Tlaloc

ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅱ

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Roelo and Jochem stood side by side in hushed anticipation at the roadside, the silence between them stretching uncomfortably, neither quite sure of how to broach the growing chasm of unspoken words. Before either one of them could bridge the divide, it came time for them to part, with the cadets beginning their filtration through the gatehouse that Duke de Barbroeck had disappeared through earlier. Accompanying family members remained behind; a common, emotional glaze washing over many of them as they watched their kin pass the threshold. While the parents who stood on would later bare witness to the ceremony, they were, in this very moment, relinquishing authority and responsibility for their secondborns. The young men and women who stepped through the gatehouse were to swear upon new bonds, to enter into a new ménage — that of the Laachtalian army.

“Perhaps next we meet you might make match my might with a sabre,” Jochem quipped.

“Please, the only stand-off you’ve ever had the better of me in is a tanzstunde,” Roelo said back, a light smile cresting his face.

Jochem chuckled ‘fore glancing back at the mounting queue at the gatehouse. “Well, this is it,” he said, seeming to pause afterwards, unsure of what gesture was appropriate to extend to Roelo. He settled on an outstretched hand. “Good luck, Roelo. I’ll see you again before too long.”

“Until then, Jochem,” Roelo replied, accepting the handshake. It was only now that he realised how much he would miss his brother. Though they had neglected to bond with one another over the last few years, it seemed to Roelo that the two had an unspoken bond, as most siblings with a common trauma tend to possess. If he had more mettle, he’d swallow his pride, tell his brother he loved him, embrace him. But he couldn’t. Even as the thought traced his mind, he recalled his resentments; his bitterness. “I’ll see you again soon,” he said, unwittingly mimicking Jochem. “Bring my well-wishes home with you to Friða.”

And with that, they parted. Jochem watched Roelo as he fell in line out front the gatehouse, as he approached its stewardess, and as he received his seating instruction. Roelo glanced over his shoulder, catching one final glimpse of Jochem before he disappeared out of view. He wondered what ran through Jochem’s mind as they parted ways; if he had considered some form of apology, or an assertive show of affection. He supposed that it did not matter, as nothing had came of it.

As he walked down the arcade, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a hollow-cheeked, copper-haired boy who walked at his parallel. The young man’s eyes had seemingly been affixed to Roelo, but were spooked by his noticing. Roelo’s scepticism quickly reared its head; it had been foolish to arrive in procession with his famous father — it had already drawn obsequious attention.

The quadrangle that Roelo was shepherded into seemed to be at the academy’s heart, with several cloistered walkways branching out to other parts of campus. Enclosed by balustrades, the quadrangle’s well-tended lawn was perfectly square, framed by circumjacent flagstone pathways on which the cadets stood waiting. In the centre of the quadrangle, upon the grass, a military band stood uniformly, not yet performing. They wore high-collared jackets with silver epaulettes, and boasted a wide variety of instruments; brass, woodwind, and percussion. While the academy had a consistent aesthetic, it had seen gradual expansions and renovations over the years, with several of its buildings attaining characterful idiosyncracies. Some of the buildings featured columned porticoes and arched entrances, while others displayed a more austere, stately simplicity. O'er one corner of the quadrangle rested a clocktower with a pyramidal pinnacle, its great hands fashioned from polished brass; its parapets and cornices works of most admirable craftsmanship. Equidescently on each of the four sides of the quadrangle were gonfalons depicting the academy’s black-fielded coat of arms; a white, diagonal bend engouled by golden wolves, and a broken blade. The great, dark hardwood door that sealed away the ceremonial hall was engraved with the same heraldry. Sitting beneath an embossed archivolt, and providing gateway to the largest building on campus, the door was perhaps the most focal feature of the court. Within a matter of minutes they would agape, but for now they remained stolid custodians of the ceremonial hall’s mystique.

The young gentlefolk who lined the pathways of the quadrangle had abandoned any militaristic uniformity as they awaited admittance to the hall. Many had drifted over to acquaintances to chat, with several crowdlets forming around the courtyard. Roelo observed the cliques that were beginning to develop. While many of them would likely dissolve within a matter of days of classes being assigned, it was curious to observe the platonic courtship that was already transpiring. Roelo thought of them as baby birds forced to abscond the nest — desperately seeking out safety in numbers, magnetically drawn to whoever or whatever could make them feel secure. There was laughter and frivolity between some, but Roelo could see through the pleasantries. These young men and women were all playing a game, he thought, a game that no-one acknowledged. Each and every one of the pretenders who assembled in their little crowds wore a disingenuous smile, and proudly introduced a filtered, curated version of themselves to one another. One could not be plucked from their home, thrust into a new city, and then find a new flock so easily; these people were pretending to be friends. The thought comforted Roelo, and made it far easier for him to reconcile with his own social leprosy. He wasn’t the only pariah here, though; as between the clusters of would-be friends were a fair few individuals who, like Roelo, stood alone. One such individual made his way, sheepishly, towards Roelo — the same red-haired fellow who he’d noticed watching him earlier.

“Ah, hello,” the fellow said.

“Good morning,” Roelo replied noncommittally, unwilling to offer his full attention to the approaching cadet, lest he unknowingly consent to a lengthy conversation. His regard remained mostly affixed on his surroundings, granting his unwanted guest the occasional glance.

“Eubén Hügerhaufen,” the red-head said with a polite smile and an extended hand. There was a little bit of a tremble in his voice as he spoke.

Roelo glanced down at his hand, but did not accept it. “What do you want?,” he said bluntly. His suspicions were redoubled by the spontaneous introduction. This Eubén was a sycophant, no doubt; an opportunist who had seen Roelo arrive beside his renowned, tangerine-clad father, and thought that he might score himself a powerful ally by befriending the son of a duke.

“Ah, ehm, I just thought it prudent that I introduce myself,” Eubén replied, his polite smile dashed away; his pale skin flushed pink with embarrassment. “I just thought, on account of us both being seated in the same section, we might benefit from introducing ourselves to one another.”

The conniving crawler had listened in on his seating arrangements? Roelo had to quell the desire to strike the schemer where he stood. He sighed brazenly, making no effort to prolong the smalltalk.

The bell tolled; the conversation faltered before it had even began, and Roelo was grateful for it.

“Perhaps we might talk again soon,” said Eubén feebly, completely neutered by Roelo’s rudeness. Given the boy’s inelegance, any sycophantic intents may well have been a misread on Roelo’s part.

Eerily, by the bell’s second toll, the throng’s ambience had dissipated entirely. Nine times did it knell, marking the hour, before it resolved in momentary silence. The quiet was evanescent, almost immediately replaced by the sound of drums, cymbals, trumpets, trombones, tubas, clarinets, bassoons and serpents. Out blared Dämmerungs Marsch, a composition used often across the continent as a statement of regimental pride. Rousing and bold, brass and percussion interlocked in triumphant, staccato triplets. It was a feast for the ears for any true patriot, and an admirable exposition of uniformity in art for anyone otherwise. Conversely, it was intimidating — its crescendo was oppressive; paired with the sweltering heat of the morn, it formed a volcanic tempest around the cadets, reverberating across the quadrangle’s walls. For the lionhearted, it was be a euphoric baptism; for the meek, a claustrophobic paroxysm; for Roelo, somewhere in the between. He was no nationalist, but he could not deny that something stirred within him through the music — a call to heroism, a promise of worth. He felt himself shiver, but quickly sought to vanquish the childlike bewilderment, composing himself; grasping back out for his usual state of irreverence. In his apathy, he was impervious, he was untouchable, and he was safe.

The hall’s doors were pushed open, and beckon did the ceremony.

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ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅰ

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The hotel room was a resplendent haven from the morning’s withering heat — a delicacy that Roelo was not particularly keen to sample. When drawing the curtains earlier in the forenoon, he was briefly baptised in the uncondensed power of the sun, which had prompted him to commiserate over the unfortunate truth that the ceremonial attire was primarily black. He had arrived in the city the previous evening, by which time the sun had already begun its long retreat, leaving behind a pleasant, tranquilising warmth. Most prospective students had arrived in the weeks prior; participating in an optional (though encouraged) excursion across Ansbourg, familiarising themself with the sights, the culture, and perhaps most importantly, one another. Jochem had sought to persuade Roelo to participate in this ‘bedding in’ period, but he had no interest in doing so. The past year had drained him of any motivation to socialise — every meaningful friendship he’d cultivated had ended unceremoniously. He felt far more camaraderie with the harbour-folk than the jeunesse dorée. Although he was quite possibly from the wealthiest family of any of the academy’s new crop, he had no interest in flaunting his privilege, and he had even less interest in befriending those who coveted it. He found himself repulsed by the very class of individual that he was surrounded by; the same class that he himself belonged to. Ideally, he’d find some haunt in the crossroads of the city where people came and went frequently; he’d seek to blend in with the proletariat, and he’d make company that lasted until it didn’t. Committing to anything more serious daunted him.

The room, situated within the Royal Palanquin Hotel, was adequately lavish for a noble of his standing. Rich damask wallpaper of burgundy and honey-gold lined the walls, matched in hue by the heavy artisanal rug that enveloped the floor. A crystalline chandelier refracted delicate light all-around, and ornate mouldings and cornices framed the room, accentuating its features like a bodice to a maiden. The scent of fresh linen and polished wood drew about an aura of cleanliness, something the housekeepers had no-doubt worked tirelessly to achieve. Though spacious, there was no sense of emptiness in the room, with an array of fine furniture plugging any zone that would be otherwise purposeless. Among them; a large canopied bed with elaborate finials and embroidered pillows, a brass-handled armoire, a full-length cheval mirror, a fireplace with a sleek marble mantlepiece, a plush armchair, a recently polished escritoire with an inkstand and quill, and a huge, intricately carved wardrobe. Though Roelo would make use of several of these fittings in preparation for the ceremony, he couldn’t help but consider how little most of them would be used throughout their lifespan, which was presumably fairly short-lived in such a well-reputed institution. A small table acted as centrepiece to the room, serving no function other than to bear a vase of vivid flowers. Roelo had studied the bouquet the previous night, enamoured by the flowers' perfection, having brushed his fingers lightly across their delicate blossoms in admiration. They were strangely oily to the touch, he had found, and upon closer inspection, were not flowers at all, but waxwork imitations — a novel trend that hadn’t yet made its way as far north as île Monding. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but their existence made him profoundly sad.

Roelo adjusted the cheval mirror, angling it to better inspect himself, having already donned the majority of his ceremonial garb. He studied his appearance, his eyes tracing each detail, searching for any significant imperfections. The process felt strangely dissociating, and he found himself peering into what felt like his own soul for a moment or three, feeling a sudden, chilling awareness of self. Quickly, it melted away, and all he saw was a man. A gaunt, pale man, with skin that was frankly ashen when compared to many of the inhabitants of the presently sun-kissed Ansbourg. Cascading down to his shoulders was a head of unfashionably-long, wheat-brown hair, wavy and thick — which might’ve appeared feminine were it not contrasted by a firm jawline. He had dark, melancholy eyes, with a penetrating gaze, nestled ‘neath dark, arched eyebrows. In many ways, he was an attractive man, but one that was dispirited and vacant. He had a pallid look about him, though he carried no sickness; not of the body, at least.

A knock at his door stirred him from his introspection. He answered, and was met by his elder brother, Jochem, who wore a tasteful tailcoat and a less-tasteful tangerine cravat—as was the de Barbroeck way. Jochem's face was much alike Roelo's, though his cropped, groomed hair was perhaps more lordly.

“Now there cuts a striking figure,” said Jochem, clasping his brother firmly upon the shoulder as he entered.

Roelo gave a thankful nod as he returned to his position afront the mirror, where he continued to apply the finishing touches to his appearance.

Jochem sauntered over to the window, full-drawing the half-drawn curtains that Roelo had retreated from after being blasted by the morning sun. He glanced out at the road leading up to the hotel, before turning back to face Roelo. “Are you nervous?,” he asked.

“Not particularly,” Roelo replied, glancing over the shoulder of his reflection to meet his brother’s gaze. Dark circles hovered over the elder’s orbits; he hadn’t slept well. “Are you?"

“A little,” Jochem admitted. “By the turn of the month, if all is well, I will be holding a babe in my arms.”

“Daunting,” Roelo said plainly. “How do you reconcile the gravity of it all?”

“I’m not quite sure that I do.”

“I trust you’ll forgive my absence from such a momentous occasion as the arrival of your heir,” Roelo spoke sincerely, but without a whisper of tenderness.

“Your absence is noted, but not begrudged,” Jochem smiled, though there was a palpable sense of woe in his eyes. Clearly, he’d hoped for Roelo to be present for the upbringing of his child, or, at the very least, the early infancy. “One must follow the course set before them, however untimely it may be... Life has a way of pulling us in different directions, don’t you think?”

Roelo shot him an uninspired look. It was soothing to posit that life’s funny little idiosyncrasies were responsible for the brothers’ estrangement, but it was an insincere thought. They’d had plenty of opportunity for fraternal bonding across the last decade, but they had only grown further apart. Meaningful coincidence absolves a man of his own failings; the synchronicity keeps him sane. Jochem was a man of ambition, an idealist, and above all, a self-deceiver: he had worked too hard and sacrificed too much to take accountability for any failed relationships. Roelo, on the other had, was a cynic, though he might consider himself a realist. He had no interest in romanticising his disaffections. His immunity to sentimentality, and his bluntness, bruised Jochem — but did not provoke him. The older brother was emotionally unavailable, but he was not one to upset the apple-cart, so he changed the subject.

“This place will be good for you; a more pleasant clime, plenty to do—a good society of equals.” Jochem fidgeted with his cufflinks, toying with the imaginary manacles that bound him to this awkward interaction. “It’s a fresh start, in many ways.”

“I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Roelo said, unenthused. “Though I daresay you wouldn’t exchange places with me given the opportunity.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t either,” Jochem replied with a facetious raise of the brow: “Or have you been coveting the dukedom for all these years, without my being aware?”

Roelo smiled faintly, shaking his head as he adjusted the sleek fold of his black tabard to ensure it lay smoothly against his chest.

“Remember, this place isn’t all books and drills,” said Jochem, despite having no more of an understanding of the academy’s inner workings than Roelo. “There’s plenty you can do. Fêtes, soirées, debates — much to experience.”

“Debates?” Roelo said, placing his shako, the proverbial cherry on the cake, upon his crown. “So we’re to parry with words now, are we?”

“You speak as if you lack experience,” Jochem approached, helping to straighten the cap, positioning its maroon sash over Roelo’s shoulder. “Persuasion, rhetoric — it’s all part of the training. You never know when it might serve you.”

“I’ll be sure to hone my tongue, then. Wouldn’t want to be caught unarmed.”

“I find that very unlikely,” Jochem chuckled, grateful for Roelo’s efforts to engage in small-talk. “But better to be overprepared than the contrary.”

Roelo gave his reflection a final appraisal. He was not one to agonise over his appearance, but he knew that it was a matter of dressing well himself, or being pulled aside by his father and dressed by a retainer. If appearing the part would mean his father’s prompt departure, then appear the part he would.

“Ready to go?” Jochem asked. “Father should be here any minute.”

Roelo nodded.

It occurred to him that this conversation with Jochem might well have been their longest in years. Clearly, the elder brother had discovered a yearning for reconnection as they arrived at the precipice of partition. Roelo’s first thought was: ’too little, too late’; that he’d been left to drown in his solitude by Jochem for the best part of a decade, and that any attempt at an idyllic farewell would be bluntly rejected — but he couldn’t help but feel pity for the firstborn. Roelo stood now at the very gates of his father’s domain, and was moments away from walking out a free man. Jochem, on the other hand, was burdened for as long as their father lived to a life of subservience. Roelo had always suspected that Jochem’s stoicism was a flimsy veil that he hid beneath, and had resented him for not braving grief’s storm together; he couldn’t forget that, nor forgive, but perhaps he could appease Jochem’s conscience with a smile. And so he did, and though it was a forceful one, a hollow one, it was a smile nonetheless — and an indication of some remaining concern for Jochem’s wellbeing.

As they brothers departed the hotel, their father’s prior arrival was evident. Dragoons bearing the orange lion of de Barbroeck flanked a five-glass landau down the lane, which was drawn by two healthy shires. The streets were not yet fully a-bustle, for the de Barbroecks would be arriving at the academy early, the Duke having arranged a brief meeting with the establishment’s principle. Jochem, followed by Roelo, approached the carriage, whose driver held a door open dutifully. The vehicle was an elegant piece of craftsmanship: its body made of a lustrous black wood engraved with intricate gold detailing. It seated four passengers vis-à-vis, though it was presently only occupied by one.

“Good morning, father,” Jochem initiated, taking his seat, followed by Roelo, across from the Duke.

Tælman was dressed with gravitas befitting his station, but with a level of subtlety that would prevent him from becoming a distraction. He wore a long, double-breasted frock coat of deep midnight blue, the fabric woven from the finest wool. Small, polished brass buttons ran in two neat rows down the front of the coat, each one engraved with the family crest — a lion rampant intertwined with a laurel wreath. Like his firstborn, Tælman wore a tangerine cravat, which was matched in colour by the fine embroidery upon his cuffs and lapels. He was a man of two faces. One was that of a striking socialite; a man of charisma and magnetism. The other, and the one he wore at present, was the stern, unmoved face of a patriarch. The latter, of course, was his true self. He was feared by those close to him, and beloved by those he kept at an arms distance. Despite his icy mannerisms, he seemed content with what he saw before him.

“Well assembled,” he said dryly, regarding Roelo.

Roelo nodded. His father’s words were always sincere, but seldom complimentary. Today, the flattery was well-deserved. The Roelo that was being shuttled to the entrance ceremony was not the usual Roelo — but a fleeting chimera summoned by the Duke only on special occasion. Today, even the most discerning eye would be fooled into considering him a man of refinement and grandeur. Of course, a day away from the demands of his liege-father would be pinprick enough to burst the bubble containing this imperious air: but for today, it enveloped him. This day, after all, was not truly about him. Though pomp and ceremony was intended as a hospitality for the tenderfoot of the Command Academy: for Roelo, it felt more like a political exchange. Just as a young woman is ceremonially wed, Roelo was a benefaction offered by his father for political gain. Duke Tælman, the gracious and fair, would present his contribution to the Laachtalian army in an act of bittersweet deference — reluctantly, but pridefully, offering up his beloved son for the good of the realm. That was the narrative that would be spun, but it was an apodictic mistruth. In actuality, Roelo was a stain upon Tælman’s personage; an unsightly wart that made ugly his otherwise spotless reputation. Of all parties, it was Tælman who benefitted the most from this situation, ridding himself of his greatest impediment once and for all, and looking reverent while doing so. Roelo wasn’t entirely dissatisfied with the prospect of enrolling at the academy, however. It freed him from his shackles somewhat, granting reprieve from his bitter existence in île Monding. When all was said and done, it might allow him to be recognised for his rank, not his family name — something that had become a veritable poison upon his tongue.

Any sense of rapport between the de Barbroeck brothers shrank under the watchful eye of their lord-father, with the carriage rolling smoothly into motion. Roelo was quickly reminded of the true driving force behind their estrangement; it was not their late mother, nor either of the young men themselves, but their insatiable senior. When in his presence, Jochem became an incarnation of the Duke’s will; he was the Duke’s loyal blade, his devoted servant, his justice, his wrath. He was whatever Tælman desired him to be. This, of course, reflected very poorly on Roelo, who lacked even a fraction of Jochem’s zeal. And so, a strange quiet fell over the three, and the journey passed by mostly in silence, with each de Barbroeck feigning an intense interest in the city views — so not to reveal the true extent of their individual discomfort.

As the carriage crested the hill on which the academy sat, Roelo's future stretched out in panorama before him; a fortress of learning and discipline, perched like a crown upon the brow of the landscape. Though they were arriving an hour early on account of the Generalfeldmarschall’s invitation, there were already scores of prospective students arriving, many accompanied by a family member or two. The carriage slowed to a halt in front of the gatehouse, which drew open for the Duke’s early admittance, though its passengers would disembark outside. The driver dismounted the landau, once more opening its door, allowing the three de Barbroecks a graceful exit. They took a moment to compose themselves, taking in the establishment’s scholastic charm, before their attention was drawn to a man who stood uniformly beside the now-static vehicle. A figure who, despite not being particularly imposing in a physical sense, wielded an aura of dignity and dominance. Hladekný wore a garb of pine-green and white, a crimson sash sitting across his chest to make clear his station. A ceremonial sabre hung from his braided belt, and a white-plumed bicorne hat with a green cockade was perched upon his head. His tunic was crowded by a panoply of medals, all delicately polished, but clearly earned over the span of several decades. Roelo, having been instructed a-thousand-fold to do so by his father, regarded Hladekný with a reticent bow. The white-haired man seemed pleased by this, outstretching his hand to the Duke with a phlegmatic smile. While Hladekný was surely aware of Roelo’s dalliance with impropriety, it was clear that he was glad to welcome the son of a prince-elector, especially one who was a passionate advocate for the imperial military.

“Duke de Barbroeck, a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance,” Hladekný said, his voice deep and rich. “I have long admired your unabated efforts to expel the ‘vrijbuiter’ from your shores; not to mention your continued generosity toward the academy.”

“Likewise, Generalfeldmarschall,” Tælman smiled warmly, accepting Hladekný’s outstretched hand with a firm shake, and adopting his 'other face'. “Your reputation precedes you. It is thanks to men like you that this empire still stands through its many vicissitudes.”

“Vicissitudes that bare discussion, I daresay,” Hladekný replied, before turning to regard the younger de Barbroecks. “Gentlemen, enjoy the ceremony.”

And with that, they absconded. No invitation to their moot, no personalised welcome for Roelo. He liked it better that way. He didn't want special treatment. If he was to emerge successful from this place, he would want it to be through hard-work and good merit, not nepotism. Though, he considered, every single man and woman who would enter the assembly today was, to some degree, a beneficiary of nepotism.

Roelo and Jochem strolled down the cobbled roadside, taking in the campus' surrounding views with time to kill. It was silent for a little while, before Roelo spoke once more.

“Jochem, what do you think you'll name them?,” he asked. “Your child, I mean.”

“Well,” Jochem seemed to release a long-pent-up breath. “I've always been fond of the name Lœfri. It was our great-great grandfather's name. It means 'beloved warrior'. I'd venture to say it sounds rather powerful.”

“It's grand,” Roelo said with approval. “And what if it's a girl?”

Jochem was silent for a few moments, seeming a little flustered. “Well - you know, I couldn't...”

Roelo stopped still, closing his eyes, pained. Couldn't name her after mother; that was what he was going to say. It hadn't been what Roelo was even searching for, which made it sting all the more. Of course he couldn't name her after that woman, for we do not speak of her. Jochem's cowardly reaction repulsed him. Why couldn't he have just said a name?

“I haven't decided,” Jochem continued, aware of his faux-pas, and keen to quickly bury it. “I will have to ask Friða.”

Roelo felt no desire to engage in further the conversation. He resumed walking, steadily tracking the border of the academy's campus, waiting for the bell-chime that would summon him to the ceremony. Jochem was not fool enough to add further fuel to the fire, and joined Roelo in his silence.

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𝕾 𝖎 𝖗 𝖁 𝖎 𝖗 𝖌 𝖎 𝖑

𝕯 𝖔 𝖘 𝖘 𝖎 𝖊 𝖗 𝕯 𝖔 𝖘 𝖘 𝖎 𝖊 𝖗 _________________________________________________________ A renowned antiquarian, folklorist, and occult scholar; Virgil Montague Lamberth was born into a crumbling Anglican gentry family in rural Somerset, England, in 1874. A quiet boy in his youth, he spent much of his time reading or exploring the outdoors. His governess, a widow from Martinique, whispered stories to him of shadow-men and forest spirits, galvanizing a lifelong fascination in him for the arcane. After schooling at Eton and Oxford, where he studied theology and classics, he pursued more focussed studies in mysticism, medieval heresies, and pre-Chrstian rites. His ground-breaking, field-orientated research earned him a generous grant from the Royal Geographical Society, where he eventually founded the Supernatural Research Group. He managed the research group for almost thirty years until 'retiring' to pursue more individualistic pursuits — which, not coincidentally, were also paranormal in nature. He was knighted by King George V in 1928 for his contributions to science and exploration. Erudite and charismatic, he was well-liked for his sharp wit and dangerous curiosity. He was charming at the best of times, but also had the potential to be brooding and irritable. While a man of many amiable acquaintance, his rootless wandering meant that he rarely settled for long enough to build lifelong bonds. He had many lovers throughout the years, both women and men, often from drastically varying backgrounds. Notably, he never married or had children. Fluent in seven languages, and conversational in a fair few more, Lamberth was almost certainly among the most well-travelled individuals in the world. His research took him to all corners of the Earth; from studying onmyōdō in the Empire of Japan, to communing with marabouts in French Algeria; from an ayahuasca pilgrimage in Bolivia, to parleying with the witches of Benevento, Italy. Above all, he held a particular interest in voodoo and its concomitant religions, spending several years traveling French West Africa, Dahomey, Congo, Haiti, Martinique, and Trinidad & Tobago. The final phase of his study culminated in his relocation to New Orleans in 1932. In this time, he became known to the Creole people as 'Mr. Sajè'. For three years he pursued secretive research, retreating into uncharacteristic isolation until his eventual death in 1935.

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ 𝖕 𝖊 𝖗 𝖘 𝖔 𝖓 𝖆 𝖑 𝖉 𝖆 𝖙 𝖆 𝖕 𝖊 𝖗 𝖘 𝖔 𝖓 𝖆 𝖑 𝖉 𝖆 𝖙 𝖆 _________________________________________________________ ꜰᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: Dr. Sir Virgil Montague Lamberth _________________________________________________________________ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱᴇꜱ: Mr. Sajè _________________________________________________________________ ᴀɢᴇ: 60 _________________________________________________________________ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ: Somerset, England _________________________________________________________________ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ: British English _________________________________________________________________ ᴇᴛʜɴɪᴄɪᴛʏ: Caucasian _________________________________________________________________ ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: Antiquarian & Occult Scholar _________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

𝔏’Épitaphe

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚎-𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢. 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚜 '𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕', 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.

<sup>𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵é𝘨é𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘥𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘖𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴.

𝘈𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘺𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨: 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘴𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘶𝘻𝘻𝘭𝘦. 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 — 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯.</sup>

𝔏’Épitaphe

𝖒𝖚𝖘𝖎𝖈

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𝔏’É𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔢
𝔏’É𝔭𝔦𝔱𝔞𝔭𝔥𝔢

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 — 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎.
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^{ᴀʀᴛ ʙʏ ꜱʜᴀɴᴇ ᴘɪᴇʀᴄᴇ}

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The year is 1935.

The city of New Orleans is a paradox.

On one hand, it is among the most effervescent settlements in the West. The city pulses with an unmistakable rhythm — a song sung by Frenchmen, Spaniards, Africans, and Caribbeans, all harmonized by the American South. Its culture echoes loudly throughout the US; jazz and blues, color and cuisine, festivity and hedonism.

On the other, the city is among the most poverty-stricken in the country. The wounds of the Great Depression fester on, suffocating the poor and marginalised, while draconian Jim Crow laws continue to enforce malicious racial segregation. The Prohibition has been repealed, but its rot lingers, soaked into the city’s bones. Speakeasies governed by gangsters remain havens for villains and crooks, and underground black-markets continue to fence illicit wares, with cocaine and opiates running particularly rife. The city government is a blunt blade, ill-equipped to combat the chaos, plagued by malfeasance and political intimidation.

Beneath it all, ‘neath the fog-heavy bayous and the perfume of magnolias, something fiendish and ancient lurks. The city’s soul is tangled in the unseen. In shadowed backroom parlors, mediums whisper to the dead, rootworkers cast bones for the desperate, and voodoo priests commune with the arcane. But what watches from within, beneath it all, compares not to any common witch doctor or conjurer, for it imperils the New World en masse. And it already knows your name.

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𝔗𝔬𝔫𝔢 & 𝔖𝔱𝔶𝔩𝔢
𝔗𝔬𝔫𝔢 & 𝔖𝔱𝔶𝔩𝔢

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𝔏’Épitaphe takes inspiration from film noir, gothic horror and dark romanticism.

Given the genres at play, moral ambiguity will likely ensue – but I expect players to be sensitive and careful when dealing with certain topics (particularly in relation to race and religion). Nonethless, core themes will include the corruption of man, cynicism, and the decay and ruin seen in poverty-stricken America.

While supernatural and occult themes will be central, this is not a dark fantasy. There are no dragons or wizards here; 'magic', for lack of a better word, is mysterious and ritualistic. I'm eager to preserve pseudo-realism; witches act with subtlety and secrecy, and monsters will lurk only in the darkest corners of civilisation. In this world, the existence of the paranormal is fairly common knowledge, though not everyone will have had a supernatural experience, and the breadth of occultism may be downplayed and scoffed at by the masses.

So long as the players and I are all on the same page, I'd love to worldbuild collaboratively, especially when exploring the limitations and consequences of the supernatural existing in this time period. However, I'd like to keep an element of mystery to the game itself — so I will be GMing in a way that keeps certain information withheld from players. I also encourage players to withhold backstory elements from one another, so to make reveals more satisfying. One of the reasons I'm only going to be running with a smaller group is to foster a more interesting party dynamic that can hopefully intertwine with the mystery.

In-depth historical knowledge is not at all important. However, the RP should *feel* authentic — and I think doing bits of research here and there on the time and location are part of the fun. We can toy with details as much as we like, but I'd like to strive to create the veneer of historical accuracy.

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ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰

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The characters of this story have one common trait: they caught the attention of one Dr. Virgil Lamberth during his worldly travels. An English antiquarian and scholar of occultism, Lamberth was a well-respected figure for his extensive study of the supernatural. For whatever reason, you left an impression on him — perhaps he was a lecturer in your University, or an old colleague, or perhaps you simply shared a drink with one another in passing many years ago. Whatever the case, he seems to consider you a vital piece of the puzzle in braving the shadowy morass of New Orleans in his stead.

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Each character is in receipt of the following letter:

██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘳. 𝘝𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘭 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 27𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘺, 1935, 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘖𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴, 𝘓𝘰𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 7𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘺, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘺𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘵. 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘵. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘈𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘦. 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 5:42 𝘗𝘔, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩’𝘴 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩’𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤𝘺. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘈 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ – 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵, 𝘌𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘳 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘗.𝘚. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦; 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

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Before developing a character sheet, create a character concept and confer with me. A character sheet will be provided to invitees.

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Random Access Memories

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██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘋𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘳. 𝘝𝘪𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘭 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 27𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘺, 1935, 𝘪𝘯 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘖𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴, 𝘓𝘰𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘢. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 7𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘦𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘢𝘳𝘺, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘺𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘵. 𝘋𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦’𝘴 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘵. 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘈𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘦. 𝘚𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 5:42 𝘗𝘔, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘈 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸, 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘶𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩’𝘴 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩’𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴, 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘦 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘛𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘱𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘣𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘦. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤𝘺. 𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘣𝘦𝘥 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘴. 𝘈𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘳 𝘋𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩’𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘯𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘈 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ – 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘴, ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵, 𝘌𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘳 ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ 𝘗.𝘚. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦; 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺, 𝘯𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦. ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████████████████████████████

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(thanks @exit)

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𝖓 𝖆 𝖒 𝖊 (font)

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𝕯 𝖔 𝖘 𝖘 𝖎 𝖊 𝖗 𝕯 𝖔 𝖘 𝖘 𝖎 𝖊 𝖗 _________________________________________________________ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc

𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 𝖕 𝖔 𝖗 𝖙 𝖗 𝖆 𝖎 𝖙 _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ 𝖕 𝖊 𝖗 𝖘 𝖔 𝖓 𝖆 𝖑 𝖉 𝖆 𝖙 𝖆 𝖕 𝖊 𝖗 𝖘 𝖔 𝖓 𝖆 𝖑 𝖉 𝖆 𝖙 𝖆 _________________________________________________________ ꜰᴜʟʟ ɴᴀᴍᴇ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ ᴀʟɪᴀꜱᴇꜱ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ ᴀɢᴇ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ ɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ ᴇᴛʜɴɪᴄɪᴛʏ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ ᴏᴄᴄᴜᴘᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: TBD _________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________

CONTINUED TEXT if needed: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu. Suspendisse volutpat et ex tempor suscipit. Nullam tincidunt at nunc vel auctor. Donec venenatis, nisl nec fringilla varius, massa quam porttitor turpis, sed bibendum purus sem id risus. Nullam scelerisque lectus eget diam gravida malesuada. Maecenas consectetur est ac sollicitudin congue. Maecenas interdum erat dignissim lectus sodales, nec ultrices neque egestas. Integer convallis lacus at consequat volutpat Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Vivamus at mi mi. In imperdiet porta dolor, at fermentum nulla commodo eu.

_{(special thanks to @Lord Wraith)}