CONCEPT Pretty standard medieval fantasy setting. Except... nature has fought back against civilisation. Cities are all walled in, protecting themselves from the myriad of creatures that come out at night from the forests depths.
This however offers plenty of opportunity for those willing to risk it all to hunt, fight and defend others against these abominations. It is a task none can do alone and therefore the business of mercenary guilds is popular.
Your goal will be to build your guild, build your rep all whilst staying alive. Sometimes it won't only be monsters you have to watch out for.
The races are a little divided. (Keeping to their own lands mostly)
If you are interested please let me know. I will direct the plot but it will be based on a collaborative effort and around your characters. I will only take a small group of maybe 3-5.
"The blight has made the complexities of nature clear. We are always either in a state of consumption or decay. Taking or giving."
**Blight-born traits:** Magic: Blood is the fuel for not only most of his abilities but his very existence. He is a thief not only by occupation but the title now speaks for his existence. Vellion is still very much learning what he is capable of.
* Tracking. Vellion can track the source of recently ingested blood. * Insight. Blood grants all manner of small insights into the creature from which it came. * Tools. His own blood can be spilled and shaped to make temporary tools. To make anything of strength uses up a significant amount of blood.
* Material. If blood is his tools than flesh is his material. Obviously harder to obtain and he can store less of it. * Builder. Vellion can use consumed flesh to alter his own body. To patch injuries, to change his appearance, add muscle or wear the face of the deceased. These of course are not permanent and require blood to maintain.
Short bio: Misc:
In the still silence of some deep unnamed forest, a young street rat turned ranger sat alone in the dirt, blanketed by the cold darkness of the endless night sky. His only companions, a barrage of inescapable thoughts and a deathly hunger that hung deep in the pit of his stomach. The only thing worse than the endless ache of his hollow stomach was the emotionally turmoil raging in his soul, vivid uninvited memories relentlessly creeping into his head, assailing his clouded mind, tormenting him from the not-so-distant past.
"Boss, the horses are ready."
The words continued to echo out in his skull, bringing with them intrusive memories and images. Unwanted faces, crawling out from the dark recesses of his muddled mind, staring at him, judging him. Ghosts of the past. He remembered those words vividly, they after all, marked the beginning of the end. He now hated the way they sounded, the way they were spoken. He despised the confident child-like young man behind them, foolish and carefree. He hated the shameful ignorance that he wore, a fragile veil fashioned into a facade of happiness. So oblivious to the horrors that soon awaited him and all those around him. He hated that person so much. For that person was he. Most of all he hated himself for daring to hope, for having dreams, for surviving and for what he must now do to keep surviving.
That fateful morning, so near yet so distant, was where it all began, or perhaps, better put, where it all ended... When measured by the passage of time, it was surely not that long ago. But it all seemed so distant and foreign now, for so much had happened, so much had changed. In his memories it like he was watching someone else, a stranger, a curious creature he didn't know or understand. He had heard the warnings, they all had. But what hunter hadn't? The whispers of danger, giant monsters and blight born... but as always, they just shrugged them off with a laugh and another beer. Oh how he remembered that false sense of invincibility they all had.
While some of the crew where there because they loved the hunt, others the thrill of adventure, or some simply the final spoils. He was there because he loved her...
The one who took him from the gutters, the one who gave him hope, gave him purpose. The one who spoke of owning the streets he once slept on. The one who made him part of a family. The one who saved him. Even if she never truly noticed him, he would follow her anywhere. But she was gone now, they all where. Dylon, Rezith even Allifar. They had all followed her and now they were all dead. It happened so fast, so brutally, so violently. From out of nowhere, the sudden cries, the screaming, the blood. The neighing horses, the heavy thud of falling bodies. Steel shimmering as weapons were drawn only to be dropped a moment later. The blood. So much blood.
It's fair to say that Velion and fate had never been on the best of terms. Fate having cursed him with a whoring mother, an absent father and a cruel hard life of self reliance on the streets. Yet when Lena walked into his life, naively he thought things were going to change. That fate might just let him be, that maybe his fortune was finally changing. How wrong he had been. Now he sees it for what it was. That brief dash of happiness in a life of pain and struggling, it was not a reprieve, it was all a ruse, yet another sick joke, a cruel twist of fates making. Giving with one hand so she could take it away with the other. Fate would be laughing at him now. Amused and marvelling at her own antics. All at Vellion's expense.
Perhaps that's why the blight chose only him and no others, maybe that's why he was the only one left of the group. Because it knew that he knew true pain, true loneliness and deathly hunger. He had chewed on dirt and roots for nourishment, he had stolen, fought and clawed for survival. He of all of them would do what ever it took. This painful empty truth sheltered him from none of the horrific self loathing that consumed him as he stumbled around in the dark, blind and deaf, silently weeping, trying to sate his undying appetite. Crawling in the dirt, clawing blindly for anything edible around him. He could resist the hunger no more. It was all consuming, maddening urge.
Deep down, he knew the blindness and deafness was self inflicted. Thanks to the blight, he could end it any time. But he didn't want to. He didn't dare hear the noises, the chewing, the crunching. He couldn't bare witness the site, any of it. He distanced himself to the act of eating, not wanting to know what.... who he was eating. Fate had taken them away, now only food remained.
He survived when no others did and now he lived now in a constant state of either consumption or decay, and he was so terribly hungry. So blindly, with silent tears streaming down his face, full of self loathing and disgust, he continued to do the unimaginable, until he felt some semblance of being whole.
Lucky grimaced at the passing brutality of the soldiers. Vaskandar's farewell and the following conversation never found his ears for by then the halfling was already gone, having slipped off into the crowd to assist those that suffered most from the guards passing.
He hadn't much more to offer than a kind word and helping hand but he would see what he could do. After that then he would make his way to three tails.
I like Chrono Trigger so the idea appeals to me just not sure on the freeform sandbox approach. How do you envision that working. What keeps the players together and dictates the enemies actions?
Lucky had a habit of looking back when his attention was drawn forward. He knew more than one thieves trick that would start exactly this way. Despite his ever vigilance, he threw on a wide cheerful smile as he haughtily stepped forward between the others to greet the unknown Samaritan.
"Vaskandar." He begins, already pulling on the local dialect and tasting it as he talks. Mimicking what he had already heard. "Pleasure." He says with a small thankful bow.
"Aye, we are new. Is it that obvious?" His wide green eyes make a show of studying the local fashion like he hadn't already taken it all in and planned his next outfit. 'Blending in was not essential but standing out should always be optional' was just one of his many thieving mottos.
"Consider ya'self a local, I'd love to hear the latest gossip on the streets. To get acquainted with the happenings." He pauses in thought for a moment. "Are there any strange laws we should know about?"
After a chuckle at thoughts unsaid he carries on.
"So say we do go to this Three Tails, what sort of establishment will we find ourselves walking into and on who's property would we stand?" He asks.
With Julian's earlier taunt now forgotten, Clay opens his fist letting the wizards silver coin fall to the floor with a 'clang' as it bounced and rolled about before settling. With a shake of his burnt hand he simply adds. "He's a manipulative ass, and that's all you need to know."
He then turns his back on Julian as he goes to rinse his hand.
The barmaid kindly fills in the parts the werewolf left out. "He is, as far as anyone can tell, the proprietor of this establishment. He has been here longer than anyone else and is more familiar with the tavern than anyone." She leans in to softly add. "Honestly, I don't know if the tavern shares his will or he the taverns." As she stood back up her eyes quickly glance to Clayton to see if he heard or reacted, his focus remained on his hand.
"Anyway, so..." She looked over the young bird boy. "I would offer you a drink but I guess all I can get you know is milk or water." She gave a soft playful smile.
Clayton & the Barnaid Behind the bar Clayton, still squeezing the silver coin as it hisses in his hand, reactivating to and burning his flesh, steps protectively in front of the barmaid.
"Do you think they will wake Dorian?" She asks as she watches on with concern and worry.
"I think this is happening because he is awake." Clay growls with a focused reply.
OUTSIDE
Every exit and means of leaving the tavern took the occupants to a new destination, one none had come from or been to before. In fact it was an entirely odd place for a tavern to be sitting. Solitarily deep in a ravine.
The ravine stretches out like a jagged scar between two towering cliffs, their rocky faces casting long, menacing shadows as dusk settles. A cold wind howls through the chasm, carrying the scent of earth and steel. Above, the sky is dominated by two moons: one, a pale silver orb, hangs low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield, while the other—a blood-red moon—looms ominously, staining the clouds in deep crimson hues. Along the steep cliff edges, jagged outcroppings jut like broken teeth, forming natural vantage points. Below, the ravine floor is a chaotic mix of rough, uneven terrain. Patches of dying grass cling stubbornly to life amidst boulders and ancient, twisted trees, their gnarled branches reaching skyward like skeletal hands. The ground, still stained with the remnants of past battles, crunches underfoot with dry leaves and brittle twigs, while the shallow stream running through the center of the ravine glistens like molten silver in the moonlight. A low mist curls along the ground, shrouding the battlefield in an unsettling, ghostly haze. The air is tense, heavy with the weight of anticipation. In the distance, the rhythmic pounding of war drums echoes faintly, growing louder with each passing moment—a haunting signal of something approaching. As the red moon reaches its zenith, the ravine seems to thrum with energy, the ground almost vibrating as if in fear of the impending bloodshed.
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