Well, her food was certainly food. In a dusty place like this, with so many thoughts on her mind, Mana could hardly taste what she was eating. The atmosphere wasn’t the best either, the fluorescent light and incessant dinging of trains coming to and fro serving to distract her from truly meditating on the problem at hand. But perhaps that was for the best. If enough time passed, Hanami was bound to turn up somewhere. Or maybe Kouta’s concern will shift into apathy, and he’ll just move on. All convenient resolutions, despite the bitter aftertaste that’d accompany it.
It was easy enough to finish up her meal. Pre-packaged subway bentos were only gonna be the size of her two hands, if she planned to be economical, and even the specials weren’t that much larger. There was plenty of time left for her to idle, and naturally, the pale woman’s eyes gravitated towards the hissing doors of arriving trains, still no small amount of people heading out. Just the usual salaryworkers though, grabbing a late lunch or heading out to meet a client, was her immediate assessment, but as she turned, a familiar countenance broke off from the crowd.
It was the schoolgirl from before, dressed in the same somber outfit she had worn on that rainy day, but there was a medical eyepatch over her right eye this time, spots of dark red indicating where blood had dried. Without noticing Mana, she nodded at her companion, before heading off and away towards the escalator.
But while that schoolgirl, with her grave posture and her striking attire, had caught Mana’s gaze first, it was her companion, still standing inside the train, that made her do a double take.
Boyishly cut hair. A tall, healthily proportioned body. She hadn’t seen her in some time, but…
...wasn’t that Hanami?
The doors hissed shut. The train began to depart.
Southern District
It looked like the conversation was coming to an end, or, at the very least, an awkward silence. Checking his phone, Yasuo nodded once, before promptly kicking up onto his feet. “Welp,” he said, “Looks like we’re gonna go now, so, uh...peace, tas- Tsurushi.”
He hefted up his backpacking, shoved the paper bag (that was definitely filled with only a water bottle) into the large pockets of his hoodie, and turned to Marina, eyes flickering in the direction of the live house.
“Better start lining up now, Rina.” “New Blue Glitch?” She narrowed her eyes at this, before placing her box of stuff down. “Thought you guys weren’t showing up today.”
@Rondo of BloodFeel free to toss it at me whenever then. I actually have a whole buncha information that's only valuable till after I get a character concept from people, so yah. Stuff in the int chek's only the tip of the iceberg.
How many weeks, how many months, since you've awoken into a darkness warmer than a mother's womb?
They all melt together now, a stream of memories replacing the ones you lacked when you first came to this land.
Once, all you had was a name. Now, what more did you have?
Skills. Friends. Connections. Weapons. A metal tag around your neck.
But, as the night grows long, as you sink into the shadows of the dreamscape, you recall again.
The weight of oblivion, the meaninglessness of a life dedicated to the slaughter and the hunt.
The phantoms of the comrades you've left behind.
Urging you, again and again, to...
“Arise.”
Altera ; Of the Destitute and the Destined
Three generations have passed since the destruction of the King of Corpses by the prophesized hero, and yet, the continent of Altera had not yet been claimed by the Jeaulian Empire. Fractured as they are, the demihumans that once banded under the Corpse King’s banner have stayed strong in their respective territories, pushing back all attempts of liberation to this date. Of humanity’s many conquests, only the Seaside Fortress-City of Andeave remains stalwart against the monstrous nations, a frontier town guarded by thousands, housing those drunk on imperial propaganda, those holding delusions of grandeur, those without a home on the fatherland.
But this is not a story about the patriots, the fortune seekers, the outcasts.
This is about those without pasts, without memories, without families, without friends. Those who awoken in the catacombs of an abandoned church, who, with no futures to work towards, were conscripted into the Volunteer Army and tasked with the slaughter, the pillaging of the inhuman.
None of them are heroes, and this is not a fantasy.
But each of them had survived for so long, already. Some adapted. Others broke to bits. They've all crawled, they've all struggled. And, every night, they all do their best to believe.
That this has purpose. That this has meaning. That they are destined for greatness.
For if they are not, then they are naught but a destitute, discarded and neglected by fate.
Whether it be hope or fear that drives them, however, one truth remains.
Life goes on.
They must live on.
Feel free to format the CS however you wish. As a note, characters should be young ones. Parts that are denoted with an asterisk should be PMed to me, rather than posted in the Int Chek. In general, I prefer to have all sheets made and players accepted before launching the OOC.
Moniker: What you would like to be called? Does NOT have to be the name that you recall. Gender: Male or Female? Based off genitalia, not what they identify as. Countenance: If you opt to use an anime picture, slap it on the top of your sheet. Include all easily spottable outward details. Include height and weight. *Stigmas: Physical marks upon their body that may be hidden by clothing or makeup, blemishes that may have stories or significance attached. Tattoos, scars, birthmarks, etc. Facade: One paragraph minimum. Your character's outward attitude towards others. *Depths: Their inner selves, the part that shows when they crack under pressure, when they scream internally. *Philosophy: The principles they hold close to their heart, the lines they draw that they are unwilling to cross. *Vestiges: Their past. The less you write here, the more pleasant the surprises will be in the future. A common factor in every character's history should be 'unhappiness'.
Competence These serve as general 'stats' for your characters. Assign each stat with a letter grade from A to E, with A being 'excellent' and E being 'incompetent'. Add + or - as you wish. There is no limit to how awesome or terrible your character is. Be my guest if you want to have a character who has A+ in everything. You'll be judged by the rest of the players.
Vibrance – The brilliance of the soul. Courage and nobility that shines through in the darkest times. Gestalt – Fragments of otherworldly knowledge guide your hand, even though you know not how it comes about. Conformity – Adapt and consume. The ability to grow accustom to the horrors and irrationalities that plague this realm. Physique – The might of meat. Strength, dexterity, and fortitude, united in a single body. Composure – Poise and confidence. A steady, focused mind, so that one can act with alacrity even under the gaze of a King.
The Divinity of Mankind Ain-Mala, The Woman Within the Gourd
The goddess of the harvest, of festivity, of fertility, of beauty, Ain-Mala is the most beloved of all, and warriors especially toast to her on a nightly basis for being able to enjoy her gifts once more. However, there are no shrines built for her, and she is a goddess without priests. Her worship is found in honest, physical work.
Alri-Qua, Keeper of the Sun
The god who exercises his power the most upon these realms, Alri-Qua's symbol is that of a sun-shaped hexagram, and he shares his powers of life-giving light to all those who offer their prayers to him. It was by his influence that the King of Corpses fell at the hands of the prophesized hero, and for that, many banquets are toasted to his name.
Kur-Inuus, The Jaws of the Eternal Cycle
The beast-god who presides over the cycles of nature, whether it be life and death, drought and flood, feast or famine, and the elusive patron of those who devout themselves to the wilderness. Kur-Inuus's servants take the form of silver wolves, mysterious reapers who punish those who do not properly respect the bounties of the land.
Vyr-Nilil, Lawmaker and Ringholder
A nebulous god-child born when civilization was created, Vyr-Nilil is the watcher of those who tread the gray spaces of the law, whether it be thieves or businessmen. Their symbol is that of balanced scales, and those who wish to avoid karmic retribution will do well to ensure those scales remain balanced.
The Seaside Fortress of Andeave
The central plaza of Andeave is ringed with many shops that are meant to appeal to Silver Moon soldiers, from smiths to grocers to travelling supplies. Many important facilities are also present here, and owing to the amount of high-value buildings, the Central District is the most well-guarded.
Silver Moon Recruiting Office - The general office for the Silver Moon Corps. A two story building with one of the front walls plastered with flyers of monster bounties. The Imperial Academy of Practical Wizardry - A grand building carved of marble, that's perhaps a bit too spacious for the amount of furniture and decorations present within. Silver Moon soldiers usually take Combat Magic classes, skipping over the basic lessons that are taught to children.
Andeave's port. Overlooks a coastal inlet and has a pleasantly sandy beach. Fishermen can often be seen off the side of the piers. Many warehouses for storing goods are also present here.
A high-end residential area, home to manors and guild houses. Many more well-known Silver Moon soldiers live here, and associations affiliated with the Church of the First Light can be found as well. Generally the only place that aristocracy from the fatherland would reside in.
Order of the Silver Light - A bold building with a coat-of-arms painted over its grand oaken gates. Houses the warrior-priests who have took up iron weapons to defend the faithful. Their motto is 'Salutis Ad Lucem', and their heraldry is decorated with lances, unicorns, crescent moons, stars, and a silver-and-blue theme.
A sheer clifface that serves as a natural defence for the northern side of Andeave. The Church of the First Light is built inside the mountain, halls carved in. The climb up to the Church is steep and painful, but the sight on top, when first light breaks onto a new day, is breath-taking.
The Church of the First Light - A massive set of stone doors leads to large carved caverns filled with wooden pews. Painted murals featuring six gods, all connected to a single, abstract creature, is illuminated by flames burning in black iron stands. At the pulpit, a large sun-shaped hexagon stands, emananting with a strange, white light.
The Northwestern District is populated by butchers' shops and the like, a community of meat-producers supported by hunters who travel out to the forests of the mountain range to bring back game meat. Due to proximity of the Western District, many quieter restaurants are located here as well.
Ranger's Guild - A non-descript mud hut helmed by a taciturn man. Serves as a general meeting point for rangers, rather than an actual base where anything happens.
The Western District is home to Andeave's main gate to the rest of Altera's monster-infested wilderness. It's also the liveliest district within the city, home to various taverns, restaurants, and muscians, as well as the Warrior's Guild. The theory is that any enemy from the west will have to go through the thickest concentration of warriors.
Roselia's - A higher-end bar helmed by many pretty waitresses and a muscular bartender. Delicate timberwork makes the place look more spacious than it actually is, and colorful flowers hang from the rafters.
The pleasure district that doubles as the slums. Brothels, cheap alcohol, gambling dens, and all the other stuff associated with seedy subjects can be found here. Drunks from the Western District inevitably find themselves here, ready to lose even more of their money. The Thieves' Guild cracks down on the greatest offenders, however, and their justice is swift and brutal.
Thieves' Guild - An unmarked, inconspicuous building. Most likely not even the real Thieves' Guild.
A district devoted to those with odder faiths, abnormal beliefs, or eccentric interpretations of the gods. Filled to the brim with strange shops advertising less-than-reliable occult-ish items. The Temples of the Fiend Knights can be found here, as well as a smattering of other warrior-centric Guilds.
Bladedancer's Academy - Located high up on the rooftops are the acrobatic Bladedancers, who are generally nuisances to everyone down below. Their gold-and-red banner billows dramatically from the penthouse they rent.
An extension of the shipping docks that line the coast. More warehouses can be found here, and many sweaty men are always working here. Some small houses have been built to accomodate merchants from the fatherland while they sell their supplies to the locals in Andeave.
I'm looking for a group of a maximum of seven, who will be playing the role of amnesiac monster slayers in the frontier town, at the behest of an empire they'll likely never be citizens of. Putting it very simply, it's an isekai fantasy except life sucks because you don't have cheat skills, there is no big tiddy goddess guiding you, and you aren't guaranteed victory just because you tried your best or whatever. The theme of this RP will something along the lines of...finding hope within the dread of not knowing who you are and where you're going. This isn't a happy, relaxed slice-of-life, but I don't intend on making it all pure grimdark either.
Melancholy, broken by moments of reprieve, may be the proper atmosphere for this. The world is unkind, but the characters don't have to be. That's more or less it.
Inquire freely. I like questions. And before filling out a sheet, go describe to me your basic character idea, so I know what to touch up on before you commit too much. Also, y'all need to be able to post at least once a week, and be communicative in the OOC or Discord or whatever. God, that's so important.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have done it if she knew that the last survivor was looting her horse.
Perhaps she wouldn’t have done it if she was the sort of person that would ever look behind.
But those were never possibilities, not for Ettamri Belarence, the descendant of a knight that fought the King of Corpses, who fought the Ogres of the Mist-Shrouded Nation, who fought and fought and never gave any quarter. Love was death, and death was destiny. Her time simply came earlier than her forebearers, but that too was fate. How many buds were crushed before they could bloom? How many lives were lost before one rose above that mound of death?
It was inevitable.
She let go.
She never let go.
And though it was nothing but an empty show of defiance, nothing but wretched futility before the unkind world that would surely grind her to dust, Ettamri raised her bracers regardless. To deflect a spear that she wouldn’t be able to deflect. To rebel once more.
The rending of steel, the cracking of bone, the shearing of flesh was proof enough of what happened afterwards.
Miracles were miracles, after all, because they rarely happened.
She was used to the pain.
She was used to the abuse.
She was used to the emptiness.
She was used to the disgust of others.
She was used to being seen as nothing more than a pest.
She was used to all this, so she crawled up the steps of that Church, her sprained foot no longer able to support her, her hands blistered from gripping that rusted sword so tightly, her back aching from being hunched forward this entire time, her knees scraped and bleeding upon the stony steps. Truly, there was nothing left for her now. What could she even do, without her standard weapons? What use was a ranger that could not hunt? What use was a soldier that could never fight, not when it mattered?
She had no use.
Her ascent slowed. Stopped.
She wobbled backwards, unsteady, rising up.
If she fell now, the pain would only last a second. After that, she’d be nothing but a bloody pulp with tangled limbs. After that, she’d truly have nothing. All she needed to do was…
“Welcome back, Ash.”
His embrace was warm. His vestments smelled like the sun.
“It must have been hard.”
She couldn’t climb up, not any more.
So the Father came down instead.
Came down, and helped her up.
Ah.
Ahah.
Her shoulders shook. Her lungs felt on the verge of collapse. Her spirit was already in so many little pieces. Her weapons were gone, her armor lost, her party completely dead, everyone she knew lost again. But a single act of kindness was enough to pick her up once more.
Each step gave her life meaning, gave her mind purpose.
Even though everything was broken, her heart still beat.
And as long her heart continued to beat, she could remake herself, continuously, without end.
With the Father by her side, Ash continued to ascend.
This time, she did not fall.
No regrets.
It was a knife in her back.
No regrets.
It was a spear through her chest.
No regrets.
It was a club against her skull.
No regrets.
It was the sword in her stomach.
She killed herself, again and again, hollowing out the contents of her soul as she ran, clutching goods that were not her own. A coward. A thief. A weakling. A pest. An orphan. Unwanted. Unneeded. Unloved. Unfortunate. Was it alright for her to live, when others greater than her died?
Of course it wasn’t.
Muu had only known Gwyn for half a day, and there was absolutely no chance that she’d ever be as useful to the world as that priestess.
After all, who was it that could miraculously heal injuries? Who was it that could smile so kindly? Who was it that stood up to that cold-hearted bitch? Who was it that showed such kindness to a ragtag group of soldiers with no prospects and no money?
It certainly wasn’t the moron who immediately went into debt to a guild that didn’t even provide her with the combat skills necessary to break someone’s bones. It certainly wasn’t the moron who had every opportunity to become a priest herself, but never even chose to. How about the moron who couldn’t even finish a goblin off without making herself bedridden for an entire week? Or the moron who blinded herself on her very first attack against an oversized frog?
But here she was.
Alive.
Breathing.
Heart beating.
She lived, while better people died.
No regrets.
It was an arrow in her side.
So she will kill herself to atone for the sin of surviving.
And she will live on, for all the souls she carried on her shoulders.
She died.
It hadn’t even been a contest.
Her body had failed her. Her anger had failed her. Her desperation had failed her.
This was her fate, wasn’t it? To die without accomplishments, on a land not her own, without anyone she loved nearby, not ever knowing if her family would learn of her demise. To succumb to the curse of the King of Corpses, to become a wretched monster by herself and undo all that she had previously fought for. To become nothing but a desecrated corpse, a puppet bending to the will of a long-dead monstrosity.
She resented that. She raged against that. Even in the darkness, she fought still, until that blackness turned red, and she tore through the veil of her mind to expose the monster that dwelled inside, shackled by great irons that seemed still oh-so insufficient in holding it down.
If this was her fate, she would defy it all the same.
A snarl became a smirk, all fang and bloodlust, hunger and violence unending as the monster within her mind extended a finger. As thick as a tree, with a nail as sharp as a stake, all the color of a deep, murderous crimson. It placed the tip of its fingernail over her heart, and left it there.
If she would not become one monster, she would have to become another.
One that rebelled against the Gods themselves. One that would never again receive their Holy Benedictions, no matter how much she fought for her fellow man. One who would be denied even the same afterlife that waited her parents and her siblings.
One who may never even be able to face them again, lest she be ascribed as naught but a lying fiend.
It was an easy decision.
She drove that monster’s nail through her stomach and, bending down, bit into its knuckle, purple blood seeping between her teeth as she obliterated her human self, partaking in the flesh of the atrocity, the ichor of the abomination.
She drank and died. Drank and died. Drank and died.
Repeated it over and over again, until she no longer died.
Until she was no longer herself at all.
Until she...
…opened her eyes.
To gray clouds abundant with snow.
To the mouth of the mine, devoid of life.
To a world no longer her ally, gods no longer her confident.
And, like a child tearing out of its mother’s womb, she cried.
Ettamri was no longer human.
Ettamri was no longer Belarence.
But life goes on.
And they live on.
No matter what they have to become.
No matter who they must depart from.
For that alone is their duty.
Their sole deliverance from this unkind world. ~✦~
Late Morning///Floor 1 Well, this chain of events was hardly surprising for Varanense now. Casually pulling back the string of his oversized crossbow, he watched as the three warriors cut through the kobolds almost immediately, reducing numbers by half within seconds of the fight starting. Nice to see everyone was still energetic. There was a click as the bowstring locked in place, and Varanense hummed a cheery tune as he strolled into the room, largely ignored by basically every adventurer and monster. Pressing his back against the closet pillar, the archer eyed the situation briefly. One on Castor, one on Oben, two on Kori. Normally, he wouldn't have even bothered approaching while the fight still raged, so certain their victory was.
But then again, things lined up oh-so well.
The air in the dungeon was always stagnant. The distances he was working with may as well be considered close-range. Both targets were distracted and locked in place. It was, as his father used to say, free real estate. Varanense calmed his heart. Counted the beats. Raised his crossbow. Sighted it properly. Wondered if Dahlia prepared lunch for them. Prayed that Floor 2 was just as easy as this.
Fired.
It was not like a ballista bolt. It was a ballista bolt, thrumming through the air like a harpist's fingers through the strings. With hardly a sound, it shot through the body of the first kobold before flying towards the next, the sheer force of each bolt penetrating unarmored flesh with ease. If all went well, it would be two for one. If all went perfectly, the bolt would still be intact at the end of this. If all went poorly, it'd be one for one. If it went to hell, Varanense can just use this as an excuse not to contribute in the next fight.
Really, this shitty archer was alright with any and all results.
Metal element and axe attribute to augment the fact that Alice and Charlotte were both bruisers with guns and an assortment of other stuff, hm? It was only slightly worrying that Paul was new to the whole rift-diving business, but hey, Albrecht trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him that this was going to be fine. He mentally filed all these nuggets of knowledge in the back of his mind, before nodding once more.
“Rift’s not going to go anywhere, yeah. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, take it easy, and sleep off the jet lag, alright?” A pause, and then a grin in the direction of Xu Jian. “Try not to give yourself a stomachache before this.”
Well, the good thing about this party was that, if Alice was as proficient as described, they’d all be fine even if everyone walked into this with terrible indigestion and nausea. With that in mind, Albrecht decided to indulge as well, ordering another platter of spiced lamb. Morning came early on the plains, and they were ready to go before the sun had fully risen, Albrecht having already made arrangements for a chaffeur to bring them over to the site of the rift. Riding easily down the endless tracts of flat roads that made up much of Mongolia’s landscape, Albrecht spent much of the two hour drive offering snacks to the others or simply enjoying the breeze. And of course, what sort of road trip would it be if they didn’t sing along to an endlessly looping song? That was fun too, even if not everyone in the group was fully down for it.
Eventually, they reached the base of Bogd Khan Mountain, blue skies and a bright sun lighting up the green peaks of the sacred mountain. Albrecht had to jump through more than just a few bureaucratic hoops to get permission to head into a rift here, but few problems could not be solved with money and connections, and as the truck grinded to a halt, he hopped off first, opening the back trunk to reveal all the preparations he made.
Body armor, gas masks, utility belts filled with a variety of tools and kits, accompanied by an assortment of self-defense weapons, from stun batons to bear spray. If the party had been composed of more military-types than just Charlotte, the scion of the Dietrich Conglomerate would have doubtlessly provided a full rack of firearms and ammunition as well, but, alas, he had some common sense at least in not freely giving dangerous weapons to unlicensed explorers.
Then again, those machetes looked mighty fierce.
“Well then, take what you’re comfortable with and let’s hop in. Heard from some of the initial explorers that this is going to be a cemetery sorta area, so dress accordingly, aight?”
The grin came easily, Albrecht’s tone consistently light.
“And if any of you need to make a last pit stop ‘fore we walk in, waste-containment bags are in the far back. Remember, keyword here’s ‘nothing’s left behind’.”
Yankee
Altered Tundra
Alisdragon911
stone
VitaVitaAR
Animal
LanaStorm
Ohm
Haha
Shovel
