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Nightwing95
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Working on my NS right now. I'll be the first person to post one, and if I get ninja'd I'll pull out the ol' shanking knife.
We could also just GM this ourselves, if the OP is really gone.
If this RP is still on? The OP might have abandoned it.
Well, I like the precursor theme in sci fi; How about the game space is filled with remnants of a defunct galactic empire with super tech? It'll give us an incentive for conflict (To get that precious technology)
I'm personally going to play as a nomadic armada of warrior monks who roam around serving as a mercenary force for other nations to maintain itself while searching for it's lost home.
I'm personally going to play as a nomadic armada of warrior monks who roam around serving as a mercenary force for other nations to maintain itself while searching for it's lost home.
Iiiiiiiiiiinterested.
ASTA said
2 days of non-activity doesn't mean a dead roleplay. I swear to fuck, people going absolute apeshit over a lack of nonstop posting is what really turns me off of this site. Well, that and Mahz's coding, but that's an entirely different complaint altogether.EDIT: The double-posting/white screen issue is the perfect taste of irony.
I'm not saying it's dead per se, but that it looks dead, and that a dead-looking RP encourages people to leave. I'm not going "Apeshit" so much as I'm worried about the fact that nobody other than Flagg and I have posted in the last two weeks. If people are being held back on posts because of collabs, that's cool, but we still need to know who's here and who's not. I haven't seen a trace of half the players in this.
When it looks like a dead RP, and it smells like a dead RP, and the OP apologizes for slow posting, then doesn't post for two days, it's a dead RP. We need to bring the defibrillators out on this one.
Everyone who is still following this RP, post "Here" underneath this post. We need to know who's dropped out.
Everyone who is still following this RP, post "Here" underneath this post. We need to know who's dropped out.
Put up Flagg and I's collab. It sure is lonely being the only one posting IC, though. Where's this damned collab the demons keep promising?
An old man stood with great effort in face of a raging fire in the chamber at the very peak of the Spire. Garbed in tattered clothing and thin from a life of hunger and misery, he was surrounded by an excited crowd, chanting the same lines: "Burn, kindred, burn for our land, our people, our Lady. Burn to give us power!". He shiverred for a moment, reconsidering his decision to end his life with a Harrowing, as he imagined the agony of death in the inferno. He took a step back, but a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder.
"Do not fear, for there is no pain for the faithful. By this act, you join the Lady," spoke the Oracle, that ancient priest of Eyrn who had presided over this ceremony thousands of times before, and seen countless men, brave, craven, weak and strong, rich and poor, who all chose to step into the fire to wipe away their sins and give their life for the Lady. The old man hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, realizing that this was his destiny. By this act, he was placing himself among heroes past.
His heart now light and his mind unafraid, he walked calmly into the fire, which seemed to grow and dance at the rythm of the chanting. The heat was unbearable and it was only with great effort that he forced himself ever closer to the flames. He disapeared into the pit, hidden amidst the twirling fires. His screams were horrific, yet the crowd seemed to chant with redoubled enthusiasm, and soon no more noise was emmited from the center of the chamber save the crackling of the wood. Suddenly, the chanting stopped, and all was silent. The Oracle stepped forward, and all eyes were on him.
"On this day," he began slowly, "Gregor of Tiris, a man braver than most others, has given his life for the Lady."
"Truly, he is great!" the crowd answered in unison.
The oracle looked upon them, and after a moment, continued: "This sacrifice shall be remembered until the end of-"
A thunderous laugh erupted from the swirling flames, deep and full of venomous amusment. It drowned out the Oracle. A murmur of shocked dismay went up from the crowd.
"Old man," rippled a smooth, deep voice, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, "You've not given this one to the Tower...but to me." The Oracle turned back to the flames, and gasped. The fire twisted in on itself, like water circling above a drain. At the center of the maelstrom stood Gregor of Tiris, his skin cracked and blackend, his eyes burning like coals.
He smiled.
The flames around him burst into a mere shower of sparks. The corpse stepped down from the smouldering pyre, molten ichor dribbling from his lipless, grinning mouth and burning eyes. Those in the crowd turned and fled down the stairs of the Spire, and the knights present advanced, unsheating their swords as they approached the creature, shields held high. Raising his hand with effort, the Oracle signaled them to halt, and stepped closer to the... thing.
"Foul creature who inhabits the flesh of a pious man, how dare you violate this most hollowed ground!" he shouted with the vigor of a man a quarter of his age, feeling Eyrn's spirit filling him with righteous wrath. "Depart at once, or be smote by the power of the Lady!".
"You will have to suffice," said the corpse, the cracks in his skin shining with infernal light, "If you have the authority to speak for Her. I am Dionysius."
The Oracle was still for a moment, as he analyzed the situation. There was no doubt in his mind: He could feel the Lady herself confirming it. This was the great lord of the Diadochi. Force of arms would not avail here. "Knights of the Tower," he commanded more quietly, loosing his strength as his body remembered his unnatural age. "Leave me with this... monster." After a moment's hesitation, the Knight-Seargant gave his men the order to descend to the lower levels. The Oracle was now left alone with the Diadochi wearing the skin of a monster.
Suddenly, he felt curiously light. He no longer felt the ache in his bones or the exhaustion in his heart, and everything seemed to become a blur.
The Oracle- No, he was no longer the Oracle, he was now the Avatar- took a step forward, his eyes burning with holy light, seemingly shedding his skin of an old man and taking on the form of something greater. Great wings sprouted from his back, and he seemed taller than men could possibly be. The Avatar walked up to the walking corpse and looked into its eyes, seeing the soul of Dionysius within.
"So you are," he said at last. "I am Eyrn, and the Tower, and all who have given their lives for the survival of mankind. I am the Avatar. Diadochi, you have profaned a most sacred ritual, and disturbed even my slumber, I who am meant to sleep until the day of Reckoning. Speak then, if you have reason to."
"We have slept overlong, you and I," said the corpse, blackened skin slowly starting to lighten, his features twisting, "The Reckoning is upon us."
The Avatar looked up for a moment, and reached up, stretching his hand. "So it is," he observed slowly. "I can feel the forces from beyond our existence moving, and the Doom aproaches. Though it is not here yet, your appearance here is the first part of a chain of events that will unleash it."
He stepped towards one of the great windows of the chamber, shut with iron. He opened it with the strength of ten men, and looked out, staring west. "You wish to speak of the world beyond the sea, then?"
"Look to your own house first, woman," replied the Diadochi, "Your lords prepare to march on my cities. They no longer worship the Tower, and they no longer fear Me. Something else commands them and darkens their reason."
"The taint at the heart of the Tower," the Avatar mused quietly. "Yes, I have seen this, though I do not know who is responsible. These mortal lords are arrogant and greedy, and they no longer kneel to me." He walked back to Dionysius. "I have been negligent in my long watch over my children, I see now. They ride to burn and pillage, like the barbarians they once were. They have... Regressed. You are right, this must be adressed. Perhaps dragging their petty King to the Spire in chains would teach them humility again."
"Perhaps. But we have greater problems. We have lived in peace for millenia, us gods of the Old World." Dionysius said, "Whatever old enmities between us, they are nothing compared to the coming storm."
The Avatar paused, considering for a moment the situation. "I see. You desire an alliance against these foes that assail us."
"Indeed. The Old World and Ancient Powers must stand united against the chaos of the New and the vengeance of the Outer Planes."
For a long moment, the Avatar was silent, contemplating the many paths this could take. Finally, he let out two words, silent and fateful:
"Very well."
Several hours later, when the Knights finally decided to venture up to see if the situation was resolved, they found an empty chamber, with the dying fire burning low, and the Oracle sprawled on the ground, unconscious. There wasnt a trace of the possessed corpse, or the Diadochi who had taken over it.
"Do not fear, for there is no pain for the faithful. By this act, you join the Lady," spoke the Oracle, that ancient priest of Eyrn who had presided over this ceremony thousands of times before, and seen countless men, brave, craven, weak and strong, rich and poor, who all chose to step into the fire to wipe away their sins and give their life for the Lady. The old man hesitated for a moment, and then nodded, realizing that this was his destiny. By this act, he was placing himself among heroes past.
His heart now light and his mind unafraid, he walked calmly into the fire, which seemed to grow and dance at the rythm of the chanting. The heat was unbearable and it was only with great effort that he forced himself ever closer to the flames. He disapeared into the pit, hidden amidst the twirling fires. His screams were horrific, yet the crowd seemed to chant with redoubled enthusiasm, and soon no more noise was emmited from the center of the chamber save the crackling of the wood. Suddenly, the chanting stopped, and all was silent. The Oracle stepped forward, and all eyes were on him.
"On this day," he began slowly, "Gregor of Tiris, a man braver than most others, has given his life for the Lady."
"Truly, he is great!" the crowd answered in unison.
The oracle looked upon them, and after a moment, continued: "This sacrifice shall be remembered until the end of-"
A thunderous laugh erupted from the swirling flames, deep and full of venomous amusment. It drowned out the Oracle. A murmur of shocked dismay went up from the crowd.
"Old man," rippled a smooth, deep voice, echoing from everywhere and nowhere, "You've not given this one to the Tower...but to me." The Oracle turned back to the flames, and gasped. The fire twisted in on itself, like water circling above a drain. At the center of the maelstrom stood Gregor of Tiris, his skin cracked and blackend, his eyes burning like coals.
He smiled.
The flames around him burst into a mere shower of sparks. The corpse stepped down from the smouldering pyre, molten ichor dribbling from his lipless, grinning mouth and burning eyes. Those in the crowd turned and fled down the stairs of the Spire, and the knights present advanced, unsheating their swords as they approached the creature, shields held high. Raising his hand with effort, the Oracle signaled them to halt, and stepped closer to the... thing.
"Foul creature who inhabits the flesh of a pious man, how dare you violate this most hollowed ground!" he shouted with the vigor of a man a quarter of his age, feeling Eyrn's spirit filling him with righteous wrath. "Depart at once, or be smote by the power of the Lady!".
"You will have to suffice," said the corpse, the cracks in his skin shining with infernal light, "If you have the authority to speak for Her. I am Dionysius."
The Oracle was still for a moment, as he analyzed the situation. There was no doubt in his mind: He could feel the Lady herself confirming it. This was the great lord of the Diadochi. Force of arms would not avail here. "Knights of the Tower," he commanded more quietly, loosing his strength as his body remembered his unnatural age. "Leave me with this... monster." After a moment's hesitation, the Knight-Seargant gave his men the order to descend to the lower levels. The Oracle was now left alone with the Diadochi wearing the skin of a monster.
Suddenly, he felt curiously light. He no longer felt the ache in his bones or the exhaustion in his heart, and everything seemed to become a blur.
The Oracle- No, he was no longer the Oracle, he was now the Avatar- took a step forward, his eyes burning with holy light, seemingly shedding his skin of an old man and taking on the form of something greater. Great wings sprouted from his back, and he seemed taller than men could possibly be. The Avatar walked up to the walking corpse and looked into its eyes, seeing the soul of Dionysius within.
"So you are," he said at last. "I am Eyrn, and the Tower, and all who have given their lives for the survival of mankind. I am the Avatar. Diadochi, you have profaned a most sacred ritual, and disturbed even my slumber, I who am meant to sleep until the day of Reckoning. Speak then, if you have reason to."
"We have slept overlong, you and I," said the corpse, blackened skin slowly starting to lighten, his features twisting, "The Reckoning is upon us."
The Avatar looked up for a moment, and reached up, stretching his hand. "So it is," he observed slowly. "I can feel the forces from beyond our existence moving, and the Doom aproaches. Though it is not here yet, your appearance here is the first part of a chain of events that will unleash it."
He stepped towards one of the great windows of the chamber, shut with iron. He opened it with the strength of ten men, and looked out, staring west. "You wish to speak of the world beyond the sea, then?"
"Look to your own house first, woman," replied the Diadochi, "Your lords prepare to march on my cities. They no longer worship the Tower, and they no longer fear Me. Something else commands them and darkens their reason."
"The taint at the heart of the Tower," the Avatar mused quietly. "Yes, I have seen this, though I do not know who is responsible. These mortal lords are arrogant and greedy, and they no longer kneel to me." He walked back to Dionysius. "I have been negligent in my long watch over my children, I see now. They ride to burn and pillage, like the barbarians they once were. They have... Regressed. You are right, this must be adressed. Perhaps dragging their petty King to the Spire in chains would teach them humility again."
"Perhaps. But we have greater problems. We have lived in peace for millenia, us gods of the Old World." Dionysius said, "Whatever old enmities between us, they are nothing compared to the coming storm."
The Avatar paused, considering for a moment the situation. "I see. You desire an alliance against these foes that assail us."
"Indeed. The Old World and Ancient Powers must stand united against the chaos of the New and the vengeance of the Outer Planes."
For a long moment, the Avatar was silent, contemplating the many paths this could take. Finally, he let out two words, silent and fateful:
"Very well."
Several hours later, when the Knights finally decided to venture up to see if the situation was resolved, they found an empty chamber, with the dying fire burning low, and the Oracle sprawled on the ground, unconscious. There wasnt a trace of the possessed corpse, or the Diadochi who had taken over it.
Swords clashed and the air sizzled from the heat, as the two legendary warriors clashed again and again.
They were surrounded by hundreds, no, thousands of spectators, cheering for one combatant or another. He was a large man who emanated an air of authority and majesty. She was beautiful and terrible in equal measure. They were the highest champions of their people. For those in the audience, it seemed like they were demigods. They were both bloody and tired, yet did not relent, nor soften their blows.
The Man was lying in a pool of his own blood, unable to move. She was kneeling over him, holding his head, crying tears of despair, and all around them the world seemed to disappear, fading out into a mesh of the mundane and the unimportant. He looked at her sadly.
"Was it worth it?" he asked softly.
Eyrn shook herself from the vision, devastated by it as she always was. I had to, she thought, trying to convince herself. He gave me no choice; I had to save our people.
She received many such visions, of the past, present, and future, yet only this one tortured her so. Over the millennia, it had all her willpower to prevent herself from going mad at the dream, the memory. She could not afford to wallow in self pity or regret. Her people needed her guidance; there was no undoing the past, no matter how strongly she willed it.
Her existence was what the gods must feel like, she supposed. She could feel every part of the Tower as if it were her physical body, see every human struggling along around her throughout the ages like a human sees ants, always frantically running from death, unable to see its inevitability. Everyone and everything died, from the lowest peasant to the greatest king, from the highest mountains to the oldest trees. Everything except for herself. She always remained, unmoving, unchanging, simply existing, doomed in her own fashion. And then came the visions.
She saw the same scene she had seen many times in the previous days: The burning city, the falling Tower, the darkness, and her own death.
She saw a land of red grass, stained from the blood of mortals in a far away land.
She saw a rot within her own heart, a darkness spreading under her watch, with war consuming the land as men clashed and died, with an unspeakable evil laughing throughout it all.
She saw her Oracle, lying dead in an ocean of corpses, surrounded by her fallen children.
All this she saw, and it occurred to her that time was no longer a luxury she possessed. Her life was now finite, and Doom crept ever closer. She reached out, and felt the mind of her Oracle. She touched his consciousness and spoke to him, feeling his agony as his mortal coil struggled to contain her presence. The End comes, she whispered to him. Millennia of our existence is threatened by the coming threat. You must seek out those who would stand against the Shadow.
They were surrounded by hundreds, no, thousands of spectators, cheering for one combatant or another. He was a large man who emanated an air of authority and majesty. She was beautiful and terrible in equal measure. They were the highest champions of their people. For those in the audience, it seemed like they were demigods. They were both bloody and tired, yet did not relent, nor soften their blows.
The Man was lying in a pool of his own blood, unable to move. She was kneeling over him, holding his head, crying tears of despair, and all around them the world seemed to disappear, fading out into a mesh of the mundane and the unimportant. He looked at her sadly.
"Was it worth it?" he asked softly.
Eyrn shook herself from the vision, devastated by it as she always was. I had to, she thought, trying to convince herself. He gave me no choice; I had to save our people.
She received many such visions, of the past, present, and future, yet only this one tortured her so. Over the millennia, it had all her willpower to prevent herself from going mad at the dream, the memory. She could not afford to wallow in self pity or regret. Her people needed her guidance; there was no undoing the past, no matter how strongly she willed it.
Her existence was what the gods must feel like, she supposed. She could feel every part of the Tower as if it were her physical body, see every human struggling along around her throughout the ages like a human sees ants, always frantically running from death, unable to see its inevitability. Everyone and everything died, from the lowest peasant to the greatest king, from the highest mountains to the oldest trees. Everything except for herself. She always remained, unmoving, unchanging, simply existing, doomed in her own fashion. And then came the visions.
She saw the same scene she had seen many times in the previous days: The burning city, the falling Tower, the darkness, and her own death.
She saw a land of red grass, stained from the blood of mortals in a far away land.
She saw a rot within her own heart, a darkness spreading under her watch, with war consuming the land as men clashed and died, with an unspeakable evil laughing throughout it all.
She saw her Oracle, lying dead in an ocean of corpses, surrounded by her fallen children.
All this she saw, and it occurred to her that time was no longer a luxury she possessed. Her life was now finite, and Doom crept ever closer. She reached out, and felt the mind of her Oracle. She touched his consciousness and spoke to him, feeling his agony as his mortal coil struggled to contain her presence. The End comes, she whispered to him. Millennia of our existence is threatened by the coming threat. You must seek out those who would stand against the Shadow.
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