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Hopefully the RP still lives.


It still lives. I'm waiting on some other people from the first round to write something before I do another set of prompts. We just aren't as speedy as you seem to think we should be, I suppose. :D That said, the activity in the discord has also slowed. I'll ping Forge and Liaison and see if they're working on anything.
A single step, that’s all it takes. Hafadac enters the warehouse and a tide of awe inundates him. Nostalgic, that’s his expression. Thoughts distant, eyes radiant with inner light, lips at a slight part midway through a breath vitrified in spacetime and made perfect through sentiment. Rust on the walls, dust and footprints on the floor, graffiti on the ceiling, and bone-rattling music reverberating throughout.

Just a wistful boy remembering something unimportant a multiverse away, a gold tear inexplicably on his cheek.

This is perfect.

The people he just met, he realizes, are also perfect. Working together, they have the tools for this job, whether they realize it or not. All their missing is a spark. Skeksi has moves, Ivory is a master artisan, and Pillar can boom with the best. Hafadac pulls his gaze down from the spider motif on the ceiling, turns back toward Penny, and declares:

“This whole place is too quiet, too afraid. Gotta flip the script. Gotta make some NOISE!”

“How is noise going to —” Peggy begins to ask, but Hafadac lifts a luminous finger to her mouth, cutting her off. Melodiously, he mansplains; an instant jarring transition from philosopher to performer, half-mask flashing a digital apologetic cringe,

“Stranger to stra~anger,
— Lest we forge~et,
— There’s thu~under in nu~umbers,
— There’s fre~edom in fri~iends!”


He takes a small step back, his finger gliding sensuously along her bottom lip and sweeping the grime off her chin. Propitiously, he implores, “— Fi~ind your hope, your voi~ice, your fight!”

A wink and a bounce, and he kick-slides over on his knees to 017. Glancing up at her at his half-height through an upchurn of dust — budget dry ice — he beholds her wicked-cool fabrication, and, with one big pleading puppy dog eye alongside a crying emoji, belts out in smooth baritone:

“There’s no survi~iving
— if we’re not thri~iving,
— let’s show this world what we~e can make!”


Kicking himself into a backflip from his kneeling posture, he somersaults off his palm and lands in before Haialark, crooning,

“Let’s see your ka~ata
— for this intifa~ada,
— a haka to embolden our clan!”


Twisting one-eighty on one foot, he stares up at Pillar, his big new pal with the rocky visage, and pauses for a moment, intimidation and uncertainty threatening to quench his song. Just a moment, an awkward gulp, then the spirit grasps him and Hafadac intones,

“You’ve got the re~everb,
— A voice that will be~e heard,
— Vibrating deep in our bones!”


Repeating the improv chorus, he marches himself outside, stranger to stranger, and at the top of his lungs finishes what he has to sing — for now,

“Arachnid defi~iers,
— We’ll defang the spi~iders,
— And show them that Rats can roar!

So don’t let fear gui~ide us,
— Nor quell what’s inside us,
— Tonight we se~eize our fate!”


Exaggerating a snap-turn, he takes in his new-found party in their bespoke and self-declared base of operations. Ebullient and glowing something fierce, the sheen of sweat acting as miniature prisms, he practically illuminates the chamber as he points to 017, “Ivory, PYROTECHNICS!” to Haialark, “Skeksi, DANCE!” and to Gregor, “Pillar, SUBWOOFER!”

In his mind, it is obvious what he, himself, will do. Still, it doesn’t hurt to ask.

“Anyone else have a set of pipes?”
Green gulls, they fly with the weight of tradition. Fleeting, their appearance tells a story. It starts beneath the watchful ward of the Starburst Chamber, itself atop a grand black tower rising from the Court of the Dawn-Spring. In an underground eyrie, it is rumored they hatch after a year long cycle. So it has been for hundreds of years, perhaps thousands. Watchers care for them until they grow strong enough to fly or, perhaps, craft them using arts ancient and arcane, then turn the great underground wheel, open the grates of the plaza floor, and let the birds fly — to where is unknown. Most meet their doom. Yet their image can be seen in the sky all across Island, telling the tale that the Festival of the Breaking fast approaches. Faster, word of their appearance throughout the land on the tongues of troubadours and skalds.

Fyrkat ܟ Skolt & Pite

A ray of light vanquishes a clot of fog, exposing fresh blue sky to the two young kroca perched in their stick-stack abode. Lit therein is a sign. It sits atop the tallest structure in the village, a wooden clock tower in the menroh. A courthouse. At the summit, a weathercock. On the weathercock, a massive green bird. Wings flash like underwater emeralds, and it flings itself off and vanishes into the fog. They follow the ray down to the river, and there see a familiar dragonically-inspired craft near.

“Mother!” celebrate the twins.

Stakris ܟ Nadira & Ykka

In the foothills of the mountains north of Stavkat, a dream ends with a vision. High above, a shadow, unique in its dashing of the heavenly rays. No harpy eagle full on its snare of an ill-alarmed vole. Too fleet for most prey, but provacative enough to catch the keen-sighted birds attention and beg forth its scream. Then, all too suddenly, absent. A cry above, one of battle, a dash of wings, a clash of talons, and then a shout of shock. Around Nadira, a shower of emerald flakes.

Nadira is long-lived, and has seen the green crystal rain before.

It bodes the death of a gull and, if one so wishes, a bid to travel.

Porjkat ܟ Kerbera

Landbridge turned port, Porjkat is abuzz with news of the sighting of green gulls. Of course, it is an annual — expected. In this ostensibly modern era, timekeepers and skywatchers track with precision the passage of time. So, even before the sighting, the small town’s hostels, alehouses, and whoredens burst with boisterous foreigners from the southlands. A brief influx of wealth and violence, bawdiness and brawls. Then an overland voyage to Lundros — for most, heavy-laden with exotic wares, a crossing of a fortnight.

For some, who merely wish to attend, to be there when the Starburst Chamber’s crystal roof gleams in the light of a weird new star, it will be far briefer.

Arrowfalls ܟ Roan

Sleep descends on the Arrowfalls long after night reduces vision to the bronze flicker of flame and ember. Almost too soon it burns out, the long shadows of purple morning splay out in their stead. For those light and brief to slumber, the urge for relief strikes in that predawn. A quiet place, a strand of dry stones bordering the small rivulets running near camp, born of the mountains. Some feed into the west branch of the Yanvin while others fill the handful of large lakes separating Arrowfalls from Mirynkat. This morning, they shimmer a vibrant emerald green.

If that urge strikes Roan, he is likely to notice; else, another, less familiar with the strange dust glittering in the flow might request a breakfast song explaining the unfamiliar sight.

Lundros ܟ Cerwin & Phaedra

“There you are, just the volunteers I am looking for!” declares a young man.

Board hanging around his neck and a bag pregnant with pamphlets, he knows words aren’t enough these days to catch an eye, so he grabs by the hand Cerwin and Phaedra as they, by pure coincidence, cross paths on a busy Lundros street, perhaps out for a morning stroll or departing café-style breakfast.

“A dashing gentleman such as yourself and a lovely scholar are perfect pair of volunteers, nay, organizers! to make this the most fabulous annual festival in a thousand years!” he proclaims, relinquishing his grip, but leaving in their palms a strip of paper embossed with a salutation and address that they might recognize as that of the Iron Word’s guildhouse.

The Pale ܟ Vildrel

Fog dense and light thick, scintillating, and light gray — almost white — floods the gulf and adjacent fjords taken together as a region of Islund dubbed The Pale. Therein, it is impossible to see the green gulls. Impossible, except atop Mount Leirstyg. Thereup and year-round, a wind-watcher and weather-scryer can easily see the passing of these majestic creatures. On that annual, she blows into her alphorn, and roll a long undulating drone into the gulf. That tradition echoes from ship to ship, filling The Pale with the vibration of expectation for those who wish to make the trek to Lundros and partake in the celebration.

It rolls over Vildrel Könire, Iskra, and others along the rocky hillock.

Yanvin Valley, near Ghilros ܟ Willis & Vodilic

Thump-thrump, thump-thrump, a wagon loudly makes its way along the riverside road that weaves through the forest of the Yanvin Valley, heading first to Ghilros and then to Lundros. It is the lead in a procession long enough to deepen ruts that already cut down to bedrock. Cheerful chatter boasts of profit to be made at the festival, of how this annual is special, of how this man or that woman personally saw a green gull and spread the word throughout their village.

Of course, the noise carries through tree and branch to Willis.

So too does it drift up the hillside and touch the ears of Vodilic, bidding him depart from his shortcut turned sojourn.

If they desire to attend, perhaps they will march alongside the line of merchants, sightseers, and celebrants.

Fyrkat ܟ Skolt & Pite

Rain skirts along the dark, stacked basalt of the dozen or so squat, square towers in Fyrkat’s niþroh. Cold, it glazes the jutting uneven edges of unmortared stone with clear clean ice. Along those glimmer-tracks, the rain races and leaps into a muddy rill, normally a fine dirt path when the weather is fair. Fair it is not, flanked by a fist’s depth of dank, stinking, soot-tinged snow. So today the road wends wet through the fishing village like a tributary of the nearby Tofyrvin, itself, even now, at the start of the thaw, more a babbling brook than a river; narrow, just sufficiently deep to support passage of the lateen-sail rigged dhow traveling northward and seaward.

Like nests atop the towers, precarious hunch single room shelters of unfinished timber gable-capped with shaved bark shingles, mostly fir. There is a square hole in the side of a particular one, passable as a window. Two sets of intense black eyes, large and luminous, peer out and contemplate the overcast, mist-mantled village, the rain, the dawn fast approaching, the forceful lethal current of the river that, at this hour, must sing to better without eyes be seen.

“It has been nine nights since we’ve seen the twins of day,” chirps a masculine young voice, agitated.

“Skolt, we trust they follow the paths they always have, in time with timeless time,” chirps back a female voice, crisp, anxious.

It is the way of things in Fyrkat, to express a fear without giving it a name—without breathing into it evil life. Their mother, absent these nine nights, her fishing voyage taking her north upon the Tofyrvin, out to the coast, to the great western water called the Kvelhav. She was due back three nights ago. The nest felt empty. Worse, it was nearing, the day of anticipation, of day of departure. They didn’t want to leave not knowing her fate, not bidding her farewell.

“In time with timeless time, Pite,” assents Skolt, echoing the litany.

He lifts his black, broad wing and drapes it over his sister’s round, sloped shoulders, although neither feel cold. For warmth, they have their cloaks, scarlet and violet. They have a clay stove with lump of coal burning in its belly. They are well-fed on carp and barberries. They have hope, auspiciously audible on the wind. A melody, a chirp, a call. The birdsong of their mother paddling against the current with the help of her living boat-dragon Vanptadra.
Thanks! Yes, feel free to join!

@Circ Hi :)

roleplayerguild.com/topics/192621-the…

I think you meant to post this link! That one leads back here.

Anyways, count me interested!
And the IC is up! roleplayerguild.com/topics/192621-the…

@JohnRoleplay@vietmyke@Red Wizard@Argetlam350@Dragonfly 9@odium@Izurich@Drifting Pollen

Apologies in advance if I pinged someone no longer interested by accident, I haev trouble keeping track of that stuff.
Additions to the lore by Circ





Characters played by Circ

The Land of Skara
–––––––––––––– ⍱ ––––––––––––––
and the Songtale of the Breaking

The word for world is rock, and the word for rock is Skara. It is the foundation. It is the difference between up and down, order and chaos, darkness and light, cold and warmth – for the near-stars cannot pierce it, cannot blind the world from below, cannot through it melt the ice and snow.


On Joining

Please post your character profile to the character tab and then make a post in the IC describing what your character is up to. I or another designated Game Master will then reply and help guide your character along the path to Lundros! :)
About the Game

This is a new setting, so please bring original content and characters.

Expecting between 5 to 15 participants.

See below for an example profile. If you wish to add more detail, feel free, but don't forget there can be fun in revealing things as the game progresses!

Characters should be primarily good at one thing, but they may have a secret thing we learn they excel at as their story progresses.

To start, players’ characters will make the pilgrimage to Lundros for the Festival of the Breaking, a once-in-a-generation event that, likely being young, they have never experienced before, but have heard of from their parents and grandparents. It is intended to bode times of prosperity, good harvests, and bountiful trade.

As such, this is an adventure RP of between 5 and 15 people where our characters travel the dangerous land of Skara to reach their destination, some of us meeting one another along the way and making friends or enemies! It is mid-fantasy, medieval, and the climate is cold so wear lots of layers. Once we reach Lundros, we'll participate in the games of the Festival, and when the Event Itself occurs, new opportunities will open up for our characters to explore and exploit!
About the Land of Skara

Towns are rustic and primitive, built using a timber or stave-style motif while more elegant houses employ plaster infills. Cities inspire a sense of awe and grandeur, built of commonplace and abundant black basalt in an architecture reminiscent of the Mudéjar or Asturian styles. Rumors swirl that more grand structures in cities and ruins long-since abandoned are from a time-lost civilization whispered as the Age of the Broken God. Skara is generally cold and snowy, with pine and birch forests, oak groves, and treacherous white-capped mountains; however, there is a great deal of geothermal activity, which gives life to springs and oases around which towns and cities grow. The mountains to the northwest of Lundros are perpetually covered in ice and snow, as are the northern seas.

There is a great deal of integration of the various creatures, intelligent and otherwise, who live in Skara, due to the many cycles of civilization ascending and collapsing. So talking hares may live side-by-side with humans. It is now in the late spring of this cycle, with ancient knowledge mostly lost or buried under rubble.

Festival of the Breaking

Predicted by the star sages to come when, in the sky, the two near-stars mate, the Color of the World changes, and their love melts the ice along the northern coast. Normally, two near-stars light the world of Skara, one blue and one yellow. The Breaking occurs when they eclipse one-another, forming a single, green star, that changes the color of the world and focuses the light of both on the planet, warming it enough to break apart the otherwise endless ice of the northern seas.

State of Technology

Technology is pre-industrial, with no firearms nor capacity for rifling; potentially gunpowder exists, but is only used by alchemists for fireworks or magic displays. Overall, the tone is rustic, quiet, and exhibits a oneness with nature. Information is not printed nor mass-distributed, but passed around via illuminated hand-written encyclicals or word-of-mouth. While commoners know how to read, there is much divergence of dialect, actual books are expensive and hard to come – particularly due to the Lore Wardens of folk magic. Thus, most individuals' exposure to the written word is in deeds, notes of sale, or leaflets that often include misspellings and regional vernacular. Books that do exist are often magical, preserving their ancient power in leather-bound volumes vouchsafed in the hides of thinking, feeling, sophisticated beings to best-preserve their mystic energy.

Magic Foci

Magic is budding and mysterious, with enchanted forests, harts peering into the soul, fae seducing the arrogant in deadly groves, etc. But words can transform and through them power can manifest, be it through an infamous name or a compelling story; this is known as fable magic. However, due to the power of stories, dreams, and ideas, Lore Wardens exist who repress books, stories, and disappear troubadours and bards with tongues too loose for their liking. Giving something care, a face, love, and a name can bring it to life, but without any of those things, that creation may wither away unless it finds its own reason to exist in a journal of self-discovery.

  • Primal, the magic of fae, tanooki, dryad, nymph, and other magic beasts.
  • Fable magic, the power spun of tales, heroism, and infamy that is written of in secret tomes and sung of by bold bards. However, books are rare, and their access limited by the Lore Wardens, whose mysterious motives evade the light. There is also danger in this magic, for words contain the power to influence mood, imagination, and action. Town elders often warn against malicious fable-spinners whose evil songs cause the sad to despair and seek death – and, when a stranger’s voice deepens in song, claim safety lies in plugged ears and silence.
  • Hereditary magic, the power of vitality passed from generation to generation. While rare to be born under such a sign and fortuitous to be of such a line, this power need not be limited to those individuals, for there is profit to be made in the trade of moon blood, life blood, and mood blood, reagents which can be bottled and employed in various learned arts.
  • Learned magic, the study of other forms of magic, of pacts between mortals and the ultramundane, of alchemy and artistry – this is a dangerous form of magic, and often takes a lifetime to master.

Areas of Interest

  • Isnida, a mysterious and as-yet unvisited land.
    • Nidaros, pirates, merchants, and travelers tell tall tales of a city of necromancers across the ocean.
  • Islund
    • Lundros, a metropolis tucked several kilometers inland from the ice-bound inhospitable northern coast of Islund and situated between the banks of the rivers Frosvin and Koltvin. At its center is a basalt citadel and in the air magic wafts with as vague an impression but, for some, as potent an effect as pollen. Wealthy and prosperous, it is home to many guilds, businesses, and even an academy of mystic arts. Peace is maintained by the Guards of Kol and, as times require, hired mercenaries loyal only to the purse. It is in Lundros that travelers from all across Skara gather for the astrological festival known as the Breaking.
      • Luminae Magic Academy
      • The Starburst Chamber, where the elites of Lundros known as the God-Color Council – merchant guildmasters, mercenary generals, head bankers, and magic academy deans – meet and decide Islund’s policy, taxation rates, food distribution, and so forth, has a beautiful dome stained glass ceiling that paints the interior of the chamber in beautiful colors.
    • Fyrkat, an unexceptional village merely an eight-day journey by peddler’s wagon to arrive from Stavkat; by bearback, merely five days.
    • Stavkat, an unexceptional village.
    • Grykat, a small town on the edge of civilization. Its inhabitants are primarily impoverished, living in squalor and dirt. Houses are mud-huts, the people barbarians of a way. The ground is infertile, and the people live primarily from raiding neighboring towns and villages, pillaging what they can. The hometown of Cerwin, a high status man in Lundros.
  • Roh, a section of a city or town with its own culture, policing, and government; these pay taxes to Lundros in the form of grain and gold in exchange for the city’s army maintaining peace, centralized grain storage and distribution network that ensures survival throughout long winters, and hub of learned magic professionals who visit Rohs as necessary to address more nuanced concerns or plagues.
    • Niþroh, the row of crows, the section where crowfolk, also known as Kroca, live, characterized by eyries, teetering towers, and feather-thatched roofs.
    • Faeroh, the row of fae, where magic creatures who enjoy communing with more material creatures, given over to nature, flowers, and trees ensorceled together to form domiciles.
    • Menroh, the row of humans, the largest part of any town, often subdivided into districts for commerce, education, and so forth.

Commonplace Fantastic Creatures

Almost any magical creature you can think of will be in this setting! Intelligent talking beasts, fae, sprites, hobbits, elves, dwarves, lizardmen, koblods, ghosts! All living together in mostly-harmony! A good reference for ideas is anything CR3 and below on this page: Pathfinder Bestiary: Monsters by CR.

Kroca, a type of crowfolk, who can walk upright, talk, but for them flight is rather rough.

Slimes, a group of organisms that are made up of a round slimy material, hence the name. Their location dictates their biology. Can be found more frequently in humid areas and when it rains.

Naming Conventions

For thematic consistency in place names, the prefix for islands is -is. Meanwhile, other geographic features employ a suffix, which for rivers is -vin, for cities is -ros, for towns is -kat, and for boroughs or districts within cities and towns it is -roh. A very small town might end in -hal, indicating the primary structures there are based around a single community house. Often, cities and towns will have identical -rohs, as in rows of houses, meaning familial or racial houses, due to the self-sorting of the fantastic creatures who dwell within them, fae with fae, human with human, dwarf with dwarf; there is, after all, a great deal of comfort in familiarity. Local vernacular often drops the suffix, meaning, for example, the villagers of Fyrkat may simply refer to their hometown as Fyr.

Example Character Submission

Played by Circ, Skolt & Pite, brother and sister, are Kroca children of fishers from Fyrkat. Their mother's fishing boat is shaped like a dragon and can talk, because it was brought to life by her love after she spent months crafting it and caring for it. However, neither child is interested in fishing. Pite is an herbalist, but not the healing kind; the oracular kind who can make teas or read the leaves for visions or unwanted pregnancies. Skolt is a troubadour, a brawler, and a cloud-dreamer who protects those in need with his Macuahuitl, a flat club with obsidian plates in the side-grooves, both a weapon and a xylophone-like instrument; its obsidian blades are normally held rigid, but by sliding out a thin reed from the center of the club, they loosen enough for musical vibration. The twins share a secret language and possess bonded minds.

Expected Level of Effort

At least a paragraph or two, as is befitting of the Casual section, of at least 150 words per-post. No mega-posts, as those can be intimidating to others and time consuming for people to read, so nothing in excess of a page or so, think under 1,000 words.

Power Scaling

If you're familiar with TTPRGs, such as D&D and Pathfinder, think between levels 1-5 for your characters. Our characters can't travel to different planes or teleport around the world (yet), but we can use magic to help guide us through a forest or light up dark places.

Visual Aids

Lundros

Fyrkat

Stavkat
@vietmyke

I dig it!
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