Once upon a time, man lived in prosperity. He built high towers, forged mighty empires, and lived life to its fullest, draining the cup of civilization. No longer a beast of stone and fire, cowering in the wilderness as animals ravened about his abode, he tamed the wild and made its creatures his subjects. He bent rivers to his will, watering fields of golden wheat for his gluttony, and to the skies his temples reached.
But this is not that time. Man built too high, and discovered the power of the gods. Phos and Skotos were the two eldest deities, and revealed themselves to man, expecting worship and adoration for the gifts they had given him as he ascended from the mud. But man was proud, and had not seen their miracles, thinking himself the master of his domain. The gods grew angry, and sent afflictions upon mankind to teach him humility. Volcanoes ravaged the landscape of cities and farms, and the earth quaked beneath the feet of man, woman and child. But man's heart was hard; he shook his fist at the sky, and called curses against the powers of the circles of the world. As the world burned around him the wisest and most fell of man's scions dabbled in dark magics, and even as the lands of man sank beneath the waves they crafted a dread spell beyond even the ken of the gods.
And so the world ended, in fire. The gods fell as insidious incantations rent their forms from their strength, and man laughed to see his deities slain even as the last vestiges of civilization died under the apocalypse of magic. To the winds was scattered the earth, rock and stone, water and air, for the will of the divine had formed it, and as they were unmade so too were their creations.
That is not the end of the story though; man survived, lost as a sojourner amidst the planes of the cosmos, and into his breast a portion of the power of the divine was taken. His mind expanded, and the spark of creation was given to him, even the ability to reforge the world as it once was. Alone man walked, but not forever, and mayhaps in time he shall rise again to replace the gods he has cast down.
This is the story of Regrowth, and you are the actors. No gods are there, only man and his newfound strength, the Power; the ability to create, to mold the world to his will. But the world is gone, sundered into a land of lost islands and fragmented history. No knowledge of your past do you have, only the present, for the magical maelstrom that ended existence as you knew it wiped away all vestiges of your past. But in your breast the Power burns, and now you can make your own way amidst the stars. Under your feet is the blasted soil of the dead world, ash of consuming fire and parched sand, a pitiless sky beating down. All is not lost though; as long as the sun rises and sets, there is hope.
Welcome! Regrowth is a fantasy tale of man and his decisions, which you shall recount with your fellow RPers. Each RPer will be a character, one of the survivors of the Earth who somehow survived the end of all things, cast adrift on a floating shard of what once was. You have the power to rebuild all things, but there are others beside you, others who would remake the world according to their desires and not yours. Will you seek advancement through magic, rising to the heights of arcane lore that once ended the world? Will you craft civilization from the embers of the old, raising high towers and citadels with your knowledge of the sciences? Will you seek community, or slay your fellow man, determined to be the sole progenitor of the new age? The path is open, and lacks only the walker.
Application:
Name:
Physical Description:
Personality:
Guidelines
The Power is the main thing I'll talk about here, and let's get something clear straight away- your characters are not gods. They are very much human. The Power is a vestige of the old gods, a portion of their power, but it is currently the tiniest of fragments of what it used to be; it is limited by your weak corporeal forms, which require sustenance and sleep and all that good stuff. Conjuring objects straight into existence will exhaust you. Conjuring complicated or large objects into existence may injure or kill you, as your life force is consumed by the Power. The Power has rules, which you will learn over time, but until you know them it would be wise to be careful with your experimentation, or end up a desiccated husk as a cautionary tale to your fellows. It is far easier to make a leaf of bread from wheat than it is to make one from stone, and far easier to snuff out a candle with your fingers than to put it out with the Power. As a general rule of thumb, every few hours a character should have the power to transmute a lump of mud as long as their arm into something like sedimentary stone. Anything larger than that or more complex is perilous.
