Moonberry

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Life can be hard sometimes. Most of the times. So it's good to have a hobby and a nice community to fall back on.

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If you don't mind groups and you like medieval fantasy stuff. Or even a fan of anime stuff, shoot me a message. I've got a group that writes together in an original world here. And we're always open to new folks!

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[Mabaroshi-Mura:Kuridan] ༺⋆⋇ เภՇ๏ Շђє ๓เรՇร ⋇⋆༻ Part 2

Firelight and snowfall churned together in the main road, turning Nan Pass into a flickering corridor of orange glare and black smoke. The slush underfoot steamed where Yukan’s earlier flames had passed, and every footprint filled with dirty meltwater that froze again at the edges.

The ring of fire that burst from Yukan’s spear on his renewed thrusts didn’t spread wild, not with his control—rather it lashed outward in disciplined arcs, searing through the nearest raiders who tried to close. One man with a spear stumbled back with his cloak aflame, batting at it in panic; another collapsed to his knees clutching a smoking chestplate. The heat forced the tight circle around him to break, their confidence cracking as they realized he wasn’t just “one defender,” he was a moving blaze line they couldn’t comfortably cross.

But the village did not quiet.

On the eastern side, Moo hit the kidnappers like a runaway cart.

Her charge tore through the slush and scattered two raiders off their feet; one slammed shoulder-first into a woodpile, another skidded across the packed snow and dropped his chain with a shout. The villagers they’d been yanking free stumbled away, wide-eyed and scrambling, some falling, some crawling, all of them surging toward the alleys and the tree line as if the forest itself had become the only door left open. The moment Moo’s horns and fists were among them, the soldiers’ neat cruelty turned into messy survival—boots slipping, weapons swinging too wide, men barking at each other to “hold the line” while they plainly could not.

At the headmans hut, the charred and barely standing woman wheezed a desperate and manic laugh. Her chant reached its cadence, the red glow of the seven-pointed coin did not spread outward indiscriminately, it latched. Every body that had fallen in the snow during this fight, human and beastkin alike, shuddered as if tugged by invisible hooks.

A raider Yukan had just dropped moments ago twitched where he lay, charred armor scraping against stone. His fingers curled. His spine arched. Blue light flooded his eyes as he rose again, jaw hanging slack, spear lifting with a dull inevitability.

Near Moo’s path of destruction, a beastkin who had died buying time for fleeing villagers dragged himself upright, chest crushed inward, breath no longer required. The chains that had bound him clattered loose as he turned — not in rage, not in pain — but in obedience.

All across the village, the same thing happened.

The dead stood up.

Julia staggered once as the magic pulled at her, blood spotting the snow at her feet, but she laughed through it — a cracked, exultant sound. Her free hand braced against the railing as the coin burned hotter, thorns glowing like embers pressed into flesh.

“See?” she rasped, voice carrying unnaturally far.
“You kill them… and they still serve me.”

Around Yukan, the ring of combat tightened in a new, horrifying way. Every fallen enemy was no longer removed — they were reclaimed. Burned soldiers rose again with half-melted armor fused to bone. Those struck down by blades staggered upright with weapons still lodged in their bodies, blue fire leaking from their wounds.

Tsukiko swore under her breath, snapping a talisman onto the forehead of one such corpse and shoving her clawed flat hand put in a sharp jab. knocking it over. She moved with caution, but little by little she made her way to Yukan.

"Are you the Clan leader of the Koyake Clan? An Alliance seems unavoidable now." She growled, pointing towards Julia. "She is a slaver that has sent poachers and hunters to these mountains for years. And a necromancer by the looks of it. She must be exterminated." As she pointed her claws came out to strike at one of the fighters eyes.

Tsukiko’s strike sent the undead fighter crashing backward into the slush, its skull snapping sideways with a wet crack. Blue light sputtered in its eyes as it flailed, clawing at the ground to rise again.

It never got the chance.

From the edge of the village, the mist answered.

At first it looked like the fog was simply thickening—rolling down from the treeline in heavy banks, swallowing lantern light and dulling sound. Snowflakes vanished into it mid-fall, hissing faintly as they touched something warm and alive.

Then shapes moved within the white.

Not men.
Not beasts as the raiders understood them.

The first howl tore through Nan Pass like a blade.

Deep. Resonant. Not a cry of fear or rage—but a declaration.

Out of the mist burst a massive white wolf, larger than any mundane creature, its fur glowing faintly as if dusted with moonlight. One eye burned a clear, piercing blue. The other shone molten gold. Snow exploded beneath its paws as it hit the street at full speed, jaws already open.

It slammed into a freshly risen undead soldier and crushed him bodily to the ground, snapping spine and skull in a single, brutal motion. The blue light in the corpse’s eyes went out like a guttered flame—and this time, it did not rise again.

The wolf did not slow.

Behind it came the forest.

Great shapes surged out of the mist in a crashing wave—beastkin in their true forms and half-shifted war-shapes, spirits layered over muscle and bone. Antlers crowned with frost. Claws trailing pale light. Massive feline silhouettes whose breath steamed like smoke from a forge. Some moved on four legs, others on two, but all of them carried the same purpose.

They hit the undead ranks from the flanks and rear, tearing them apart with savage precision.

Where a normal blow left a corpse to be reclaimed, these strikes ended things. Limbs were ripped free and hurled across the street. Torsos were crushed until nothing recognizable remained. Heads vanished into jaws or shattered under hooves and claws. The necromantic threads Julia had woven snapped again and again, recoiling uselessly as there was nothing left to bind.

A towering bear-shape plowed through three shambling corpses in a single charge, pulverizing them into a smear of ash and bone fragments. A serpent-like spirit coiled around another undead fighter, constricting until the blue glow burst out of its eye sockets and faded.

The village roared back to life with the sound of battle—real battle—steel ringing, beasts snarling, snow churning under massed movement.

Julia’s laughter faltered.

Her chant wavered, just for a heartbeat, as she watched her reclaimed dead torn apart faster than she could replace them. The coin in her hand flared brighter, pulsing erratically, the thorns biting deeper into her palm as blood dripped freely onto the stone steps.

“No—” she hissed, coughing hard, crimson splattering the snow. “No, you don’t get to take them from me—”

Another howl cut her off.

The great white wolf pivoted mid-stride, skidding through slush and blood as it turned its mismatched gaze toward the headman’s hut. Its lips peeled back from fangs stained dark, breath fogging the air in heavy bursts.

Mean while, back in the misty forest. The tree did not answer Yume.

Not with words.

Not with thoughts she could seize or unravel.

When she had pressed her forehead to the pale bark, the cold eased—not warmth exactly, but a gentler absence of pain, like snow settling instead of biting. The hum beneath the roots deepened, slow and vast, a rhythm closer to breath than heartbeat.

Her magic brushed outward—and met resistance.

Not a wall.

A depth.

Something immense lay beneath the surface of the tree, layered so deeply that even her telepathy slid across it like fingers over still water. She could not enter it. Could not pull anything free.

But something noticed her.

The roots beneath her palm stirred.

Not physically—there was no movement she could point to—but the sensation of being acknowledged pressed gently against her awareness, the way one feels eyes on them without ever seeing the watcher.

Images surfaced.

Not memories.

Invitations.

A forest path at dawn, mist clinging low to the ground.
A pale clearing where roots rose like ribs around a shrine.
An annoyingly familiar young blondes face.
And beneath it all—absence.

A hollow where someone should have been.

The hum shifted, growing almost… wistful.

Yume might feel the sense of waiting—not impatience, not demand, but something enduring and patient in a way only the dead ever truly master. The feeling was not aimed at her, but brushed past her like a sleeve, leaving behind a single, fragile impression:

Someone is lost.
Someone who once belonged here,
Someone who could belong here.

The roots warmed faintly under Yume’s hand.

Another impression followed, softer still—so faint it might have been her own thought if not for how foreign it felt.

A star reflected in water.
A voice singing without sound.
A daughter-shaped absence the forest could not fill on its own.

Then, gently, firmly, the connection receded.

The tree did not push her away.

It simply closed—like an eye returning to rest.

The cold returned. The hum settled back into silence. Snow continued to fall.

Yume was left alone beneath the pale branches, with only the lingering certainty that whatever slept within those roots was not finished waiting.

[The Kingdom:Fort Bael] ·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

The outpost offered no answers beyond what the snow had already told.

Inside the barracks, the signs became impossible to ignore. There were no claw marks on the walls. No scorch marks or unnatural residue. Only overturned tables, broken stools, and dried blood frozen into the grain of the wood. Bedrolls were torn apart. Lockers stood open and emptied in haste, not looted with care.

It had not been a monster attack.

It had been panic.

One room bore the worst of it. A cluster of footprints circled the center floor, overlapping again and again as if the occupants had turned on one another in close quarters. Scratches marked the doorframe from the inside. The wood was split by repeated blows, not strong enough to break through in time.

The scouts had not fled together. They had scattered.

Outside, the remaining bodies told the same story. Shallow wounds. Defensive cuts. Blows struck too close, too frantic, too personal. None of the discipline expected of trained soldiers remained in their final moments. The cold had finished what fear began.

Whatever they had seen, whatever had taken hold of them, it had not been a creature with teeth and claws.

It had been something quieter.

Madness. Paranoia. A sense of being watched when nothing was there. Of betrayal where there was none. The sort of fear that convinces a man his brother is already lost.

By the time silence reclaimed the outpost, there had been no one left to defend it.

The conclusion was unavoidable, even if no one wished to voice it aloud.

The scouts had gone mad.

That would be the report. No monsters at the outpost. No breach from the west. No evidence of an outside assault. Only an internal collapse that ended in blood and cold.

The trail ended here.

Whatever larger horrors stalked the frozen land had not claimed these soldiers directly. But something had brushed close enough to unravel them all the same.

With nothing left to secure and nothing to save, there was no reason to linger. The wind already worked to erase the last signs of struggle, snow drifting into footprints and softening the edges of broken things.

The outpost would become another quiet marker on the map. Another place Rotia would avoid speaking of too closely.

When the group turned back toward the Bastion, the distant thunder of battle still echoed faintly across the plains. The walls still stood. The city still fought.

And the knowledge they carried back was simple, grim, and final.

The western scouts were dead.
They had killed each other.
Whatever touched their minds did not leave a mark that steel could answer.

The road back to the Bastion passed without incident. The main fighting had drawn the bulk of the roaming horrors elsewhere, leaving the western approach quiet once more. Smoke still rose from the walls in the distance, but the siege had not broken them.

Upon arrival, the report was delivered directly to Lord Roderic.

The findings were brief and grim. The outpost had not fallen to monsters. The scouts had succumbed to panic and internal violence. No survivors remained. The western route was clear of immediate threats, but the loss of the post meant Rotia would have to rethink how far it could safely extend its watch.

The lord received the news in silence.

There were no accusations. No punishment to assign. Only the heavy understanding that something unseen had already begun to erode his defenses, not through force, but through fear.

The task was marked complete.

The travelers were released from duty, their involvement formally concluded. Whatever awaited Rotia next would require planning, reinforcements, and time. For now, the western road was closed, the outpost abandoned, and the dead left to the snow.

Introductions!

Hey there ! Welcome to the Roleplayers Guild!

If you're a fan of table top and medieval fantasy stuff, you might enjoy the group I'm with. We do play by post literary rp all together in an original world.

Kind of based on the "Isekai" theme of being magically transported from another world.

If you're interested at all shoot me a message!

Happy Roleplaying!

-ˋˏ ༻ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔉𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔶 ༺ ˎˊ-

Sand crunched beneath Izzy’s bare boots as she was shoved forward into the Pit.

For a moment, the noise was overwhelming. Prisoners shouting. Chains clattering. Guards barking orders that dissolved into panic the instant shackles were struck free. Torches flared and smoked, their light painting the arena in harsh gold and shadow. The air tasted of iron and sweat and something older, something that had soaked into the stone long before she ever arrived.

Izzy stood still.

Her prison tunic clung damply to her dark skin, streaked with sand and grime. Brown curls hung loose around her face, heavy with sweat and salt. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists still burned where the shackles had been. And for the first time in a long while, there was no comforting blur of rum softening the edges of the world.

She was painfully sober.

Her golden eyes swept the arena, sharp and searching, tracking movement instead of fear. Weapons lay scattered across the sand. Rusted blades. Broken spears. Clubs hammered together from scraps. Prisoners scrambled for them like starving animals, some tripping, some screaming, some already turning on one another.

Jane vanished into the chaos.

Not deliberately. Not with intention. Just swallowed by the press of bodies as the crowd broke apart, every soul suddenly alone. Izzy caught only a glimpse of motion before the sea of prisoners shifted, and then Jane was gone.

Izzy exhaled slowly through her nose.

Stay alive, she told herself. That was the first rule. Everything else came after.

The iron gate across the arena groaned.

The sound cut through the Pit like a blade.

Sand trembled beneath Izzy’s feet as something massive moved on the other side of the bars. A deep, wet breath rolled out, followed by the scrape of claws against iron. Prisoners screamed. Some bolted. Others froze.

Izzy did neither.

She bent, fingers closing around the nearest solid thing she could reach, a short club studded with rusted nails. It was ugly. Unbalanced. Barely worthy of the name weapon. She lifted it anyway, testing its weight, adjusting her grip with the practiced instinct of someone who had fought with worse.

The gate began to rise.

Torchlight spilled forward, revealing a towering shape forcing its way into the arena. Muscle and scarred hide. Broken chains hanging from its body, clinking softly as it stepped onto the sand. Its breath steamed in the air, hot and foul, eyes locking forward with brutal focus.

Straight on Izzy.

The rest of the Pit seemed to fall away. The crowd. The guards. The Warden above, leaning forward in quiet delight.

There was only the beast and the space between them.

Izzy planted her feet in the sand, shoulders squared, grip tightening around the club.

If this was where she stood, then she would stand properly.

Far above and far away, the Bastion made its other judgment.

The sewer tunnels beneath Carceris Bastion convulsed as the storm finally found its way inside. What had begun as a steady rise became a violent surge. Black water thundered through the passages, tearing loose rusted chains and snapping old supports with brutal ease.

The tunnels filled in seconds.

The current did not negotiate.

It slammed into stone and flesh alike, wrenching footing away, dragging bodies backward through filth and debris. Crates shattered. Moss tore free from walls. Any careful silence was swallowed by the roar of water and collapsing masonry.

The Bastion rejected its intruders.

The flood forced retreat whether they willed it or not, casting the would-be rescuers back toward the open sea in a churning, merciless rush. By the time the surge receded, the path inward was gone. Collapsed stone and rushing water sealed the way as surely as iron gates.

Carceris Bastion stood unbreached.

The storm raged on above, indifferent.

Below, in the heart of the fortress, the Pit echoed with the sound of battle beginning.

Izzy stood alone in the sand, facing a monster meant to break her.

And the Bastion waited to see if it finally would.

[The Duchy: Aslan] .·:★・¨༺ 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔤𝔢 ༻¨・★:·.

The Pavilion did not return to normal after the first cuts.

Even as the names faded from the projection and the usual rush of chatter tried to reassert itself, something in the architecture held the room in a quieter grip. Attendants moved through the resting hall with practiced urgency, carrying thin crystal slates that glowed with updated brackets. The second-round structure was already set, already sorted, already waiting for bodies to step into the places assigned to them.

A low chime rolled through the floor.

Not the bright, pretty signal of earlier rounds, but a deeper vibration that settled in the ribs.

Above the judges’ dais, the projection lit again. This time, it did not list categories. It listed pairings.

Round Two would be fought in lanes—wide circular arenas partitioned by translucent mana barriers. The rules were explained carefully: singers, and artists would be required to continue their performance while under active threat. Fighters would be tasked with protecting their partner’s ability to perform, while disrupting the opposing artist by pressure, positioning, and force.

The phrase “cross-disciplinary interactions” remained on the screen for a beat too long, as if it wanted to be remembered.

Names scrolled.

Pairs formed.

Some contestants reacted with laughter that sounded too sharp. Others went still, staring at their assigned partner like they’d been asked to share a heartbeat with a stranger.

And then, in the middle of the rotation, one pairing appeared in clean gold script:

Stormcrest, Edwin
Nishi, Noelle

A lane number flared beside their names, followed by a simple directive: report immediately.

Attendants began guiding the newly paired teams out through separate arches, one corridor for fighters, one for artists, both converging toward the lane floors. The flow of bodies carried a tense excitement with it, the kind that only appeared when people realized there might be pain, and embarrassment.

Down one level, Lane Three began to brighten as its barrier powered on. Both Edwin and Noelle found themselves ushered in rather abruptly to their positions. Left at the entrance of the lane without any decorum or fanfare.

Within it, the opposing team assigned to Stormcrest and Nishi was already visible near the far edge, waiting under an attendant’s direction. A court cantor stood in formal posture with a polished flute case at her side, and beside her a fist fighter, with the stance of a man who had performed for crowds before—someone used to applause, used to winning.

A final chime rang out.

“Lane teams,” an attendant’s voice carried, amplified by a hovering sigil,
“Performers will begin on signal. Protective engagement is permitted immediately after the opening note.”

A pause, then, almost as an afterthought:

“Maintain your performance.”

On the dais above all of it, the judges had settled into their seats again. Lady Avelyne watched the lane floors like a chemist watching a reaction begin. Two of the others spoke quietly to aides, styluses poised. However, the center seat sat empty.

There was no sign of the golden masked man.

The barriers hummed louder.The hum deepened into a steady resonance, vibrating through the soles of boots and the thin soles of performance shoes alike.

Lane Three sealed.

The translucent barrier rose higher, its surface rippling once before settling into a faintly luminous dome that cut the lane off from the rest of the Pavilion. Sound from the crowd dulled instantly, replaced by a muted, pressurized quiet the kind that made every breath feel deliberate.

At the far end of the lane, the opposing performers took their positions.

The court cantor stepped forward first, fingers adjusting the silver inlay along her flute. She closed her eyes, posture straightening as if recalling a well-rehearsed court hall rather than a combat arena. When she lifted the instrument, the opening note emerged clear and controlled elegant, precise the kind of performance meant to command attention rather than overwhelm it.

Almost immediately, the air around her shifted.

Subtle, at first.

Wind began to whip along the curve of the barrier, blowing around the small space with a controlled tenacity. The melody carried confidence, not loud, not desperate but practiced, assured, and unmistakably proud.

That was the signal.

Her partner moved the instant the note sustained.

The fist fighter advanced without flourish, feet digging into the stone as he crossed the lane in a measured rush. No wasted motion, no theatrics, just pressure. He moved towards Edwin, watching the lance with a trained eye. Looking as though he were ready to duck and weave at any moment, to close the distance between them. His focus wasn't on Noelle.

Mana flared along his arms, not explosively, but tightly contained and honed for impact, not spectacle.

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