The New Yorker

Invisibilis Spiritus; or The Ramshackle Monster Hunters (a real world fantasy epic)

Invisibilis Spiritus; or The Ramshackle Monster Hunters

First-hand Account

“It was the dead of night. It was the time in the night when innocent babes began their impetuous cries for their mother’s teat. It was the time of night when scoundrels were being thrown from taverns, when vermin cut purses, and when savages slit throats. It was the time of night when, after the candles were out, and the moon’s light had no hole to peak through, your hand would disappear before your very face. It was the absolute dead of night.
First, there were only cries. It began tersely and without much-ado, in a small farmhouse down the road from the town. Soon all the cries were gone and everyone could pretend like they never heard it. Until there was another cry, one of warning. And it was full of fear and a childlike sense of helplessness. A young boy, hardly dressed, fell into a mud puddle as he threw himself from the dark backdrop of the world outside the castle walls, and into the town center. I saw him because I was hooked into a stockade, my head to be the Governor’s by sunrise.
The boy bawled for a while as he cradled himself in the empty market square, huddled against a brick well. In moments his cries would be only wishful memories for me and everyone else who lived through the coming assault. There was a single high-pitched scream which fell from the mountain near the town and washed over it like a tsunami of fear. I shuddered in my stockade home. That was the last warning anyone had of the terror to come, not that it was ever meant to be one.
I heard it’s wings expand over the church behind me, like scaled masts, and then it’s telling inhale. I couldn’t hear it’s exhale, as the ground before me, along with the boy, was drenched in a liquid fire. Stalls caught flame along with an inn which sat beside the market square. The heat over my head was like nothing I’d ever felt before in my life. The guard which was posted to watch me began running for the castle, just to the north of the church. That was when the beast behind me, now done with it’s initial blast of flames, settled itself among the ancient stonework of the church. I got to work on freeing myself with the utmost haste. I could hear the magnificent lungs of the beast suck in, and let out air with a fearsome growl. It’s claws worked to allow it a comfortable perch on the church roof. My lockpick, which I’d taken incredible pains to hide, worked, and I was free. I stumbled forward to the half-emblazed market square and turned, my curiosity winning against my better senses.
It was the dead of night, as I say, and the moon was half away. I could only see the slightest of details, but I could say a few important notes. There were spines all about his body, along his limbs and back, and his scales were impossibly reflective, so much so that I could not describe it with such innocuous vernacular. The beast dwarfed the cathedral by half it’s height, and it crushed the holy roof under it’s weight. And I, nearly spellstopped, managed to dive into the stone well behind me as the creature began it’s fiery judgment all over again. I hid in the murky oubliette for the rest of the night as the demon above laid waste to the town I’d known since childhood. I could sometimes see the leathery flying form if it’d glide just overhead.
Despite the terrified screams and frightened sobs above I might have been able to convince myself that there was some kind of a festival going on.”
-Translated from an account given by Peter Bolivar, 1666

This is a story of magical elements in a real world. A story of mystics, madmen, oracles, monsters, and Wizards; of racism, and slavery, politics, and war, corruption, and creation. This story begins with the terrifying events of mythic legend, a town scorched black by the fires of a dragon. But it is set in the real world, it is surrounded by real events, and real people, and real-istic heroes. It begins in the town of Sintra, overlooked by the beautiful Sintra
Mountains in Portugal, circa 1666. You are a person currently living in this small, partly coastal city on the day after the horrific events took place. From barmaid to banker, and explorer to saint, all who survived did so by seeking refuge in the mostly intact castle or barely intact monastery.

Those in power, who can culminate, fabricate, and discard with history in the most lethal of whims, seek a way to rid the world of the Dragon, and plunder any treasure that may accompany the beast into his dreams. It is to the courts dismay that on the docket to be killed the very next day is a man purporting to be the “Dread Captain Scar”, a mythical pirate and monster-killer. They free him, ask that he form a team of Monster Hunters, and with the blessings of the church, go into Morocco, where the Dragon’s lair is said to be, and end the creatures ungodly life. You are among the potential hunters. You may be strong or weak, smart or dull, Christian or Muslim or Pagan or Heathen; a rogue, an explorer, a monk, a historian, a scholar, or a prostitute. Whatever your skill set or affiliation, you will be chosen to attend this journey, chosen to undertake this most righteous of paths... this is righteous, isn’t it?

What the unwary voyagers of this expedition don’t know, and what they could never know, is that they are about to enter a world of fantasy. A world only ever spoken of in fairytales. The world that they knew to exist will have its ramparts blasted open, and the light of the truth may blind whoever dares step through the crumbled wreckage of the lies which kept them hostage there.

For right now, this is just an interest check. I’d like to see how much interest it can garner. But suffice it to say that I have plenty planned for this RP, and it goes far past the dragon. I will leave a CS for everyone’s consideration, and so that when we start the OOC we can jump in ASAP.

I expect Advanced level writing obviously, but I am very lax in terms of posting consistency and things like that. Needless to say, you should have a very basic idea of the timeline we are working with. It’s all set on earth so normal history applies. Most important, however, is that you remain vocal. I’d prefer it if people didn’t just disappear without saying a word.

Character Sheet

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Birthplace:
Religious Affiliation:
Secular Affiliations:
Level of education:
Social status (including wealth):
Appearance:
Personality:
Bio:

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

I'll have a little present for one of our newest recruits on the morrow. And when I say present, I mean sexual assault.

jk/nr

Becoming (A Hannibal Lecter inspired RP)

Quantico, Virginia

Josh’s attention hung on Marks words like a baby bird’s does his mother’s mouth, searching for that scrap of meat, somewhere. He didn’t read the profiles, then he made an analogy.

Was this guy, in any way, normal? Josh thought.

Josh much appreciated Mark’s teachings during his early years in the bureau. He would defend “Mr. Vern” from all the bashing he’d get outside of class. People complained about all sorts of things, here and there. Everyone knew he was a gifted person with a penchant for teaching his gifts, but he was inexcusably hard to work with, that’s what everyone said. Josh would talk about how good his grades were in the class, showing them as a testament to the teacher’s ability. He would describe how easily Mr. Vern would extract the essence of a question in class and create the “answer you never even knew you wanted”. Everyone who’d worked with Mr. Vern on anything from a case to an essay, stated very easily, and now at the end of their interest in the topic, that “you just had to be there”.

Josh understood that perfectly now. Maybe, Josh thought, he was just a good student after all. As Mark packed his things, Josh, with frustration, jammed his notepad into the briefcase he’d brought with him.

When Mark asked his question Josh closed his eyes. He felt slightly overwhelmed. He didn’t really know where Mark lived, and he wasn’t sure how long it would take him to get to the airbase. “Okay,” Josh finally said, composed. “Go home and get your things. I hope you live pretty close because I need you in the Military airbase north of here in 25 minutes. J.L wants us in the air by—“ Josh looked at his watch, “11:30. We’re not the only passengers.” Josh stood from the chair and lifted his briefcase. “I’ll call ahead,” he said, “to warn them that you’ll be coming in a civi car. But, that badge might do the trick anyway.”

Josh started for the door, then he heard J.L’s words ringing in his ear. He needed to build a connection, and storming away wasn’t the way to do it. He turned quickly, looking at the ground and pointing with his index, “You should join me in the elevators” he said with a bit of nervousness and some false coolness.

Becoming (A Hannibal Lecter inspired RP)

I'll be able to put a post up in a few minutes actually, Bane.

EDIT: Post up, Bane.

Very well crafted CS. I'm happy to have you aboard and I hope you enjoy the ride, Kentsukan.

P.S Happy 100th OOC post!

Invisibilis Spiritus; or The Ramshackle Monster Hunters (A real world fantasy epic)

Invisibilis Spiritus; or The Ramshackle Monster Hunters

First-hand Account

“It was the dead of night. It was the time in the night when innocent babes began their impetuous cries for their mother’s teat. It was the time of night when scoundrels were being thrown from taverns, when vermin cut purses, and when savages slit throats. It was the time of night when, after the candles were out, and the moon’s light had no hole to peak through, your hand would disappear before your very face. It was the absolute dead of night.
First, there were only cries. It began tersely and without much-ado, in a small farmhouse down the road from the town. Soon all the cries were gone and everyone could pretend like they never heard it. Until there was another cry, one of warning. And it was full of fear and a childlike sense of helplessness. A young boy, hardly dressed, fell into a mud puddle as he threw himself from the dark backdrop of the world outside the castle walls, and into the town center. I saw him because I was hooked into a stockade, my head to be the Governor’s by sunrise.
The boy bawled for a while as he cradled himself in the empty market square, huddled against a brick well. In moments his cries would be only wishful memories for me and everyone else who lived through the coming assault. There was a single high-pitched scream which fell from the mountain near the town and washed over it like a tsunami of fear. I shuddered in my stockade home. That was the last warning anyone had of the terror to come, not that it was ever meant to be one.
I heard it’s wings expand over the church behind me, like scaled masts, and then it’s telling inhale. I couldn’t hear it’s exhale, as the ground before me, along with the boy, was drenched in a liquid fire. Stalls caught flame along with an inn which sat beside the market square. The heat over my head was like nothing I’d ever felt before in my life. The guard which was posted to watch me began running for the castle, just to the north of the church. That was when the beast behind me, now done with it’s initial blast of flames, settled itself among the ancient stonework of the church. I got to work on freeing myself with the utmost haste. I could hear the magnificent lungs of the beast suck in, and let out air with a fearsome growl. It’s claws worked to allow it a comfortable perch on the church roof. My lockpick, which I’d taken incredible pains to hide, worked, and I was free. I stumbled forward to the half-emblazed market square and turned, my curiosity winning against my better senses.
It was the dead of night, as I say, and the moon was half away. I could only see the slightest of details, but I could say a few important notes. There were spines all about his body, along his limbs and back, and his scales were impossibly reflective, so much so that I could not describe it with such innocuous vernacular. The beast dwarfed the cathedral by half it’s height, and it crushed the holy roof under it’s weight. And I, nearly spellstopped, managed to dive into the stone well behind me as the creature began it’s fiery judgment all over again. I hid in the murky oubliette for the rest of the night as the demon above laid waste to the town I’d known since childhood. I could sometimes see the leathery flying form if it’d glide just overhead.
Despite the terrified screams and frightened sobs above I might have been able to convince myself that there was some kind of a festival going on.”
-Translated from an account given by Peter Bolivar, 1666

This is a story of magical elements in a real world. A story of mystics, madmen, oracles, monsters, and Wizards; of racism, and slavery, politics, and war, corruption, and creation. This story begins with the terrifying events of mythic legend, a town scorched black by the fires of a dragon. But it is set in the real world, it is surrounded by real events, and real people, and real-istic heroes. It begins in the town of Sintra, overlooked by the beautiful Sintra Mountains in Portugal, circa 1666. You are a person currently living in this small, partly coastal city on the day after the horrific events took place. From barmaid to banker, and explorer to saint, all who survived did so by seeking refuge in the mostly intact castle or barely intact monastery.

Those in power, who can culminate, fabricate, and discard with history in the most lethal of whims, seek a way to rid the world of the Dragon, and plunder any treasure that may accompany the beast into his dreams. It is to the courts dismay that on the docket to be killed the very next day is a man purporting to be the “Dread Captain Scar”, a mythical pirate and monster-killer. They free him, ask that he form a team of Monster Hunters, and with the blessings of the church, go into Morocco, where the Dragon’s lair is said to be, and end the creatures ungodly life. You are among the potential hunters. You may be strong or weak, smart or dull, Christian or Muslim or Pagan or Heathen; a rogue, an explorer, a monk, a historian, a scholar, or a prostitute. Whatever your skill set or affiliation, you will be chosen to attend this journey, chosen to undertake this most righteous of paths... this is righteous, isn’t it?

What the unwary voyagers of this expedition don’t know, and what they could never know, is that they are about to enter a world of fantasy. A world only ever spoken of in fairytales. The world that they knew to exist will have its ramparts blasted open, and the light of the truth may blind whoever dares step through the crumbled wreckage of the lies which kept them hostage there.

For right now, this is just an interest check. I’d like to see how much interest it can garner. But suffice it to say that I have plenty planned for this RP, and it goes far past the dragon. I will leave a CS for everyone’s consideration, and so that when we start the OOC we can jump in ASAP.

I expect Advanced level writing obviously, but I am very lax in terms of posting consistency and things like that. Needless to say, you should have a very basic idea of the timeline we are working with. It’s all set on earth so normal history applies. Most important, however, is that you remain vocal. I’d prefer it if people didn’t just disappear without saying a word.

Character Sheet

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Birthplace:
Religious Affiliation:
Secular Affiliations:
Level of education:
Social status (including wealth):
Appearance:
Personality:
Bio:

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

Malakaus’ response was terse, disillusioned. Sarel’s pipe emptied upon the end of Malakaus speaking. He tapped it on the edge of the boat and let the ash fall into the water, tucked the pipe in his boot. He wore his chitin armor presently with only one sword on him, he was well armored but lightly armed. He would need to find a nice bit of armor fit for the ocean and swimming. He brought with him a small ruck sack, filled with various items, scrolls, books, roughly 2,500 septims, a couple of welkyd stones, and a few gems. He hoped that would be enough currency to get what he needed. The things which were to be delivered to the ship could be paid upon delivery, using the ships bank, and only Sharee knew how much gold was in there.

“This sounds reasonable. But, gentlemen,” Sarel began, lifting himself from the bannister and setting off down the ramp, “let’s not stoop to barbarism. We’re pirates, not bloody savages.”

Serge unconsciously glanced over at Malakaus, not realizing how obnoxious that might be, not early enough at least. He quickly looked away, hoping he didn’t offend too much.
“Agreed. We’re all… quite civilized.” Serge added.

They walked back down the ramp and Sarel approached the Khajiit Authority, who was making to finish off the flask Sarel had offered as a token of friendship. Sarel quickly snatched the flask from the furry fingers and tucked it into his armor pocket, just behind his cuirass. Then, with an impetuous seriousness and the flexibility of a trained wizard, Sarel drew a circle in the air next to his waist, very subtly, and then stuck his hand into it. This was a trick he’d been taught by his master, it was something common amongst travelers really. Essentially the spell was a portal into a void, a magical space where one can maintain and easily locate their personal effects. Very useful when in a foreign place when you didn’t want to reveal your purse. Sarel pulled a twenty coin bag, filled completely, from the void and set it into the authorities hands.
“My friends and I have business to attend to. Consider this a tip, for being so welcoming.” Sarel said evenly.

“Where did that come from?” Serge asked with a childish curiosity.

“Impressive magics, fine coin” the Khajiit weighed the bag in his hands happily. “This one sees no problem with letting such sophisticated travelers into our markets. Try not to cause too much trouble eh?”

Sarel nodded and the Khajiit walked up the ramp to wait for the captain, happy with his little tip.

“You must teach me how to do that.” Serge commented as the group walked from the dock cobblestone to the loose brick of the tiny city ahead.

“I’d have to consult some old notes, but I might be able to manage that.” Sarel said with a dignified wisdom. Sarel realized that the city seemed to split into two different areas. The industrial area was to their right, where one could purchase all kinds of materials and scrap parts for boats. The market and taverns were ahead, further into the city. Sarel looked over to Malakaus, who looked more interested in business rather than pleasure. He removed a note he’d scribbled earlier from his armor pockets and held it as he looked over to Malakaus, stopping the group at the injunction.

“Malakaus, if you wouldn’t mind, I had some personal business to take care of in town. You are just a good a craftsman as me, if not better. I suppose I can trust your discretion. Every bit of material on this list must be high quality. Some Oak, and pine planks, metal castings, tapestry, things like that. Have it charged to the ship and delivered there.” Sarel held the note out to the Orc, hoping his new friend, and lower ranking officer, wouldn’t give him too much trouble. Malakaus seemed to be a spirited individual, prone to flights of fickleness, but he was also a killer at heart; killers were more likely, than perhaps any other kind of person, to respect those who deserved it, and Sarel felt like he’d shown that he deserved it. Besides, they were in a brotherhood now.

Serge looked over to the edge of the city as Sarel spoke with Malakaus. His blue eyes squinted at the horizon, his furry brown brows furrowed below the tattoo which carefully lined his crown. Outlined by the brilliant horizon, and cerulean sky was a beautiful feminine form, draping a cloth over the bluff on which she stood. Serge’s eyes perked up instantly, his soft pink lips forming into a boyish grin.

A true male Breton, it is said, can always find the most beautiful girl in any town. And, now, as Serge watch this Dunmer woman make her camping spot above the harbor, he knew that, not only was the saying true, but he was, indeed, a true male Breton. Serge awaited his friend to join him so that he could relish over his serendipitous findings.

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

I've got an idea. Plus, it's already written. I'll post it after I get home from this Yankee game.

Becoming (A Hannibal Lecter inspired RP)

It seems like we are destined to always have three writers. I'd like to have more players, but I'm still pretty comfortable where we are.

I should like to have a response for you by Monday, Bane.

Becoming Recruitment Thread (Hannibal Lecter inspired suspense/thriller RP)

.

Elder Scrolls: Terror of the Padomaic

If the port authority let crew members come ashore without the fee bring paid, he wouldn't be very good at his job.

I can see a reason for why he'd let the three who are already there to go about their business, but no one else until the fee is paid. I might have something up later.