hunt you till your dying day. So saith Selene," she declared, just before the wolves let out an anguished, hate-filled howl and bounded off, flying out of the village and ignoring all that they passed.

Cirith turned from the house and walked away, the silver doe close at her heels as she made her way to her own home. She slept through the day with the Doe beside her door, standing vigil to keep those followers of Raum who would wish to harm her at bay. When night fell she went once again to the center of the village and began chanting the true names of the stars, calling on all of their power to pull Vigil closer to earth so that the lady Selene and she could bring it down to Feyfawn and protect her holy wood for all eternity. The shadows once again weaved around her, protecting her from the power of Raum.

Summoning and Manipulating a Wolf Pack: 5 power points
Touching the mind of Cirith: 2 power points
Weaving the Shadows: 5 Power Points

[The scene with Cirith delivering the curse was done by her own power, not Selene's. The curse itself is mainly using a bit of deep magic to affect predators and Selene not granting Siter any blessings.]

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Inoffensive Centrist Democracy

Postby Legital » Mon Aug 18, 2014 4:37 pm


Raum observed the thirteen monks as they pledged themselves and offered their blood to him with what could only be described as satisfaction. For so long he had kept to the darkness of the forests amongst his ravens, and besides noble Saanos, the thirteen monks were the first true humans to pledge themselves to him. Raum subtly influence Saanos to gather the thirteen monks for them all to meet together on the next night.

And so they did, the fourteen total worshipers sat together in one hovel used for prayer, now turned as the first true chapel of Raum. Saanos, the first follower and the most divinely touched, was their mortal leader. They all positioned themselves around a large fire, discussing simple things at first: affairs of the village, the coming weather, hunting, and gossip. It was how most meetings began. However, once the traditional and communal aspects were finished, talk turned to the true reason for them all being gathered: Raum.

They all understood Raum's power (rather, what they believed they understood) and they knew that their god was mighty and great. But they needed to hear His commands and what His desires were. None knew exactly what their god desired in the mortal realm. A wooden bowl and blade was passed around the fire, each man cutting a small mark into their palms, allowing some of their blood to gather in the bowl. It ended with Saanos, who after he added his blood, he emptied it into the fire. As before when they needed to contact Raum, the fire grew blood red and each man observed the fire carefully. They knew not exactly what Raum would uncover for them this time.

Only a short distance behind each monk, darkness swallowed the room, with only a small globe of light from the fire just engulfing the monks and Saanos. The darkness was purely unnatural as the eye could not pierce it, and it appeared that the men were simply suspended in another realm, despite the earthly floor below them. It was simply human for them to feel anxious and fearful of what was occurring around them. Even Saanos was unsure of what was happening; usually Raum simply revealed a small amount of wisdom or his desires to him. And then, something black appeared in the fire.

The figure appeared to be made of both shadow and black feathers, and when one looked upon it, it appeared it was the upper half of a hooded man, though at the same time, none could exactly imagine a shape to the figure in the fire. It was both a form and formless at the same time as the figure seemed to take on the properties of the fire as well. Two red orbs appeared under the apparent hood, and that was when every man realized that they were looking upon what could only be Raum as their human minds put the figure into perception.

Each man immediately prostrated themselves to their god which had appeared in the fire. Some were speechless and others prayed aloud. Some offered vigils, trinkets, and totems. Saanos could not look away, however. He simply stared into the fire, his heart racing, as the apparent red eyes of Raum met his. He felt his enter body grow cold and warm at once, his mouth dry and his bones weary. Yet, he felt good. He felt invigorated and powerful. There was no other way than saying that a deeper connection had been forged between the two.

' My faithful and worthy followers.' His soothing and flowing voice said, entering each of their minds. ' You please me greatly in your new found allegiance. I have watched over this village and protected you all, and you all show your rightful respect in devoting yourselves to me. This I shall not forget.' Each and every man provided their undivided attention to the form in the fire. ' I bestow upon all of you my favor. When you find yourselves in dire circumstances, I shall provide assistance to my most loyal followers. The more you please me, the more favor you shall receive.' Raum explained. 'There are lands beyond this village which posses other villages and towns of humans who do not understand what I can give them. Others are blind and otherwise wish to follow the ways of my many brothers and sisters. And so I shall imprint upon each of you a task.' Every man eagerly awaited to hear what their lord and master had to say.

'Volar, you shall travel to the village of Feyfawn. Already, some see me as master, but the goddess Selene does not appreciate such. You will speak of what has happened here in those lands and convert many to our side. Cecel, you shall travel to Grassmarch and preach my ways to the humble peoples there. I will provide to you both the knowledge of the lands in which you will need to pass in order to reach these settlements.' The two men, Volar and Cecel both gasped as their minds were directly touched by Raum and their eyes became black orbs. The other monks watched in fascination as the two men quickly blinked once more to reveal their normal eyes, and both knew exactly where they needed to go and how to get there as if they had been there before.

'As for the rest of my devout cult, your task is of equal importance. Mediton is your home, and I wish to protect it. However, not all see me as their god. Spread the truth here amongst your homes. Do not stop until every last man, woman, and child give their devotion to me. Only then can I provide the ultimate protection for your people, as well as assist in leading you all into greater glory in this cruel world. Saanos shall be your leader and prophet, for he shall always hear me. His word is mine.'

'In your tasks, only the devout are worthy. Lend your hand to those that do not see my light, but only lend your ear to those that are like you. Be weary of the tricks of my siblings, and remember that I will watch over you. Set forth with your tasks come morning, my chosen.'

And with that, Raum left his followers as the fire and light once again returned to normal, and all were silent as they offered prayer.


Just after the scene which had occurred with Cirith and her wolves, Raum could not help but be amused at the way the situation was playing out. He had heard Siter's prayer to him in request for power and to be able to spread the word, but Selene's anger was going to play into his desires. Sending off a fraction of his influence and power, he touched the mind of Siter so that she would say exactly as he wished to the gathered villagers as soon as Cirith left.

"Do you see what terror we face? A woman who lives amongst the animals and forests, who would happily damn us for wishing for our survival?" Siter began, her speech coming directly from Raum. "The Old Goddesses has forsaken us, and Raum has come to our protection! Where was Selene when we cried for help? When we lost loved ones and friends to the vicious forest creatures? And what is the true cost of killing wolf pups to have Raum hear us? These animals are not so innocent, as we were told. When has a wolf not leaped upon a weary traveler? Torn him limb from limb for meat? They see us as food as we do to them. Would they hesitate in killing a poor babe? No! Selene is a goddesses of hatred and oppression! You have all heard the curse which her follower has put upon two of our noble villagers! Is this what we desire? Do we wish to further live in fear of the forest and the Old Goddess?"

Siter paused to allow her words to be heard. "Raum is our new savoir now. He helped us out of his own will, and we must show our respects to him for our continued survival. Those who have not must recognize him as our true lord." Raum soon removed his influence on Siter and allowed the villagers to go about their decision.

Then, he turned his attention to Selene and spoke directly to her.

'My dearest sister, are you really in the mood for such games? Perhaps you wish to turn your attention elsewhere; I am sure some others will care for your teachings of powerful magic and chats with your little forest friends. And are you so afraid of me that you must shroud your follower from me? Do you think me to be so cruel as to bring harm upon her? I don't believe you know me very well, sister.'

15 Powerpoints used for appearing to his cult.
5 Powerpoints for revealing locations to Volar and Cecel.
5 Powerpoints for influencing Siter's mind.
Last edited by Legital on Mon Aug 18, 2014 7:37 pm, edited 1 time in total.
"Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it we go nowhere."- Carl Sagan
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Democratic Socialists

Postby G-Tech Corporation » Tue Aug 19, 2014 4:48 pm

Dwelling of Eric the Forger

Upon the floor the man sprawled, his wild hair full of spittle and blue residue. Pity moved the heart of Maerios; ambition he rewarded, an outpouring of the fierce desires of life, and this soul was rank with it. It twined in his veins, writhed in his muscles. This smith craved greatness, achievement, to show his peers and the world of his skill at craft. That was to be rewarded, indeed, not punished.

A tendril of light coiled about the drunken smith, lightly lifting the veil of drugs and hedonism from his abused mortal form. As a dreamer waking from a nightmare of a century Erik shook off the shackles of sleep, and looked about him as a man looks at a new world when he is a babe. Mewing and crying the smith was not, but with wonder he took in the vistas about him. Details, formerly hidden, lost to his aging eyes and dull senses, leapt up in sharp relief; the lazy golden rays of light dancing in dust upon the windowsill, the slow shuffling of his apprentice in the outer room, the languid heat of the forge suffusing into his bones.

It was all marvelous, awe-inspiring. The mundane, the passages of the world which men so often looked over in their single minded pursuit of another thing. As Erik rested his hand on his workbench, pulling himself to his feet, he felt every whorl of wooden deviation, every grain, every pattern in the tapestry that had been the forest giant. His own hand felt strange, ridged, woven together of sinew and muscle. A radiant life poured from him, a malignant vitality, and his smile flashed white in the smokey air of his forge.

He knew what to do.

"Babl, bring me copper, tin. There is work to do." Each moment seemed a waste, a squandering of life, even as the apprentice hastened to do as his master had bade him. Wide were the blue eyes of the youth; something had changed in Erik's breast, something he knew not what, but the boy could feel it crackling in the air around the smith. At last the bars were in place; with hurried movements Erik set them into the furnace, working like a man possessed. His apprentice huffed and puffed, working the bellows dutifully, and the beautiful red gold of bronze formed.

No sense of time did the smith have as he worked, his being strained with vitality and light, but outside morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon into evening. When he raised his head again, the cool golden glow of sunrise bathed his forge, creeping in through windows even as the musical snores of Babl sounded from the corner where the youth had curled up to sleep. Sweat coated Erik's body, and the terrible vitality was gone; he felt new, fresh, as if he was a breathe of air drawn from the first snows upon the first mountain peak. Before him lay his masterpiece; Godhand.

It was as long as his arm, the haft made of thick serviceable ash wood. But the blade was different, in some way he couldn't describe; truly skill was in his veins as he had made it, skill beyond measure. About the axe blade rioted a frieze of vegetation, vines, flowers, tree trunks, all rendered so lifelike he could almost feel them growing, and smell the warm mustiness of black soil after a spring tempest. He put his hand to the haft, to test the weight, and felt a voice in his bones.

I am Maerios, Life-Bringer, Forge-Father. Feel, and believe.

A shock ran through him, like plunging into a mountain spring. His hands firmed before his eyes, recalling their youthful vigor. Erik whirled, letting go of the axe, and staring into a polished piece of brass he kept for a mirror. Age fell from his face as if he were an adder shedding it's scales. Wrinkles smoothed, his receding hairline filled out, the harsh weathering of a smith's life vanishing. The shutters of his abode flapped in the breeze, knocking back and forth, and then were slowly silent.

Ten years and more, gone. Young again, the smith smiled, and laughed gaily. Such a strange sound from the normally dour individual awakened his apprentice, and the boy stared at him in shock.

"You have been touched by Maerios." The words held no doubt, no query, only a statement of fact. Erik shook his head at the apprentice's words, and stared with awe back at the wondrous weapon he had forged. "I have. Look what he has wrought." It was a mate to the Blade Black in skill, in artistry; Godhand did not drink light though, oh no. It radiated life, a faint glow of gold, and when one turned towards it it was like turning towards the open door of a kiln.

Erik took up the axe, and smiled. Then the silver bell he kept over his door chimed, and he looked over. His grin grew bigger. In the doorway, half inside, stood Timur the Lame; the man he had thought about stealing from just a day ago, he welcomed now.

"Come in, come in. You must see what Maerios has made, by my hands."

Almost as if afraid to approach so much life, Timur hobbled inside. His stick scraped on the floor, supporting his bad leg, and naked longing filled the lame man's eyes. It was plain that he understood how the other smith had been revitalized. Hefting the blade, Erik offered the hilt to the creator of the Blade Black.

"They are twins, your work and mine. It is only fitting you should hold this too."

Trepidatiously, Timur wrapped his hand around the haft, and then there was a mighty crash within the smithy. Heat like the sun blazed forth, and golden light, and the hot smell of air after a lightening strike suffused the room. Babl fell to the earth in dismay with a cry, but Erik remained aloft, battling a sudden burst of wind, transfixed by the sight before him. Timur, the lame man, a cripple since his youth, stood straight and erect. He gleaned like burnished bronze, full of red light, and it seemed to Erik as if the other smith spoke for a moment. No words could the forger of the axe Timur now held discern, but the lame man nodded, and a clap of thunder shook the room, throwing Erik to the ground.

He awakened moments later, a strong hand on his shoulder rolling him over. In the distance shouts of alarm could be heard; the thunderclap was not confined to the dwelling of the smith it seemed. Groggily, Erik looked up, and saw the smiling face of Timur kneeling over him.

"Are you alright my friend? That was quite the remarkable work of power."

Struggling to a sitting position, Erik took stock of his faculties, and a wry grin ghosted over his tanned features.

"I will live."

Then he noticed the lame man's stick lying on the floor in the corner of his workshop, and gaped and the erect Timur, his eyes bulging. No words came forth, but the adherent of Maerios understood.

"I am healed. By the might of the Life-Giver, and your work of craft, my leg is my own again." He strode back and forth, displaying the healed appendage for Erik to see.

"I shall never find a way to thank you enough, nor the Forge-Lord." Both their eyes turned, to where the Godhand stood upright in the packed earth of the smithy. It's fascinating beauty and radiant life were dimmed, as if a cloak had been pulled over them, but still it was a work beyond the hands of any mortal.

As the two stepped outside, Babl tagging along with his mouth agape, they found no small crowd gathered to see what the commotion was about. Erik looked at Timur, striding confidently next to him, and hefted the gorgeous axe above his head. "Maerios gifts out city with healing, and splendor!"

The cry was caught up immediately, and many were the voices raised high, saying, "Great is Maerios, healer and Smith-Liege! Great is Maerios, creator of glory! Great is Maerios of the men of the Gate!"

Tower of Foam

Mertois tramped along the thick paving stones of the Tower that guarded the eastern entrance to the bay of Gateswatch heavily, his bronze scale-mail clanking but lightly with every step. Stonesun-forged, it was the finest money could buy, that which all those who held the most important fortress on the continent wore. But the mind of the burly captain of the guard was not on the mail he wore, or even the ancient corridor he trod. Rather, it was focused on the package he cradled in his arms.

The Blade Black. The Outlander envoy had handed it to him, wrapped in black silk, and told him to keep it safe. Mertois wasn't a religious man, or he hadn't been; after his father spent years praying to idols of wood and spirits of trees for healing for his dying mother, the young guardsman had been throughly put off any higher power. But this Maerios, perhaps there was something to what they said. Power resonated from the bundle, and they said the Blade Black sang a song when it was swung, so sad and beautiful as to break the heart of even the staunchest brigand.

Now rumors were swirling in the streets of divine headings, of the Forge-Father favoring his followers with life and the repair of limb. It was enough to make a man wonder. This blade was to be the weapon of the Captain of the Tower, a gift from the Outlanders back to Gateswatch, but Mertois wondered if even stalwart Jarn would have the cup to wield it.


Even as the woman began calling out, a burly man walked around the corner, followed by a petite woman and two other good sized men. The woman pointed at her, and spoke. "See, Idrius, I told you she was stirring." The taller man, with a thick black beard, nodded gravely. As the young woman whispered with a throat like sand that she needed water, Idrius nodded again and the petite woman left. She returned shortly, bearing a gourd full to the brim with sparkling crystal water.

"Drink slowly. The fever has left you parched, but it has broken now, Life-Giver be praised. You may live." The Screamsoul woman drank, her ears full of these strange words. Stonesun had not been a place of gods last time she heard. Her thirst quenched for a time, she looked curiously at the big man who seemed to be in charge. He recognized her glance, and spoke.

"I am Idrius, Captain of the Guard of the Citadel here. You stumbled through the palisade half dead a day ago, but you've recovered greatly. I can only thank Maerios you survived. What were you doing here, so far north? What is your name?"

Farther away, Garasov was alone in his bunk at the miner's barracks; as the foreman of the deep tin concern that supplied most of the forges of Stonesun he took sleep when he could, not on anything like a regular schedule. As he shook his head to clear the shackles of sleep from his mind, he noticed a large burly man reclining sprawled across his desk chair. It was an incongruous sight, for to the foreman's knowledge, nobody but him had ever been seated in that place. Springing to his feet Garasov stumbled slightly, feet leaden with slumber, somewhat ruining the dramatic intimidation he had been going for.

Recovering himself- was the stranger laughing?- the burly foreman spoke gruffly.

"Who are you? How did you get in?"

The stranger chuckled, and turned his bearded up towards the light.

"Do you know me not, Garasov? For I know you."

Words of anger rose in the foreman's throat, a hot rejoinder that he had never seen this brigand. But they died, almost strangled, as half forgotten memory stirred. Could it be...? Flashes of recall from when he had felt the life dying in him, air close, running out- a deep voice, like the shifting of stones, a dark crimson beard.

With trembling knees Garasov sank to the ground, bowing his head. "Forgive me, Forge-Father. I did not recognize you." The dark haired man rose, and the foreman feared he was angry. But then a strong hand grabbed his shoulder, and hauled him to his feet as a father does an errant child.

"Fear not. You have not disappointed, son of faith. I am here to teach you, not chastise you." Garasov's eyes must have filled with confusion, for Maerios, Smith-Lord of Earth and Stone, laughed aloud again, the rich rolling thunder filling the carven stone of the barracks. "Power you have locked away inside you, son of rock. I am here to give you the present of self-knowledge, a part of my power, how to shape and craft the world to your will. You shall need this strength in the time to come, for the nights grow dark and day's glow is lessened." The great smith and forger of the passages of the world turned, placing a hand to a chisel and hammer that Garasov had not seen.

"Attend to me."

For several hours the god and the mortal man spoke. Of rune and inscription, of strength of enchantment and hidden spell, Maerios spoke on into the evening hour. With chisel and hammer, cutting knife and wood, Garasov practiced. Magicks to bind sinew, set bone, raise earth, grind stone, find water, grow crop; all these the foreman learned and more. Eventually weariness overcame him, the effect of continued enchantment, and when he awoke the god was gone.

But the knowledge remained, a noon to mankind. Garasov ran outside, and began to tell his fellows of his miraculous experience, speaking with the Stone-Singer himself.


Here, north of the city center, the field of battle lay. Behind the old border wall the Tinkers crouched, bows and weapons at the ready; forward scouts pushed up the day before reported a large force of the drug-addled maniacs of Songrun marching south, thinking to steal into the city of the Makers to slay and pillage. As was their wont, the bastards. Sythia held her weapon close; a bolt-thrower of her father's making, the old man had boasted that even a strong lass of her disposition could use it to keep up with the male crossbowmen, for it could kill a man farther out than they could and reload faster. She hoped the buzzard was right. Her commander, Gershom of Hervanis, had told the troop that there were at least fifty beserkers coming. And they had brought a mangonel with them, more foresight that the barbaric drug-men usually had.

Her black hair drawn back out of her eyes with a stout length of bowstring, the warrior risked a look up over the balustrade. There they were alright, coming down the north road in their disorganized blob. Her teeth bared like a wolves, the hair on the back of her neck rising. These Songrun men were wild, fierce, rapists and arsonists of the worst type. When they had first launched their attack on Tinkston, the Tinkers had not been ready, and many had paid for their incautiousness with their lives. Now it was the turn of the men of Songrun to be unprepared; they could not possibly know how many crossbows the Tinkers had forged, nor the number of trained archers waiting for them.

But the beserkers did not come on, cavalierly, as was their way, and Sythia could hear the men cursing next to her at this unexpected development. Their mangonel rolled to the front of the line, and men swarmed about it. "We're in for it now; they can't hit the broad side of a stable though. Best be lucky, lads." The voice of Gershom was soft, so as not to give away his exact position to the tossers, but Sythia nodded. Only a few rocks could the Songmen have brought, not enough to kill even a few men except by the worst fate imaginable.

As the crack of ropes was heard, and the mangonel's arm moved, a small black projectile took to the air. Sythia's eyes tracked it, and she frowned; it was flying much too fast and high to be stone. Alarm rose to her lips. "Fire pots!" Around her more men swore, and ducked for cover under the wall, hugging it as a man does his wife after many years at sea. Falling fire was one of the most devastating weapons, and could break even the most resolute of lines. When your friends burned alive around you, steel will was turned to water, and armies had been known to flee before even coming to grips with the foe.

But the mangonel was not throwing fire pots.

One of the ceramic vessels, the first, shattered down the line from Sythia. She didn't hear shouts of pain and anger, which was good; the beserkers must have missed. Sounds of coughing and cursing, however, filled the air. Men stumbled towards her, their eyes streaming with tears, weapons forgotten. Blast it. The potion-mixers in that accursed town must have come up with some new concoction. All up and down the line the pots fell, one after another, sending the formation into disarray, bows and arrows falling from hands as men tried to protect their eyes and mouths from the stinging gas that came from the shattered earthenware. Sythia swore as vilely as any sailor as she looked out over the wall again- the beserkers were advancing in open order, the mangonel still firing, sure their brews had put paid to any organized resistance from their foes. And they were right, curse them. Sythia looked back for a line of escape, but she doubted she could outrun the feral men that loped across the field with the stride of wolves. Ice filled her veins. Death, or worse then, awaited her. The hunters had become the hunted.

Desperate anger ran through her body then, as she took up her bolt thrower and prepared to sell her life dearly. In her heart she cried out to anyone, anything, to aid her, and she cocked her device, preparing to launch the first shard of metal at the beserkers and their wild hair now closing across the field. A quick glance told her only a few other Tinkers were ready to fight. They would be overrun in minutes. But then her eyes saw a curious thing; there was a man standing in the field, between the boundary wall and the onrushing Songrun people. His hair was long, a thick auburn beard like fire, groomed and tamed, and his shoulders broad and muscled like a smith's. The archer could not see his face, but something told her he was laughing. A chill wind started at her back, and Sythia gasped; the first acrid fumes that had reached her didn't effect her any more. Though her eyes had begun to tear up from the concoction, she suddenly found the wetness on her cheeks dried, as a sense of... she could only describe it as order... filled her young body. About her she noticed other Tinkers looking about in amazement, grabbing weapons, ignoring the vile fog even as they walked through it.

And then the pots began to burst. Not amongst the Tinkers, their targets, but over the heads of the oncoming beserkers. Even the drug-addled warriors could not ignore the fumes, clawing at their throats and rubbing tearing eyes. The order came, and Sythia fired, one of many, for the Tinkston firing line had been reformed. As bolt after bolt scythed down the savage men, and they fled howling back towards their fellows, the young woman marveled. Defeat had become rout; not a single Tinker perished that day, though the Songrun assault was broken. After the battle she walked up to the large man in the field, followed by several other curious soldiers.

He turned, and Sythia saw that to call him broadshouldered would be an understatement. Wider than any man she had seen he stood, and taller than a head by even the tallest of Screamer raiders. A great bear of a man, and she felt somewhat intimidated, speaking to him.

"Sir, who are you? To stand against the Songrun onslaught like that... are you a madman?"

The great booming voice chuckled at her, and spoke, the man's eyes alight with amusement.

"I am no madman. I am Maerios."

At those words one of her fellows stumbled backwards with an oath. The rest and Sythia looked at him strangely, as the fellow aimed a trembling finger at the giant. His words were inarticulate for a moment, but then she heard what he said, and felt like jumping backwards herself.

"My father, a mason in Gatewatch. He worships Maerios. A god."

Turning her eyes back to the giant, she found his deep brown gaze fixed upon her.

"A god?" Her voice went up a bit, and she knew it, but one didn't meet gods every day.

Amusement again was in his tones. "So men call me. I am Maerios, and Maerios is me."

"Why help us.. Maerios? Did you blow away the fog and smite down the beserkers with their own weapons."

"I did. Tinkston is a town after my own heart. You build, create, innovate, learn. This pleases me, and I would not have you distract from the mysteries of the physical world by such concerns as war."

Sythia cast down her eyes. It was true. Her own study of the substrata of the region had had to be put aside when her mother was killed by the drug-barbarians. When she raised them again, the giant was gone, but in her ears a voice whispered.

I will be watching, if you have need.

As she looked about she saw the other soldiers nodding, about a dozen of them. They too had heard the promise of the deity. That day as they marched home they celebrated a great victory where they would have borne wounded, the miracle of the god, Maerios.

15 Powerpoints for the Forging of Godhand, and the Healing of Timur and Erik: Earth, Craftsmanship | Order, Life
15 Powerpoints for the Healing of the Afflicted and the Shattering of the Ceramic Pots: Order | Earth
4 Powerpoints for Physical Manifestations of Maerios
8 Powerpoints for the Teaching of Runecarving
Last edited by G-Tech Corporation on Thu Aug 21, 2014 11:43 am, edited 2 times in total.
TG if you have questions about RP. If I don't know the answer, I know someone who does.

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Father Knows Best State

Postby Ralnis » Wed Aug 20, 2014 1:49 am


Krudic was hailed a hero and a mad man in the eyes of the people of Screamsoul. With the makeshift altar being dedicated to the Divine Raider, a human sacrifice was given to Glu'ciel and he was pleased. The Divine Raider had used the soul to forever be his slave and it became assured that the rise of his power will began ever so slowly, but surely and this also gave Krudic a great of pleasure as he can settle down and have some respite. Commander Hel was walking to Krudic, who was looking at the altar and was startled at Hel, and Hel said,
" did I startled you Mad Prophet?" Krudic took a deep breath and responded," yes, I am still not use to war, it was my first time doing it, or killing another human being." Hel looked at him puzzled and spoke," really? then you must really be mad to charge like that and deliver us from our own deaths. In that case, I guess it is even more so that I have placed my faith in a god, either way Krudic, we are celebrating the survivors coming and I will like the Mad Prophet to be there with me and the Clan Leader will like to see what the Master of the West can do for us."
Krudic nodded and said," that is good to hear, I will like to have a change of clothes if I am going to a feast."

Hel responded," ah yes, I will have one of the slaves get some of the clothes we have gathered from our raids, get some armor and a sword, I have said you more then earned it." Krudic went to the slave quarter of the town, it was a place that was made of huts that housed overseers and slaves, though there were over dozens of slaves and one had seen Krudic come there way and bowed before him as he was a guest, and also a prophet of Glu'ciel. They gave him clothes, bronze armor and a sword. He wrapped his hands in cloth and put on a hood over his head that covered his eyes. He liked this look on him, they said it was a Outlander outfit, other said it came from the witches that roam around here. It did not matter, he was ready to go meet the other people of Screamsoul.

The main center was the largest of the buildings and it was formed by stone, it was where the clan gatherings happen and this was one of them. The place had many of the slaves and commanders, screamer lords and respected warriors of the town of Screamsoul. Hel got and looked up and down of his new look and said," so that is what you want to look like Mad Prophet? Well, it is better then what you had on." Hel found him a seat near the Commanders and other honored warriors that looked at Krudic with disgust and equal to Hel that Hel gave an equal look. Then, a large warrior, full of warpaint and scars, wearing a large bronze breastplate and a bronze sword, he was larger then Hel and Hel was larger then Krudic. Hel then acknowledged him saying," Krudic, I give our Clan Leader, the Leader of Screamsoul." The Clan Leader only turned his eyes to Krudic while eating a sheep leg and said," so, you are the Mad Prophet that had saved Hel and the survivors? Well, I don't take much stock in the gods, but you were able to somehow save them and they were able to give us slaves to work the fields for a few days. Therefore, you are welcome to stay with us, but god or no god, I expect you to do your fair share of work and killing."

Hel looked at him then looked at Krudic. He knew that the Mad Prophet will have to get used to be killing people, which he thinks he seems to be crazy enough not to piss off Glu'ciel. Though Hel had shiver down his spine when he thought about the idea of Krudic and his arrival. It was true that the gods looked down on Screamsoul, they will mostly be with those like Freefoot, the monks, Grassmarch, even Gateswatch, but not Screamsoul, until now. The Clan thought the Mad Prophet to be some conman, a shame, while Hel and the survivors had already saw what the Divine Raider can do to those who he shows favor on, and it seems that his favor was on Hel and his surviving army. When the night was up and everyone was asleep, the followers of Glu'ciel had gave one last prayer in silence directed by Krudic. He did not know what to do but kneel down with Hel and his thirteen soldiers from the surviving group Krudic saved with the power of Glu'ciel.

Soon the prayers had stop and they were about to leave until there was a whisper in their minds that said," wesssssst" and the blood from the altar, the slave that was sacrificed started to float up around them and move to form a body. An entity made of blood that surrounded a symbol of a W and then the people were astonished and they bowed to the entity but Hel and Krudic looked at each other. Hel said with his eyes opened and his mouth dropping and said," Glu'ciel, my lord I am sorry for not bowing" and Krudic responded," forgive me Divine Raider for not bowing when I saw your presence." They both kneeled to the entity but then Glu'ciel spoke,

Hel, Krudic, you two may stand. You are my most precious of my followers. Krudic, I see that you have made it back in one peace, you understand that being my prophet is important as much as you being a warlord. However, you still lack the skills to be a warrior, there will be times where my presence will not be with you and you will have to fight for yourselves. Hel, I am pleased that you and your followers have given yourselves to me as a new found allegiance. You will be needed for your leader is going to do war and will your training as much as you will need spiritual guidance. Now you two, come closer, let me show you something.

The two followers came to Glu'ciel and the god touched them with his blood finger and their eyes turned red as they saw a vision. They were taken to a place in the plains, the mountain range, they were seeing a large army of Grassmarch and Freefoot marching down to Screamsoul to destroy it. When Hel and Krudic came to, they blinked to make sure to come back to reality and Glu'ciel spoke again,

They believe that Screamsoul to be weak, and they are right. Screamsoul is weakened because the ambush, they will march on the brutal people and if they make it here.

" Then they will destroy us and scatter my Clan." Hel interrupted.

Yes, your Clan will be destroyed and scattered, but there is hope, I have not yet set my eyes away from Screamsoul. I have my followers, you are tasked to defend this town with your life, despite what mortals say, despite even what your Leader says. You must defeat this army and protect the town for I will it and also, why not try to prove my existence to your strong headed people by showing how strong my followers are.

Then Glu'ciel had dissipated into blood mist and the followers have gave sacrifices of food for the vision and the next day Hel wanted to try and persuade the Clan Leader to try and send an army to fight against the larger army going against them for a scout had reported seeing them near the mountain range that had gave alarm to all of the Screamers and this have gave them to use the slaves to prep defenses and Krudic was walking in the Leader's Palace and they were having an argument. This was very bad for Hel as Krudic only came in with the last words that came from the Clan Leader was," you expect me to take in the words of some god and his Mad Prophet that looked that he couldn't even kill a fly!? I will not go and send more men if they are coming to us just because some madman from out of nowhere had got you into worshiping his god and made you build a shrine! Now I am the leader and have made up my decision! Now leave and prepare your forces, worshipers or no worshipers!"

Hel was walking out and passed by Krudic and he said," Mad Prophet, walk with me." Krudic began to walk with him putting on his hood over his head and he started to talk," what is wrong Hel, you look more trouble then anyone else around here." Hel looked at him in anger as he responded," yes, our Leader will not listen to me when I told him what I saw, I want to defend my people, and it seems that it is up to us in order to bring those damn Freefooters and Sheep-herders but I don't know how."
Krudic had saw his hand strangely and he asked," Hel, you saw a person leading the Freemen and the Grassmarchers, who was it?"
Hel said," Scroll, one of the commanders that are under Cleave, the Freefoot chief that cut down Mowtow."
" What I thought, I have not seen many Freemen but the ones I have faced in battle." he said as he was looking deeper into his hand, as if something was whispering to him saying.

Blood, blood. Your blood will save you, harm you, empower you, it will give you the power to rise among the mere followers and warriors, but the question is, what will offer in exchange for such a great power?

Hel was puzzled as he heard the same thing from his own body and he said," Mad Prophet, I think we may have an answer from the Divine Raider." Krudic told Hel and the followers to make a sacrificial altar and grab three of the strongest, most rebellious slaves they had, which three had been picked and tied down on three slabs in front of a center slab in front of the shrine. Then, the followers got a bronze knife and bowl and started to chant as they made cuts on their right arm and their blood poured into the bowl and then they started cutting out the hearts of the three and put it into the bowl and they place it on the center slab and with their ritual coming to an end, a crowd of the Screamers had appeared and some were staring at them as they pray and Krudic spoke to the crowds," warriors of Screamsoul, you still think that your Commander is mad, that I am a fool and your people who had seen the power of Glu'ciel and had pledge their allegiance to the Divine Raider. Now I will show you the same power that has deliver your people before do it again, watch and learn."

As almost on queue, the Shrine got submerged in blood, and exploded as demons of blood had came out from the large puddles and there was a large whisper that came across the wind and then it was sang among the demons and it said," wesssst" that signaled the arrival of Glu'ciel. All of the worshipers bowed and then one of them started to walk, which the others had bowed and had a figure of a man had came and said,

Rise Hel and Krudic, I have heard your prayers and your ritual appeases me. Though you have my favor, you wish for even more power, personal power and with the souls of rebellion now in my enslavement. For that I will give you and my followers, your army, with a boon. You shall be granted with the power of the Blood, the Raider's Magic. The power to silence freedom and to have the affinity to the demons around you. The power to bend nature to your bidding and to cause chaos whenever you see fit. I give you all my blessing, the power is yours. Now embraced the demons of blood and inherit their blood as your own as you shed it for the strength that you so crave.

With the followers stand there, only Krudic and Hel were stepping back from the demons until they forced their way into their arms via the cuts, their eyes, nose, and mouth like everyone else had as the blood flow through them and then they coughed and they became bloodied and their eyes have a blood red iris and their arm became red with markings that where the cuts were and the blood was glowing and they covered it. Then Krudic said," get your warriors and our followers, we are going to go fight Scroll and the Grassmarchers."

In the Mountain Ranges

The small army of raiders that were under Commander Hel and Krudic was with them with the followers of Glu'ciel, they were awaiting Scroll's army with the Grassmarch army as they were going to ambush them, this was against the Leader's whishes but they will do what is right to make sure that the Clan will not fall and the will of Glu'ciel is answered. When the army saw the followers among the normal army, they still felt out of place for even Commander Hel was a worshiper and they still felt that he and the survivors were mad and the Mad Prophet should be killed for making Hel disobeyed the Clan Leader. Krudic looked at Hel as he spotted Scroll," I think we should show your new men the power of the Raider's Magic and the power of Glu'ciel."

Hel crossed his arms and said," I agree, though, I think we should not kill as many, but enslaved them, their minds, and dormant them with demons until they surrendered and become the slaves we were supposed to have gathered, if we do summon demons, then they will slay some, I think we should also ask Glu'ciel to inspire the warriors to try and cut down those who resist and enslave as much as they can. Also, what about their leader, Scroll?"

Krudic responded in a dark tone," I will like him enthralled now maybe making him our personal pet for now, it will send a message to Freefoot and Grassmarch that the Screamers are not weak and now have the power to enslave them, starting with them." With this, the power of their blood magic was amplified by the Divine Raider as they had the power of the blood demons to go and break the minds of the Grassmarch and Scroll's army( ies) and make them surrender to the idea of enslavement or kill them. Glu'ciel also pour his power out to the soldiers to have an aura to influence the minds of their enemies to surrender to total domination and work for nothing but to bring glory to Screamsoul, the raiders, and to Glu'ciel. With that done Krudic pointed at the battlefield and said," followers of Glu'ciel, soldiers that serve under Commander Hel. You may think us mad for disobeying your Clan Leader and going to defend but hear me. Glu'ciel has told us with the Raider's Magic, the power of the Blood, can give you strength as the very power we have can summon demons to go and enslave the minds of the enemy or to destroy them where they may never strike back against the power of Screamsoul again!"

With this saying, Krudic and Hel unwrapped their cloth on their arm to show the marking of blood magic and they cut it and the other followers did so and dropped it on the ground, and Glu'ciel blessed the magic and the demons appeared in multitudes and bowed their heads, awaiting the orders of the Mad Prophet and he continued," with this, the power of Glu'ciel is unmatched as these demons are that of the Divine Raider, and shall help you in our battle to enslave them, but be not afraid for you are gift with favor as the various men have been given the aura to influence the minds of the enemy to submit to your rule! Now I say to you, capture as many as you can and kill those who are strong-minded, but I warn you must not kill the leader, Scroll for his mind and soul are mine to have and will be a message to the enemy that we are not to underestimated, now go and get your fill of enslavement and battle!"


Even though there is a war going on and a lot of his power was used in it, there just so happened to be a new raider cult formed by the newest catch of slavers from an attack on Mertail. It was good to see that they caught a big catch and it seems that they would like to grow more. The captain himself was praying for a next big catch but Glu'ciel had other plans, he told him to go to Gateswatch and tell the raiders and slaver merchants there about the glories of the True Slaver and tell them that they can be even more rich and profitable under the allegiance of Glu'ciel. With this implemented in the captain's mind, he told his crew with the slaves and to set sail to Gateswatch and tell them the riches one can gain with Glu'ciel.

10 Power Points in Screamsoul: Blood Magic: knowledge given to the thirteen followers
20 Power Points in Screamsoul: Slavery: Demons sent at Scroll/Grassmarch army to enthrall/enslave the minds of them and kill them if they are able to resist , enthrall the mind of Scroll
5 Power points in Screamsoul: Domination: Gave the raiders an aura of domination that helps with the process of enthralling/enslaving the minds of their enemies
5 followers from Mertail sent to Gateswatch to spread the word of Glu'ceil and his power to give riches among the raiders and slavers
( 35 power points remaining)

(OOC: Krudic now looks similar in to a Bonze Age version of this clothing set, the one on the left

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Scandinavian Liberal Paradise

Postby Alleniana » Wed Aug 20, 2014 3:26 am

War had come to Grassmarch, and though the chaotic maelstrom had been but a poor imitation of the deathly violence that Basrudi adored, it had been a start for such a weak, pitiful people.

It had only been six fellows, all buff, strong and brutal-looking, who had adopted the violent ways and forceful doctrine of Basrudi and his great follower in the village, but it was enough. Their minds overtaken with bloodlust of the most primitive type, they obeyed the god of sanguine rage, of death and struggle and the righteous fight. In a semicircle, they stood around their deity's newly arrived disciple.

"I am of the one who caused the chaos. I come to represent he who drove the violence, who fuelled the fires of war, who let violence run amok and injure you all. The one who now commands the loyalty of these men, and the one who commands mine. He has burnt your homes and thrown your children upon the ground, and I am with him. They who disapprove, fight me now."

It was plain that none of them were willing to. Perhaps those who had been overcome with the infatuation with force might have, once upon a time, but their minds broken in for the god's terrible will to occupy, they were on his side. The fighting could occur later amongst them.

"If you do not step up and fight, them you will become one of Basrudi too. Either you worship and grovel and learn the martial ways of servitude to the true god, or you can step up and challenge me."

Still, nobody came. What was the use? Either they died now or they were beaten into listening.

Finally, an old man stepped forward.

"I will fight... if you spare her."
He pointed to a pregnant woman, standing in the crowd, who gasped. Before she could react, though, whether with unwillingness to let her father sacrifice herself or some other strange emotion, Aktar laughed. Everybody winced, if not at least covering their ears.

"Mmm... tempting, but no. You will fight the glorious fight, and if you win... you win."
Despite their fear, confusion ran rife now. Why exactly were they so hellbent on fighting? What could they gain? And what if they won? Or worse, what if they lost? This old man had revealed quite a few oddities of the strange people who wreaked uncontrolled havoc in the quiet lands of Grassmarch.

The old man resigned himself. He started when a cane appeared before him, but he grabbed it and put himself into a fighting stance.

Aktar sheathed all his weapons and threw the heavier ones to the ground.

"I will fight barehanded."

It began.

The man's white hair belied his agility in the face of danger, and the stick lashing out almost surprised Aktar. Almost. He leapt back away from the initial strike, and began his own fighting.

Leaping to the side, he aimed a long-armed punch at the man's bearded face. The stick kept him at just further than arm's length, though, and when he tried to grab it, his fingers fumbled for a second too long.

A whirling hit came from the side, fuelled by rage, fear and protectiveness. This old man had nothing to lose and everything to gain. He could not be placated. Tiring him would be hard.

Aktar dodged and rolled. He hit the man's shins hard, and his weak knees brought him to the ground. Quick as a flash, though, bony arms came round Aktar's neck, trying to get a grip.

He shook his head and knocked the old man near unconscious, and then rolled out of the grip and prepared to send a kick into a rising head. It instead met the stick, moving slowly upwards, and hitting the momentum away and right back into the man's face. His nose began to bleed as he sat, defeated and almost admonished. The whole fight had lasted less than a minute.

"Excellent. You win."
His eyes widened.
"You prove yourself worthy of Basrudi."
And then his mind was twisted, the spirit of war leaking into his soul through the door left wide open by the rage and fear that had given him the energy and will for the fight. He had fought, he had committed violence. That was good enough for the god of those things to take him in.

And suddenly, he was as the big men; once shepherds, lumberjacks, fathers, sons, and now, soldiers carrying the banner of their trade. A new, yet darker light shone in his eyes. He was not mindless, but... he appreciated now. He appreciated the dog-eat-dog world and the survival of the fittest. A repulsive sort of enlightenment filtered into him.

"I... will fight."
The last traces of love, happiness, joy, kindness, were swept away. All that remained was a passion, an obligation, a wild need; the base of a growing desire to hit, strike, destroy... a desire to kill and fight.
"I know you will."

The village viewed in horror. But surely, now, more among them, especially those that had been flushed with adrenaline and excitement when the fight had occurred, even if unpleasantly, were converted to this viewpoint. It was amazing how well the little mortal human mind could handle the concept of violence and war for the gods so well.

Basrudi sat, approving, as the power of violence spread. When one was attacked, one defended oneself. When one defended onself, one fought. And when one fought, one was with Basrudi. It continued throughout the village; people forced, pushed to moral precipices, and dying, or turning to the violence that was the foundation of humanity, truly.

His spirits soared that day, and his power bloomed. The god of violence was glad, at last.

25 power used

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Postby Kromar » Wed Aug 20, 2014 5:12 pm

With Sharebon accounted for, Koran turned his gaze southward, to Mertail. He witnessed a cowardly raid by some unaffiliated raiders, and became enraged. Mertail sent its fleet after the raiders, but they couldn't catch them without help. First, Koran started a fire on the Raider's sails, his intention to cripple the ship, not sink it. Then, he blew into the sails of the Mertail fleet, allowing them to catch up with the raiders. He filled their hearts and minds with glory, causing the captives to start a rebellion at a good opportunity, and improving the combat ability of the rescuers. The Sun shined brightly on them, and all who looked into it knew that it watched over them. To the captains of the ships, the name "Koran" came to mind.

Meanwhile, Harold was determined to spread the glory of the Sun to all who would listen. His family were sad to see him go, but he reassured them: "Have faith. Koran will protect me if I am faithful to him, and if you tend a hearth each night, he will watch over you as well. I will head to Mertail and perhaps Songrun, and then return to you. Tend the field, tend the hearth. I love you." And with that, he and five other followers, each with milita experience, grabbed swords or axes and hide armor and departed for Mertail. They would spread the message of Koran's love when they arrived, and work amonst the locals as a sign of good faith.

Starting a fire on the sails of the raider ship - 10 points
Intensifying the awindspeed - 5 points
Guiding the men to glory - 5 points
Telling the Captain's his name - 2 points (Sun)
Last edited by Kromar on Fri Aug 22, 2014 4:37 pm, edited 2 times in total.
The Emerald Dawn wrote:Round and round, and up and down, and back and forth again; Nobody ever loses, 'cause nobody ever wins.

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Civil Rights Lovefest

Postby The Grim Reaper » Fri Aug 22, 2014 2:45 am

The open seas between Mertail and Gateswatch

"Oi! Sharktooth!"

The Freefoot ship creaked. While, besides that of Gateswatch, the Freefoot navy was the most fearsome upon the sea, the raiding vessels this far out to sea were the fastest and lowest profile of the Freefoot navy. Designed to intercept merchant shipping, most of the captains out to sea this far mainly intended to cause havoc and take enough to pay for their crew and maintenance, until they could make a big catch for Freefoot - on the far side of Gateswatch, substantial takes were common, but somewhat harder to secure without putting one's crew at risk.

At any rate, though, the Freefooters were used to running the gamut across to Mertail and back. Raiders and amateur Gateswatch captains sailing back from the Outside sometimes lost their nerve navigating towards Freefoot, and instead turned towards the lights, smoke, and stars above Mertail before returning to Gateswatch.

"What is it, Crow?"

"Sun's rather bright out, isn't it?"

"You're imagining it, it's getting darker. Look, it's already setting! Take a nap."

Crow descended from his position, hanging loosely from a rope attached to the top of the sail, as a lookout. A gruff man walked up to him - his face and unkempt hair, even for a sailor, concealing his relative youth.

"Who will take the look-out position, Sharktooth?"

"It's going to be night soon, and nothing's out. By the time anything could come into vision, it'll already be dark out. It won't be long until a couple of the soldiers wake up to man the night watch."

Crow saluted, a satire of a Gateswatch custom, and Sharktooth grinned. "Oi, don't be cheeky. I'll have you thrown overboard for that." "If you were fast enough to catch me, you'd have thrown me overboard when your dad took us fishing." Sharktooth was momentarily thoughful - but it soon passed, and he quirked an eyebrow. "We were young then - we made mistakes. Get in bed, we'll be turning back towards the bay tomorrow, I think."

"You owe me a game of mancala." Crow's last syllable trailed off as he yawned, loudly. "Tomorrow, first thing in the morning if you can get out of bed." "Between the two of us, I'm the morning person." "Yes, but you won't sleep - you'll be spending your time practicing with Oar." "You aren't going to be staying out on deck all night again? You're the one who insisted on best-of-threes." "Fine, I'll tuck in now - we don't even have a look-out, no use me hanging about."

It was true - not many people were still on deck. The usual crew was diminished almost unworkably, with a skeleton crew due in about a half hour or so. Not a brilliant strategic decision, but one often made by Freefoot captains this far out to sea, at the end of a voyage and due to turn back towards Freefoot. It let everyone recuperate a bit for the tense journey across the bay.

Later that evening

It was dark inside. The Freefoot crews generally had torches on deck, with hide shades on each door to control how much light got in from the deck, so that sunlight would wake all inside, or so that the shades could be drawn entirely for those who were to sleep during the day and take the key roles during the night - shift captain, and night lookout - with most others simply eschewing sleep for a night every few days.

Sharktooth stood at his shade - pulling it out a bit, then in a bit, letting more and less of the slowly dying sunset light into his cabin.


It would be nonsense for him to talk to the shade. It was not even a mirror - not even the illusion of being able to talk to himself. All it offered was a stern reminder. Don't waste time. Go to bed. "But I'm so tired. I need to go make sure the night crew are ready, help me rest a little easier." That is not your job.

"Stupid shade."

Sharktooth took his anger out on the shade, pushing it away, letting some of the dying light trickle in, desperate for sanctuary from the ever growing moon. That'll teach it, Sharktooth.

Sharktooth was just jittery. He'd done this run many times, but it still put his hair on end. It tended to be the most exciting part of a journey - in Sharktooth's experience, even more than the trip out, although that was perhaps because it seemed more exciting when he had no choice but to go through trouble, rather than having the option of simply fleeing back to Freefoot. Not that he would ever use that option. The principle of the thing.

His eyes shut. He had not even noticed himself being drawn to bed.



Odd. His eyes were shut. He had fallen, fallen, fallen away, to sleep. But he kept going. Was he sinking? Was he underwater? He was weightless.

Free...the warmth of his body felt like ice water dripping away from him, and the contrast between every part of his being felt extraordinary. But, unreal. It was not real.

It was a dream?

There was something about the dream that did not feel right. It was not a true dream. It was not a world of muddy sight and heavy walking - his mind, his spirit, his being walked alone. Freely, without hinderance. His vision stood alone.

It was not sleep, but his vision being taken from him. What he saw was not his own. Well, not exactly. He knew he could see through someone else's eyes, but it was his cabin. His bed. And yet, his vision swivelled around his head, without regard for his eyes, or his nose, or any such thing.

He was at peace, and his jitters had left him - his sleep was not his.

Sure enough, it belonged to that nice man. A shimmering light occupied his vision - well, not really. He was...imagining it? It was, at any rate, the source of what he could hear. The voice was clear, but as soon as it started, the shimmering light started to become a fragmented dream. And yet, the message was clear.

"Good evening. I apologise for waking you. I am Father Sinterklaas."

There was nothing after that...a silence. Sharktooth stared at the shimmering light, as best he could, but like any dream, it wandered here and there, again, without regard for the physical world. However, the voice was not part of this dream. He could feel it waiting for a response, as clear as if it was a face.

He nodded. He considered asking the voice to continue. As soon as he considered it, though.

"There is a raider ship crossing the sea. They have taken slaves from Mertail. You are free to make your own choice. Tomorrow morning, tie a lit torch to your bow. It will burn as long as the slaves are not free, and its flames will blow towards them.

Good night, Sharktooth."

Sharktooth went out like a light.

2 Power Points - 1 for the Dream to Sharktooth, 1 to enchant the Torch that Burns If the Slaves are not Free, and Leads to the Slaves (Freedom)

The raider ship from Mertail

Little dreams, to each of the slaves. Just small ones.

"I am Father Sinterklaas, Saint of Freefoot. Be ready to fight for your freedom. I have sent Freefooters to rescue you."

It was a strange sort of rebellion. Not an active one, but simply the tiniest grain of one. Enough for a name.

3 Powerpoints - 3 to give all (or as many as possible) of the Mertail slaves a short dream. Worth 6 PP, doubled by (Revolution)

Outside Grassmarch

It was only a short dream, a fleeting one. But it was a moment of comfort in war. Meeting the Grassmarch army had been a celebratory experience, but a discomforting one. There was something off about them, compared to this dream.

But this new feeling was reassuring, no doubt. A new...God?

Father...Sinterklaas. Saint of Freefoot.

1 Power Point to assure Scroll in a dream that Father Sinterklaas is watching over their army


Blood magic and human sacrifice.

A vile sight to Sinterklaas' eyes. It filled him with revulsion. More slaves will die, no doubt. Dying unfree men.

They had taken one unwilling life. That was too much. Far too much. The blood that poured from the Shrine of Glu'ciel was disgusting, tainted. It had no life. No soul. It was not blood, but alcohol, the drunk heretic's filling drink. With the death of the innocent slave, Glu'ciel had given his own essence.

There was no dead slave. It was a freeman who had been sacrificed, and Glu'ciel who had died on that Shrine.

The Dead God will not be allowed to carry on this foul mission.

That freeman belongs to me. His soul will look at Death, and spit. Death is the realm of men who lead free lives, and Death will be turned aside by the face of Father Sinterklaas. The Saint of the Free will not stand for an unwilling sacrifice.

The only sacrifice is one given freely.

The sacrificed slave given to Glu'ciel shook - unknowingly to Sinterklaas, after the followers of Glu'ciel had already killed three more.

His body started to shake, and the flow of blood began anew. But this blood was different. It was not a sickly red, but a bright red.

It grew brighter and brighter, taking on the burning passion of fire. Any slave watching was captivated by what they could not know, for the moment, was the workings of Sinterklaas. The blood started to boil.

And then the blood caught fire. The body of the sacrificed Freeman caught fire. The blood pouring from the shrine of the Dead God caught fire.

Wings of flame emanated from the back of the Freeman and he screamed. His voice was not his own.


The soul of the dead Freeman was caught and tied to the body of the newlyborn Martyr of the Revolution. His wings spread, burning, and his tongue spit flame at the blood mages around him. The mind of Sinterklaas brought the soul to life, but it had, for the moment, no body but the flames of revolution.

His words spoke with divine power. All those watching would hear them - well, not the Martyr's words, but Sinterklaas' divine echo throughout Screamsoul.


The Martyr leapt from his sacrifice table, his wings of flame spitting heat at any who approached him, as he screamed unintelligible words of fire at any who approached him.

As the Martyr leapt, Sinterklaas at that moment was fanning the spiritual flames of his Martyr to all who would listen - not just slaves, but every woman and child who saw the Martyr of the Revolution and saw not the angered flames that consumed him, but the soul that Sinterklaas preserved within him.

His angered, burning words resonated with the flames of the Martyr.

"Your mad Commander has sold you to a Dead God, Screamers. Should your Dead God save him, it will be to turn you to sacrifices of Blood, like my Martyr. But should he not, then Screamsoul will be destroyed.

I give to you this moment to take Freedom by the hand. The Freefooters come to rescue all who wish for freedom - whether they be slave by name, or slave by nature.

But this is not their war.

This is ours."

It was immediately as the Martyr opened his eyes that his fire occupied Cleave's mind, overpowering Cleave's train of thought. "Cleave, there is no time. Attack Screamsoul now, I am doing great things."

30 Powerpoints to create the Martyr of the Rebellion - doubled by Revolution (60 powerpoints effective)
10 Powerpoints to incite revolution of the slaves and any Screamers who wish to defect against the Commander (20 Powerpoints effective, supported by the Martyr)
1 Powerpoints to warn Cleave to attack immediately. (2 Powerpoints effective - he is assisting the Rebellion to escape)


Before post: 48 PP


2 Power Points - 1 for the Dream to Sharktooth, 1 to enchant the Torch that Burns If the Slaves are not Free, and Leads to the Slaves (Freedom)
3 Powerpoints - 3 to give all (or as many as possible) of the Mertail slaves a short dream. Worth 6 PP, doubled by (Revolution)


1 Power Point to assure Scroll in a dream that Father Sinterklaas is watching over their army


30 Powerpoints to create the Martyr of the Rebellion - doubled by Revolution (60 powerpoints effective)
10 Powerpoints to incite revolution of the slaves and any Screamers who wish to defect against the Commander - doubled by Revolution (20 Powerpoints effective, supported by the Martyr)
1 Powerpoints to warn Cleave to attack immediately. (2 Powerpoints effective - he is assisting the Rebellion to escape)

The Martyr of the Rebellion will firstly assist any rebels in retrieving weapons and armour from dead raiders, and lead them in fighting the raiders, secondly destroy the bodies of any who use blood magic, and thirdly directly assist rebels in leaving the town. He will perform the first until there is enough chaos or enough rebels to sustain their own armaments, and perform the second until the Screamsoul raiders are able to organize themselves or start to inflict damage on the rebels. He will perform the third until he is unable to sense any more rebels, and will then lead them to Cleave's encampment.

Effective Point Breakdown:

3 PP to resurrect and preserve the Martyr's original soul, which will be restored when the Martyr regains his original form after he has freed all he can.
5 PP to allow the Martyr to locate those capable of blood magic
10 PP to give the Martyr wings of flame
10 PP to give the Martyr burning armor
10 PP to give the Martyr a sword of flames
10 PP to give the Martyr the ability to speak with divine providence
10 PP to give the Martyr the ability to communicate telepathically with any who join the revolution, and lead it effectively

(Any powerpoints that are excessive in these costs will either go to any costs that are underestimated, and next to the inciting of the revolution)

20 PP to plant the seed of rebellion and send the message to the slaves, women, and children assisted through the Martyr's presence

2 PP to give Cleave an immediate vision that he must lead the army to attack Screamsoul. (The Martyr is aware of this, and will account for the attack in his leadership of any rebels)

After post: 1 PP.
Last edited by The Grim Reaper on Fri Aug 22, 2014 6:41 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Is "not a blood diamond" a high enough bar for a wedding ring? Artificial gemstones are better-looking, more ethical, and made out of PURE SCIENCE™.

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Postby Imperial--japan » Sun Aug 24, 2014 2:57 pm

Upon the shore near Mertail
A lone figure stood at an exact 5'11. Donned in simple fishermans garbs, he stared out at the vast salty ocean that laid before him. The rippling waves clashed against each other in the distance as though beasts themselves were clashing beneath the murky waters. The tide inched close and receded as it always had, but in the eyes of this lone man it was an entire world beneath the chilling waters. A world that was oversaw by the goddess he worshiped. The reasons for his life being spared were unknown to him yet, but he surely wouldn't forget the benevolence of his Goddess yet.

At any rate, this man was known in Mertail as 'Kalli'gor' or 'Kal' for short. To many, he was an exemplary man of great skill at sea, and had shown kindness to many when he managed to catch more than enough for his quota.

In Kalli'gor's hands was only a single item. Beads hung from his closed fist, and upon opening it once more, revealed a small crest that resembled the waves. He had no previous recollection of this item when he initially woke up, but as thoughts of the voice that echoed through his mind resurfaced, he came to the realization that this was a gift for him. At first glance, it held no significance other than perhaps being a good luck charm. Upon further inspection it shockingly seemed to reveal absolutely nothing. Regardless, Kalli'gor knew that this gift from the divine would have some sort of impact later.

Kalli'gor's walk on the shore proved to uneventful while he inched ever closer to Mertail. Even if he was now devoutly indebted to the divine, he couldn't help but feel a bit anxious at obtaining another boat. A fisherman without a boat was the equivalent of a soldier without a weapon.

Black shapes appeared in the distance, and Kalli'gor slowed his pace to judge the situation. Hostile raiders were always a remote possibility during this time of day, but a possibility nonetheless. All forms laid upon the sand were immobile, and the remnants of a small boat could be made out from this distance. Closer inspection showed the worst. About three bodies were sprawled upon the sand, all of them donning fishermans garbs. The storm did claim victims in the end, bit luckily these folks weren't anybody that Kalli'gor recognized.

Silence was broken by a fit of coughs as one of the bodies was wracked by them.

"So only two were claimed by the Sea Mistress," he thought before rushing over the the coughing seaman. A quick overview easily showed numerous gashes, and the right leg was bent at a ninety-degree angle upwards. Kalli'gor sat, unknowing of what to do. He gripped the necklace tighter, and in a series of flashes, Kal knew what he should do. He put the necklace around his neck, and moved to the nearby water. Cupping some, he moved back over to the injured man.

The flashes occurred again. Without thinking, Kalli'gor moved both of his hands to rest on the leg gently, but spectacularly enough the water didn't fall from his hands. Perhaps the goddess had something to do with this? Maybe the chant he was currently uttering was a more reasonable excuse?

"Al'or brogia, inu stelet may, hafia romes," Kal chanted. The water in his hands wrapped around the broken leg of the other fisherman, and ever slowly, it maneuvered back into place painlessly. The water removed itself from the leg, and slithered around other injured parts of the injured mans body; closing the gashes. Kalli'gor himself was shocked over what had just happened. Looking over to the two dead men, he considered being able to do the same for them.

Well it couldn't hurt to try. Hurrying over, he crouched down, and muttered the same chant once more. The water this time fell from his hands, and sunk back into the sand. It had appeared the dead was beyond his reach.

Points used: 2 for the visions
3 for healing the fallen fisherman.
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