Back when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, I got started with writing online on the Spore forums. Man, those were the days. We're talking like 12 years ago 2010-ish!
I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.
>Consider me interested, although I would know how advanced or fantastical this tech can be. Is it Clarketech level like in Orion's Arm or even more impossible with things like FTL, gravity manipulation, and really efficient or stupid nanotechnologies? Like can a god just teleport via some quantum BS or will we need to use some kind of utility fog? Can consciousness be uploaded so one can exist in virch worlds that masquerade as afterlives for biological beings? Those kinds of things.
I'm familiar with the term Clarketech in general sci-fi as technology that's just indistinguishable from magic. I'm not sure exactly how it's portrayed or defined in Orion's Arm, but Clarketech was exactly what I was going for here with people posing as gods.
Mind uploading for virtual afterlives or resurrection of a sort is definitely fine by me, as is artificial gravity and its manipulation. I'd consider teleportation but probably permit it depending upon the details, though FTL in particular one that I have some qualms with. I'm open to the possibility of almost any ideas so long as the implications are reasonably well thought out.
The thing about FTL is that it opens a whole can of worms about scope of the setting -- it feels less plausible for this isolated planet to have remained isolated and turned out like it did if FTL is present and people can just zoom around all over the galaxy, and I also don't intend for there to ever be any real possibility of leaving the vicinity of the planet and solar system where most of the RP takes place.
In general I haven't set any strict guidelines for what the technology level is because that felt like it'd firstly be a bit beyond the scope of an interest check, and secondly because I'm just generally open to ideas and am happy to collaboratively establish such details based upon the characters that we get and the technologies that they use.
I noticed you've made some cool little tweaks Chris. I like the return of avatars and the ability to convert mortals into an avatar.
Awesome to see you carrying on the Divinus torch and best of luck with this one! I wasn't expecting it to come so soon; I'll certainly be thinking about joining if time permits.
The Lord of the Skies and King of the Gods, Zeus himself, was dead. Very, very dead. After having ruled the world for centuries, he’d come to appreciate those few times that eyes were not upon him, and so he had been known to spend sleepless nights out in the crisp air, lost in reverie and meditation. So it was under the first rays of dawn that the servants found him upon the floor of his palace’s terrace.
The horrified, piercing shriek of the first serving girl to discover him had cut through the listless halls that morning. Guardsmen had quickly arrived, and then the madness began. The servants were immediately seized by the palace guards and taken for interrogation, and then those very same guardians were in turn seized for their failure and similarly put to question. Despite every effort, it took mere hours for word to spread throughout the palace, and then the resplendent marble halls and golden streets of the city of the gods. By midday it seemed as though half of the great pantheon already knew: all the gods of importance, as well as many others who were merely well connected or wont to gossip.
The cause of death was anything but natural; with all their power a god need not fear being stricken down unexpectedly by chance ailment, and Zeus’ body had been infused with enough vitality that everyone expected him to last another half century at least, even if his memory had been fading and his behavior growing more erratic in recent years. Indeed he’d been starting to deteriorate, and that had made his enemies, old and new alike, start to slowly circle like jackals.
So this was certainly an assassination. The Highest One’s own constitution had somehow been corrupted and turned upon itself to gruesome effect: little was left of Zeus’ form save for some brittle skeletal remnants lying within a grisly pool of viscera, choked with a thousand different poisons. The very powers that had sustained him had gone rogue and set about deconstructing and destroying what was left of his worldly remains. This rendered the exact cause, time, or perpetrator of his demise impossible to determine on the spot.
Everyone had their suspicions, but few dared to voice these out loud and point the finger for fear of bringing unwanted attention onto themselves. Instead, the greatest of the gods had quickly come together and conspired to cover this up. Gods could not be seen to die; the primitives down below could not be afforded to learn anything of these events. In the late Zeus’ pride and arrogance (and perhaps foresight, too) he had fortunately ordered a twin of himself to be pulled forth from the pools of life. The King of the Gods took his young simulacrum under his wing, bringing the boy around court. He had spoken to this younger duplicate and raised him as his own child and heir, to the neglect of his many biological children. For all the scandal that it had been, this egoism of the late Zeus was the Pantheon’s saving grace – a perfect replacement of their lord stood ready, identical inwards and out, a genetic replica and the spitting image of the late Zeus in his early teens. His voice was identical, his temperament every bit as haughty as the old one if not even worse. This secretive replacement would be as seamless of a transition as such things could go, and all but the most perceptive of the base mortals would likely never even know the difference – if any did, they could be decried as heretics or quietly dealt with.
So the gods anointed the young clone as the new Zeus, and quickly resumed their game with renewed fervor. Expecting that this young lord would be impressionable and easily manipulated, the High Pantheon – his most prominent officers and advisers and ministers – immediately resumed their politicking and plotting and scheming, while the kingdom’s slow decline continued.
Setting, Mechanics, Other Explanation:
General Premise
This RP would take place in a sci-fi setting where the vast majority of the population are ‘primitives’ or ‘mortals’ who live in feudal or theocratic Iron Age communities, with a separate class of humans that have access to incredibly advanced technology and use it to pose as gods and rule over their lessers. Your characters would be members of the High Pantheon, some of the most prominent gods with important positions in society and/or access to the ear of Zeus. As high-ranking gods, your characters likely have some form of artifacts and technologies in their possession and control that grant them abilities that the primitive humans consider to be divine and magical; for instance, Zeus can remotely activate weather control satellites to conjure thunderstorms on a whim.
As they jumped into their newfound positions as gods, many of the first crewmen would have presumably taken Zeus’ lead in borrowing heavily from ancient mythology as they set about constructing their identities and roles in the pantheon. Zeus envisioned a general Greek theme to the pantheon, but with that said, some gods could certainly have constructed their own original names, identities, and mythologies, and I’m not opposed to the idea that some gods drew inspiration from different mythologies instead. Naturally, you can heavily reinterpret the mythologies if you like – a character’s history, persona, or powers need not reflect the original myths too closely (or at all!). The pantheon and religion in this setting would have been quickly cobbled together by dozens of different people with their own ideas, many of whom would have wanted to embellish their own importance. The result was probably a chaotic amalgamation of all sorts of crazy things that the mortal priests and scholars had to later go back and struggle to make sense of.
Lore
Humanity prospered and advanced, and eventually disparate factions departed from Earth and its solar system to slowly colonize other parts of the galaxy. A distant planet was terraformed in preparation for one of the first attempts at interstellar colonization, only for these first settlers to suffer some disaster early on that crippled their industrial capacity and left them trapped on the planet, doomed to live a primitive lifestyle while they hoped to eventually be rescued. A much smaller, specialized vessel was eventually sent to their aid; however, over the long and lonely voyage its captain made a decision that would alter history.
The captain decided that rather than aid the hapless people rather than help them in keeping with the original mission objectives, he would establish himself as a living god so as to lord over them. Many of the ship’s crewmembers agreed to this course of action and became the first members of a great pantheon; others did not, and were imprisoned, killed, or banished. History was rewritten and those defiant people of moral strength were denounced as demons and the like in the new canon faith.
Many centuries have passed since this first ‘Coming of the Gods’. The gods themselves have long lives and memories and have retained knowledge of their history and origins, but the base mortals condemned to live below have almost entirely forgotten about anything prior to the Coming of the Gods. Only in a few remote hamlets are there storytellers that speak of Old Arith, the heavenly plane where men inhabited before they were cast down and left to dwell in the known world. The primitive mortals have similarly forgotten about the workings of technology and many of the discoveries of science; the odd tale mentions great sorcerers and artificers from the heathen days of old, men who stole divine providence and captured lightning for their dark arts.
Many of the original pantheon have died or retired, either way with the outcome of them passing their divine titles and roles on to children or other successors. The pantheon has gradually grown from the original few dozen members to hundreds of deities of various importance and niches. Through population controls and decrees denouncing the status of half-primitive demigods, this growth has been slowed and kept at a manageable level. Though the individual gods have temples, monastery retreats, and palaces all across the planet, for the majority of the time almost all of them dwell in a magnificent utopia impossibly high in the mountains, with great ivory spires and golden streets. Base mortals are generally not permitted to enter this hallowed capital, but a few demigods or great heroes have visited it and returned to spread tales of its splendor. This place is the seat of Zeus’ throne and all divine power, and it is known by many names: Mount Olympus, the City of Marble and Gold, Elysium, Paradise.
But all is not well in Heaven. To call the gods stagnant would be generous; rather than improving the capital and advancing their powers, they have allowed some of the city’s infrastructure and systems to gradually deteriorate. Their morals and spirits have also decayed into ever lower depths. With all their politicking and hedonism, the gods’ relatively small population has gradually grown more idle, less disciplined, less knowledgeable, less competent. They no longer visit the mortal realms so often as in the days of old, and nor is their vigil over the masses so diligent as then, so more heresies have been cropping up and spreading unchecked. Even worse, the mortals have managed to attain a series of significant technological developments, several of which have contributed to a rapid rise in their population – to maintain control, the late Zeus had recently been forced to check their rise by smiting countless scholars, inventors, and priests. Then for good measure he’d ordered his pantheon to plunge the mortal realms into turmoil by inciting a bloody period of many holy wars. Discontent has slowly grown up like a creeping vine, but within Paradise itself and in the mortal plane below.
If this interest check can garner enough attention, then I would be willing to proceed on by making a real thread for the RP and perhaps expanding with a little more details about the setting and themes.
In the meantime though, I’ve already made a Discord server: DISCORD LINK
I encourage anybody interested in this to join that server to say hello and/or ask any questions or bounce possible ideas. Hope to see you there!
I already have the interest of several people – among them are @Oraculum and @Lauder who encouraged me to make this, shared ideas, and agreed to assist me as GMs. @Terminal gave me some feedback too. So thanks to them!
The sun’s warmth was often welcome upon the bronzed back of Darius, but sometimes he longed for the respite of shade. So he found himself sitting beneath a date tree by the water, listening to the river’s gurgle. It had been a couple moons since the river had last gurgled and flooded, and now the rich sediments that its headwaters had spread across the plains and banks were bearing fruit.
Men, women, and children alike were all out there in the fields harvesting barley; others, the more agile, climbed up the trees in the orchards and along the riverside to pick at fruits. They knew nothing of clothing, and so looked almost like beasts even as they knew the ways of digging furrows and cultivating the grain, and of erecting crude hovels and shelters on the high hills away from the fickle river. Ah, and Darius still held the River-Spirit’s gemstone; he spoke for them all as he was still the mightiest of their people, even after this many years, and he worked alongside them too, for their culture had yet to grow lazy in the sun.
Even those who had been born gifted with the Sight toiled in the sun with all their kin. It was still undreamed of for anyone to not work in the fields, be it because they claimed some birthright, or because they had pretensions of greatness and felt themselves above such tasks, or even because they were specialized in other things. No, life was very simple here, and even Darius was just another humble man at the end of the day, albeit a bit taller, stronger, and more outspoken than the rest.
The day changed when the dirt next to him rose into the shape of a man. Darius jumped with a start, instinctively seizing up and raising a stone tool. Lions and other beasts roamed the untamed lands, and the slow, the ones that lacked vigilance, and the unprepared were sometimes carried away in those early days. Darius, of course, was none of those things, and all too ready to fight against the unknown.
Yet the featureless face did not seem to make any threatening motions. It turned and examined the area around, thinking aloud. “Hmm. This will do. Central location, and you already have fields to toil and defend. Yes, this will do nicely.” Voligan turned to look at Darius. “You are a leader of these people, yes? I am Voligan, the Earthheart. God of the Earth and the Craft. Champion of the Monarch. Gather for me your people. From them, select your most patient and precise. I have come to bless your people with the knowledge that will make their nights easier and their communities more stable.”
Even if it hadn’t declared itself a god, the earth-face’s manner of appearance and very nature would have made as much clear, so Darius heard his words and harkened quickly to obey. He ran to the nearest of his people, be they resting in the shade or toiling in the fields, and told them not to gather before the god right then but rather to spread the word. So it was that soon a few dozen heralds ran through the fields crying out for the people to set aside their work and gather by the river, and soon enough that was done.
Voligan looked around at the gathered crowd, those who had been brought before him, and those others from the most distant fields that were still trickling into the assembly. “I have come to teach you how to make bricks, and from them homes and walls. Sturdy creations that can be used to keep out the cold of the night, the wet of the rain, the heat of the day, and the predators that stalk the night. Those who make these bricks will not have time to work in your fields. Instead, they will be busy building your homes and walls. In return for this work, they will still be allowed to eat even though they have not gathered any food themselves.” He looked towards the designated brick makers. “Come, and I will show you how to build bricks.”
In front of the gathered crowd, Voligan showed how to gather the clay needed to make bricks, and how to identify clay that would be best suitable for bricks. You did not want clay that was filled with debris, for it would make weak bricks. He showed them how to gather and combine the clay, sand, and water into the batter that would be laid out into bricks. The mixture was important. Too much water, and your bricks wouldn’t set right. Too much sand, and they would be too weak to be of any use. Next was to ensure that they would be allowed to dry to set, removing the water once they had been laid out into bricks and protecting them from the elements, followed by building a kiln to fire them in.
Once he had shown the new bricklayers how to do their craft, he made them show him that they knew how to do their craft without his help. It took some time. There were errors, mistakes, that were brusquely corrected and undid to let them do again. Eventually, as the day neared its end, they were competent enough for Voligan’s satisfaction. “Good. You will build the homes of your people now.” He turned his attention to Darius once more. “Who is your leader? The one who directs all others?”
“I am called Darius, and I have spoken for and led these people for a long time now, since we encountered the River God who gifted us with grain, since we turned away from the cowardly prophet called Medes,” the greatest man in the crowd proclaimed.
Voligan looked over Darius. “Hmm. And what do you call yourselves and this place? It will need a name, and defenses soon, Darius. Dark things are making their way towards you, drawn by the scent of flesh and mortal blood. Your people will need an identity to protect themselves from such creatures.”
“We know of the dangers, the beasts that hide in the grass and in the caves,” Darius insisted, “the lions come often by night, sometimes even in day, and try to carry off whoever they can. And we know that this is their land – Nalusa, the Land of Lions – but by this river we have carved out a piece for ourselves. And the River Spirit has pledged his support for our claim here, by the most fertile of all the rivers, the one that is called Jiryaan Sefid!”
“We are just people here, like any other humans, but not like the whistlers in the hills. If other bands still led by prophets spoke of us, they might call us Darius’ People.”
“No, Darius of Darius’ people. I am not warning you of the dangers of beasts. There are creatures of my brother who are coming. They will wear the skin of your people, they will gain their trust, and they will consume them. It will be all the easier if you have no defenses and no identity. It is one thing to settle in an area and trust in the River Spirit. It is another to build around it. What do you call this land around the river? And where does your domain stop?”
Such revelations were disturbing. In these earliest of days there were few conflicts that set man against man, and while Darius possessed something of an innate understanding of such things (and it was that which lent him the will tochallenge the leadership of Medes) such things as war and murder, of skinshifting vertans, all felt so strange and foreign. Yet this ‘Voligan’ Spirit seemed more trustworthy than a prophet, so a troubled Darius could only furrow his brow and frown at what he heard.
“We had no thought to name this land, for we just know it as our own. But if you say that names matter, I will tell them that this land, this bend of the Jiryaan Sefid and further, as far as the fields we can till, is called Pasargad.
“But Great Voligan,” Darius went on to the true question, the thing that mattered to him most, “what manner of defenses ought we build? One great house, raised from stacking these hardened earth bricks that you have shown us the way to make?”
“Stacking these hardened earth bricks is the goal, but not for a great house.” Voligan shifted the earth around them to make a dirt wall. “You must build a wall, something that your people can hide behind and stand upon so that you can control who enters and exits Pasargad and more easily discover strangers among you. If you are attacked, you can hide those who have no skill at fighting behind the walls while those who are skilled can throw rocks at the attackers. It is a useful tool, and one that you should build soon.”
Voligan paused and then, with amusement added, “Hmm. It will also make keeping the lions out of Pasargad much easier.”
He looked over the gathered humans and their nudity. "Clothing will also help with cold nights and offer a measure of protection against attacks. I shall teach you how to use your flax to make linen, how to craft clothing, and how to sew the leathers together to better protect yourselves. Yes, that will be the start. The rest I'm sure you will figure out."
And so the folk were shown and taught, and they learned. When at last it came time for Great Voligan to depart, his work finished, that great visage in the Galbar’s clay sank back into the ground without a trace. That they could prove their gratitude and devotion to that benefactor, they assembled a great mass of burnt bricks about that spot and began to build a great mortared house to praise and commemorate Voligan. They built it tall, taller than the growing walls and ramparts even, as befit one of his stature. They built it so tall that it began to grow unstable, and so tapered its width as it grew. At the top it came to a point, and at the end they were left with a temple-pyramid that more resembled the shape of a mountain (by accident) than a house.
So as to remember also the River Spirit that was their protector, the gate nearest the river was given a massive wooden gate that they painted blue and decorated, and the walls bestride it engraved and carved with a great many depictions of the River Spirit and Darius. Behind that gate, they built a statue of fired clay in that other god’s likeness, and atop some other hill they built a temple to the moon.
Darius ruled them into his old years, working with the others until his body began to falter, and only then contenting himself to rest and merely overlook his city from the lofty heights of his abode atop a hill. Eventually he grew near to death, and in the moonlight saw a vision of what was to be done.
The king, well respected and still taller than most even in those venerable years, relinquished his rule. Cyaxares, the favored son of Darius and by then a mighty man in his own right, was proclaimed the next king. Under his rule the walls grew taller and thicker while the grasslands were fallowed into farmland further downriver than ever before. Darius’ stalwart abode was expanded until there was little hint of the modesty and humble nature of the man who had first laid its foundation; now, under that man’s son, it became a palace.
Time soon revealed that they had underestimated the space that they’d left to themselves within the walls and ramparts that they’d erected, so the fields beyond were pushed farther back and a second ring of walls was soon raised. After that, there was no question that Pasargad – the Enclosure – was the greatest city in Nalusa, its folk the mightiest tribe.
Nalusa comes to Darius’ tribe in Nalusa and gives them a big technological advancement. They learn to make clothes from the flax that was already present, and now they have bricks and pottery and somewhat advanced construction.
Darius lives and dies and his tribe founds Pasargad – the Enclosure – a doubly-walled city. There’s temples to Yudaiel, Arvum, and Voligan inside of it.
Voligan probably invests about 2 vigor into this post; however, the doctor unfortunately seems to have vanished, so on the spreadsheet Voligan will just be shifted to inactive for now.
Confinement left one with an appreciation for the smallest things.
The walls were padded with roiling darkness. There were no cracks or faults; meticulously and laboriously, every tiny facet of the hyperdimensional cage had been examined a thousand times over, and the architect of his prison had made no errors. And the prison’s occupant could not escape. These seals could not be broken from within, not even by a force cataclysmic enough to rend worlds asunder.
His sanity remained, even though all of his senses were now shrouded and worthless in the black void. There was nothing to see, nor hear, nor touch, nor smell… usually.
He could still See, if he meditated, and what else was he to do? Relive the betrayal a millionth time over? Stretch to relieve pains that could not ever be relieved so long as he was coiled up like a wire inside this accursed, tiny oubliette?
So he meditated, and his mind Saw – for all the Architect’s ingenuity, this prison could not contain a prescient mind quite so absolutely as it could a physical body – and at times, there was the radiant glow of salvation. It was a tiny, beautiful prick of light at the end of this all-encompassing black expanse. It was a stifled murmur in the shadows, the ghost of a smell, the faintest of tastes.
But it was so sweet.
His mind reached out to it through space and time, raging against the physical confines of his cage. What faint mental projections escaped from the Galbar’s core were too muffled for his enemies to sense, but not so faint that she wouldn’t feel the perturbations, if only she would look.
Further west, Raijin had landed. There were not so many rivers out here and he hadn’t seen any of the bjork dams; perhaps mortals had not yet conquered these wilder parts. So, without being so concerned about being sighted, the dragon trudged through the pine wood by foot. He left some very curious and large tracks with his four great big claws feet and his long tail that occasionally slid across the snow, but there were all sorts of big creatures out here with funny trails already.
Unlike some of the lazier or more mischievous dragons that had come here with Shen, Raijin wasn’t bothering with pilfering from the offerings of mortal shamans. He hunted on his own, and though he’d already earned a few swipes of a claw whilst slaying a giant grizzly bear, the glowing praise of his master was worth it.
Here, though, he’d come across another bear as it was feasting upon a huge stag. Still, there was something else besides the cloying, metallic scent of blood in the air. This one didn’t smell right; the odor of rot hung over it like a cloak. It didn’t look right. Bit of ragged flesh and fur draped down the sides of its ribs like curtains, and it was a wonder that the thing was still walking. On that note, it didn’t walk right. Its gait seemed unnatural and ungainly, as if it weren’t used to its own limbs, and yet it still moved altogether far faster than any bear should have, wounded or healthy.
And its head wasn’t right either, because it was charging right at the giant dragon rather than fleeing! He snarled through a cruel draconic visage, then he too charged forward like a bull. Where the two giants met there was fury and rending. Raijin’s scales were like stone and they held up well against the beast’s claws, and yet even as the dragon tore through flesh, the bear seemingly felt nothing. They wrested, bit, and clawed, trying to force down and finish one another, and yet both were utterly unyielding in their strength and fury.
With a great swipe that disemboweled the grizzly, Raijin felt a sense of triumph. But that glowing grin gave way to a horrified gasp when maggot poured out of the great wound alongside rotted guts. Still, the bear that was a wehniek fought on, dragging its guzzards through the dirt and snow as if they were no more hindrance than a sagging pair of pants! Its incessant slavering roars and growls seemed to have attracted more of its kind, for soon Raijin saw more darkened silhouettes bounding towards them from the shadows of the dense forest.
At this point, he began to grow panicked. He bashed his head into the bear’s own iron skull and then wheeled about to retreat for a clearing, but when he found it, to his horror the sun’s rays were oppressive, bright, and utterly unfazed by any clouds. It was so warm that the icicles in tree branches were weeping… it would be difficult and time consuming to conjure any rain or mist, and without that, a dragon had no means of swimming away into the sky.
’Thump-thump-thump!’ his heart pounded, so hard that it seemed as though the ground was shaking.
Agony coursed through him as one of his pursuers caught up and bit the end of his long tail. THUMP!The dragon spun about and breathed out a freezing mist, but the chill carried no bite for the wehnieks; once, they had been spirits born of that same icy aspect, before they’d been twisted by hunger. Still, they feared not the cold. THUMP!
Draconic claws rent and tore through rotted flesh, while putrid maws bit down on his hardened scales. Individually these monsters were frightening to be sure, but perhaps not big enough to truly maim his great serpentine body; however, together, this pack of them was overwhelming. The one that had bitten his tail held on tightly, and another one gnashed and tore and dug into one of his rear legs. THUMP! Raijin’s head was spinning as he thrashed about, biting into one of his assailants and gagging at the revolting taste that filled his mouth. The itself seemed to throb, no longer even in tune with his heartbeat.
Neither dragon nor wehniek had noticed the guardian until its gargantuan shadow fell over them and the pounding thumps of its footsteps ceased. It reached down and snatched one of the corpse-bears, crushing it in a display of might almost as gruesome as the gore that spilled from between its great fingers.
The gigantic guardian looked every bit a god, for it towered over even the highest of pines. Before its great stature everything was tiny and almost insignificant – a microcosm of the whole forest crowned its head, and that immaculate globe looked more regal than any golden circlet or laurel wreath or rack of antlers.
Raijin’s awestruck stare shattered in the next instant when the guardian’s fist slammed into another wehniek, pulverizing it as easily as a careless foot was wont to crush a flea. These spirits were rabid, but even they had enough instincts of self-preservation to show some dismay at this turn of events. It mattered little though; the remaining two or three only lasted a few seconds longer; how could anything evade those giant hands? How could even a four-legged beast, whether it could tire or not, hope to bound fast enough to outpace those huge strides of the guardian?
The massacre finished, the guardian turned its gaze to Raijin’s the sole survivor even as the wehniek spirits abandoned the ruined bear-husks and fled away in search of new corpses to puppet. But it looked at him almost inquisitively, as if unsure what to do. It probably hadn’t ever seen a dragon before – but before it could finish whatever deliberations were taking place within its enigmatic mind, there was a screaming sort of sound from high above.
The guardian and the dragon both alighted their heads skyward, only to see a fiery trail of glory as some crazed humanoid man was falling upon them with terrible speed and force, a great big metal pole in hand.
“HIYAH!” Shen roared as his battlecry, and with a resounding thwack he struck the guardian over its globed head so hard that it staggered down onto its knees, dazed. The pole became a gigantic bag, and then the master was suddenly yelling at him. “Great find, Raijin! You’re doing better than even Susanoo! But here, hold this thing, and held me get it open–”
The guardian shuddered, planting a hand on the ground as it readied to push itself up. In a panic, Shen took on his true form – that of a great golden dragon.
The two fumbled with the sack for a moment. It was really tiny compared to a dragon, but it proved quite stretchy and their giant claws got it wide open. And then as the guardian tried to stand once more and groaned with fury, Shen circled around it really fast and headbutted it right in the rear, such that it tripped forward over its own face and fell right into the open sack. There were a great many thuds and yelps and sounds of jostling that echoed out from inside the bag, but Shen closed it really fast before anything could escape.
“Close one! Ahoo-aha, ha-ha-ho,” he cackled.
“But what are we going to do with it?!” Raijin stammered, all thoughts of his near-death already replaced by overwhelming bewilderment. It started raining, and Shen’s golden scales gave way to rags as he once more became an old man, except this time wet and tired. And so, so very hungry. He found his rice pouch and nibbled on his dinner, biting the grain in half and letting it sit in his mouth for a minute so that it felt like he was cheating and eating tomorrow’s food too. Perhaps this diet wasn’t going to work out after all.
“Hmm, I’m not sure,” Shen actually confessed, “but the Plan is flexible enough, and a guardian this big will be useful for sure! Hmm, maybe once our invasion is over, we’ll even be able to induce it to make some new guardians to watch over the locale.”
“What locale? I thought you said that the Hivemind had already just about killed everything in its land?”
The god shrugged at that. “It can protect the wildlife then, I suppose. You know, the little bunnies and other critters.”
“What happens when you take one of these guardians away from the land it’s supposed to protect?”
Shen shrugged again. It’d be a science experiment worthy of a kynikos!
Fortunately for him, the incessant questions stopped when Susanoo fell down with the raindrops. The newcomer dragon landed with all the grace of a one-legged horse, which is to say that he slipped and slid in a puddle, splashing muddy water on his master and friend alike.
“My friend, you look worse for wear!” the fellow dragon began affably. Raijin only sighed in response.
Voligan week contribution.
One of the other dragons that went up norf with Susanoo and Shen is hunting in the forest. It’s not rainy so he can’t fly, and a bunch of wehnieks mob him. It’s looking really bad but then one of the Guardians (the friendly protector giants that Voligan made from the corpse of Aletheseus) shows up just in the nick of time to mash the wehnieks and save our friendly dragon!
Shen comes to the ‘rescue’ a moment later, thwacks the guardian over the head, and then stuffs it in his bag. Notably, Shen ruminates upon the difficulty of sticking to his diet and there’s foreshadowing that he may waver and cheat in the near future.
A bitter coldness clung to the morning’s air; this was the north, and when winter came its chill could bite to the bone. The sun up here could at times feel almost anemic in the impotence of its warmth, even if the white snow was suffused with its light, reflecting its splendor more beautifully than anything save perhaps for the endless seas. On this day, however, the sun was not visible, for great clouds obscured the whole of the sky.
Fortunately, these were not the gloomy clouds of gray or black that heralded freezing rain and blizzards; these were white, wispy, and innocent enough clouds, like the warm breath of invisible giants.
Susanoo swam through those clouds where they were thickest and puffiest. He swam up there, high above the ground, not just to hide from prying mortal eyes but also because dragons like him could not truly fly. Though many of them took to the many isolated mountain caves and hollows of their homeland in the Great Dragon Range, and lived largely solitary and ascetic lives, they were equally at home in water; some of them lived in the rivers or lakes of that distant country, and a few of the most adventurous even dwelled beneath the sea. So dragons could swim, see, and swim through moisture of any sort, unimpeded by thickness or cold or hot or salinity… and clouds were wet enough for those magnificent serpents to swim through, and so they could fly in a sense, when weather permitted.
It was convenient that they could control the weather, of course.Susanoo brought the rain, and the wet rainclouds bore him onwards in this strange land. To keep his bearing, the dragon occasionally slipped into the lower, thinner reaches of the clouds where it was not so opaque. Everywhere below there was forest, lake, fen, and river. And along every lake and river were so many bjork dams. From above they looked like little wooden bridges!
He wouldn’t find what he’d come for too close to those dams, though. So he wandered away, over the forests, seeking out the telltale signs of rising smoke. Eventually he saw just one such plume, and so he conjured a light drizzle and made his landing a short distance from the campfire. On the ground, he coiled his great long body around a pine tree once, twice, thrice, and then stretched in some odd manner that bent scales into fur. What walked away from that tree looked nothing at all like a dragon!
Stealthily, he crept through the wood. Bjorks were not at their home here, away from the rivers; they were like awkward little toddlers in this land of savage and giant beasts, which was why most kept to the safety of their lodges. Most of them, anyhow. Here and there were the odd hermits, ascetic and hardy, that wore strange masks and worshiped some even stranger spirit. They lived (and died, in many cases, the dragon suspected) for the thrill and challenge of the hunt, and so they dwelled reclusively out in the forest and fought these beasts, and not even to eat them! The meat, and sometimes even parts of the useful pelts, they left abandoned in the forest in shrines.
The dragon, guided by his keen nose, had stumbled upon just one such bloody shrine then. He looked over the pickings; yes, these would do. He began scooping them all up when there was suddenly a garbled voice that cried out, “Halt!”
Susanoo the Bjork spun around to witness one of those strange shamans in a mask, the funny little mortal leveling a spear at him. It was rather impressive that the hunter had moved so quietly! An eddy of wind changed directions, and then that other bjork’s pungent stench reached Susanoo’s still-sensitive nose. It was even more of a surprise that the bjork’s reek hadn’t betrayed his coming.
“You would steal from the spirits, stranger?” the hunter demanded even as he edged closer. The bjork-shaped dragon didn’t flinch or back down, of course.
“Actually I was stealing on behalf of a god,” he smugly replied. “Collecting your tribute, as it were!”
Confusion lit the beady eyes that hid behind the mask, and then anger. The shaman came even nearer, holding his spear out so far that it threatened to push its point into Susanoo’s fur, but then there was a cracking sound. The thin layer of hoarfrost that had coated a boulder seemed to come alive, and it leaped forward.
The hunter immediately thrust his spear into the ground and knelt in obeisance, murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. “Nisshinek, forgive…” the dragon heard the hot-head whisper, and the strange ice spirit seemed satisfied. In placed itself firmly between the two bjorks, but then right on cue to sow the maximum amount of chaos, a third bjork arrived with a great big sack slung over his shoulders.
“How strange!” Shen exclaimed. The god walked right up to the nisshinek and bent over to look at it. The little spirit stared back curiously, and then Shen grabbed it and tossed it unceremoniously into his bag. “That one might be useful for later,” the god explained. “Now, Susanoo, let’s see what else you’ve found here. Hmm, hides, very useful. Of course we’ll need to cure and tan them into leather, then braid the strips, and we’ll need a lot more to build the ballistae…”
Pleased that the great and enigmatic Plan seemed to be taking shape, Susanoo eagerly assisted his master by tossing the bits into that sack. They’d been filling it for days with leather, timber, and other sorts of useful materials. Oh, and a couple of conscripts too. Somehow the bag never quite ran out of space, and all the stuff inside never spilled out or got broken around by all the jostling.
Another ice spirit appeared as if from nowhere, possessing a cloud of freezing mist, and it foolishly charged at Shen. A great sneeze erupted violently out of him; partially a product of that mortal guise, and equal part from the fact that he was an old hermit who usually lived in a cave. “What, are you trying to give me a rheum?” the god called out as he flailed about trying to swap the ice spirit like a fly. When he finally managed to catch it, it bit his finger, and with a yelp Shen let go and looked at the blackened tip.
Frostbite!
“Phooey!” he called out, desperately rubbing his hands together. It was no use, he needed something else to get warm. The nisshi was meanwhile buzzing around Shen's ears, but Susanoo opened the bag really wide. A great whipping wind was created as air suddenly rushed into the massive void inside the enchanted pouch, and aided by a little bit of huffing and puffing, Susanoo managed to force the spirit into the vortex so that it was sucked into the bag, and then somehow he closed it again and returned it to his master's hand -- the one that Shen hadn't magically lit on fire.
In any case, the shaman, who both Shen and Susanoo had turned their backs upon and largely overlooked, bellowed out a roar of outrage. He seized up his spear, and as the two defilers before him spun around at the sound of his battlecry, he rushed forward with his spear…
Only to have Shen knock it aside with that gigantic bag. “Yield!” Shen called out as the shaman staggered to the side, his balance lost. The god really did look quite intimidating in that moment, despite subpar planning, if only for the fiery hand. Really gave him a nice demonic flair.
But the attacker said nothing, only raised his spear once more, and so the sack in Shen’s hands suddenly became a stick (for just a moment!) and with a sigh, Shen knocked out that hapless mortal with a single THWACK!
And then the staff became a sack once more.
Susanoo scratched his furry beaver head. “Should we put him in the bag too?”
Shen shrugged while shoving his half-frozen, half-burnt finger into that unconscious bjork’s drooling mouth. “Maybe he’d make a good spotter?”
They put him in the bag too. It was handy having a bag, for when plans went awry.
Chailiss week!
Shen and Susanoo arrive in the norf again to further the Plan™. They're like a reverse Santa claus duo, stealing things and kidnapping people and stuffing it all into a great big magical sack. They need lots of materials like wood and leather, but fortunately, Tuku has instructed a bunch of goons to leave bits of animals out into the forest so they just go around stealing from all those shrines. Things go awry when a shaman and then a nisshinek confront Susanoo, but Shen arrived and stuffs the nisshi into a bag. Another nisshi appears, and Susanoo gets that one sucked into the bag too! The shaman tries to resist, but gets THWACKED and also stuffed into a bag.
You're pretty good at making these things look aesthetic and this sheet is no exception. Cool look and design; your sheet was one of Lauder's favorites.
I'm satisfied with what's said in personality, and after my initial feedback on the discord, I see you've added some allusions to her goals: there's the obvious one that she wants to attain a shard, and to that I say fair enough. It's indeed a good thing to focus an arc on early. Beyond that we just know that she's secretive and wants her ambitions and real thoughts to be ambiguous, and that she wants to engineer conflicts for her own benefit. Exactly what sort of goals besides godhood she has would determine what's to her 'benefit', and I'm trusting and hoping that you either have something (or things) in mind that you didn't put on the sheet. If not, I still urge you to think about what sort of goals or conflicts might embroil her so that you'll have things to work off of and won't be as likely to find yourself wondering what to post. This is especially important if you're concerned about your motivation to write, I think; writer's block will be a lot worse if you're just winging it with every post and don't really know what you're building towards.
If I'm reading the aspect right, her powers basically are a supernatural ability to influence other people so as to engineer conflict. I like this; once or twice in the IC Yudaiel's 'imprinted' someone's mind with some sort of desire, goals, or personality trait and this seems similar to what your demigod (still thinking she's her child?) does, but on a tamer and more mild scale. Perhaps Lachesis just perfects the skill! In any case, it's also a neat contrast to Apostate (who you were worried about stepping on toes for thematically) because he's more about embellishing or encouraging desires or conflicts that are already present, not so much the mind control or manipulating people against their own interest angle that you seem to be going for. The limited foresight also makes a lot of sense for some child of Yudaiel. Anyways, this is a broad enough aspect with straightforward enough applications that I'm not too worried, so long as you're confident you know what you're doing. With any "highly conceptual" sort of aspect a sort of warning is in order, and Frettzo wanted me to reiterate that there's the risk of 'running out of things to do' and indeed it might be hard to think of too many things that a strife aspect could discount -- probably mostly curses and blessings. Then again you can still do lots of things even without a discount.
It's not lost upon me that you've named the demigod after one of the Fates. Interesting choice. The aesthetic and theme you've got going for the character is just as strong as for the CS itself. As far as the appearance part goes, her being a shapeshifter without any real preferred physical form makes sense given the aspect and things you're going for. No problem there, and I see you've made note at how demigods don't have some incredibly dangerous 'true form' like the full gods with shards do. That said, under the aspect section you say, "Lachesis’ can choose to emit her divine energy in the form of ‘spores’. As such by merely being in the same room as Lachesis means that one has been ‘compromised’ so to say." The bolded part is quite extreme and seems like effective mind control of mortals. While I don't have a problem with her being able to do such a thing, stating that it just passively happens to anybody that so much as comes near her is essentially giving her one of those auras that the gods have in their true forms, only it seems to be a constant thing. So I'd suggest rewording it to say something more like prolonged presence near somebody or concerted effort from her is required to sow a 'seed' in someone, rather than it just being something so automatic and unstoppable. Upon getting a shard and becoming a fully realized god, such an effect would be suitable for when she's in her true form.
Okay so it's overall a pretty great sheet Vec and you're of course accepted. Great work, and welcome aboard! Going back over what was said, the only real gripe I had and thing I think should be changed is the wording about the spores.
“A second time,” one of the men spat, gripping his crude club so tightly that his tanned knuckles became white as bone.
They found this group of men and women just like they’d found the first: skulls cracked, half their ribs shattered, tongues torn out, and the mangled corpses crudely thrown down and abandoned atop a nearby bluff in the dead of night. This gruesome display was the work of monsters, and yet not the work of mere beasts. Beasts wouldn’t have gone to such effort to mutilate and maim or to drag corpses up a hill, and moreover, common predators would have eaten their kills. Some of them already had, actually; the circling of so many vultures and a feeling of renewed dread had been what drew them to this hillock at dawn in the first place.
They all turned to their prophet. Some had eyes of fear, others of disgust, a few with steely resolve or even vacant emptiness that suppressed something else. “It is as I feared,” Kartar stated flatly.
Two of the eyes locked upon Kartar were filled with rage – something that not many knew in those early, distant days, in the time before all men even knew of the plough, before calendars, writing, metal, and war, when the ovens and kilns had first been lit.
Those two eyes alight with fire belonged to one Atash. Atash was a very strong man. As a boy he had slain a lioness with a spear, and as a young man its mate had finally tracked him down and attacked in the dead of night for vengeance. Yet Atash had awoken and strangled the tremendous beast to death in the darkness of the night. He wore their pelts always as his prize, and in so doing became perhaps more lion than man. Admired for his strength and courage, he was, even if they called him the Lion of the Night; he would have been respected and perhaps followed too, if not for his wild and crude mannerisms.
That all changed on this day, when Atash demanded that their tribe’s leader and prophet answer for his failings.
“So you say that you Saw who killed our hunters three days ago,” the Lion of the Night began, “and when I said that I would lead the hunt to slay these monsters, be they lion or worse, you said that they were no beasts; that you had Seen their killers a people like us, and that they might be reasoned with. And here these of our people have died for nothing, the folly of your weakness, your short-seeing Sight, your desire to speak to our enemies. I will suffer no talks with whatever things did this to my brethren. I will slay them and wear their hides! I swear it by the sun and by moon!”
There was dead silence, and then a dozen murmurs at once. Such oaths were not to be taken lightly, and his tone and words to Kartar were not at all becoming. “Do not speak to the prophet like that!” a brave man cried even as he reached out to try and grab Atash by the shoulder, but the Lion brashly and easily pushed him away. “Let the fool speak for himself,” Atash declared to the one who had objected to him, and also in sight and hearing of the ten others who had thought the same but feared to challenge the Lion.
Kartar scowled, but he paused to contemplate a response. Atash raised his arms, a lion on each shoulder, as if to show all those assembled that they ought to take this brief silence to be something like foolishness, something like a lack of an answer. But Kartar gave his answer soon after, “Others have walked that way before, and returned unscathed. There is surely a message of some sort to be uncovered here; we may not need to fight the folk of that hill, if only we can come to understand them!”
Atash had no words for Kartar; his lips only quivered while his nostrils flared. He lowered his arms, and Kartar stood triumphant for a moment, thinking that his wisdom had prevailed. But Atash turned his back upon the prophet, looked to the others, and softly spake, “So you have heard his words. You will know why I must do this; if not, then perhaps you are cowards and weaklings too, and deserving of the same fate.”
Then Atash spun about and raised an arm once more, only this time to strike Kartar. Once, twice, across the face and in the gut he struck the man. He battered the prophet, and he knocked their disgraced leader to the ground. They all bore witness to the scene: some had eyes filled with spite, others with fear, and yet others with agreement. But in the end, none had stopped the Lion of the Night from seizing the prophet’s place and casting him down in shame.
They returned to the rest of the tribesfolk at their camp, and King Atash reiterated his vow and his vendetta tenfold. That night they began making all the necessary preparations, knapping sharp new spearheads and carving even more heavy clubs.
In the nearby foothills, not long prior
Garza frowned so much that he was known as the Frown. His mouth was always set in a straight line and his brows were ever furrowed so that he always looked - at the very least - deeply unimpressed by whatever he saw. All who knew him considered it a great mercy from the Magnificent Sleeper that the maramoda lived in the darkness belowground and so could by and large avoid the torture of seeing his constant frown while lazing in the warm depths of their burrows.
Still, no one living in a community - maramoda or otherwise - could get away with wearing a frown all the time unless they could impose it with force or fear. Garza had mustered both.
It had occurred on the day he shed childhood and became a maraman. He was sat outside the burrow, as one does, staring off into the distance and wearing a deep frown when one of the others, an established warrior called Utu who had hunted an elephant or two in his time, walked by him. Utu gave Garza one look before slapping him round the face and hissing at him in a barely audible whisper to, “get that frown off your face.”
Shocked and startled, Garza looked at him with wide eyes and a deep scowl, which caused Utu to strike him again, harder this time. Incensed, Garza rose and shoved his face into that of the other, and they stood flaring their snouts and glaring into one another’s eyes. Utu shoved him with a shoulder, but Garza was hardly moved and, leaning back, smashed his broad forehead right into the other maraman’s snout. Blood exploded from Utu’s nose, who then raised his claws and slashed Garza across the forehead. Catching Utu’s offending hand before it could be withdrawn from his bleeding forehead, Garza headbutted him again across the snout, then again as Utu flailed and tried to shove the scowling maramadman away.
Once he had bashed him so much that Utu was on his knees before him, Garza proceeded to hammer at Utu’s face from above with the side of his fist, at points jumping and bringing his fist hammering home with all his bodily force. No matter how hard Utu flailed and blocked with his one free hand he could not stop the excessively violent onslaught. He took it all in silence, however, not a squeak or shout of pain escaping his lips; he would have sooner died than give off the squeak that awakened the Magnificent Sleeper and his wrath.
And die he would have had Garza had his way, but the rest of Utu’s party soon appeared and, seeing the sight, rushed forth and parted the crazed scowler from the unconscious Utu. One of them, a veteran and elder called Urma, tapped his temple sharply at Garza with a frown - are you mad? Garza looked away with a scowl and huffed, flicking his wrist towards Utu - it was his fucking fault. Urma scoffed and gestured at Utu with his snout while drawing a claw across his throat - you nearly fucking killed him! Garza rolled his eyes and raised his brows briefly - he deserves it. Shaking his head, Urma left Garza where he was and gestured for the others to drag Utu inside before moving to follow them. He glanced behind him and signalled for Garza to get back to keeping a lookout, and the young maraman rose and looked at Urma with a deep frown… then nodded.
That frown never left his face after that, though it was many years later - when he threw the chief Sagma and nearly cleft his head in twain with his claws, and so usurped the title of chieftain for himself - that everyone came to call him Garza the Frown.
He was sat above one burrow entrance, a habit he had kept to since the day he pummelled Utu, when the furless aboveground urchins had come shouting and screeching in their fleshy, wet language. That was all some days ago now. He had seen them long before he heard them, of course, but contented himself with leaning on his fire-hardened spear and watching until it became clear that they were heading right for the burrow, at which point he signalled to one of the lookouts below to send a warning through and gather a party to intercept the furless urchins if the need arose.
On any other day, he would likely have led an attack to disperse and warn them off long before, but he was in a rather good mood on that particular afternoon - despite his perpetual frown. That quickly evaporated when the urchins started screeching as they came near enough to begin their ascent towards the burrow entrance, and Garza leapt from his high vantage point and charged without a word. The party that had gathered at the burrow entrance followed him after a few seconds, charging down the hill on all fours with their tails wrapped about their spears. They raised them high as they charged and - but for their breathing and the pounding of their heavy feet against the ground - the charge was most notable for its deathly silence.
Of course, in the heat of the moment, panic overtook those humans and they failed to even make note of that perilous silence. Not knowing what offense they had committed, the foremost emissary raised up his empty hands and cried out for peace, shouting that he meant no ill. His companions had brought arms, though. Even for such a mission of peace they remembered well the grisly fate of the hunters who had been slain in these hills, and it would be foolish besides to ever roam the Nalusite plains without something to fend off lions and other beasts. Some of those brandished their clubs or spears high in warning even as they held fast and advanced no further. With wavering resolve, one of the younger lads looked back over his shoulder. He was visibly shaking, and terrified of the prospects of meeting the charge of the maramoda. In that moment, he contemplated fleeing.
The lumbering giants of the marmot race left him no time, however, as their well-fattened forms came lurching forth and then - rather unexpectedly - leapt to close the final distance between them and those furless urchins. In that leaping second spears switched from tails to hands, and the maramoda rained down like a hail of fleshy spears upon the hapless lot.
The spears of the maramoda found their targets well, and when the spears of those noisy enemies managed to dig into a maramoda they sunk into well-fattened forms and left little in the way of serious injuries. It was less a battle and more a swift race to silence their raucous screeching. When they were done, however, Garza the Frown was in a foul mood. He walked among the dead and where he found the slightest signs of fading life he snuffed it out with fleshy hammering on heads, necks, faces. He wrenched mouths open and clawed out tongues. Seeing this, the others swiftly started imitating him, bashing even the heads of the dead. Crossing one who looked rather young - with no fur but wisps on the upper lip - Garza took the corpse’s head up in his two hands and, stepping on a shoulder for leverage, pulled with such force that the head came tearing off with a good bit of spine. He inspected his gory works for fleeting seconds before letting the head drop and moving on. They returned to their burrows and mates drenched in blood that night, and the marawomenfolk had to use all their powers of will to restrain their cries and moans as those bloodied victors celebrated their triumph night-long.
When the sun rose, Garza was on his perch to greet it, his eyes scanning the plains. He paused on the bodies of the urchins every now and then, and huffed in irritation. When they had become such an eyesore that he did not wish to see them anymore, he signalled to one of his warriors to gather up a party and go throw the corpses on some far off hill where the smell would not disturb them and the sight would not mar the view, and so they had done just that.
(This post was written in collaboration with my friend Kho, who helped with the maramoda.)
There are many bands or tribes of humans wandering Nalusa, not just the two under Darius or the late Medes. We see one such band that lives somewhere in the western parts of Nalusa, and who followed a prophet named Kartar. Some of their hunters wandering into new grounds and were found brutally slain.
Kartar apparently was able to See with his prescience that this was the work of a nearby people – a group of maramoda. Seeking peace and answers, a delegation of emissaries were sent, and they too were slain, their mutilated bodies dumped on a nearby hill with tongues torn out.
Furious at this turn of events and at Kartar’s naivety and pacifism, a rather brutish hunter by the name of Atash – sometimes called the Lion of the Night – overthrows the prophet in a manner that parallels the rise of Darius, only Atash is much more violent about it. The Lion swears vengeance and intends to skin every last one of the culprits.
Changing perspectives to the maramoda, we see their chieftain is named Garza the Frown. Unlike the Tribe of Joy, this group of maramoda believe that the Magnificent Sleeper, their creator and god, is still asleep and that they must always be quiet to avoid waking him and earning his scorn. As such, they whisper and use sign language, and the reason for their attacks is that they were gravely offended by the trespassing humans’ noisy speech.
Andromeda cast stone after stone into the river with one hand, her ewer never leaving the other. None of these rocks were flat or good for skipping; it seemed that in their zeal to gather anything pretty that could be woven into clothes, the swarms of yareners had plucked up not just the shells but also most of the smoothed little riverstones.
The encounter with Masol’s two lackeys still had Andromeda upset.
There was little to be done about it. Even while she sat there brooding by the riverside, zenii trickled by all day to try speaking with her. The sudden fame and attention of so many strangers had been nice (or at least interesting; she’d always been shy) at first, and the cajoling of her newfound sycophants that much moreso, but now she just wished that her celebrity status could go away and that she could return to being just another zena. Alas, that was never going to happen, not after she’d been declared the Watcher’s chosen one, and given this murderous ewer, and summoned by the Lady herself, and given the Lady’s own dress…
There was a way to get some peace, she finally realized. She’d be able to find it in the forest all around the valley, with those great foreboding trees and the gloom of their shadows. Masol had of course forbidden anybody from wandering alone out there like this, but his word didn’t seem to mean much at the moment, and Andromeda especially was not so fond of him after his goons had tried to intimidate her into visiting his blackstone. Others had gone missing, and rumors were that the skin-changing ‘witch’ Nimueh lurked out there and had murdered somebody, but Andromeda wasn’t afraid.
Something had driven away her fear: maybe it was the Lady’s robes that gave her courage and reckless abandon, or maybe it was all the adulation of the other zenii, or being told that she was the Chosen One of the Watcher, or knowing about the ewer’s terrible power. But whatever it was, it eventually overcame her. When night fell and the Watcher’s pale moon rose into the sky, and beads of strange liquid light began condensing once again within her ewer, a restless Andromeda finally ventured toward the wood.
Some of her flock were still awake, and she didn’t hide her passage from them. When asked, she told them that she was going into the woods to find some quiet and peace, or to find Nimueh – whichever came first. Maybe even both. Some had valiantly offered to accompany her, some had tried to dissuade her, and some had just grown quiet and pale. She brushed them all aside and ventured out into the forest alone.
Moonlight wasn’t enough to see by beneath the shadows of the countless branches overhead, but the Moonstone Ewer emanated enough of a glow for her to get by… and by some supernatural sense, she just innately knew where to step, it seemed. No roots or pits in the ground made her trip or stumble, even as she ventured deeper and deeper into the dense wood.
At first a wolf howled as she stepped deeper into the woods. As if it warned its kin. Eyes began to watch her from the dark. Things were moving in the bushes. Nightly aerial predators took off from the branches. The forest started to buzz with life. Until suddenly an owl hooted loudly from a branch somewhere deeper into the forest still. Things skittered away and the wolves went silent. As quickly as it had come, the sense of activity died down again. Leaving Andromeda completely alone in the forest. Well, not completely alone. One pair of glowing eyes watched her from a branch deeper into the forest.
Andromeda paid the eyes little heed, eerie as they were, for the ewer’s light seemed to stave them off. But as she saw the spectral light reflected in a new set of pale orbs, ones that didn’t examine her for a moment and then just scurry away, she remembered that they’d said Nimueh could change forms. Why had she been expecting to see some feral zena out here?
“Are you Nimueh?” she asked the darkness and its eyes.
Before Andromeda’s eyes the owl transformed into Nimueh sitting on the branch. “What do you want with me?” She looked tense and ready to jump. She moved her hand as if she was lazily spinning some ethereal strands. With the other hand she kept her balance on the branch. Her eyes were going over Andromeda but then focused on the ewer she had brought with her.
“Uh,” Andromeda thought out loud. Feelings had guided her out here moreso than logic, and now it was hard to even explain what she wanted. “I came out here where it’s quiet, to get some rest from all the others. But I was hoping I might see you too, so that I could hear your story. My name’s Andromeda, and I was just a yarener, but then the Lady gave me her dress and also this thing” she rambled on, holding the shining jug out just a bit for emphasis, “on behalf of some other goddess called the Watcher, who lives on the moon. I’m supposed to be the Watcher’s chosen one and to build some sort of congregation, but I haven’t ever even seen the Watcher and, like, it’s all very confusing and fast. I don’t know what I should do!”
She huffed, and then blushed, suddenly aware of the awkwardness of spilling out her life’s story. “But the Lady’s tale about the Watcher seems to have made Masol’s tales all seem like lies, so now everyone’s upset at him. And I think he might blame me for that, because he sent some of his goons to try and drag me away. I’m fine of course, but it had me wondering about what else he might have, uh, possibly… made up?”
“You met the Lady!?” Nimueh exclaimed as she jumped up to stand on top of the branch. There was a split second where it looked as if she wanted to run but something kept her. For a moment she shook her head and gave Andromeda a weak smile. “Did no one tell you that the forests aren’t safe anymore?” In a split second she transformed into an owl and flew down from the tree. Once on the ground she transformed back. “They really aren’t.” She continued as she approached Andromeda. “Even now like a hundred animals want to claw at your flesh. Don’t worry! I’m keeping them away. I’ve been keeping them away from so many zenii so far.” Nimueh stepped just close enough to Andromeda that the shine from the ewer illuminated her quite well now and she looked beyond exhausted. Massive bags had formed under her eyes but she kept on smiling as best as she could.
“You mind if I sit? I really want to sit.” Nimueh said and even as she asked and received a nod in answer, she bent her knees and sat down. Then she motioned for Andromeda to do the same. “You wanted to hear my side of the story right? It’s not that much different than the tale they tell back at the blackstones.” And then she told her story. About how she learned about the Beast Queen, about that fateful night when she killed a zene, about her encounter with the Beast Queen in her dream. She told Andromeda everything.
And when she finished she kept looking at the ewer. “So… what else has the Lady said when she visited you?”
“Well, it all happened so fast. It felt like the Lady told me so much, but thinking back, it feels like I’ve almost told you everything already. She liked the yarene that I’d woven for myself, with some shells in it,” Andromeda explained, blushing a little bit at even that modest self-praise. “That was why we traded clothes… oh, and she seemed to be in a rush, and she left saying that she was being called away for something else.
“And I believe you, about the Beast Queen and about the animals. How could I not? It seems like the Beast Queen chose you just like the Watcher chose me. I saw the animals watching me, but I didn’t realize that you were holding them at bay – I thought it was my dress, or this Ewer, or the Watcher, or something… but thanks for that. I…I could have defended myself. I know that this thing in my hands can kill, and I almost used it when Masol’s friends tried to steal it and drag me away, but… I really don’t want to.”
Nimueh let out a sigh of relief when she heard that Zenia was gone again already. It looked as if a physical weight dropped from her shoulders though she still looked very drained, and of course she was naked – something that only added to her feral and disheveled aura. Then she looked with pure admiration at Andromeda. “You’re so lucky to have met her like that. The yarene you made must’ve looked so pretty.” She noted almost absent mindedly but then her eyes began to slowly fall back at the ewer beside Andromeda. There was absolutely no doubt in Nimueh’s voice about the claim that Andromeda met the Lady. How could she be in doubt when she evidently wore the goddess’ own dress?
“Thank you for believing me about the Beast Queen, by the way. I think you’re the first one to do so. Which is stupid. The foresters, they should know that there are other things in the woods than themselves. It’s like they never felt the spying eyes of a specked bark sparrow on the back of their heads.” Nimueh stopped herself and took a deep breath to clearly calm herself. “I’m sorry. Just – you’re the first zenii I get to talk to in just a very long time.” She pulled her knees to her chest. “You’re smart to not have killed anyone.” Nimueh’s tone became a bit melancholic. “But what are you going to do now? I don’t think Masol’s going to just let all of this happen. He’s very dangerous.”
Andromeda offered a smile back, hoping it would help to calm Nimueh… the wild outcast had offhandedly mentioned a strange bird that no other zenii spoke of, and moreover, even her demeanor was erratic and strange. Being alone out here seemed to have taken a toll of some sort, and truthfully Andromeda was beginning to feel sorry for her.
She mulled over the question for a while before saying anything. “I’m safe enough from Masol; there’s a lot of people who like me, and I think he’s losing his grasp over his own crowd. And of course you’re safe. He can’t find you out here, and even if he did, you could just turn into a bird and fly away again. Or you could unleash all these beasts on him.
“As for what comes next, I’m not sure. The Watcher might try to finally speak with me – it’s frustrating; I think I’ve felt her presence before, but she’s never used words, she just shoves thoughts and pictures into my head. But, perhaps I can at least help you. Those that didn’t listen to your voice and warnings about the Beast Queen might heed them if I repeat the same. Of course, I don’t think all of them will ever listen. Some foresters will laugh and bring baskets out here no matter what you or I try to say.”
“They’re already laughing and doing that.” Nimueh said before she released an exasperated sigh. “If only a few would listen I’d be so grateful. I might get some rest then. Thanks for wanting to try at the very least.” Her eyes shifted towards the ewer. “As for this Watcher, this is going to sound stupid but have you like tried to pray to them and ask for some guidance? I did it once, to the goddess of magic. They actually answered. Though they prefer the name ‘Keeper’. Still, they taught me about magic, in a way.” She waved a bit with her fingers near the grass next to her. They lit up as a lazy wave of green energy traveled around them and then disappeared again.
The sparkling mana coursing through that tuft of grass transfixed Andromeda. It was beautiful, and gentler than whatever power animated the ewer’s water, whatever power had twisted grass into those jagged jewels. “Of course I looked up at the moon and tried to pray, to just ask what to do really, but the Watcher never seems to answer in words. I know that she sees me because the Lady says that she chose me, and because those strange compulsions that she, uh, pushes onto me can’t be explained by anything else that I can think of. But the Watcher already, like, watches me. Watches us, probably…”
The zena’s words trailed off rather abruptly, as though she’d still wanted to say something else. Her lips quivered, her arm trembled, and for a moment her eyes were suddenly alight with the flames of madness. After a short and intense (but ultimately unwinnable) battle of wills, a compulsion overwhelmed her and her arm spasmed just enough to shake a splash of water-that-wasn’t-water out of the ewer. A gasp and a scream left Andromeda’s mouth even as the beads of glowing liquid seemed to soar and fall in slow motion… everything seemed to move so slowly. The expelled fluid gracefully seemed to arc away from Nimueh and Andromeda both; it fell squarely atop the grass that had been animated by Nimueh’s magic, and the last tiny spark of green energy was smothered and extinguished. Nimueh tried to dash back when the liquid went flying but she fell over her own feet and ended up lying stretched out over the ground. When she looked back she noticed the mirror forming on the ground.
The grass didn’t burn and turn to diamonds, not like last time. Instead it flattened itself to the ground, making way, as the liquid thinned out into a puddle larger than it ought to have been able to produce; the tiniest film of liquid covered a patch of the ground with a near translucent sheen. Strange shapes reflected in the beads mirrorlike fluid; it wasn’t the grass below it that their eyes were Seeing. Images of unknowable things that must had been demons and gods flashed by; there was the Lady, there was a dancing woman with a face painted in joy and in sorrow and a stump of an arm that oozed red sap, a horse with tentacles, an obsidian horsefly, and others. The last was just the empty moon’s reflection, but of course closer examination revealed that this wasn’t the moon’s reflection (that pale orb was obscured by the canopy above) and neither was this empty… a glowing eye was set into the socket of its greatest crater, and the countless chasms and fractures scarring the moon was magnified in size such that they resembled vast, branching veins of black blood. The Eye was terrifying, or beautiful, or some combination of the two. But then the Eye blinked, and they Saw Masol for a moment by his blackstone.
“What in the name of the forest!” Nimueh exclaimed with wide eyes as the visions on the surface flashed one by one. The zena couldn’t make sense of it. But there was something strange about the mirrorliquid itself. Out of pure instinct she suddenly transformed into a rat.
And then it all made sense. It was blue. The mirror was turning the mana around it blue. Not some mixture between blue and green either. The hue of all the mana it touched changed irrevocably and completely into blue.
Andromeda still knew nothing of mana, of course, and Saw only what visions the Prescient One conjured for them. Her own gaze had been bonded to the magical mirror and its visions, so when she finally turned her head for just a moment she was startled to see Nimueh gone; she didn’t even notice the little rat in the shadows.
“What do you want from me?!” she shrieked into the ewer and the puddle and the night and at the moon, but there was no answer. The likeness of Masol reflected in the puddle was plotting, and talking specifically about her, and it felt as though the wind carried the zene’s words into their ears, but the sounds were distorted and not so easily discerned. Soon enough the puddle evaporated into that same breeze and then there was just the rustling of leaves.
Nimueh shifted back into her zena shape and carefully put a hand on Andromeda’s shoulder. “I think they’re trying to warn you, Andromeda.” She carefully said. “Listen to me. You shouldn’t underestimate Masol and you shouldn’t be angry with the Watcher. Both are very dangerous. You told me you needed to gather a congregation. So you should do that, and quickly. And then you should run. Masol… I have a weird feeling that he’s the kind that won’t let things crumble beneath him. No, he’s like a wounded animal now. He’ll lash out against anything that threatens him. Maybe you can hold him off for a little while but he’ll keep trying. You should do as I did. After you’ve gathered your congregation you should run.”
A bird cried out in the distance. Nimueh jumped up and looked up. Her eyes were closed. “Something is moving. You have to get out of the forest. Now.” Nimueh said with a very strong sense of urgency. Though her anxiousness was clearly directed towards another part of the forest.
“Okay,” she breathed. It was a lot to take in, but she gathered herself and started a brisk walk away, beams of moonlight revealing the way back. She turned back to look over her shoulder, a moment later. “Goodbye, Nimueh.”
Andromeda, Yudaiel’s new prophetess amongst the zenii, is frazzled after the encounter with Masol’s two goons. Besides the intensity of that confrontation, she’s also overwhelmed after having all this celebrity and responsibility thrust upon her without much knowledge of how she’s meant to proceed.
To clear her head and find peace, and to perhaps earn herself some credibility and gratitude with the other zenii, she decides to head out into the forest and talk to Nimueh. Finding her is easy, and they get along pretty well and have a good conversation. Nimueh showcases her shapeshifting and a hint of her other magical powers, whilst Andromeda is compelled by Yudaiel to pour some of the liquid from her ewer, and in the reflection of the resulting puddle the two experience some prescient visions of the pantheon and of Masol’s plotting.
Andromeda says she’ll try to help persuade the others to heed the Beast Queen’s warnings, and Nimueh advises Andromeda that Masol is not the type to be messed with, and suggests that she quickly assemble the ‘congregation’ that she’s supposed to and then flee the valley.
Andromeda begins with 5 spirit +1 for post +1 for being the focus of the post +1 for collab +1 for medium length She ends with 9 spirit
Nimueh begins with 11 spirit +1 for post +1 for collab +1 for medium length post Nimueh ends with 14 spirit
Back when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, I got started with writing online on the Spore forums. Man, those were the days. We're talking like [s]12 years ago[/s] 2010-ish!
I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.
[center]Word of my splendor:[/center]
[hider=My messenger's letter][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019b0090-4706-75b9-bfe5-fd4ef6737466.webp[/img][/hider]
[hider=My fellow monarch's response][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019b0090-a418-774f-a117-1ae23ac670fd.webp[/img][/hider]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Back when dinosaurs ruled the Earth, I got started with writing online on the Spore forums. Man, those were the days. We're talking like <span class="bb-s">12 years ago</span> 2010-ish!<br><br>I've been here on and off for almost as long, and have GM'd a bunch of different things to varying success.<br><br><div class="bb-center">Word of my splendor:</div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="My messenger's letter">My messenger's letter [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019b0090-4706-75b9-bfe5-fd4ef6737466.webp" /></div></div><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="My fellow monarch's response">My fellow monarch's response [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><img src="https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019b0090-a418-774f-a117-1ae23ac670fd.webp" /></div></div></div>
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Lord Zee
Vec
JFK
Fetzen
Thayr
BingTheWing
