So I saw that you've started naming the types of the demons. If you're still looking, I'd like to recommend Keter for Class 4, Cambion for Class 3, and Fiend for Class 2.
Lugubrious
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STATUS: Now running: World of Light: The Tale of the Dark Itself 26 days ago
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Bio
Current GM of World of Light. When it comes to writing, there's nothing I love more than imagination, engagement, and commitment. I'm always open to talk, suggestion, criticism, and collaboration. While I try to be as obliging, helpful, and courteous as possible, I have very little sympathy for ghosts, and anyone who'd like to string me along. Straightforwardness is all I ask for.
Looking for more personal details? I'm just some dude from the American south; software development is my job but games, writing, and trying to help others enjoy life are my passions. Been RPing for over a decade, starting waaaay back with humble beginnings on the Spore forum, so I know a thing or two, though I won't pretend to be an expert. If you're down for some fun, let's make something spectacular together.
Looking for more personal details? I'm just some dude from the American south; software development is my job but games, writing, and trying to help others enjoy life are my passions. Been RPing for over a decade, starting waaaay back with humble beginnings on the Spore forum, so I know a thing or two, though I won't pretend to be an expert. If you're down for some fun, let's make something spectacular together.
Most Recent Posts
The golden eyes of Alistair smoldered with a hurt curiosity when Susanna drew her sword. To be certain, the atmosphere surrounding them both and pervading the tavern as a whole felt anything but friendly, and Alistair in particular felt the tension of an imminent attack, but not from her. If anyone, he expected Alicia to be the one clamoring for assertion, but instead the pretty peasant woman produced a blade of exquisite craftsmanship. Her rich blade gleamed before him—the only weapon currently drawn in the establishment. The question why have you done that? lay etched on his face, were it only visible, and he considered reaching for the metal corkscrew rod stuffed into a knife’s leather sheath on his right hip.
Ultimately, he chose to ignore the blade, though his skin prickled at the not-at-all veiled threat. While the fine arts of war and metal escaped him, he knew from experience more than learning that no matter how fine the blade, metal armor could not be cut. Maybe, he reasoned, Susanna was simply afraid of him; he knew the feeling well. Suddenly feeling very awkward and out of place, Alistair took a step back. “Aye…” he murmured. “I am sorry, ma’am.” He glanced at Alicia, gratified at least somewhat to see her back down. As much as he wanted to say something along the lines of unhappy with the argument you started? Next time, just keep your mouth shut, he felt defeated. Sufficiently reinvigorated and healed by his flask, Alistair saw no reason to bear the scorn of anyone else, and abruptly left the premises.
Outside, a light and crisp rain had begun to fall. Alistair watched it beginning to pool in the miniature trench cut into the dirt by his own dragged leg minutes before. Familiar with the habits of his Stormbringer comrades to stay a night after a successful hunt, he started walking. Emmitt, one of his comrades and as sick if not more of the mood in the tavern, followed him out and trailed behind him, his gait barely affected by a mug of alcohol. In short order the man, a former member of a far-off city’s watchman, caught up to the knight and the two walked together. Though the refreshing coolness and rhythmic tapping of the rain soothed Alistair, he kept an eye out for a suitable place to sit and rest. Walking abreast with his friend, he circled a townhouse to a crude vegetable patch, where they sat beneath an awning purposed for the elemental protection of various sacks. “Rain washes away the sins of the world,” the other man said, looking at the silent knight. A strange intensity came across his rough features. “Alistair, how long have we been workin’ together?”
A shrug greeted his inquiry. “I’d say about three weeks,” Emmitt continued. “But never did I see you without yerr armor. I asked the others, and nobody’s seen you either. Just yer eyes.” He frowned. “Alistair, why do yer eyes glow yellow?”
After a moment, a sigh escaped from the dark armor. “I thought someone might ask eventually. It’s because of what happened to Veiron. I was there when it happened.”
While this sank in, Emmitt laid his cheek on his fist. “So you ain’t exactly human.” He hiccupped, though appeared otherwise unfazed. “But you ain’t a demon either. Demons don’t kill their kin. An’ you’re too much of a hero to be a demon, unless you’se really good. But we ain’t even proper Stormbringers.” A dry smirk appeared on his face. “What would some big-time deceiver want with the likes of us?”
Alistair’s head turned slowly. Like pools of forge embers, his eyes burned. “Who knows or cares? Anyone could be a demon far as I know. Even if I were more demon that human, it’s what I’m doing that matters. If I see a demon, I’ll try and kill it.”
A moment passed before Emmitt replied. “Yeah. Good on you.” He looked away, definitively bored.
The rain continued to fall.
Ultimately, he chose to ignore the blade, though his skin prickled at the not-at-all veiled threat. While the fine arts of war and metal escaped him, he knew from experience more than learning that no matter how fine the blade, metal armor could not be cut. Maybe, he reasoned, Susanna was simply afraid of him; he knew the feeling well. Suddenly feeling very awkward and out of place, Alistair took a step back. “Aye…” he murmured. “I am sorry, ma’am.” He glanced at Alicia, gratified at least somewhat to see her back down. As much as he wanted to say something along the lines of unhappy with the argument you started? Next time, just keep your mouth shut, he felt defeated. Sufficiently reinvigorated and healed by his flask, Alistair saw no reason to bear the scorn of anyone else, and abruptly left the premises.
Outside, a light and crisp rain had begun to fall. Alistair watched it beginning to pool in the miniature trench cut into the dirt by his own dragged leg minutes before. Familiar with the habits of his Stormbringer comrades to stay a night after a successful hunt, he started walking. Emmitt, one of his comrades and as sick if not more of the mood in the tavern, followed him out and trailed behind him, his gait barely affected by a mug of alcohol. In short order the man, a former member of a far-off city’s watchman, caught up to the knight and the two walked together. Though the refreshing coolness and rhythmic tapping of the rain soothed Alistair, he kept an eye out for a suitable place to sit and rest. Walking abreast with his friend, he circled a townhouse to a crude vegetable patch, where they sat beneath an awning purposed for the elemental protection of various sacks. “Rain washes away the sins of the world,” the other man said, looking at the silent knight. A strange intensity came across his rough features. “Alistair, how long have we been workin’ together?”
A shrug greeted his inquiry. “I’d say about three weeks,” Emmitt continued. “But never did I see you without yerr armor. I asked the others, and nobody’s seen you either. Just yer eyes.” He frowned. “Alistair, why do yer eyes glow yellow?”
After a moment, a sigh escaped from the dark armor. “I thought someone might ask eventually. It’s because of what happened to Veiron. I was there when it happened.”
While this sank in, Emmitt laid his cheek on his fist. “So you ain’t exactly human.” He hiccupped, though appeared otherwise unfazed. “But you ain’t a demon either. Demons don’t kill their kin. An’ you’re too much of a hero to be a demon, unless you’se really good. But we ain’t even proper Stormbringers.” A dry smirk appeared on his face. “What would some big-time deceiver want with the likes of us?”
Alistair’s head turned slowly. Like pools of forge embers, his eyes burned. “Who knows or cares? Anyone could be a demon far as I know. Even if I were more demon that human, it’s what I’m doing that matters. If I see a demon, I’ll try and kill it.”
A moment passed before Emmitt replied. “Yeah. Good on you.” He looked away, definitively bored.
The rain continued to fall.
Oh also @Lugubrious Just to confirm this but the Rot from Slough and her 'life-force' that creates living things around her can be altered and manipulated by other gods right? (To some extent)
Well, the rot is just the runoff of the life-force interacting with Slough's body. It can't technically be changed, but Slough herself can be altered and manipulated by the other gods to an extent, and therefore how the life force is used. In short, yeah.
Here's an idea: why don't all of you making newspaper requests for interaction interact with one another?
Failing that, I could send Nero your way. That's always fun.
Failing that, I could send Nero your way. That's always fun.
<Snipped quote by Hael>
And Vestec will stop by from time to time and add more and more corruption.
NICIEL CANNOT BE EVER VIGILANT ON SLOUGH. @Scarifar
It's true that Vestec can continuously try to corrupt her, but it's not going to be easy. By trying to corrupt her in the infancy of her life, particularly after more benevolent gods beat him to the punch, he unintentionally inoculated her. If not for Toun's gift of perseverance and its associated rejection of entropy, Vestec would have been far more successful. Ull'Yang's gift has also given her a greater ability to recognize and resist bad influences.
Of course, Niciel's gift did not go as well as planned either. Despite her good intentions, she did in fact 'force' her power on Slough like Vestec had done, and Slough resisted her as well.
<Snipped quote by Lugubrious>
So, if I understand you correctly, the Big Bang will create planets with the potential for life to develop and the right conditions, but no actual life yet. I.e. there would be oxygen, atmosphere, seas, volcanoes et al. but no living creatures of any kind, from the smallest germ to the largest whale/mammoth.
Does Slough not wish to add these things, correct the 'lifeless' things the others have planned for?
That's right. After all, the idea of chance alone developing such wondrous and orderly things as the symmetrical and organic structures of life is unimaginably improbable. It's like monkeys typing on typewriters trying to get Hamlet: it would take longer than the lifecycle of the universe for such a contrivance to occur by pure chance, and compared to the complexity of life, that's nothing. It is going to take a creator's touch to get the party started.
Slough's wishes don't matter so much. Her life will inevitably give rise to 'these things', but the 'lifeless' things the others have planned for need not be corrected even if she could. They're cool in their own right, and play a part on the grand scheme of things. Slough's natural life will exist, and so can the unnatural life of gods like Toun and Vestec.
There will be no life to start with, just a climate hospitable for life. It will take Slough's emergence and presence on a planet to get life started. Whatever things Vestec has created to move within the depths of space cannot be classified as true life, instead being autonomous, physical pockets of chaos.
It makes me really think of Bayonetta, actually. In that game series, the angels are vile and twisted eldritch creatures in shells of flawless gold and marble, in essence things purely organic but still not proper life. Demons, meanwhile, are vile and twisted creature-like machines of diabolic, hateful metal. 'Life' created by Toun or Vestec, for instance, without Slough's help, will probably take extreme forms such as these.
The kind of natural life that will colonize and thrive on planets will come ultimately from Slough, though other gods can disseminate it once it exists, which it will after the Big Bang has created a universe hospitable for it.
That's not to say that once the world exists and Slough's power has touched the planet, gods can't create life on their own, but until then (or afterward but independent of Slough's presence on a planet) gods cannot create real life.
It makes me really think of Bayonetta, actually. In that game series, the angels are vile and twisted eldritch creatures in shells of flawless gold and marble, in essence things purely organic but still not proper life. Demons, meanwhile, are vile and twisted creature-like machines of diabolic, hateful metal. 'Life' created by Toun or Vestec, for instance, without Slough's help, will probably take extreme forms such as these.
The kind of natural life that will colonize and thrive on planets will come ultimately from Slough, though other gods can disseminate it once it exists, which it will after the Big Bang has created a universe hospitable for it.
That's not to say that once the world exists and Slough's power has touched the planet, gods can't create life on their own, but until then (or afterward but independent of Slough's presence on a planet) gods cannot create real life.
Will post tomorrow.
The Rottenbone has imbibed the perfectionist's caring urge, and is grateful for his charitable offering.
In a space between realities, far beyond all that could be imagined, there drifted a solitary presence. Symbolic, physical, or something else entirely—it did not matter. Embodied in that presence, infinite potential existed. It hung in the realm of ideas, this unspoken yet eternal urge, unable to be touched and useless without beings to comprehend it. Yet all that was, which was to say, nothing at all, demanded it. The emptiness itself, bereft of mind or spirit, seemingly beckoned for something to fill it. As long as the universe contained void where creativity might render wonder, beauty, feeling, and truth, there would exist this brave notion: that there should be life.
This craving for life, spurred on by the creative void, and needless to say the unquestionable call of them, took form. Yearning gave way to being, and in the endless black, a spark of light came into being. It built itself, not slowly for the lack of time’s definition but deliberately, however many times it faltered. Distant memories, stuck to the impetus of life like beads of water to a stone plucked out of water, gouged at this light, but nevertheless it grew. How could it do otherwise, now that an absolute bid it COME? Rather than the combustion of a star, though, this light wavered and turned on itself, a sort of jagged spiral tinged with whiffs of green. Fate looked upon the rippling viridian spiral with what might best be approximated as curiosity, barring the incomprehensibility of his form and the completeness of his wisdom. Something strange and old, riding on the coattails of life, appeared to be seeping through. The impressionable medium carried with it an ephemeral yet ominous mold, and the very nature of the growing singularity of life reflected that mold’s unique and bizarre contours. Yet Fate took no preventative or supportive action; why should it? All was as it should be.
In due course the spiral collapsed on itself, and the coalesced creative power manifested in a strange form. Suddenly, in the meaningless abyss, there floated an odd creature utterly ill-suited for its new and inhospitable habitat. Even more remarkable, however, was what lay inside it. Though a living thing in its own right, this furry quadruped served also as a sort of mortal coil for the vast and incredible urge of life that carved it into being. Perfect among the menagerie of beasts spanning imagination, this deer could very well epitomize life in this new and nebulous universe. Fate regarded it, and proclaimed, ”Thou art…oh?”
Before the senses of any watching deities, the living power within the deer suddenly broke out. A visceral green and black spray burst from its eyes, and the creature twisted in agony. In instant her body began to break down, melting into a vile, murky good to slosh around the void. Only after the beast’s entire face and much of her torso degenerated to waste did the decay slow down. It hung there, lowing in pain, gasping desperately for air that did not yet exist. In mere seconds, magnificent turned to pitiful, an utter waste of divine potential still somehow clinging on, as if possessed by a determination to live, until even that died with neither ceremony nor nobility.
Fate watched as the rot surrounding the deer spontaneously grew vines, branches, and unknown arms to reach around the beast and protect her, forming a crude sort of egg to insulate the tortured beast from the untenable conditions of an uninitiated cosmos. Visible through small stretches of transparent membrane, eddies of luminous green dancing, growing and strengthening the corpse still despite the catastrophic flaw in their host’s development. ”A beast, mute and dumb, yet thou art host of an urge that transcends the universe itself. It is the very essence of a cosmic error. For better or worse, thou art Life.”
The egg hovered, motionless, but within the energy of life boiled, settling comfortably into the carrion during its dreamless sleep. Life’s miracles worked wonders on its host, though this god’s stillbirth guaranteed nothing more than an ignorant and animalistic mind. Before long the atrophied body began to move, alive once more. Pain suffused the beast anew, but not so much that she longed for death. She wriggled, helpless and pitiable, in the egg.
This craving for life, spurred on by the creative void, and needless to say the unquestionable call of them, took form. Yearning gave way to being, and in the endless black, a spark of light came into being. It built itself, not slowly for the lack of time’s definition but deliberately, however many times it faltered. Distant memories, stuck to the impetus of life like beads of water to a stone plucked out of water, gouged at this light, but nevertheless it grew. How could it do otherwise, now that an absolute bid it COME? Rather than the combustion of a star, though, this light wavered and turned on itself, a sort of jagged spiral tinged with whiffs of green. Fate looked upon the rippling viridian spiral with what might best be approximated as curiosity, barring the incomprehensibility of his form and the completeness of his wisdom. Something strange and old, riding on the coattails of life, appeared to be seeping through. The impressionable medium carried with it an ephemeral yet ominous mold, and the very nature of the growing singularity of life reflected that mold’s unique and bizarre contours. Yet Fate took no preventative or supportive action; why should it? All was as it should be.
In due course the spiral collapsed on itself, and the coalesced creative power manifested in a strange form. Suddenly, in the meaningless abyss, there floated an odd creature utterly ill-suited for its new and inhospitable habitat. Even more remarkable, however, was what lay inside it. Though a living thing in its own right, this furry quadruped served also as a sort of mortal coil for the vast and incredible urge of life that carved it into being. Perfect among the menagerie of beasts spanning imagination, this deer could very well epitomize life in this new and nebulous universe. Fate regarded it, and proclaimed, ”Thou art…oh?”
Before the senses of any watching deities, the living power within the deer suddenly broke out. A visceral green and black spray burst from its eyes, and the creature twisted in agony. In instant her body began to break down, melting into a vile, murky good to slosh around the void. Only after the beast’s entire face and much of her torso degenerated to waste did the decay slow down. It hung there, lowing in pain, gasping desperately for air that did not yet exist. In mere seconds, magnificent turned to pitiful, an utter waste of divine potential still somehow clinging on, as if possessed by a determination to live, until even that died with neither ceremony nor nobility.
Fate watched as the rot surrounding the deer spontaneously grew vines, branches, and unknown arms to reach around the beast and protect her, forming a crude sort of egg to insulate the tortured beast from the untenable conditions of an uninitiated cosmos. Visible through small stretches of transparent membrane, eddies of luminous green dancing, growing and strengthening the corpse still despite the catastrophic flaw in their host’s development. ”A beast, mute and dumb, yet thou art host of an urge that transcends the universe itself. It is the very essence of a cosmic error. For better or worse, thou art Life.”
The egg hovered, motionless, but within the energy of life boiled, settling comfortably into the carrion during its dreamless sleep. Life’s miracles worked wonders on its host, though this god’s stillbirth guaranteed nothing more than an ignorant and animalistic mind. Before long the atrophied body began to move, alive once more. Pain suffused the beast anew, but not so much that she longed for death. She wriggled, helpless and pitiable, in the egg.
Rottenbone Slough
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