Recent Statuses

4 mos ago
Current Anime is now Haram
1 yr ago
How i managed time?
2 yrs ago
My apologies to any RPers im in games with; I've caught pneumonia, so expect delays in posting
2 yrs ago
Your Olmec gods can't save you.
2 yrs ago
Fēlīx Pascha


You can call me Nere for short. Im a part time, very casual RPer with a lot of ideas

Most Recent Posts

Zaqqum Research Center, Somewhere in the Grozny Emirate

A few squeaks were let out as the rats took notice of the flickering heat lamp. A few of the rodents quickly lost interest, as they began running their paws through their head fur, or scratching themselves. The concerned squeaking resumed with the sound of the vivarium's lid being removed, as a large hand descended, grabbing a plump albino from the enclosure, as his fellow rats looked on in curiosity. The white rodent struggled as best he could, but the animal's efforts made little difference as he was carried off to the other side of the large room.

A single hand, clad in a blue glove, gripped the rigid corpse of the rat's predecessor, quickly tossing the deceased murid's body down a silver chute as quickly as the passage was opened, closing it as smoke began to rise from out of the shut vent. Unkown to him, the little white rat was going to be the next in a long line before him. The creature seemed to stop struggling as his feet met with the soft bedding in the tank, first scampering about in fear, but seeming to forget his concerns when the blue hand returned with a nice dish of water, which the rat was more than happy to greedily lap up.

Artem Kovalenko noted how quickly the animal took to the water. He had expected the culture would leave it unpalatable. Rat's were tricky like that, they were spoiled rotten by him. What animal would refuse the water for a minor taste, he had ruined these animals. Thankfully, they wouldn't be lasting long anyway.

Artem thought for a second, thinking of how he ended up like this. He didn't suspect, when he was a student back in Moscow, that he would end up being holed up by a teenage mad-man in the mountains, feeding bacteria to rodents. The Emir assured him that this research would save lives. Chechen lives. But Artem was no Chechen.

The research center was carved into the mountain face itself, a twisting labyrinth. Fittingly, the Emir's man for domestic projects called it the Zaqqum Research Center. The tree of hell, who's fruit burn the innards of the unbelievers. The name made the project seem more illustrious, more modern, than it actually was. One should not expect science-fiction weapons from a nation that must arm it's men with pipes full of gunpowder because a rifle is to hard to come by. Artem just sorted through whatever animal the Emir thought would be a good idea to let loose on enemy camps to try and take down a few guys before the real action started.

The death, the sickness, this was more a prison than a laboratory. The methods were primitive in the extreme, and more than just rats were dying every day. Hell would be a welcome change from being stuck here. At least if the Jihadis had got him back in Dagestan, he'd already just be done with this all. Having his head sawed off almost felt better than whatever gruesome fate awaited him in these tunnels.

At least some silver lining came. News arrived to the researchers that the capture of a group of Circassian bandits contained a potential breakthrough. A prisoner, who had discovered some mice that stowed away on the bandits' vehicle, was showing unusual symptoms. The jailers though him to have a flu and naturally did nothing about it. A week later, the bandit was hacking blood from his mouth with the increasingly worse coughs, and marinading in his own piss, turned bright orange from a mix of dehydration and blood. It was around the same time that everyone in his cell started showing the same flu symptoms.

The guards opted to shoot the men dead in their cells, but thankfully one of them had the foresight to send some blood, urine, and tissue samples to the center.

It was plainly clear to Artem that the culprit was an orthohantavirus. The rodent-borne nature, and the bleeding and renal failures, it mirrored the deadly so-called Korean Hemorrhagic Fever the professors loved to speak about, but he had yet to see a disease of this severity. He termed the pathogen as 'Circassia Virus', a new strain of Hantavirus he supposed to be native to Circassia. Perhaps his medical training would actually come into some use.

The animal would be farmed for feces until the virus finally claimed it as well. Artem could not help but feel a kind of pity for the creature, unaware of its fate as it happily lapped up water from its dish, unaware of the fate that befell not just it but all it would come in contact with. The Virus would need testing as well. The Emirate was never short on subjects. The Jihadis often found themselves integral to the naturalism they so reviled. He had come to hate it too, though he was no Muslim. The acts he had committed confirmed the absence of any God in this world. At least there was the relief of knowing no hellfire awaited him for these things.

The doctor, no, that term did not befit him in his own mind. A doctor is a healer, he had become little more than a bioweapon as much as the ones he helped create. He was no healer. He thought this as he watched the rat stand on its legs, beaconing him for food, and Artem obliging the pudgy little creature. It was going to die, but he didn't have to treat it like he knew that.
Gudermes, Grozny Emirate

10:45 AM, Sandek Fishery

Chingiz counted his blessings every day that the Emir was in a position to keep food available for everyone. Chingiz made a tripe out from Gudermes every Thursday to the fishery, carrying away a few hundred pounds of fish to carry back to the city. But today was Friday; Chingiz had made the trip up to the farm the previous day, but Levi, the owner, was nowhere to be found. It was a hot day, even this early into the morning.

Moshe, the farmer's son, was out in the fields, tossing food into the ponds. The boy's eyes darted over to Chingiz, and he waved over to him to come to the ponds. He was familiar with the fishmonger, and knew why he was here. His father had gone a few days ago, yet had not returned. A day late was normal, but three days was an anomaly, to say the least.

"Good Morning, Moshe, has your father returned?"

The boy shook his head solemnly, "Not yet, we haven't heard anything from him."

Chingiz was concerned to hear this, it wasn't like Levi to just hightail it somewhere without leaving his family at least a note to tell them he would be gone for an extended duration. The merchant's mind immediately drifted off to the worst case scenario, and he swallowed hard, hoping that it was nothing, and that he was just off somewhere.

"I hope he will return soon," Chingiz mused, "How are you and your mother?"

"We are managing," Moshe responded, turning his head back to tend to the young tilapia. The fish weren't eating much, they seemed to be ignoring the food. "I'm concerned about the fish, these last couple days it seems like they don't even notice the food."

"Are they sick?" Chingiz asked

Moshe shook his head, "I doubt that, they're swimming just fine, they don't seem sluggish, and there's no algae that I can notice." Moshe simply shrugged his shoulders, "Are you looking to get your order in? I can get it done in time if I start now."

The Merchant nodded, and Moshe motioned to follow him to the back of the ponds. As the net was lowered into the pond to catch them, it became immediately obvious that something was wrong. Moshe pulled against the weight of the net, tugging and struggling, but the net not rising up.

"Something's in the net" he shouted, as Chingiz came to help him drag up the net.

As the two men struggled to pull it up, they finally were able to have the net breach the surface, with them dumping the contents into a tub to sort the fish.

Moshe immediately jumped back, with Chingiz gasping and turning away to avert his eyes, hacking and heaving at the sight. Among the fish lay, what one must assume was once a body. The bloated, blistering skin was ravaged, the marks of ichthyic mouths having cut chunks from the flesh, eyes sucked out of the sockets, replaced with gelatinous, putrefied blood. The blistered, bloated figure oozed as the fish squirmed, wriggling out from under it, bathing themselves in fetid fluids as they struggled, joining their guest in death soon after.

Chingiz ran back to his truck, breathing heavy to clear his nose of the rancid odor, his nose and mouth dripping with saliva as he struggled to keep from coughing and hacking. Moshe simply followed behind him, white and speechless, as he looked over at the fishmonger.

"I'm going to get the qadi" Chingiz sputtered out.

Grozny, One Week Later

Supian was getting agitated at this.

2 Days ago, the suspect in the Sandek Murder was apprehended, a Chechen named Movsar Maskhadan. Maskhadan was a muslim, nothing unusual for a Chechen. However, his victim, Levi Sandek, an Ashkenazi Jew. Maskhadan had further complicated the situation, and pissed off Supian, by committing the heinous act in New Zion, an autonomous Jewish commune set up by the local warlord, Kharon Geteyev, for the local Jewish teip. Typical of Kharon, the lazy bastard.

Kharon set up a court hearing for Maskhadan with the local qadi. However, the Jews objected to the use of a sharia court, arguing that as the victim was a jew, and the crime transpired in Jewish territory, a halacha court was necessitated. Objections were raised, arguments made, but no consensus was reached. In keeping with the typical laziness of Kharon, the issue was transferred over to Supian, the Grand Mufti. The stake of inter-religious justice was at stake, and it rested on his shoulders. Seven cups of coffee were his companion in this decision process.

The Mufti pressed the bridge of his nose, the tension of this was creating a nasty headache. If the emirate was ever to emerge as anything better that some minor warlords, there needed to be better laws than letting every big man with a gun decide his own laws. Ramzan would do well to put the people to the book, and actually govern his state like an emir, like a true Islamic ruler.

It was far from the first time Supian had propositioned Ramzan for greater application of Islamic Law. The boy was, however, a youth with little interest in the words of an old man. Osman was the usual recipient of his remarks, when the emir could not be bothered to listen.

For Osman, the Gun was greater than the Quran. The damned kafir.

It was abundantly clear that Maskhadan was guilty. But the problem came, in Supian's eyes, in that while he was a murderer, the Chechen was a muslim, a believer in God, while the farmer was a Jew, a dzimmi. The Jews called for his death, for his blood to be spilled. And Supian, he could not abide the idea of putting a fellow muslim to death for this. It was suggested that he be put into the mines or the oil fields for the rest of his life, but slavery was not permissible for a believer either.

The Mufti rubbed his temples, seeking some relief from the tension. What could be done with a low-life like Movsar Maskhadan, a low-life but a brother in Islam. That was when and idea came to him.

The Redoubt, Grozny

Only the biggest pieces of shit ended up in the dungeons of the Redoubt. The locals called it Jahannam. Though that might be an understatement, for many said that for what they had seen, hell was cushy and comforting compared to the things in which Ramzan liked to put the worst criminals in Chechnya.

As expected, Movsar Maskhadan lay in chains, stripped of all clothes save a rough, burlap garment. The shackles left him sitting, lest he stand, struggle, and dig the steel braces further into his flesh. The wounds were starting to become necrotic, and the smell of decay was coming over him. The guards were commanded to keep him alive, but it was obvious they were doing the very bare minimum.

Locks turned in the wall, and the two soldiers stood at attention, acknowledging the Grand Mufti as he entered into the room.

"Movsar Maskhadan" Supian spoke, as the shackled man's eyes drifted up to him. "I have come with your final sentence."

Supian unfurled the document, as he read it out loud. "Movsar Maskhadan, for the murder of Levi Sandek, I, Supian Inarkaevich, Grand Mufti of the Emirate of Grozny, sentence you to 25 years in service to the Emir's Army, and to make a payment of 54795 Dinars* to Moshe Sandek, for the blood price of his father."

Movsar coughed, "You're having me impressed into the army?"

Supian spat onto the floor, "If only for the reason that Allah forbids me to just kill you on the spot, and that someone needs to pay for the blood on your hands." Supian motioned for the guards to free the criminal. "You will be put to some use in society, and you will pay the family with your earnings in the Emir's personal military, since someone has to compensate him."

The guards forced Movsar up to his feet, the mans calling out in pain as his festering wounds on the ankles bent, and they dragged him over to the showers. "So get ready, first thing tomorrow, we're shipping you out to Mozdok."

*equivalent to 2 Million USD in OTL 2018

"Miss Dratcheva, the Emir will see you now"

Aysha Dratcheva lightly dusted off her skirt as she got onto her feet. Her arrival in Grozny had been a rough one. Two days prior, a skirmish with Ichkerians resulted in the complete destruction of a major road leading from Argun to the capital. Escorts were capable of keeping a traveling party safe between cities, that was until they entered the Emir's demesne. These were lands where no teip was granted direct access.

Aysha followed the usher at a distance as they made their way through the courtyard of the Emir's Redoubt. When the Russians abandoned Grozny, the Chechens were quick to retake the city, and slaughter any Russians left within. What was left of the kremlin built in the city's heart was turned into another aul first, the inventive Chechens quickly reshaping the Russian fortress into their own image. Warlords holed themselves up in the fortress as Grozny changed hands like a whore being passed around. What was once a reflection of the Slavic domination of the Caucasus was no longer anything of its former self, and the kremlin was a reflection of this. Where once stood Byzantine onion domes, and murals of Christ and the saints, now saw calligraphy and verses of the Qu'ran inscribed into the walls.

Aysha was caught by the lifelessness of the courtyard as they walked through it. Empty plots of dirt divided by cracked stone pathways. Twisted bodies of flowers curled lifelessly, clinging to steel cages that once held their bodies as they grew. The death-filled courtyard complimented with stone engravings of flowers and birds all over the walls and pillars of the once flourishing center. Her concentration was broken with the loud creak of the usher opening the door to dark office on the other side of the court.

Behind the door was a large, robust man dictating something to a scribe, who was fast at work codifying his words into a twisted, neigh unreadable script. Duq'an, the court hand. Even for herself, she found the penmanship of this secretary difficult. A sudden sharp call to attention drew her head back to the man at the desk. His hand extended forward, motioning for Aysha to take a seat in front of his desk.

"Assalam Alaykum, Miss Dratcheva. How are you this day?"

Aysha made a small motion as she sat down, "Valaykum Salam, Alhamdulillah." She glanced up and spoke again. "You are Mr. Osman Masaev?"

"Indeed" the man replied, as the secretary bent over to the side to grab a new bottle of ink, motioning to the warlord for a moment's pause before he could return to the stenographing. Osman cleared his throat before the scribe motioned to him once more, and he resumed speaking. "I assumed you would have a wali with you"

Aysha coughed slightly into her hand before speaking once again. "Ideally I would have, but circumstances left me unable to afford to bring another with me."

Osman replied monotonously, "It does not reflect well on a woman who may potentially be in service to the Emir to be associating with men freely." He leaned forward as he spoke again, "She may be too loose to be trusted as his secretary."

"I assure you, Mr. Masaev, I have come as promptly to your service, being only in the company of men in my own teip the whole time."

Osman nodded sagely as he scanned her up and down. "Miss Dratcheva, may I ask you, what do you know of Emir Ramzan?"

"The Emir?" Aysha said, pausing to probe her mind. "I know he is young, that he took over from his father. But I cannot say more, I know not even what he looks like?"

"Of course, Miss Dratcheva, that is no accident. Ramzan prefers his image to be outside of the mind of the people of Grozny, that they know him through his associates. That the name Ramzan Umarov brings images of armies and order."

Osman motioned for his scribe to cease recording and stood up.

"Follow me, Miss Dratcheva, I will take you to him."

Aysha stood herself up, once again following Osman from a distance as he led her through another decorated corridor to a large, gilded door. Motioning to the guards, he had them open up a door.

"Commander, I am pleased to introduce the candidate for your secretary. Miss Aysha Dratcheva, a young scribe from Argun."

Aysha blinked a few times as her eyes set onto the Emir. She had heard that he was young, but she did not expect him to be as youthful as he was. The young man pushed himself back from his desk, walking up to the pair that had entered into his chambers.

"Marsha Oyllah to you both," The Emir gestured to them, as both Osman and Aysha made a movement of respect towards him. Ramzan glanced over at Aysha, who was tense, keeping herself restrained and at attendance in the presence of the Emir. "Miss Dratcheva, Aysha, please" he said quite informally, "relax, you don't have to keep up that high society shit around me."

Aysha's face contorted into an expression of shock and confusion at these words. This was the Emir? A man so young he didn't even have full facial hair yet. The long blond hair hanging out under his navy blue train conductor's hat and his large, round eyes gave this military commander an even more boyish look.

"Aysha, please sit wherever, you look uncomfortable standing like that." Ramzan said as he strutted back to his desk, "You too Osman, loosen up a bit" he added in, turning around as he stopped and pointed at the Grand Warlord as he pulled out a chair and reclined back into it.

The Emir's chambers were perhaps more befitting of a child than they were of the supreme military commander of Chechnya. The walls of the bedchambers were intricately decorated, with paintings of animals found in the mountains of Caucasia, and depictions of trains across them. Trains were a theme, as it was immediately obvious to anyone that locomotives were a favorite of the young ruler. Even on his personal desk stood a small toy train on wooden tracks, with a wind up key placed into the hood of the train car.

But what stood out the most to Aysha wasn't the trains, it was the other toy he had. Plush animals in glass cases in the far end of his room, meticulously groomed and posed in their containers. Beanies, a line of cheap childrens toys filled with plastic beans and stuffing. They were relatively popular, but Aysha never knew anyone could like them this much. Enough to have them in cases, and in displays.

"Do you like them?" Ramzan queried to Aysha, catching her attention. "They were a chore to collect. Beanies are rare enough as it is in Europe, let alone in a war zone like this." Aysha stared blankly at him as he continued. "I give my soldiers special bonuses if they bring me back a Beanie when they siege and capture a place. A real weapon in place of a Scorpion, Stinger or some other pipe-gun. Osman says I shouldn't ransom weapons for toys, but I can't just afford to be giving out what precious little professional firearms we can salvage, now can I?"

Aysha remained silent, prompting Ramzan to push her further.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here, aren't you?"

"I was told that you were in need of a scribe," Aysha responded, "That is why isn't it?"

"Yes, of course" Ramzan replied, "But it's more than just a note-taker, oh no, no, no. I need someone who can help me with something spectacular. I'm in need of a very talented individual who can lend a hand in making my dream come true."

Aysha tilted her head, "I'm not sure I understand"

"I'm sure you do, at some level," Ramzan responded, before twisting the key in his toy train a few times, letting it go around his desk as they spoke. "It's hard running a country, miss, especially a place where, as they say, it's more guns than government. I have a few pet projects I'm looking to get off the ground as we start bringing this unruly mess under a true leader instead of a bunch of ragtag men with pipe guns and stolen carbines. Warlords are not an effective basis of government, and I'm looking to phase them out. But I can't do it alone."

"So how do I fit into all this?"

"Simple, Aysha. You will be my second body, my new pair of hands and my second brain to start planning out how to fix this mess and get everything going to unite the mountains."

Ramzan grabbed onto the train, stopping it. "Trans-Caucasia"

"Excuse me?"

"Trans-Caucasia, Aysha. The conquest of the mountains, and the technology to break through the once impregnable walls of our enemies." Ramzan lifted the toy up, shoving it into Aysha's face. "Trains, woman, trains"


"I'm looking to build the first comprehensive system of trains to cross the mountains of this land. To unite the Caucasus both figuratively and literally. I need an organized mind to help me plan this out. I've already got the foundation working in Grozny, but I need to expand outward, and give us an advantage in movement over our enemies in Ichkeria. With any luck, we could expect to take the south, and drive that Egyptian and his fundies out of the northeast with ease if we can conquer the mountains. And once we have that, we will be uncontested, unchallenged in our supremacy over the Caucasus."

Ramzan grinned widely, "And you, Miss Aysha Dratchva. You are the cornerstone of our success!"

Name: Heilong Yu

Nickname: The Demon of Ordos; The Black Dragon

Age: 4,000

Gender: Female

Powers/skills: Yu is able heal herself by feeding on the blood of a creature (particularly humans or humanoids) to the point of being able to regenerate her body from blood by her soul alone.

As a vampire, Yu is capable of using the ability called "Xuanxue" or the 'dark arts'. The Dark Arts allow Yu to utilize two abilities called "blood mixing" and "mental manipulation"

- Blood Mixing: Yu uses manipulation of matter to fuse the "blood" (DNA) of creatures into one, mutating the host into a sort of chimera called a Pelorite. These Pelorites are usually mindless beasts with a taste for human flesh and blood, but some are able to be created while retaining her human identity and consciousness.

- Mental Manipuation: Comes in a few stages
-Infest Mind: Yu whispers telepathically into another lifeform to try and probe into their mind
-Dominate Mind: Yu hypnotizes the being, eventually taking control of their will
-Destroy Mind: Yu destroys their own personality and desires, leaving them incapable of independent thought or survival
-Enthrall: Yu enslaves the mindless drone as her eternally loyal servant

The Dark Arts also allow Yu to rip out the soul out of the body of a "lesser" being, such as an animal or a weak-willed human.

As well, as a vampire, Yu is significantly stronger, faster, and more durable than a human.

As Yu remotely controls her body, if she is physically separated from her Axe, her body becomes slower and more sluggish the farther she is from her axe.

Yu must feed on human blood or her body will die. Likewise, she requires human souls to keep her axe at a strong enough frequency to control her body.

While not hurt by it, Yu cannot see as well in sunlight and prefers to avoid it as she feels nearly blinded by it.

Species: Vampire (Non-Pureblood)


From: OC from a comic I write

Yu was well known for being highly draconian in her rulership, routinely sacrificing those she deemed problems to her Dragon God as a means to get rid of them. Yu instituted widespread human sacrifice in her domains, both as a means of population control, and a way to increase her own power with a constant stream of human souls.

Yu considered life to be cheap, and that humanity was expendable as there would always be more of them being made every second. Yu saw human souls as little more than batteries for her magic.

Yu had a fascination with the occult and with magic that tied into her natural curiosity. She was famous for spying on the behavior of the nobility and the priesthood, even as an adult, and was obsessed with what lay beyond the observable. Yu's mysticism led to her having routine visions of the dragon god Shangdi Shenlong, who is said to have informed her of the magic of soul binding and resurrection. Some say this may have been nothing more than hallucinations caused by her exposure to mercury as an alchemist.

Yu had little tolerance for betrayal and treachery. As shown when she had the vassals of Gao who plotted against her boiled alive in oil, or when she cut Volodymyr's feet off in her confrontation with him.

However, Yu was shown to have a softer side, as the diaries and psalms of Lys detail the mutual love the two had in their time training.


Other: Yu initially spawns in the form of her axe, and if her body is killed, she reverts back into the axe in a static state until her body can be regenerated by contact with human blood or some other "life-bearing fluid" (such as cerebrospinal fluid).

Yu will often seek out a "successor" for her legacy in worlds she visits, someone she trusts to 'clear the way' for her return when she feels like coming back. It's likely she'll look for such a person in this world too.

Current Location: Room of Human Blood

So it looks like there's very little interest in this RP so I'm going to pull the plug to make time for other RPs and projects
© 2007-2017
BBCode Cheatsheet