Hey there! Welcome to the guild!
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy? Fantasy? Action adventure?
What kinds of roleplay do you enjoy? Fantasy? Action adventure?
Moonberry Member
Sweet as a story, bitter as an ending.
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The corridor behind the Pavilion wall was colder.
Not physically cold — but empty in a way that made the hairs along the nape lift, as if sound itself refused to linger here. The faint blue glow of mana-light traced the seams of the floor, pulsing slower than in the rest of the building.
Noelle stepped in far enough to see around the narrow turn.
There — at the very end of the hall —
stood the man in the golden mask.
Completely alone.
No trace of the contestant he had led here.
No footsteps, no doorways, no alternative halls.
Just smooth, uninterrupted wall.
As if the boy had never existed at all.
The judge’s head tilted slightly when he sensed Noelle watching — not startled, not alarmed. Curious. Amused.
He did not approach at first.
Instead, he let his voice slip through the corridor like warm oil:
“My dear… you hide your potential even from yourself.”
His cane tapped softly once against the stone.
“That performance of yours was a spark, but sparks burn out quickly. What you carry is so much more than you allow it to be.”
The magical lights along the wall brightened faintly — rising toward him, as if pulled, and the mana pup in Noelles arms hissed. Ears pinning back as it stared at the man with narrowed eyes.
He took one slow step closer, the polished mask catching the low light.
“You doubt yourself. And yet… you shine.”
A pause.
“How wasteful, to bury brilliance beneath humility.”
There was no visible magic — nothing overt —
but the air felt thick, like a tide pulling inward. and the
Behind them, the faint sound of an attendant echoed down the hall:
“Contestants! Second-round lineup will be announced momentarily—please return to the main floor!”
The golden-masked judge turned toward the sound.
A gloved hand brushed the edge of his mask as if adjusting a crown.
“Your time is coming. I look forward to seeing what pride does to you when you finally stop running from it.”
And then—
he simply walked past Noelle.
Calm.
Unhurried.
As he continued on his path brought him past Edwin in the common lounge area.
The noblewomen still lingered around the Marcher Lord, their admiration warm, murmuring, eager. Several contestants nearby still watched him with envy or irritation, attention magnetized by his presence.
But when the masked man drew close enough to pass behind Edwin’s shoulder, he allowed a single comment to slip from the polished edge of his voice — soft, conversational, yet weighted like a coin dropped into deep water:
“Lord Stormcrest,” he said lightly as he walked by,
“if you wish to stand among the finalists…
you will need to offer something far more entertaining.”
No pause.
No glance back.
He continued walking — a seamless flow of gold, dark cloth, and cold authority.
But the effect of the words settled immediately.
Not upon Edwin —
but upon the room.
The cluster of noble admirers who had been hanging on his presence moments ago…
…blinked.
Subtly at first.
Fans lowering.
Eyes drifting.
Bodies pivoting with the faint confusion of people trying to remember what they had been doing a moment before.
Their interest did not sour.
It simply… loosened.
As if some quiet thread connecting their attention to Edwin frayed, then faded, leaving only the echo of what they had felt before.
A conversation nearby that had paused when Edwin spoke resumed without looking his way.
One of the noblewomen murmured something polite, almost absentmindedly, before turning to follow her friends toward the canapé trays.
A pair of contestants who had been glaring at Edwin with envy now barely seemed to register his presence at all — their eyes wandering elsewhere, pride swollen in their own reflections rather than drawn toward his.
The shift was not dramatic.
Not hostile.
Not even conscious.
Just a gradual, creeping withdrawal of focus,
as if the judge’s passing remark had subtly rewritten the room’s definition of who was worth their admiration at that precise moment.
The masked man never looked back.
A soft chime rippled through the Pavilion — not the pleasant crystalline notes from earlier, but a deeper, more resonant tone that vibrated faintly through the floor tiles. Conversations stilled. Even the mana-lines threading the walls brightened in anticipation.
A panel of hovering sigils ignited above the judges’ dais.
The first cuts were complete.
One by one, names illuminated in soft gold script across the projection.
Some contestants gasped as their names glowed.
Others wilted when theirs did not.
The room shifted — hope and disappointment washing over it like opposing tides.
And then:
Stormcrest, Edwin
Nishi, Noelle
Belmonte, Aedrianna
All three names appeared among the remaining fifty.
Murmurs rippled through the contestants.
“Only fifty left…”
“They’re being brutal this year.”
“Did you see the judges’ faces? They’re starving for theatrics now.”
As the sigils dimmed, an attendant stepped forward, voice carrying easily across the room:
“Honored contestants — congratulations to those advancing. The Exhibition now enters Round Two, where categories will begin to merge, and performances will be observed more closely for… versatility.”
There was a strange undertone to the way he said that last word, as if reading it from a script he didn’t fully understand.
“Please prepare for immediate reassignment. Groups will be redistributed.”
Mana-crystals along the walls flared, projecting new instructions.
Swordsmanship contestants were directed toward the western arena again —
but this time their battles would be paired with “situational challenges,” whatever that meant.
Music and performance contestants were guided east —
but the stage lighting patterns behind the attendants pulsed in unfamiliar, uneasy rhythms.
And then—
A new line of text flashed across the sigil display:
“Cross-disciplinary interactions will be required.”
Confusion buzzed through the crowd.
A pair of dancers looked at each other.
A chef sputtered.
A sculptor groaned.
A swordsman swore under his breath.
The attendants elaborated:
“To test adaptability. Creativity. Pride in one's full range of talents.”
The last phrase echoed strangely, carrying a weight that made the mana-beast pup (still tucked protectively in Noelle’s arms) stiffen and growl very softly.
Not physically cold — but empty in a way that made the hairs along the nape lift, as if sound itself refused to linger here. The faint blue glow of mana-light traced the seams of the floor, pulsing slower than in the rest of the building.
Noelle stepped in far enough to see around the narrow turn.
There — at the very end of the hall —
stood the man in the golden mask.
Completely alone.
No trace of the contestant he had led here.
No footsteps, no doorways, no alternative halls.
Just smooth, uninterrupted wall.
As if the boy had never existed at all.
The judge’s head tilted slightly when he sensed Noelle watching — not startled, not alarmed. Curious. Amused.
He did not approach at first.
Instead, he let his voice slip through the corridor like warm oil:
“My dear… you hide your potential even from yourself.”
His cane tapped softly once against the stone.
“That performance of yours was a spark, but sparks burn out quickly. What you carry is so much more than you allow it to be.”
The magical lights along the wall brightened faintly — rising toward him, as if pulled, and the mana pup in Noelles arms hissed. Ears pinning back as it stared at the man with narrowed eyes.
He took one slow step closer, the polished mask catching the low light.
“You doubt yourself. And yet… you shine.”
A pause.
“How wasteful, to bury brilliance beneath humility.”
There was no visible magic — nothing overt —
but the air felt thick, like a tide pulling inward. and the
Behind them, the faint sound of an attendant echoed down the hall:
“Contestants! Second-round lineup will be announced momentarily—please return to the main floor!”
The golden-masked judge turned toward the sound.
A gloved hand brushed the edge of his mask as if adjusting a crown.
“Your time is coming. I look forward to seeing what pride does to you when you finally stop running from it.”
And then—
he simply walked past Noelle.
Calm.
Unhurried.
As he continued on his path brought him past Edwin in the common lounge area.
The noblewomen still lingered around the Marcher Lord, their admiration warm, murmuring, eager. Several contestants nearby still watched him with envy or irritation, attention magnetized by his presence.
But when the masked man drew close enough to pass behind Edwin’s shoulder, he allowed a single comment to slip from the polished edge of his voice — soft, conversational, yet weighted like a coin dropped into deep water:
“Lord Stormcrest,” he said lightly as he walked by,
“if you wish to stand among the finalists…
you will need to offer something far more entertaining.”
No pause.
No glance back.
He continued walking — a seamless flow of gold, dark cloth, and cold authority.
But the effect of the words settled immediately.
Not upon Edwin —
but upon the room.
The cluster of noble admirers who had been hanging on his presence moments ago…
…blinked.
Subtly at first.
Fans lowering.
Eyes drifting.
Bodies pivoting with the faint confusion of people trying to remember what they had been doing a moment before.
Their interest did not sour.
It simply… loosened.
As if some quiet thread connecting their attention to Edwin frayed, then faded, leaving only the echo of what they had felt before.
A conversation nearby that had paused when Edwin spoke resumed without looking his way.
One of the noblewomen murmured something polite, almost absentmindedly, before turning to follow her friends toward the canapé trays.
A pair of contestants who had been glaring at Edwin with envy now barely seemed to register his presence at all — their eyes wandering elsewhere, pride swollen in their own reflections rather than drawn toward his.
The shift was not dramatic.
Not hostile.
Not even conscious.
Just a gradual, creeping withdrawal of focus,
as if the judge’s passing remark had subtly rewritten the room’s definition of who was worth their admiration at that precise moment.
The masked man never looked back.
A soft chime rippled through the Pavilion — not the pleasant crystalline notes from earlier, but a deeper, more resonant tone that vibrated faintly through the floor tiles. Conversations stilled. Even the mana-lines threading the walls brightened in anticipation.
A panel of hovering sigils ignited above the judges’ dais.
The first cuts were complete.
One by one, names illuminated in soft gold script across the projection.
Some contestants gasped as their names glowed.
Others wilted when theirs did not.
The room shifted — hope and disappointment washing over it like opposing tides.
And then:
Stormcrest, Edwin
Nishi, Noelle
Belmonte, Aedrianna
All three names appeared among the remaining fifty.
Murmurs rippled through the contestants.
“Only fifty left…”
“They’re being brutal this year.”
“Did you see the judges’ faces? They’re starving for theatrics now.”
As the sigils dimmed, an attendant stepped forward, voice carrying easily across the room:
“Honored contestants — congratulations to those advancing. The Exhibition now enters Round Two, where categories will begin to merge, and performances will be observed more closely for… versatility.”
There was a strange undertone to the way he said that last word, as if reading it from a script he didn’t fully understand.
“Please prepare for immediate reassignment. Groups will be redistributed.”
Mana-crystals along the walls flared, projecting new instructions.
Swordsmanship contestants were directed toward the western arena again —
but this time their battles would be paired with “situational challenges,” whatever that meant.
Music and performance contestants were guided east —
but the stage lighting patterns behind the attendants pulsed in unfamiliar, uneasy rhythms.
And then—
A new line of text flashed across the sigil display:
“Cross-disciplinary interactions will be required.”
Confusion buzzed through the crowd.
A pair of dancers looked at each other.
A chef sputtered.
A sculptor groaned.
A swordsman swore under his breath.
The attendants elaborated:
“To test adaptability. Creativity. Pride in one's full range of talents.”
The last phrase echoed strangely, carrying a weight that made the mana-beast pup (still tucked protectively in Noelle’s arms) stiffen and growl very softly.
Hey there! Welcome to the Guild!
Hope you find what you're looking for! Happy roleplaying
Hope you find what you're looking for! Happy roleplaying
Hey there! Welcome to the guild!
The group I roleplay with has an original world that's medieval fantasy but with a splash of magitech and steampunk.
So we've got a few characters with early guns or magical type guns. If you're ever interested in joining shoot me a message!
Happy roleplaying. Hope you find what you're looking for!
The group I roleplay with has an original world that's medieval fantasy but with a splash of magitech and steampunk.
So we've got a few characters with early guns or magical type guns. If you're ever interested in joining shoot me a message!
Happy roleplaying. Hope you find what you're looking for!
The demon didn’t bleed.
It unraveled.
Yume’s spell struck not the body, but the mind behind it.
Invisible threads lashed out from her staff like spectral roots — burrowing into the monster’s skull, into the writhing mass of stolen thoughts that held it together.
For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then the demon spasmed.
Its many eyes snapped open wide, then wider, then too wide —
faces rippled across its surface like reflections on black water, flickering through terror, rage, grief, and hollow, yawning emptiness as Yume’s magic dug in and fed.
Memories tore loose.
Not theirs —
someone else’s.
A girl screaming as chains were locked around her wrists.
A boy kneeling in the snow, head forced down by a boot.
A burning village.
A blood-slick altar.
A hand holding up a heptagram talisman and whispering: “You will never be powerless again, my wrathful child.”
The demon clawed at its own head, jaws open in a soundless howl as Yume’s psychic tendrils ripped and devoured anything that gave it cohesion.
Then Moo hit it.
Her charge slammed into one of the thing’s massive legs like a battering ram of bone and will.
There was no finesse — just raw, stubborn force.
The impact sent a shockwave up the demon’s body, and with its mind in tatters, it stumbled.
The huge bulk crashed sideways, one arm flailing for balance, claws carving trenches into the stone.
Where Moo’s strike connected, its form buckled, shadow and stolen shapes splintering, unable to hold.
The chamber reacted.
Cracks spiderwebbed up the walls, across the ceiling, down under their feet. The world itself shuddered like glass about to let go.
The world dropped out from under them.
There was no falling this time — no sense of down at all. Only a sensation like being yanked backward through the spine, through the eyes, through every thought that had touched this place.
Something big — something angry — reached for them one last time.
Yume might feel a claw brush the edge of her thoughts, hissing:
“Remember this, little dreamer.”
Moo might feel a weight slam against her chest like a promise of future battle.
And then—
Cold.
Real cold.
The dream shattered like a pane of black ice, and both were hurled out of it.
In the misty forest, beneath the pale tree
The undead never saw it coming.
One moment it was crushing Tsukiko against the roots of the pale tree, its blue-lit eyes fixed on her throat.
The next—
Foxfire.
Kota hit it like a living spear.
His hand drove forward, wrapped in roaring blue flame. The strike punched straight through the creature’s chest, foxfire bursting out its back in a geyser of burning light. For an instant, the zombie’s form illuminated from within — bones, snapped ribs, a shriveled black knot where its heart should have been.
The corrupted mana shrieked.
Its jaw stretched wide enough to crack as the foxfire ate it from the inside.
Then Lenara’s blade sang.
Her molten slash carved across the thing’s torso in a bright arc, the liquid fire biting through dead flesh like butter. Venom-fire clung to it, climbing up its body in writhing trails of ember.
The undead stumbled, arms spasming.
Tsukiko tore herself free of its grip, feet skidding in the snow. Her hands snapped into a final seal, one last talisman — ink bleeding red across the paper — slapping flat against the creature’s burning forehead.
“Return to the earth that rejects you,” she hissed.
The rune ignited.
For a heartbeat, all three could see it clearly — a web of threads beneath the creature’s skin, glowing blue and red, pulling it like a puppet. Those threads snapped taut, then recoiled, ripping free of the corpse and vanishing into the mist with a horrible, whistling shriek.
The body collapsed into the snow with a dull thud, already beginning to crumble to ash.
Silence rushed in.
Breath. Heartbeat. The soft, low hum of the pale tree above them.
Tsukiko staggered, one knee hitting the roots. Her hand dug into the bark like an anchor as her tails lashed once, twice, before settling.
Her gaze flicked to Kota. To Lenara. And the other two that were slowly wakening from the shattered dream world.
“That thing…” she rasped, ears pinning flat. “It was not… born here.”
The mist around them was no longer pure white — streaks of faint red threaded through it now, pulsing in a rhythm that felt wrong.
Her eyes narrowed toward the distant glow of Nan Pass below.
"Something took control of the trial...something that should not be here." She paused to look up at the pale tree with what might pass for concern on the stubborn old wolfess.
She exhaled hard, steam curling into the air.
“Nan Pass Village is under attack. The same corruption that animated this thing is moving down there. If you can stand—”
Her gaze hardened, sharp as drawn steel.
“—then stand. The trial isn’t over. It’s just not the one I planned.”
She led the way with a hurried pace through the mist to the little mining Village. Towards the sounds of screaming and chaos.
Nan Pass burned.
Firelight and falling snow tangled together over the rooftops as Yukan stepped into the chaos — the Koyake crest snapping in the mountain wind like a banner of defiance.
The fire did not roar so much as unfold through the village.
Yukan’s arrival cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. His spear’s flame erupted outward in a sweeping arc, and for a heartbeat, all sound vanished beneath the pressure of heat and light. When the world exhaled again, the battlefield had reshaped itself.
Where a line of skeletal warriors had stood moments before, there were now only smoking heaps of bone collapsing into the snow. Their blue-lit sockets dimmed into nothing, their chains hissing as the residual fire blight ate away the last of the necrotic magic binding them. Villagers who had been moments from being dragged away stumbled free, staring in disbelief as their captors simply… fell apart.
The snow underfoot had melted into steaming slush where the fire had passed, leaving dark, glassy patches that reflected the violence back at the sky. Doors hung crooked from hinges; torches lay extinguished in the snow; overturned baskets, broken tools, and scattered belongings littered the street where families had fled in panic. The smoke rising from the homes nearest the square twisted into the overcast air, thick enough that the sky looked bruised.
Many of the villagers had been freed by Yukans sweeping fire arc. However some had been freed when the human soldiers had realized the real threat. They turned their attention towards Yukan.
And through that haze, the crimson-haired woman stood on the stone steps like a dying star refusing to collapse.
The blast had struck her—there was no mistaking that. Her coat was charred through one side, the flesh beneath smoking where the fire had torn into her. She held the railing with both hands, knuckles white, torso trembling as she tried—and failed, once—to straighten. When she finally lifted her head, her violet eyes were fever-bright, trembling with pain but burning with fury.
Blood streaked the handkerchief she pressed to her lips. When she lowered it, more ran freely.
She wavered on her feet, clutching her ribs where the spear’s cleansing fire had burned deep. Frost clung to her eyelashes and streaks of soot blackened her cheeks, but she refused to fall. Instead, she reached into the inner lining of her coat with a shaking hand.
A glass vial flashed in the snowy light.
She uncorked it with her teeth and downed the potion in one tilt of her head.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the veins in her neck and wrists glowed faint violet. The burn along her ribs sealed—not cleanly, not perfectly, but enough to let her inhale without choking. Enough to let her stand straighter. Enough to let the rage return in full.
She lowered the empty vial and looked directly at Yukan.
“Do you think a little fire will stop me?”
Her voice scraped like frost over steel.
“Do you think any of this will stop me?”
Her hand dipped into her pocket once more.
When it emerged, she held a coin—dark metal etched with a seven-pointed star, each point wrapped in barbed thorns. The sigil pulsed faintly, as though something behind the metal breathed.
Snow falling around her sublimated into steam.
“They killed my son,” she said.
The surviving raiders stiffened at her back.
“They killed my niece.”
The talisman at her throat flared.
“And now these animals—these wretched, lying beastkin—think they can hide in their mountain dens and forget their sins?” Her words carried not grief alone, but a hatred sharpened into purpose. “No. No more running. No more mercy.”
She lifted the coin high.
The seven-pointed star ignited with sickly red light.
A sound like a heartbeat, but wrong, pulsed through the ground.
“YOU WILL ALL,” she hissed, voice rising into a chant,
“PAY IN BLOOD OR IN BONES.”
She began to chant, and as she did a dark energy began to gather around her.
Ten of the armed men moved straight towards Yukan, their spears pointed at him.
Ten more were on the eastern side of the village; some still yanking at villagers that had been unlucky enough to be caught. Though most moved towards Yukan.
Tsukiko Growled as she watched the scene but she turned towards Kota abruptly. Biting her thumb, she drew a symbol on his forehead.
"Consider this the final trial for you. You found your way in the mist. Now release your Beast and defend the village."
Then a feral growl ripped from her throat as shadows enveloped her form. And suddenly a spray of snow was kicked up as a very large wolf started to bound towards the nearest soldiers. Grabbing the first ones neck between her maw, pinning him to the snow as blood began to pool around his twitching form.
[/hr]
Ooc: There's about 35 men to attack. Ten are circling around Yukan. Julia took a strange potion and is now channeling some strange dark magic while brandishing a weird talisman.
ten of the soldiers are on the eastern side of the town trying to yank villagers and tie them up. Theres at least fifteen more standing between where the group is and where Julia and Yukan are.
Tsukiko has taken on the form of a slightly above average sized black wolf and is attacking the men head on.
It unraveled.
Yume’s spell struck not the body, but the mind behind it.
Invisible threads lashed out from her staff like spectral roots — burrowing into the monster’s skull, into the writhing mass of stolen thoughts that held it together.
For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then the demon spasmed.
Its many eyes snapped open wide, then wider, then too wide —
faces rippled across its surface like reflections on black water, flickering through terror, rage, grief, and hollow, yawning emptiness as Yume’s magic dug in and fed.
Memories tore loose.
Not theirs —
someone else’s.
A girl screaming as chains were locked around her wrists.
A boy kneeling in the snow, head forced down by a boot.
A burning village.
A blood-slick altar.
A hand holding up a heptagram talisman and whispering: “You will never be powerless again, my wrathful child.”
The demon clawed at its own head, jaws open in a soundless howl as Yume’s psychic tendrils ripped and devoured anything that gave it cohesion.
Then Moo hit it.
Her charge slammed into one of the thing’s massive legs like a battering ram of bone and will.
There was no finesse — just raw, stubborn force.
The impact sent a shockwave up the demon’s body, and with its mind in tatters, it stumbled.
The huge bulk crashed sideways, one arm flailing for balance, claws carving trenches into the stone.
Where Moo’s strike connected, its form buckled, shadow and stolen shapes splintering, unable to hold.
The chamber reacted.
Cracks spiderwebbed up the walls, across the ceiling, down under their feet. The world itself shuddered like glass about to let go.
The world dropped out from under them.
There was no falling this time — no sense of down at all. Only a sensation like being yanked backward through the spine, through the eyes, through every thought that had touched this place.
Something big — something angry — reached for them one last time.
Yume might feel a claw brush the edge of her thoughts, hissing:
“Remember this, little dreamer.”
Moo might feel a weight slam against her chest like a promise of future battle.
And then—
Cold.
Real cold.
The dream shattered like a pane of black ice, and both were hurled out of it.
In the misty forest, beneath the pale tree
The undead never saw it coming.
One moment it was crushing Tsukiko against the roots of the pale tree, its blue-lit eyes fixed on her throat.
The next—
Foxfire.
Kota hit it like a living spear.
His hand drove forward, wrapped in roaring blue flame. The strike punched straight through the creature’s chest, foxfire bursting out its back in a geyser of burning light. For an instant, the zombie’s form illuminated from within — bones, snapped ribs, a shriveled black knot where its heart should have been.
The corrupted mana shrieked.
Its jaw stretched wide enough to crack as the foxfire ate it from the inside.
Then Lenara’s blade sang.
Her molten slash carved across the thing’s torso in a bright arc, the liquid fire biting through dead flesh like butter. Venom-fire clung to it, climbing up its body in writhing trails of ember.
The undead stumbled, arms spasming.
Tsukiko tore herself free of its grip, feet skidding in the snow. Her hands snapped into a final seal, one last talisman — ink bleeding red across the paper — slapping flat against the creature’s burning forehead.
“Return to the earth that rejects you,” she hissed.
The rune ignited.
For a heartbeat, all three could see it clearly — a web of threads beneath the creature’s skin, glowing blue and red, pulling it like a puppet. Those threads snapped taut, then recoiled, ripping free of the corpse and vanishing into the mist with a horrible, whistling shriek.
The body collapsed into the snow with a dull thud, already beginning to crumble to ash.
Silence rushed in.
Breath. Heartbeat. The soft, low hum of the pale tree above them.
Tsukiko staggered, one knee hitting the roots. Her hand dug into the bark like an anchor as her tails lashed once, twice, before settling.
Her gaze flicked to Kota. To Lenara. And the other two that were slowly wakening from the shattered dream world.
“That thing…” she rasped, ears pinning flat. “It was not… born here.”
The mist around them was no longer pure white — streaks of faint red threaded through it now, pulsing in a rhythm that felt wrong.
Her eyes narrowed toward the distant glow of Nan Pass below.
"Something took control of the trial...something that should not be here." She paused to look up at the pale tree with what might pass for concern on the stubborn old wolfess.
She exhaled hard, steam curling into the air.
“Nan Pass Village is under attack. The same corruption that animated this thing is moving down there. If you can stand—”
Her gaze hardened, sharp as drawn steel.
“—then stand. The trial isn’t over. It’s just not the one I planned.”
She led the way with a hurried pace through the mist to the little mining Village. Towards the sounds of screaming and chaos.
Nan Pass burned.
Firelight and falling snow tangled together over the rooftops as Yukan stepped into the chaos — the Koyake crest snapping in the mountain wind like a banner of defiance.
The fire did not roar so much as unfold through the village.
Yukan’s arrival cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. His spear’s flame erupted outward in a sweeping arc, and for a heartbeat, all sound vanished beneath the pressure of heat and light. When the world exhaled again, the battlefield had reshaped itself.
Where a line of skeletal warriors had stood moments before, there were now only smoking heaps of bone collapsing into the snow. Their blue-lit sockets dimmed into nothing, their chains hissing as the residual fire blight ate away the last of the necrotic magic binding them. Villagers who had been moments from being dragged away stumbled free, staring in disbelief as their captors simply… fell apart.
The snow underfoot had melted into steaming slush where the fire had passed, leaving dark, glassy patches that reflected the violence back at the sky. Doors hung crooked from hinges; torches lay extinguished in the snow; overturned baskets, broken tools, and scattered belongings littered the street where families had fled in panic. The smoke rising from the homes nearest the square twisted into the overcast air, thick enough that the sky looked bruised.
Many of the villagers had been freed by Yukans sweeping fire arc. However some had been freed when the human soldiers had realized the real threat. They turned their attention towards Yukan.
And through that haze, the crimson-haired woman stood on the stone steps like a dying star refusing to collapse.
The blast had struck her—there was no mistaking that. Her coat was charred through one side, the flesh beneath smoking where the fire had torn into her. She held the railing with both hands, knuckles white, torso trembling as she tried—and failed, once—to straighten. When she finally lifted her head, her violet eyes were fever-bright, trembling with pain but burning with fury.
Blood streaked the handkerchief she pressed to her lips. When she lowered it, more ran freely.
She wavered on her feet, clutching her ribs where the spear’s cleansing fire had burned deep. Frost clung to her eyelashes and streaks of soot blackened her cheeks, but she refused to fall. Instead, she reached into the inner lining of her coat with a shaking hand.
A glass vial flashed in the snowy light.
She uncorked it with her teeth and downed the potion in one tilt of her head.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the veins in her neck and wrists glowed faint violet. The burn along her ribs sealed—not cleanly, not perfectly, but enough to let her inhale without choking. Enough to let her stand straighter. Enough to let the rage return in full.
She lowered the empty vial and looked directly at Yukan.
“Do you think a little fire will stop me?”
Her voice scraped like frost over steel.
“Do you think any of this will stop me?”
Her hand dipped into her pocket once more.
When it emerged, she held a coin—dark metal etched with a seven-pointed star, each point wrapped in barbed thorns. The sigil pulsed faintly, as though something behind the metal breathed.
Snow falling around her sublimated into steam.
“They killed my son,” she said.
The surviving raiders stiffened at her back.
“They killed my niece.”
The talisman at her throat flared.
“And now these animals—these wretched, lying beastkin—think they can hide in their mountain dens and forget their sins?” Her words carried not grief alone, but a hatred sharpened into purpose. “No. No more running. No more mercy.”
She lifted the coin high.
The seven-pointed star ignited with sickly red light.
A sound like a heartbeat, but wrong, pulsed through the ground.
“YOU WILL ALL,” she hissed, voice rising into a chant,
“PAY IN BLOOD OR IN BONES.”
She began to chant, and as she did a dark energy began to gather around her.
Ten of the armed men moved straight towards Yukan, their spears pointed at him.
Ten more were on the eastern side of the village; some still yanking at villagers that had been unlucky enough to be caught. Though most moved towards Yukan.
Tsukiko Growled as she watched the scene but she turned towards Kota abruptly. Biting her thumb, she drew a symbol on his forehead.
"Consider this the final trial for you. You found your way in the mist. Now release your Beast and defend the village."
Then a feral growl ripped from her throat as shadows enveloped her form. And suddenly a spray of snow was kicked up as a very large wolf started to bound towards the nearest soldiers. Grabbing the first ones neck between her maw, pinning him to the snow as blood began to pool around his twitching form.
[/hr]
Ooc: There's about 35 men to attack. Ten are circling around Yukan. Julia took a strange potion and is now channeling some strange dark magic while brandishing a weird talisman.
ten of the soldiers are on the eastern side of the town trying to yank villagers and tie them up. Theres at least fifteen more standing between where the group is and where Julia and Yukan are.
Tsukiko has taken on the form of a slightly above average sized black wolf and is attacking the men head on.
Welcome to the guild! Remember to be safe and don't share any personal information while online.
What kind of roleplay genres do you enjoy?
Hope you find what you're looking for! Happy roleplaying !
What kind of roleplay genres do you enjoy?
Hope you find what you're looking for! Happy roleplaying !
Welcome to the guild! Hope you find something that suits your fancy.
✧༝┉｡❅˚*❋ -ˋˏ ༻ ᯽ ༺ˎˊ-❋*˚❅｡┉༝✧
The battle reached its breaking point.
The smaller elk-aberration lunged again, intent on tearing into Ironbelle’s unarmored flank. Its limbs clattered across the ice, joints snapping with every unnerving step—
—and the mecha met it head-on.
Ironbelle’s fan-shield slammed sideways into the creature’s face just as Axol barreled in.
Steel and brute strength worked in tandem: the mercenary’s greatsword swept low, catching the creature mid-charge and hurling it upward toward the shield’s rising arc.
The two impacts collided into one devastating blow.
The elk-thing hit the ground in a twisted heap, ribs shuddering, legs twitching in spasms that no living beast should make. Steam belched from its jawless maw as it tried to rise—
—and Bromann’s arrows found their mark.
Two shafts punched cleanly into what passed for its skull, sinking deep until the fletching kissed rotten bone. The creature froze in place. The greenish vapor leaking from its wounds flickered—
—and then its entire frame collapsed into the snow with a soft, anticlimactic whump.
The smaller beast was down.
Across the clearing, the larger bear-wraith strained against the swarm of undead tearing at its exposed flesh. Andrea’s risen dead clung to it with relentless purpose—skeleton fingers raking through sinew, rusted blades driving repeatedly toward the open wounds already carved along its ribs.
The monster heaved upward in one last violent surge—
—only to swipe into empty air.
Andrea’s dodge carried her clear of the blow, snow spraying beneath her weight. She struck back immediately, her blade plunging into the same ravaged cavity her undead had already weakened. The impact drove deep into corrupted tissue; the wraith’s massive frame lurched sideways, a guttural gurgle rattling through its half-sludge throat.
The wound pulsed violently, green light stuttering inside the creature’s ruined chest.
And then Rachel reached it.
Her dagger—wreathed in newly summoned flame—drove directly toward that failing heart-glow. Fire met envy-light with a sickening, warping sound. The corrupted energy recoiled—then destabilized entirely. Heat flared outward from the point of contact, not burning the bear’s flesh so much as unraveling it.
The monster buckled.
Its chest collapsed inward as if the fire were eating it from the inside out. Andrea’s undead seized upon the failing structure—pulling, tearing, dragging with mindless precision. The envy-tainted glow flickered…hissed…
and finally went dark.
The bear-wraith crashed to the ground in a spray of deadened frost, its bulk sinking into the snow as its animating force extinguished completely.
For a heartbeat, only the wind moved.
Then Andrea’s undead began to crumble—bone turning brittle, flesh collapsing into slush. One by one they slumped back into the frozen earth, claimed again by the cold that had once preserved them.
The clearing returned to its unnatural quiet, broken only by the hiss of settling frost and the distant rumble of siege engines battering the Bastion behind them. The air tasted of iron and smoke and something older, something sour—envy rotting at the edges of the world.
For a long moment, nothing moved.
Then the wind shifted, brushing snow over the fallen creatures as though eager to bury them and whatever foulness had animated them.
The ascent toward the western outpost carried the travelers through a narrowing ravine where the wind whistled low, threading between stone and snow like a muted warning. The storm had left drifts piled high along the road’s edges, softening every footprint behind them but preserving the ones ahead—scattered, frantic, pointing toward the hilltop structure.
Near the first rise, the snow told a story.
Bootprints overlapped in chaotic patterns.
A shield lay half-buried.
A snapped spear lay discarded like a broken limb.
But there were no monster trails.
Only human ones.
As the outpost came into fuller view, its state became unmistakable.
The wooden gate hung crooked on its hinges, forced outward as if someone inside had pushed desperately to flee. Splinters lay scattered across the frost, the exposed break still sharp—recent, not weathered.
Inside the courtyard, silence ruled.
Tools remained where they’d fallen: an overturned bucket frozen mid-spill, a lantern left burning until the oil ran dry and the frost claimed its glass in a sheet of rime. Snow drifted lazily through an open shutter, settling over everything like a burial cloth.
Then the bodies appeared.
The first scout slumped against the barrack wall, head bowed as though in exhausted sleep—but the deep crimson at his collar told otherwise. His skin carried the pallor of cold, not corruption. His gloves were torn, his knuckles scraped raw. Signs of a struggle, but not against beasts.
The second scout lay half-hidden beside an overturned bench, a dagger still gripped in one stiffened hand. A shallow cut marred his cheek; the far deeper wound under his ribs explained the rest. Snow had only just begun to gather over him.
Bootprints led in all directions from the scene, some ending abruptly, others doubling back, many smeared into the telltale chaos of close-quarters fighting. A fight had occurred here—among soldiers, not against outside forces.
The barracks door stirred in the wind, creaking open to expose a sliver of darkness.
Ooc: We are out of combat. Feel free to have your characters inspect the bodies or look around for things that might seem to point towards how this mess happened. Or head towards the barracks.
Hey there! Welcome to the Guild!!
Hope you find what you're looking for!
The group I'm in has an original fantasy world we all make roleplays in together. And one of the countries is based on ancient rome. Could see you doing some gladiator tournament fighting there.
In fact in a sort of way I'm running a pirate rp in said country where the pirates have been thrown into a pit and being forced to fight monsters. If you're interested at all shoot me a message!
Good luck! Happy roleplaying
Hope you find what you're looking for!
The group I'm in has an original fantasy world we all make roleplays in together. And one of the countries is based on ancient rome. Could see you doing some gladiator tournament fighting there.
In fact in a sort of way I'm running a pirate rp in said country where the pirates have been thrown into a pit and being forced to fight monsters. If you're interested at all shoot me a message!
Good luck! Happy roleplaying
In
Hi. I'm looking forward to meeting new friends and having fun :)
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6 mos ago
Forum: Introduce Yourself
Gosh it would be nice to delete messages when you make a mistake...
Do you like anime stuff? Or medieval fantasy? Isekai?
Do you like anime stuff? Or medieval fantasy? Isekai?
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