Tortoise

Dead South: A Southern Gothic Post-Apocalypse

Tagging the usual suspects

@Enigmatik@TimeMaster@Crusader Lord@Antediluvixen

Dead South: A Southern Gothic Post-Apocalypse

Dead South

The apocalypse came and it went. It was a vicious disease that killed most every soul it touched, leaving only small handfuls of survivors across the world. The US Southeast was hit the hardest, and that's where you have the bad luck of living. You survived the Plague only to end up stuck here, in this nowhere town called Bluffton, straddling the border between Alabama and Georgia, waiting to get yourself blown to bits by raiders. You joined up with this group because you thought you'd finally be safe. The Jonesgroup, is what it's called, led by an old woman named Mama Jones who says she used to own this land you're living on now. Things weren't so bad at first. There's farming set up, y'all are bringing in just enough to keep yourselves fed, but there's no electricity at all- man, you miss having A/C in this heat- and all the nearby stores have been picked clean of anything valuable already.

Not by the Jonesgroup. That's the problem. There are other groups of survivors out there. Farming-scavenging communities like this one, redneck hunters living like wildmen out in the deep woods, and- unfortunately- some cranked-up, desperate raiders. One of those raiding bands, the Mounted Skulls, have been extorting this group for years. They ride up on their motorcycles, pumping their shotguns, sometimes in broad daylight, sometimes waking you up in the middle of the night, and then leave with sacks full of your hard-grown crops. Last week, you watched Mama Jones finally stand up to them. It was a dramatic scene, that old woman silhouetted in front of the campfire when the Skulls ride up to collect their tribute. You didn't think a woman that age could stand so firm. She told them in clear terms that they'd get nothing more from her- except for bullet-holes, if ever they come back here again.

Most of the Jonesgroup celebrated. But as you look into the campfire tonight, you know: that means they are coming back, and this time it'll be a fight for sure.

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General Idea

This RP is a post-apocalyptic struggle with Southern Gothic themes and a bleak approach towards our situation. We're in a fictitious small town right on the border between Alabama and Georgia, if you were to drive for about an hour east from the ATL. Our characters will be attempting to survive in this now empty, bloody South, but- be warned- they can die. They can also become injured, crippled or ill.

I will be GM'ing, making those kinds of decisions, though I also intend to play as a character of my own. (He can die, too. I will have one or two co-GMs who will decide without bias when my own character is in trouble.) As mentioned in the prose above, we're a part of the Jonesgroup of survivors, living on land that used to belong to an old Southern woman named Mama Jones. Recently we've started denying tribute to a group of raiders that have been taxing us, and we're now expecting to have to fight them.

This is a problem, because we are not at all ready for the fight. Our territory isn't walled or fenced, most of us aren't fighters, we have no electricity or good equipment. So, the early stages of this RP are likely to center around us scrabbling to get things in order before I have the Mounted Skulls show up to test how well we've done.

But, rest assured, that's not all we'll be doing, because...

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The Problem System

The Jonesgroup is a poor group in a world where we can't rely on society any more. We always are facing some kind of challenge, even when the Mounted Skulls raiders aren't coming around. I will keep a running list of current Problems that the group has. This may be a shortage of water, a heat wave that's going to melt us where we stand, or stranger things like an unsolved murder or a mysterious infant appearing at our doorstep. Players can pick what Problems they want to pursue working on, or kick back for a while and interact with one another's characters.

I will update this list as Problems are solved and introduced.

The Jonesgroup's current Problems are:

-No electricity, no refrigeration or AC/Heat
-No fence or wall around our territory
-The Mounted Raiders are coming soon

I prefer statless, numberless RP, so I won't be keeping track of things like the exact amount of food and water and whatevers we have. Rather, I will be going by a narrative. I might say "We're low on water right now," and then when a character goes out and finds a Piggly Wiggly store that still has dozens of packs of bottled water in it, the Problem will be temporarily resolved. If you manage to make a system for purifying water from a nearby stream, instead, then it may be resolved forever.

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The Judgement System

The Judgement System! This is a fancy, dramatic-sounding term for a very simple idea. As mentioned already, I prefer statless RP and I do not like juggling numbers. As also mentioned, your characters can get hurt, or get in trouble, or get dead. The combination of these two facts results in the Judgement System. All it means is that when your character is doing something difficult or risky, you shouldn't say in your post whether they succeed in it or not. Me and the co-GMs will use our best judgement, based on the situation and how you wrote it, to decide on whether what you're trying to do works.

So when you make a post where you, say, attack a bad guy, you'll say something like "Jimbob McCharacter charges at the Mounted Skull raider with his machete, trying desperately to cut him down before he can fix his jammed gun," and me or my co-GM(s) will let you know if it worked before you make your next post. You may then start your next post by writing about your Jimbob McCharacter actually succeeding in cutting down the bad guy. We might also tell you that it worked, but Jimbob got bruised when the Mounted Skull took a swing at him.

This system applies not just for fighting, but for anything significant. Trying to fix an engine, hunting in the woods for food. Smaller things like everyday tasks or firing a few shots that don't hit or whatever won't need to go through this kind of check; use your own best logic. Me and the other GMs will also be subject to this system, since we can each judge one another.

But that's enough boring talk about systems, now. Let me tell you a story...

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How, Exactly, The World Ended

It was a pandemic.

There's something abnormal about some kinds of sickness. The ones that don't just kill the body, but take their time doing it, slowly picking you apart with a hint of malevolence. There's something about it that feels supernatural, in a way that isn't quite adequately explained by germ theory or by the coldly clinical words of the doctors who espouse it. In the throes of a fever, delirious as their body fights for its survival, a sensitive man might swear his sickness was the work of the devil.

The Olive Plague that rolled through the world certainly didn't feel like anything normal. It was a virus that killed everything it touched, sure enough, but it killed slow. Real slow. The sick were debilitated on their beds for months before their microscopic tormentors finally let them die. That was almost the worst of it: the infected had to be taken care of, they needed constant tending-to. The worldwide economy came to a halt as people had to stop working to care for their sick relatives, and then as shutdowns were implemented far too late. Hospitals overflowed, out into the streets, out over entire city blocks covered in make-shift tents for the ill. At the end, roofed football stadiums were filled with the sickbeds. On each of them, the moaning body of someone wishing to be dead. Those who tended to them would soon join them.

Boils forming on your skin were one of the first ways to know you'd been infected. These boils were tan, mid-sized little bubbles that grew out of your face, arms, legs, with a dark red dot in the center of each. In other words, they looked like olives. Hence the name.

Only a lucky few could dodge this fate. Media started calling them the Resistant. People who, due to either lucky genetics or from being one of the few people to survive the Olive and develop a resistance, were immune to the disease. Nobody knew for certain why it was that so few could stand against this plague. Nobody even knew where it came from.

The big theory- as spoken by conspiracy theorists and then by news anchors, by old mamas and eventually by everyone else- was that it must have been man-made. "This came out of some lab somewhere" was a phrase spoken ad nauseam, especially down in the U.S. Southeast, where the pandemic hit the hardest. Something about that region, probably the humid swamp-tainted air, was the perfect breeding ground for the Olive Plague. From New Orleans to Savannah it transformed into a world of the dead, filled with the smell of rotting bodies and a few Resistant trying to escape it all. That was the first region to fall. But the rest of the world, in due time, did join it.

It has been seven years now since the plague swept through. The Resistant were cursed to watch as the human race ended not with a bang or with a whimper, but with the moaning of the diseased. There's nothing left now but the them, and the empty Earth they've inherited.

Some of them started to rebuild. But now, with pre-apocalypse goods starting to give in to age and even canned foods expiring, the fighting over resources begins...

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Interested?

If you've read along this far- congratulations! You're probably interested in joining. And why wouldn't you be? It's an awesome RP idea and you obviously have excellent taste.

The character sheet template is below. My own character sheet will be in the Char tab, hopefully in a day or two, and can serve as an example.

P.S. I have an unfortunate fondness for long sheets that ask you about things like your character's favorite color, and their worst fear, and other nonsense. Most people are wiser than me, and so do not care about these things. If you, like me, are a fool, I've included an optional "extra details" hider within the CS that asks such questions. (At the least, it might help you develop your character a bit!)

Character Sheet

Name

_{(If you've got a picture you're using, right here would be the place to drop it. No anime, por favor- it doesn't fit the vibe)}

Gender, Age, Orientation:
_{Trying to get the little details outta the way. You can just write something like "Male, 32, Straight" and that's chill}

Height and Weight:
_{More important than it sounds. Bigger characters are more intimidating and fight harder close-up. But if we start to run low on food, they'll feel it first.}

Appearance:
_{(You can skip this description if you've got a pic, but it is a nice chance to show off your descriptive writing. Describing people is hard! Get some practice in)}

Life Before the End:
_{Unless your character is younger than seven, they had a life before the Olive Plague tore it apart. What was it like?}

Life Since the End:
_{When the Olive Plague began, the world shook and every life in it changed. Think about how your character was when the disease began sweeping through their home city, their own family and neighbors. Think about what they did once there was almost nobody left except for other frightened survivors, and they had to start fending for themselves.}

Personality:
_{Try to think of how it ties into their history, and into the next section:}

Spark:
_{It isn't easy to survive when the world crumbles. What is it that has kept your character going?}

Skills:
_{What are they good at?}

Role:
_{Unfortunately, unless you're a little kid or an invalid, not even dear Mama Jones can let you stay on her land without working. What work do you do for the Jonesgroup to make up for the food you eat? This should ideally tie in with your character's skills.}

Tools:
_{Now that we know who they are and what they do- what do they need to do it? You don't need to include basic living supplies or less important things in here. Just the big stuff. You don't have to tell me they have a coil of rope under their bunk, but please do tell me if they have a gun or a working vehicle}

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:

Worst Fear:

Favorite Color:

What animal are they most like?:
_{That is, which animal they are most like, not which one they like the most.}

Favorite Song:

How They Dress:

Thing they most miss about the world before the End:

Rules

1.) No godmodding, no controlling other player's characters.
A basic rule in any RP. You know it, you love it.

2.) Cannot kill or otherwise disable another player's character without permission.
Obvious, yeah, but I like having it written out. Hopefully this won't come up much, since we are all on the same team.

3.) Be realistic about how good your character can fight
Often, those of us who enjoy fantasy, sci-fi or superhero RPs get used to our characters been able to wipe out NPC bad guys without taking much of a hit. In those genres, that works. It will not work here. If there are three raiders and your character is facing them alone, I need a solid reason for how your guy survives. That ties in to the next rule...

4.) Character death and injury can happen
As stated above, character death or injury is a real potential in this RP. I will decide when I think a character should be dead or hurt, or starving or sick or whatevers, but I will always hear you out if you think they should be okay.

Also, if you're working on a character, don't forget to join our Discord. It'll probably be the best place to keep up with the community around this RP and discuss arcs/drama/whatevers together: discord.gg/9HQXunpF8X

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

@Tortoise Finally finished the character I've been talking about in discord, hope she passes muster

Character Sheet

Eriwyn

Alternate Image

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:

Elf, 223, Newly Arrived

History:

Eriwyn was raised on stories of the noble hero-kings of ages past by her nursemaid, and the ideals these stories espoused landed and found fertile ground in her young mind. She is the 7th of 11 children of the Duke Aegnor of the Emerald Grove. By the Duke's reckoning, she was the most troublesome by far, caring about more than the family's wealth and power. To the Duke's disappointment, Eriwyn was nearly the polar opposite of her father, caring more for the people of the land than the profits they could produce.

This came to a head when, soon after Eriwyn’s 45th birthday, the capital city of the Emerald Grove was struck by a plague that ripped through the common folk while leaving the noble class relatively untouched. Beg and plead as she might, her father sent little in aid to the commoners who worked his lands, instead sending soldiers to enforce isolation and curfews with brutal authority. While effective at eventually bringing the disease under control, the city and Eriwyn both were devastated as nearly a quarter of the city's population lay dead in mass graves, or drifted away as ash from funeral pyres.

The ravages of the plague, and the shoddy efficacy of her father’s reactive measures, lead to a growing interest in medicine within the young woman, leading her to take up the study of medicine and biology alongside her other studies. This eventually culminated in Eriwyn starting a hobby clinic in the central part of the capital of her father’s Duchy, where she practiced and learned through experience and experimentation. Her father was none too happy, seeing this as below his daughter's station to be working amongst those who needed help but could not pay at a proper facility, or those who had an emergency that she was closest to.

As came to all elven girls of noble birth in their kingdom, on Eriwyn’s 200th birthday she came of age and had her official debut into society, alongside an announcement of her betrothal. Duke Aegnor had arranged a marriage for her that would benefit the family, a marriage to the up-and-coming young Count Beleg of Verdant Lake, whose lands bordered the Duke’s. Unfortunately for Eriwyn, the Count was a callous man whose treatment of his servants and serfs left her aghast.

Soon after learning of her betrothal to Count Beleg, and shortly after meeting the man himself, Eriwyn decided to run away. Over the following months, she carefully arranged for a carriage and horse to be readied through the many friends and connections she’d made through her studies and work in her clinic, before slipping away the night before the wedding and making for the Duchy's border.

Eriwyn traveled under an assumed identity of a well-to-do traveling doctor, charging those who could pay so that she could help those who could not. As she traveled, she heard rumors of the Uttering Monks and their Saying ways, and they reminded her of the whispers she would occasionally hear from her patients' bodies. Thus, she decided to visit them in the hopes of learning more of their arts. She spent nearly 10 years living among them and learning their ways before moving on, as rumors of a missing princess and a search party began to reach the Eld Marshes. With that stop behind her, she continued wandering, stopping wherever there were hospitals and places of learning to be found. During her travels, she supported herself by providing discrete services for nobles for anything from a cure for their son’s sniffles, to a powder to solve their marital issues, while using this money to help commoners and other folk. Eventually found herself in the Hold of Clan Buraq, hoping to learn about their unique biology and medicinal practices from their Shamans.

Personality:

At her core, Eriwyn is an idealist and a pacifist. She is driven by a hatred of suffering in all its forms while craving the knowledge and power to do something about it. As such she has a hard time turning a blind eye to those in need, with little attention for her own safety as she works to save lives.

On the other hand, she also has the long memory and longer lifespan of her people, and is perfectly willing to play the long game to get what she wants, persistently (or stubbornly, depending on who you ask) working towards a goal over the course of years or decades if necessary.

Motivation:

Eriwyn travels to expand her knowledge and help those in need, while also avoiding her betrothed. She knows they were searching for her, but does not know if they still are.

Skills and Strengths:

Eriwyn is a Sayer who speaks the languages of the Body and Plants

Body teaches and does in equal measure, as the body guides and is guided by the mind. A body can tell you what ails it and where the aches and pains are, and can help a doctor figure out the symptoms. It can also stimulate the growth of that once lost, or the modification of what is present. At present, Eriwyn has only used this within the bounds of what is normal for her subjects. She has theorized that going beyond may be possible, but is unwilling to try it on another and nervous about trying it on herself.

Plants speak quickly but do much. A plant may be coaxed to grow faster or out of season if provided with the right conditions and nutrients, or be taught to develop more potent versions of its properties, medicinal or otherwise. If properly prepared, a Plant-speaker can create medicines and rudimentary structures, or root their opponents to the ground with grasping vines.

Medical Professional: Eriwyn has spent nearly 100 years learning, practicing, and refining her medical skills with the knowledge available in her home. She can treat most normal ailments and accomplish other mundane medical tasks with what is on hand, and with her Utterance can even perform surgery and other invasive techniques with lessened risk.

Horticulture: With the help of her magic and many years of practice as a lady's art, Eriwyn has a green thumb and keeps a compact but flourishing garden on/in the roof of her wagon. The centerpiece of this garden is what she calls her rapid growth pots, which she uses to grow medicinal herbs and other useful plants as necessary

Unnatural Charisma: Eriwyn was always an outgoing woman, and learning Utterance only furthered this. She has a natural charisma about her that is bolstered by the vibrant aura of life and growth that flows with her every motion, catching and holding most people's attention and making every doctor's dream of a patient that actually listens come true.

Weaknesses:

Pacifist: Eriwyn refuses to kill any sentient creature, no matter the circumstances, and will only defend herself with what she sees as the minimum amount of necessary force. Her fathers rule over his lands and the effects it had on its citizens left her with a deep-seated distaste for violence in all its forms, though her time on the road has taught her that having to defend oneself is sometimes unavoidable.

Naive: Eriwyn is wise to dark concepts like death and sadness, but is often unaware of the darker uses for many techniques and medicines and the finer points of betrayal and sabotage, and even though she has lived over two centuries most of that was sheltered within the halls of her family's holdings or the Royal court.

Stubborn Pride: Eriwyn can change her mind, and have it changed, but if she has firmly decided on a course of action it is incredibly difficult to change her course without physical intervention.

Tools:

Eriwyn has extensive medical supplies within her wagon, and has a pack she carries with her of the essentials. She also carries small balls of seeds packed in with dirt and fertilizers in a separate pack along with some basic sampling supplies. She also has her garden as part of her wagon, and the main room can also be converted to a doctors office when she is seeing a patient.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
For her family and her betrothed to forget her.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
Neutral Good

Three Likes:
Meeting new people
Helping others
Seeing new sights

Three Dislikes:
Violence
Greed
Suffering

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Heart

Worst Fear:
Losing a patient she could have saved, no matter the reason.

Favorite Color:
Green

Most Like The Animal:
Golden Retriever

Favorite Time of Day:
Morning, with dew still upon the leaves

How They Dress:
At the intersection of fancy and practical

Favorite Season:
Spring

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Eriwyn follows the Wanderer, and holds great respect for Eld Frowen.

@Sylvan

An excellent character. A simple concept at first glance (wandering doctor), but given more depth by your writing and the way you thought her out, and by the way you connect it to the creations of other players. I noticed Expendable's Wanderer deity made an appearance as well as Utterance ;P

Approved. You can dump her in the Char tab and start posting whenevers. We should probably discuss how you intend to introduce her to the Caravan soon, unless you just want to wing it and have her bump into some Pilgrims along the way.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

@Enigmatik

Hahaha yeah no worries, I’ll cut the jokes but it’s largely complete tbh. I was just bored and inserted too much humour into the sheet just cause the concept of talking cows is too much of a low hanging fruit. There are obviously the makings of an absolutely dystopian nation being made there, just sprinkled with too much humour

Edit: I mean, I should cut out the nuclear fission based rockets right? Right? Right?

The fun I’ll have with this nation is that they need to breed to make technological progress haha

@SgtEasy

Remember how I nicknamed your last guys the Khanapes before any one else got to it?

Well, this is the Cowllective. I gotta get that in writing before someone else says it.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

I've got something else to be considered, sort of a meme yet utterly created for my fun mwahahaha

@SgtEasy

*Moohahaha

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

If only I had the drive to continue a Khanape story. I always thought about the implications of a nation built up of uplifted cattle where only its upper echelons were aware of the extensive genocide of their predecessor species

That would be funny!

@SgtEasy

Well, without wanting to ruin the moment, I will put on my GM hat again long enough to remind you that we're always open. And since this second take on Gateways has a much slower pace than the first Gateways did, it's a very chill RP to be involved with. You can post once every two or three months and people will barely blink an eye. So, if any smol part of you is at all interested in taking up the Khanapes again, we could have fun with them ;P

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

Just an old AFKer and former player of the old Gateways popping by to say that it’s nice to see the new Gateways doing well:) If health issues hadn’t cropped up, I would have stayed to the end of the old one!

Good shit @Enigmatik @Tortoise

@SgtEasy

Ah! We were just talking about the Khanapes the other day, believe it or not. I can still hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men...

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

Addressing: @Enigmatik, @TimeMaster and the whole Gadricluster

Ha-ha! Here there's enough people for a party. Terilu loves crowds, he loves mingling and the noise and smell of many people. It's a thrill he knows he'll miss like a lost love if ever he reforms himself, irreversibly, into a lich. Terilu looks over at Gadri, about to smirk at his apparently very beloved guide- they must be beloved, to have gathered all these followers- and then stops still when he sees the expression on the old dwarf's face. He watches while Gadri just scowls up at the giant, shields their eyes, and mumbles something irrelevant about prayer-time... and suddenly the bat's heart flutters in a nameless emotion that's between sympathy and sudden revulsion. What, would the old man rather be taking a nap? Ugh. He thinks Gadri might be too dull to spend much time around, after all.

Terilu looks up at the giant himself and is struck with a much better idea. He lets his full wingspan stretch out, ten feet wide, gently pushing annoyed walkers-by away and momentarily covering the city street, until with a monumental batting of his wings he defies his own weight and floats off of the ground. True Eratie are never ashamed to take flight even if it's a strange sight to the skinned. He pumps himself and rises up high until he's at eye level with Galaxor.

Then he sits on Galaxor's shoulder.

With his small size compared to the mountainous stature of a Stoneclaw Giant, he fits more-or-less perfectly, like one fits in a chair. And it's convenient. Who wants to walk or fly when they can ride on the shoulders of giants? He's been getting exhausted by the overheated air in this country. "Come on, my gigantic friend," Terilu says to Galaxor, "let us go onward, somewhere! I'm sure we'll find something more interesting to do in this great city than follow this poor dwarf around. I've heard they have an arena here. Let's some of us go and bet on a fight or something!"

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Athulwin

Addressing: Eni, @Crusader Lord and @Smike

Athulwin is dreaming. He knows this because, though he could never explain why to others, or ever to himself, he's often lucid in his dreams. Not always. Most of the time, his dreams are the same parade of blissful nonsense that almost every one else reports. But in some dreams, and in this dream especially, Athulwin finds himself strangely aware of his own sleeping state. He knows that he is in a world of his own imagination, the Song Beneath the Song, and he knows that he'll remember it perfectly when he wakes. He has had this dream many, many times.

He stands in the forest. Not a forest, the forest: the one where he used to meet Alder, the vampire who feigned so long at caring about Athulwin so that he could try to turn him once he'd achieved real power. The trees in this part of the wood are tall, thick and straight-backed. They looked like a giant's fingers to him as a child and like the bars of a cage to him as an adult. On cue, without fail, Alder steps out from their long shadows. It's twilight.

This time, Alder says, "Your eyes are starting to sink in, Athulwin."

This dream doesn't put on the same performance every night that it comes. It isn't static. It keeps track with the passing of the years. Each time Athulwin dreams it, Alder remarks on his age differently. It's harsher each turn.

"You look the same," replies Athulwin. That's one thing that never changes. Lucid or no, he always, always finds himself saying it. The dream Alder looks at him with something that must be a monster's closest mimicry of pity.

"You could've been like this, too," he says. "For what did you reject me? For an oath? Or out of foolishness? Tell me."

"I loved you," says Athulwin.

"That is no answer. If you had love for me, then why didn't you take my gift?"

The monk sighs. He's so tired. Even in his sleep he is tired. His breath turns visible in the thin air of win-

Athulwin stirs and wakes up in his fabric-heavy Caravan to the smell of fire. That scent wakes him out of the dream and burns the emotion of the whole thing out of his mind in an instant. He's halfway to standing up, aching old knees and all, before he realizes that his mobile home is not actually burning down. The curtains, pillows, blankets, sheets are not ablaze. But one thing is ablaze here and Athulwin knows exactly who it came from.

"Oh," he says to the small wisp of fire hovering in front of his open door. (He'd left it open while he snoozed, not wanting to awaken to a home that had become an oven.) "I see you, creature. Knossos has sent you. I suppose this is my return for sending out the Wind to talk to him. Speak quickly: what did he tell you to say?"

The fiery wisp relays it.

"Ah," says Athulwin. "Return to Knossos, daemon, for I too can speak fire, and tell him that he should whisper into the desert wind when he wishes to speak to his Navigator, instead of sending an unholy thing. And... yes, tell him that I said we should keep on eye, magical or mundane, on the more naïve of the Caravan. There are some who have good intentions but too much passion."

The wisp seems a little offended at this whole thing, Athulwin thinks, but off it burns into the air again, carrying the message back to the old occultist who sent it. Knossos is an interesting breed. Sometimes he's Athulwin's favorite pilgrim, for the knowledge and protective power he brings. Sometimes he's one of Athulwin's least favorites, for the smell of occultism never seems to fully be gone from him. So many times Athulwin has been so close to asking him for help with the Curse. But there is a thing deep inside the monk's soul that just won't let him turn to a veritable warlock for a cure, any more than he could accept Alder's gift of vampirism. He can't chase out darkness with darkness. Evil magic begets only evil things. Of that, more than anything else in the world, more than the sun rising tomorrow, Athulwin feels certain.

His window- a wooden flap in the wall, held open with string connected to the roof- is as open as the door was, and out of it he looks, debating inside himself if he should go about outside and act his role as the Navigator. But then he stops and stares at what he sees. There's a foolish savannah dog out there, that looks like it's about to be eaten by a hyena. This wouldn't be an issue, but the hyena is a gnoll, and the dog is Malleck.

Fine.

Athulwin tries to force himself into a standing position for the second time in not enough minutes, and when he has finally worked his slow way out of the Caravan and across the open space to where the Ainok and the gnoll are staring one another down, he can just hear poor Malleck whimpering. "_{Please don't kill me.}"

"She won't," says Athulwin, in a projecting voice. He'd seen Thorzna many times, with her two years in the Caravan. "Don't be afraid, Malleck. Miss Scrapblast is a fine Pilgrim."

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

Terilu feels absurdly happy about being in a city again. It's the wrong kind of city, of course- it's not an Eratie one by any stretch of the imagination, with that sand-colored adobe and the hot air- but still it is undeniably, intrinsically, unmistakably a City. Capitalized. It smells like one. It feels like one in spirit. Terilu half-suspects he could navigate it alone, so familiar he is with the urban wilderness. But his problem is that he likes company too much; far too much, for a necromancer. He catches himself feeling nearly glad when the young half-orc (Terilu has never reasoned out what the other half must be) catches up to him and Gadri. Good. Another young person, another rare breed, has joined their little party.

Terilu wonders if, from the ancient dwarf Gadri's perspective, they're giving a tour to two children. Terilu is half-tempted to whine, "But when are we going to get something to eat?" like he used to whenever one of his fathers took him out of the nest. He doesn't, but he's tempted to. Really, Terilu is glad the orc-whatever-the-other-half-may-be is here. He has no clue what his name is, but he's seen him wandering around the camp, and Terilu always finds it a welcome sight to see someone nearly as small as himself. Then he doesn't feel so dwarfed (ha-ha!) by all the tall skinned races. He'd guess that the orc-boy is still stronger than him, and being weaker than a child is always embarrassing, but there's nothing to be done about it. Orcs are savages.

The savage child says, ""Are all holds this big?"

Terilu laughs at the question. "This isn't big," he says. "Close, but no. New Dawnlit, the capital of Tureiamú? Have you ever been there?" He looks the boy up and down. "No, no I don't think you have, but that's a big city. You learn to fly one day, and I'll give you the proper tour."

He doesn't mention that you can get around New Dawnlit pretty well by walking, so long as you stick to the streets and public areas. Older, bigger and sicker Eratie cannot be expected to fly- the Diviner himself, it's rumored, does not fly- and if foreigners like this one ever do come to Tureiamú, it's always to the gates of New Dawnlit that they come knocking. But the orc-boy doesn't need to know any of that. Terilu just likes reminding people that he can fly and they can't.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

Addressing: @Enigmatik

Terilu feels a rush during flight. Not at first; only after he's been up in the air, letting his wings strain against the world trying to pull him back down, panting to keep himself cool up over the earth, for some time. The rush is almost identical to the way a long-distance sprinter feels halfway through their run. It's that rewarding high of intense exertion. And the 'high' is very literal, when you're soaring over rooftops.

Terilu is in flight over the parked Caravan now, feeling like a circling vulture, and he wants to never come down. His body is straight like an arrow and the shadow cast by his wingspan consumes caravans; his fellow pilgrims are ants at this height. He feels like he could step on them. But the poor thing about running or about flying is that, when the rush hits you, you're immediately on a timer. At that point you'll never really want to stop, but you only have so long before the buzz fades away and your exhaustion catches up with you far quicker than you could soar away from it. Terilu doesn't wish to burn up before he even enters the clanhold proper. Besides, he hears something down below that interests him: "Heading into the city," says the voice of Gadri, which- like many low, dwarven kinds of voices- seems to carry well even when all they're doing is mumbling. "Anyone feels like seeing what a clanhold is really like... Be happy to show you."

Yes, Terilu feels like seeing it. With some regret at losing flight time, he rocks his body back, lets his feet swing down into a standing-like position, and feels himself slowing and floating downwards.

He's still panting like a dog as his feet hit the sand, right beside Gadri, as if they'd been walking together the whole time. Terilu's aim is always good. A little sandstorm is kicked up by his arrival, spreading golden dust into the air; and that's something you could never get tired of. He takes an almost childlike pleasure in watching the sand twirl. If it wasn't for the heat, and the long days, and the Dinnin themselves, Terilu could get used to this world. The air is so pure. And his fur, plus his usual robe-like attire, is weirdly fit for keeping the worst of the sun off his back. He's not as natural here as he is back home, but from the sad look of all the Pilgrims now sweating in the sunlight, Terilu think he can handle desert better than the skinned races.

Minus, he supposes, the ones who have lived in these kinds of places all their lives. "So," says Terilu to Gadri. "Your home was something like this? It's... impressive. Most places I've seen since I left my home nest are so backwards, like barbarians. I think you Dinnin might be smarter."