Not bad! I'm curious though, what about her makes her an infector? As is, she just seems like a pretty mild Cursed. Usually infectors have some sort of disease-transmission or parasitization element. For example, a person transformed into a tooth monster could have an infectious bite that causes a tooth rash to spread over the bitten target, or a person transformed into a worm monster can infest a target and transmute it into more worms.
Oh yeah I guess I misunderstood it. I guess my thinking was that in the early hours of the change she would take up gradually more violent and drastic means to get people exposed to sun light using her new physical abilities. I just don't really understand the need for a disease when sunlight already mutates people.
Hi, here's my proposition for an infector character.
Name: Sarah Lowell State: Infector Personality: Sarah is one of the first to willingly witness the change. She was conveniently placed, ran out and immediately understood the blessing that had been placed upon the world. In her mind, some kind of rapture. A reset. And given her being one of the relatively fortunate ones, a blessing. Sarah had already been a broken woman before the change. So this is really an opportunity for herself, she figures. Despite an overwhelming urge to expose the few cowards to sunlight, she is reasonably sane and surprisingly sociable and eager to rebuild with the surviving infected. Appearance: Sarah used to be a beautiful (if poorly cared for) young woman. Skinny before the change, she is now a gaunt giant, completely hairless and pale. She has been transformed into a sexless ghoul-giant. Still humanoid, but stretched and elongated. Her skin is so pale in certain warm lighting you can almost peep through her taut skin and peer into the alien machination going inside of 'her'. Biography: Sarah has lived in this city her whole life. In this apartment building for most of it as well. Her single mother worked herself to an early grave, and the bad crowd she used to replace her didn't improve Sarah's situation either. Being very young still, no relatives, very little except for her mother's small nest egg and a long-term lease; she turned to the only other people she knew. The same bad players that had plagued her life so far. By the time of the change Sarah is abusing drugs and being abused by men. Her cycle of self-destruction is halted and cleansed by the change. In fact the current scumbag she was currently let leach off of her that she had kicked the night before had knocked himself out in some alley nearby and melted into a large mold on the side of the building. New Sarah thought he looked beautiful like this. Maybe it was the peaceful look on his face. Talents: Inhuman strength & constitution: Over about 6 hours after her initial witnessing Sarah started to slowly shift into her current state, first steadily losing her hair while contorting at various rates, at points the pain of stretching rendering her unconscious during the process. Fresh new attitude: Sarah feels better than ever. Isn't the sun beautiful today?
I could also make a second character if you're interested.
This is a world run by divine figures more whimsical and cruel than our own, mysterious powers vie for control and in the process, have created a fault in the world. Right at the centre. Out of which spills forth Everything. Those in the Know theorise on what it truly is. In my world, it is literal. A physical thing. Out of which spills forth humanity, and which a huge city spills out of, generations built up around itself. Some smaller lands exist around, and some rumours exist of distant lands and sharp toothed men with savage tools. At the very centre is the spire. Jutting out and piercing your view if you manage to focus on it surrounded by vast black stone walls., jutting into the sky cutting off the horizon outside. The entire region is set on a high plateau, inside lies a deserted scrubland with a crumbling citadel laying in the centre, dark gothic spires reaching towards the divine. Despite the walled plateau being in the very centre of the world, it is a remote prison. The gate rarely opens and the Hands of the Warden ensure only entry into the walls. No one has ever succeeded in leaving. Due to this, the area is remote and avoided by all but the most intrepid adventurers. Despite being the centrepiece of the world.
The prison-lands draw in a handful of adventurers every few decades, they great stone portcullis that is flanked by a pair of ginormous stone hands on the inside opens mysteriously when someone tries to enter. Then shuts before they have the chance to exit. The hands impose an aura of divine might. You get the feeling you should leave soon.
The world outside is hazy compared to the stark reality of your new domain. The prison-lands are your new life now. You play the part of a group of adventurers, met on the harsh road that funnels towards the crumbling citadel inside the divine walls. I don't plan on developing the world outside the walls, it's your classic dark medieval fantasy world. Firearms exist but training and ammunition are scarce. Your character can have a more specific reason for entering the prison, but the motivation is an intuitive draw to enter the gates, despite the knowledge they will likely never exit.
Death is not firm in this land, and it is even more broken within the walls. Your characters will all be humans, but they can have some racial variance or cultural knowledge/abilities. They're all pretty much guaranteed to become undead at some point. Magic is prominent, so are fantastical weapons and fighting styles. In general, the rule of cool applies.
I'm thinking a group of 4-5 people with a healthy balance of roles will best suit this. I don't plan on getting super specific with the magic "system", but my idea for it is to have Wizards/sorcerers that have magical ability through arduous study and great practice. These casters usually focus on offensive spells, especially kinesis or enchantment. On the flip side are Priests, Clerics, or any sort of faith-based appeal to the divine sort of miracle casting. Miracles cover healing magic and pyromancy.
Character death will be relatively common and will hold some roleplay consequences. These will be revealed and your characters come to understand the world better. Mainly the characters will return as undead. The start point for the story will be just outside the open maw of the gates, gathered on the horse cart of Old Maeve the Blind Seer. She will serve as the non-combatant guide to the party, a wise woman who has mastered campcraft and forging relationships with sane people.
I'm expecting good grammar, posts of at least two paragraphs, and weekly posts (life comes first, inspiration ebbs and flows, I get consistency can be difficult and shit happens, this requirement is flexible.
Gutch enters Tradise He had been on the road for some time now, wandering aimlessly. In the distance a foreign sound could be heard, a merry cacophony drifting over the horizon. This new sound intrigued him. He stepped off the track and began walking towards the new sound, swishing through the overgrown meadow, completely oblivious to the stunning world around him. His sole focus was the delicious thought of innocent merry he could seep his influence over. The meadow tapered off into a gentle slope leading down into a nearly perfect bowl. Within the massive divot was a colourful extravaganza of flags and tents and throngs of people. This was the source of the cacophony.
Gutch tasted the air and grinned. He began to lope towards the settlement before pausing suddenly. He could feel something. The air was thick with an energy that was foreign to him. His malicious aura was reacting poorly with whatever power resided over this face. He sneered and spat at the grass. His acrid mucus hissed and evaporated suddenly. His eyes widened. He thought better of continuing on this path.
Instead he surveyed the horizon with a studious eye. Some distance along the valley's rim seemed to be a small encampment along a thronging road into the larger settlement. He set course to his next target. Hopefully this hostile influence was limited to the valley proper. Maybe he could sow the seeds of evil within this town. As he neared the town he sniffed out any visual clues towards how this foreign place worked. His beady eyes studied these colourful permanent tents and the smattering of more firm buildings. The skyline of the squat place was broken up by an eclectic collection of bright flags and pennants: as of yet meaningless to him.
The sounds of merriment taunted him throughout his trek around the rim, as he neared the town he could hear even more. It seemed non-stop. Now that the novelty had worn off, he found that this new sound irritated him. It reminded him that the people within had remained too comfortable. Unpestered. More than he could allow.
He didn't enter the town through the main road. He slipped between a big round tent and a larger building that a raucous chorus of chatter emanated from. Once on the main street he glanced around. A steady stream of traffic flowed through the place, some stopping, most passing straight through and into the valley. It seemed like the settlement was almost completely lined up neatly on either side of the road. A few structures lay behind the highstreet and hung about in the grass, but he doubted they were important. He noticed everyone around him seemed to have a lairy grin plastered on their faces. He scowled behind his mask. Some of the passersby gave the strange man strange looks, but most of them paid no heed.
He decided to explore the gathering place on his right first. He turned and found the door. No one prevented him from entering. In fact no one noticed him enter. As he passed the threshold, the noise increased. A wall of jeering bodies was centered around whatever was going on in the middle of the room. He grinned. He slipped the black shard out of his waistband, palmed it casually, and walked behind the crowd. The perfect edge cut through the plain man's linen tunic with the lightest touch and left such a fine cut in his rear thigh that he didn't notice he had been cut until Gutch had slipped past and lost interest, tucking the blade back into his loincloth nonchalantly. Gutch grinned as he picked the man's curses out from the din and turned his attention to the central highlight. The group of men had pitted a cock against some kind of weasel and were currently screaming at them as if they might have understood their drunken instructions if they were loud enough.
This was almost something Gutch could get behind. The mundane novelty wore off after a few seconds of watching the cock strut about and the weasel-thing rear up and hiss at it. It reminded him of so many fights he had seen before: more bark than bite. But he supposed those of bland tastes didn't see it like that. His eyes wandered to a smug man wearing a tall hat counting something in a heavy looking pouch. He had the glint of desire in his eyes. Maybe this could be an opportunity.
He spent some time predicting what the best course of action could be. As the flames in his mind began to reach into his retinas he was brought back to the room by a sudden roar. The lively crowd had erupted after the cock had managed to pin the weasel-thing by the neck and was now savaging the creature with it's fierce beak. Tall hat man grinned wickedly. Gutch prowled through the crowd, sliding through it like a barrel of eels. He lurked behind the tall hat man; he was focused on the fight. His heavy pouch sat against his hip. Gutch peered into it as conspicuously as he could. It was full of metal disks, with some unidentifiable emblems on them. Curious. He imagined their possible function. Very strange. These trinkets intrigued him.
Until now Gutch had remained unnoticed within the busy room, even the man he had been watching. "I am you." Three powerful magic words. Staining his tongue. The man looked over with the every touch that chilled through his soul. A moment of unease. Something that marked his ultimate fall. Before an overwhelming urge to comply. washed over him. He had seen something he could understand. So instead he complied with it's will. The man was talking to a copy of himself. He was overwhelmed. Gutch held up a finger to his face. The man in the tall hat pointed at the fight. His beast had crippled the other. With a broken appendage the from the winged champion, the weasel-thing was flipped over and had it's throat cut.
The man in the tall hat owned the winning animal. The other men in the gatehouse were busy settling the handovers required to exchange these little metal disks. This metal was powerful. It was new. But something made it valuable. Gutch, still appearing as the other man, was handed a stack of coins. The other men returned to get rid of their freshly dead cat weasel beast.
The original man shook his head in disbelief. Gutch turned and left the building. He stood outside the mouth of the alley. Holding out the stack of coinage. The man turned walked into the shade between the line of houses. Gutch smiled and reached forward with the coins. He slipped the stack into the large pouch and dropped the coins in. Suddenly the shadow flashed and Gutch stepped confidently past and back into the hall.
His localised illusion evaporated away from him and he went back to slipping through the crowd. He approached a disheveled man sitting on a cloak on the wall. He sat on a cloak, staring blankly at a wall, sitting in front of 3 shallow wooden cups. He looked up at Gutch, looming over him. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't gain much life. Gutch held out a handful of coins. "Wou "You wanna to play?" Gutch ignored him at pulled at the cloak under him. Dumping the handful of coins in his lap. He snatched them up and rolled off of his ragged brown cloak. Grumbled at his hastiness "Sure, just get away from me." Gutch tossed the cloak over himself and slithered off into the crowd his is sack of coin.
Hello. I'm new to this format. I'm really itching to do some dark souls inspired stuff, but I'm not really sure how to run something plot-driven. Possibly with some light TTRPG elements. Does anyone have any advice or tips for me on how to run my own game?
Name: Gutch, A.K.A. The Corruptor, A.K.A Blacktongue Race: Human? Appearance: A filthy decrepit 'man' of short stooped stature, his arms hands and fingers and nails are all unusually long. Beneath the grime his skin is alarmingly pale. His head and neck are covered by a rough black sphere made of heavy solidified shadow. It has three holes roughly carved out for his eyelid-less eyes and dry serpentine tongue. He does not wear shoes, his only clothing is a loincloth held up with a ragged rope belt. He keeps a rough black shard tucked into it. He wears a large dark cloak when he can. Personality: Gutch takes great pleasure in suffering and cruelty. He enjoys inflicting pain himself, but his greatest joy is deceiving people and corrupting them into ruining themselves and their loved ones. Despite his abysmal appearance he is surprisingly charming when he decides to speak. He has a deep understanding of what drives people and he uses this ability to expertly manipulate them and warp their ideals beyond recognition. While he began as a humble apostle studying the weather and omens, he has dedicated himself to deceit and corruption. It is very rare for him to speak a single word of truth. He enjoys the act of lying itself, and will lie even when he serves to gain nothing from it. He is sustained by suffering and is very difficult to kill by normal means. His most innocent enjoyments involve exploring ruins and looting. Goals: As a servant of Yzechr that has been around for far longer than a regular human should be, Gutch's motivation is to spread corruption and malice in the name of his lord. A side effect of this is continuing his life and sustaining the ever-present hunger.
The women of the tribe were concerned, their new irrigation system hadn't had the effect the Chieftain claimed it would. The crop had failed. The Chieftain's illness seemed to be worsening. His eyes had a wild look in them that frightened the women and the more sensitive men. The shadows seemed to reach out to him through the smokey haze of the lodge. The granary was low, this was the main concern of the fighting men. They barely thought about the strange prisoner. They certainly hadn't noticed the Chieftain letting the beastman worm his way into his mind. Gutch had told the Chieftain to gather the fighting men of the once peaceful village so he could reveal the location of a fully stocked granary.
Gutch was bundled tightly in the dark fetid hole, caged behind the Chieftain's throne in the High Yurt. Despite seeming a prisoner of this unusually primitive group, Gutch did not mind his imprisonment. A follower of the vile patron of corruption, Gutch had spent so long studying deception that he could bend people to his will without them having any idea; simply with the use of his wicked tongue. The chieftain has captured Gutch for his heinous crimes, but after a conversation with the creature he had become enthralled with his 'wisdom'.
Seemingly catatonic, his withered form leaned against the muddy wall to support his weighted head. His head was covered with a black metal sphere. The bulbous orb was seamlessly bonded to the gorget that was fused unnaturally into the angry inflamed flesh around his collar bone. Three rough golfball-sized holes had been hewn for his orifices. Aside from deceiving the Chieftain into insanity, Gutch's main method of entertainment was poking his wounds with his filthy man-claws in order to cause himself a sweet excruciating pain. His dry beady eyes subtly tracked the shadows as his brown serpentine tongue lolled out of the rough hole in the mask, like an obscene piece of dried meat. He had not blinked in decades. You would not have wanted to see his face under that mask. You would not have wanted to smell him. Or touch him. Or, much like the tribespeople, even acknowledge him. For Gutch was a foul creature, dedicated towards corruption and deceit.
For the first time in a long time Gutch recalled how he got there. On the wicked events of his long and illustrious life. Literally, his had started life as the son of a small priestly family. They had dedicated their son towards arcane pursuits and he started out worshipping Orranoth. But that innocent child was not Gutch. Gutch was the creature that began to gestate when the fear overtook the small boy as he heard his parents scream out in fear before being slain by the raiders. Gutch was the creature that made the boy forget his name when the mirror appeared before him, and offered him the shadowy knife. Gutch was the pleasure the boy took in brutal vengeance. Gutch was the moniker given to him by his first cohort of bandit accomplices. Given to him for the sounds made during some vile act of debauchery in his youth that made him infamous even among criminals. Gutch is the name that would stick, and follow that creature through his very very long life of inflicting suffering and corrupting every joy into some twisted cruel mirror of itself.
Gutch had carried that savage shard of shadow with him until his relatively recent imprisonment. The tantalising black wisps of shadow had evaporated as the sun rose that morning. It had disappointed him, but it served as a reminder of the corrupted hunger gifted to him along with the knife by his wicked patron.
After his childhood escape from the burning temple complex, he had scrambled into the dark wood. The wilderness was not a good place for the child to be. After a few hours of desperately struggling through the underbrush, the soaking torn up boy stumbled into a shallow divot below a cliff. Exhausted, he collapsed in the meagre shelter. As he was grasped at by the clutches of sleep he held the black knife close to his chest. He whispered a prayer to his new patron. The only name he knew was Orranoth. He muttered a prayer in his name. He knew Orranoth wasn't the recipient of the prayer. The lie made him smile.
His reminiscence was cut short by the raucous din of the men entering the High Yurt. The Chieftain told them to move the throne so they could assemble before the cell. A hush came across the room as a torch was cast over the shocking looking prisoner. Many had not seen the foul man yet. They hadn't realised how corrupted a being could be. Now the realisation of the depths of human depravity dawned on them. The realisation they could not even imagine the crimes he was guilty of. The Chieftain 'commanded' Gutch to tell them the location. Gutch acted hesitant. Gutch waited for them to shout and jeer. Gutch told them, hiding his glee. The party left without telling their wives.
Days past. Gutch fingered his wounds. He waited. The women grew scared as the men's disappearance was noticed. Some took flight with the children. Some stayed. In short time the backwater settlement was burnt to the ground. Gutch sat curled in his damp pit, grinning a horrible grin beneath his heavy mask. He unfurled slowly from the ashes, coated in grime just like usual. He gave a leisurely stretch, his bones popping and crackling. He meandered over to the nearby cave he has been residing in before the villagers captured him in a net. He shifted through the ashes and bones, picking it up from the detritus. He grinned as he examined the black glint. What a wonderful time to be Gutch.
Hello folks. It's me. I'm rather new to all this, apologies if I make a mistake. I'm pretty easygoing, just send me a message about anything you'd like. Unfortunately I'm not on discord. After having a chat with Vec, I've made a mortal wizard. He's pretty evil. Currently thinking of how I should involve him. You're welcome to hit me up if you have an interest.
Name: Gutch, A.K.A. The Corruptor, A.K.A Blacktongue Race: Human? Appearance: A filthy decrepit 'man' of short stooped stature, his arms hands and fingers and nails are all unusually long. Beneath the grime his skin is alarmingly pale. His head and neck are covered by a rough black sphere made of heavy solidified shadow. It has three holes roughly carved out for his eyelid-less eyes and dry serpentine tongue. He does not wear shoes, his only clothing is a loincloth held up with a ragged rope belt. He keeps a rough black shard tucked into it. He wears a large dark cloak when he can. Personality: Gutch takes great pleasure in suffering and cruelty. He enjoys inflicting pain himself, but his greatest joy is deceiving people and corrupting them into ruining themselves and their loved ones. Despite his abysmal appearance he is surprisingly charming when he decides to speak. He has a deep understanding of what drives people and he uses this ability to expertly manipulate them and warp their ideals beyond recognition. While he began as a humble apostle studying the weather and omens, he has dedicated himself to deceit and corruption. It is very rare for him to speak a single word of truth. He enjoys the act of lying itself, and will lie even when he serves to gain nothing from it. He is sustained by suffering and is very difficult to kill by normal means. His most innocent enjoyments involve exploring ruins and looting. Goals: As a servant of Yzechr that has been around for far longer than a regular human should be, Gutch's motivation is to spread corruption and malice in the name of his lord. A side effect of this is continuing his life and sustaining the ever-present hunger.
The women of the tribe were concerned, their new irrigation system hadn't had the effect the Chieftain claimed it would. The crop had failed. The Chieftain's illness seemed to be worsening. His eyes had a wild look in them that frightened the women and the more sensitive men. The shadows seemed to reach out to him through the smokey haze of the lodge. The granary was low, this was the main concern of the fighting men. They barely thought about the strange prisoner. They certainly hadn't noticed the Chieftain letting the beastman worm his way into his mind. Gutch had told the Chieftain to gather the fighting men of the once peaceful village so he could reveal the location of a fully stocked granary.
Gutch was bundled tightly in the dark fetid hole, caged behind the Chieftain's throne in the High Yurt. Despite seeming a prisoner of this unusually primitive group, Gutch did not mind his imprisonment. A follower of the vile patron of corruption, Gutch had spent so long studying deception that he could bend people to his will without them having any idea; simply with the use of his wicked tongue. The chieftain has captured Gutch for his heinous crimes, but after a conversation with the creature he had become enthralled with his 'wisdom'.
Seemingly catatonic, his withered form leaned against the muddy wall to support his weighted head. His head was covered with a black metal sphere. The bulbous orb was seamlessly bonded to the gorget that was fused unnaturally into the angry inflamed flesh around his collar bone. Three rough golfball-sized holes had been hewn for his orifices. Aside from deceiving the Chieftain into insanity, Gutch's main method of entertainment was poking his wounds with his filthy man-claws in order to cause himself a sweet excruciating pain. His dry beady eyes subtly tracked the shadows as his brown serpentine tongue lolled out of the rough hole in the mask, like an obscene piece of dried meat. He had not blinked in decades. You would not have wanted to see his face under that mask. You would not have wanted to smell him. Or touch him. Or, much like the tribespeople, even acknowledge him. For Gutch was a foul creature, dedicated towards corruption and deceit.
For the first time in a long time Gutch recalled how he got there. On the wicked events of his long and illustrious life. Literally, his had started life as the son of a small priestly family. They had dedicated their son towards arcane pursuits and he started out worshipping Orranoth. But that innocent child was not Gutch. Gutch was the creature that began to gestate when the fear overtook the small boy as he heard his parents scream out in fear before being slain by the raiders. Gutch was the creature that made the boy forget his name when the mirror appeared before him, and offered him the shadowy knife. Gutch was the pleasure the boy took in brutal vengeance. Gutch was the moniker given to him by his first cohort of bandit accomplices. Given to him for the sounds made during some vile act of debauchery in his youth that made him infamous even among criminals. Gutch is the name that would stick, and follow that creature through his very very long life of inflicting suffering and corrupting every joy into some twisted cruel mirror of itself.
Gutch had carried that savage shard of shadow with him until his relatively recent imprisonment. The tantalising black wisps of shadow had evaporated as the sun rose that morning. It had disappointed him, but it served as a reminder of the corrupted hunger gifted to him along with the knife by his wicked patron.
After his childhood escape from the burning temple complex, he had scrambled into the dark wood. The wilderness was not a good place for the child to be. After a few hours of desperately struggling through the underbrush, the soaking torn up boy stumbled into a shallow divot below a cliff. Exhausted, he collapsed in the meagre shelter. As he was grasped at by the clutches of sleep he held the black knife close to his chest. He whispered a prayer to his new patron. The only name he knew was Orranoth. He muttered a prayer in his name. He knew Orranoth wasn't the recipient of the prayer. The lie made him smile.
His reminiscence was cut short by the raucous din of the men entering the High Yurt. The Chieftain told them to move the throne so they could assemble before the cell. A hush came across the room as a torch was cast over the shocking looking prisoner. Many had not seen the foul man yet. They hadn't realised how corrupted a being could be. Now the realisation of the depths of human depravity dawned on them. The realisation they could not even imagine the crimes he was guilty of. The Chieftain 'commanded' Gutch to tell them the location. Gutch acted hesitant. Gutch waited for them to shout and jeer. Gutch told them, hiding his glee. The party left without telling their wives.
Days past. Gutch fingered his wounds. He waited. The women grew scared as the men's disappearance was noticed. Some took flight with the children. Some stayed. In short time the backwater settlement was burnt to the ground. Gutch sat curled in his damp pit, grinning a horrible grin beneath his heavy mask. He unfurled slowly from the ashes, coated in grime just like usual. He gave a leisurely stretch, his bones popping and crackling. He meandered over to the nearby cave he has been residing in before the villagers captured him in a net. He shifted through the ashes and bones, picking it up from the detritus. He grinned as he examined the black glint. What a wonderful time to be Gutch.
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