@BingTheWing Take your time, school is important!
Vec
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Unimaginable Trepidation
- Last Seen: 1 mo ago
- Old Guild Username: Vec
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 3393 (0.75 / day)
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- Vec 12 yrs ago
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Bio
Just as humans grow and change with time, interests change as well. I wish I had the urge to roleplay like I used to...
Most Recent Posts
@Cmmelody I corrected the conviction cost for Yzechr's action to 2 conv. instead of 3. He now has 4 conv. remaining after calculation.
In the depths of the corrupted ocean, something pulsed.
The pearl-white shell that Yzechr had consumed had not been destroyed, not truly. It had dissolved into the very substance of the sea, becoming one with the darkness and the deception. But shells, especially those touched by mysteries, have memories. And memories have a way of surfacing when least expected.
At irregular intervals, sometimes hours apart, sometimes days, the ocean would clear. For a handful of heartbeats, the lightless depths would become transparent, the water as pure and safe as it had been before corruption touched it. Ships could sail. Fish could swim without mutation. The alluring whispers would fall silent.
Then, just as suddenly, the clarity would fade. The corruption would return, darker than before, as if angered by the interruption. The gods who had collected other shells from the shore, pretty, nacre-bright things, felt those trinkets grow suddenly inert in their grasp. The faint magic that had clung to them, the sense of significance, drained away like water through sand. They were still beautiful. But they were just shells now, nothing more.
The world shuddered.
Not with earthquake or storm, but with something far deeper: a tremor in the fabric of reality itself, a resonance that sang through the bones of creation. The gods, scattered across the nascent shores and skies of Ashuru, felt it simultaneously: a weight pressing down from beyond, as though something vast had turned its attention toward this fragile dream.
High above the black shore, where Orranoth had extended his hand toward the impossible, the firmament cracked. For one breathless moment, the barrier between Ashuru and the realm beyond fractured. Not breaking, but thinning to gossamer, and through that translucent wound the gods glimpsed them.
Countless intricate phenomena manifested just beyond the world's edge. Geometric impossibilities folded through dimensions that had no names. Colors that were not colors, hues that existed in spectrums mortal eyes would never perceive, painted themselves across the sky in spiraling, recursive patterns, each burning with the cold fire of absolute perfection.
The Matron of Secrets stood at the threshold between worlds, her hand still clasped with Orranoth's. Where their fingers touched, reality bent like heated glass. She was smiling. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the vision collapsed. The firmament sealed. The impossible colors drained from the sky like water through cupped hands, leaving only the painted darkness of Moren's night and the steady stars of Arstus.
But the gods had seen. They had witnessed the perfection that lay beyond their flawed creation, and that vision would not leave them. Their minds reeled, struggling to contain what they had glimpsed, not with pain, but with a dizzying sense of smallness, of being shadows cast by a greater light. The world steadied. The Ideals were gone from sight, but not from memory.
And somewhere in the depths of each divine consciousness, a question took root: What have we invited into our world?
Far across the shore, Excelsis, hubris-incarnate, completed his violent communion with the Patron of Knowledge. The battle had been titanic: a clash between divine greed and a fragment of perfect understanding. The Patron had not wished to be captured, to be owned, and so it had done the only thing a semi-conscious fragment of an Ideal could do when cornered: it shattered itself rather than submit to imprisonment.
The explosion was not physical, though physical things certainly felt it. It was metaphysical, a detonation of pure comprehension that scattered across Ashuru like seeds on the wind. Most of the fragments Excelsis had captured, binding them into the Akashic Vessel, but a few... a few had escaped into the world. Into the ocean. Into the earth. Into the uncertain spaces between.
But the true consequence came now, in the aftermath.
Every god felt it at once: a presence in their mind, vast and perfect and terrible. For a single, suspended instant, each deity saw the Ideal of their Domain, not the, now seemingly, imperfect sphere of influence they wielded, but the perfect template from which their power potentially derived.
Khthon saw Earth Absolute; every stone that ever was or could be, compressed into a single point of infinite mass and meaning. He saw Secrets Pure; the locked door behind which all hidden things dwelled in perfect obscurity, unknowable and untouchable. Adria saw War Eternal; conflict stripped of emotion, reduced to its crystalline essence: force meeting force, neither good nor evil, just the perfect opposition of wills. She saw Sacrifice Complete; the moment of giving distilled to its purest form, an offering without hope of return.
Yzechr saw Deception Absolute; lies so perfect they became more true than truth itself. Corruption Pure; not decay, but transformation: the perfection of changing one thing into another without flaw or hesitation. Sarhush saw Civilization Ideal; order extending infinitely in all directions, every being in its perfect place, every law executing flawlessly for eternity. Kingship Pure; authority without question, rule without rebellion, command that was absolute.
One by one, each god confronted the perfection of their own Domain and realized, once again, how far they fell short of it. The visions were overwhelming, with even divine minds, try as they might, be unable to contain such perfect understanding. Reality pushed back. Consciousness flickered.
Each god experienced a moment of absolute nothing, a gap in their awareness, as if they had simply ceased for the span of a heartbeat. When they returned—and they did return, though it felt like waking from a dream they couldn't quite remember—the visions were gone. Only a faint impression remained: a point of light in memory, too bright to look at directly, forever out of reach.
Beneath the black shore, where Khthon had transformed flowing sand into solid, living earth, caverns were forming. The compression of matter created voids: vast networks of hollow spaces threading through the bedrock like veins through flesh. Some were small, no larger than a clenched fist. Others were cathedral-vast, their ceilings lost in darkness, their floors smooth and strange.
The earth groaned as it settled into its new shape. Minor tremors rippled across the surface. In places, the ground sagged unexpectedly, creating shallow depressions. In others, sand poured down into hidden sinkholes, vanishing into the underworld below.
But the caverns were not empty.
As Khthon's transformation spread, it encountered something already there, something that had been moving beneath the sand since before the gods awoke. Crystalline roots, slender and strange, wove through the newly-formed rock like cracks in glass. They glowed faintly, a dim phosphorescence that pulsed with no discernible rhythm. They emitted no specific power that could be named, yet they felt... significant. Ancient. Foundational.
Where the roots pierced through the cavern ceilings, they formed natural skylights: delicate lattices of crystal that filtered what little light existed underground into prismatic fragments. They were beautiful. They were growing. And they were spreading, threading deeper into the earth with each passing hour, as if searching for something.
The entity—whatever vast thing had been moving beneath the sand—was silent now. Trapped? Changed? Sleeping deeper? The gods would have to dig further to know for certain.
Across the nascent landscape, Alechior's Gambler's Grog Trees were spreading.
The original trees stood proud and bizarre near the shore, their sap-heavy branches gleaming with promise and danger. But nature—even divine nature—was not content to stay contained. Seeds, impossibly light and carried by winds that had no right to blow in specific directions, scattered randomly across Ashuru.
A seed landed in a crevice between two of Khthon's new stones. Another drifted into a cavern mouth and took root in the darkness. A third fell into the corrupted ocean and, against all logic, began to grow beneath the waves, producing alcoholic kelp-like fronds that swayed with the current.
The trees sprouted in inconvenient, chaotic locations: atop Khthon's standing menhir, in the uncertain mountains where geography itself was still deciding what it wanted to be, even in the sky where Moren's painted night met Arstus's stars—a tree growing from nothing, defying gravity, its roots drinking starlight instead of soil.
For Adria, Moren, and Arstus—those who had journeyed toward the angular structure that resisted direct observation—the journey ended at last. As they drew near, the structure solidified in their vision, as if their approach gave it permission to be seen.
It was a temple. Half-formed, half-imagined, built of material that was neither stone nor light but something in between: a substance that looked like solidified thought. There were no doors, yet there were entrances. No walls, yet boundaries that could not be crossed without intent.
Inside, the space was vast and circular. Around the perimeter stood alcoves, twelve of them, each perfectly sized to accommodate a divine form. Not sized as the gods were, but sized as they could be, as if the temple knew their shapes before they had chosen them. Each alcove bore a faint impression, a resonance that called to a specific Domain. One alcove hummed with the rhythm of earth and secrets. Another gleamed with the sharp edge of sacrifice and war. A third pulsed with the dizzying spin of gambling and merriment. And so on, twelve in total, one for each god.
At the center of the temple stood a half-crumbled throne. It was empty. It was waiting. And carved into the base, in a script that no god had ever seen but that each could somehow read (as if the symbols wrote themselves directly into divine comprehension), was a single question: "Who made us?"
The temple offered no answer. It merely waited, patient as stone, for the gods to fill its alcoves and decide what response, if any, they would give.
Sarhush's fingers closed around the sphere of perfect smoothness.
The moment his divine essence made contact, the sphere pulsed—a single, slow heartbeat. It was warm. Not hot, but warm in the way living things are warm, as if blood moved beneath its flawless surface.
For an instant, Sarhush felt the sphere's true nature unfold in his consciousness: it was an egg. Not in the literal sense of a shell containing a creature, but in the metaphysical sense, a vessel of potential, compressed and waiting. It could become anything. A new god. A mortal race. A weapon of unimaginable power. A world within a world.
But only once.
Whatever Sarhush—or another god—imagined while channeling power into this sphere, it would become that thing, irrevocably and completely. It was the ultimate gamble: infinite possibility, singular outcome.
The sphere was inert now. Dormant. It required charging—a significant investment of divine Conviction to awaken its potential. And even then, the choice of what it would become would need to be made carefully, for there would be no second chance.
Sarhush held the Egg of Potential in his hands and felt the weight of futures unmade.
In another place—a place that was not quite a place, a space folded outside the material world—Sirna's planar realm hummed with contained noise.
The other gods felt its presence now, a faint pressure at the edge of perception. Some found it comforting, a distant lullaby. Others found it unsettling, like the moment before waking from a dream.
The realm itself was stable. Sirna had done well. But its existence had planted a seed in the world's foundation—a metaphysical promise that when mortals eventually walked Ashuru's shores, they would not merely live and die. They would dream.
The gift was not yet active, for there were no mortals to receive it. But when they came—and they would come, one way or another—they would close their eyes in sleep and find themselves slipping, just for a moment, into that strange space where noise and potential dwelled. They would dream of things that had never been, and in dreaming, they would touch, however briefly, the divine.
The world was no longer empty.
In the distance, beyond the uncertain mountains, the same low, resonant sound echoed once again—louder than before, more insistent, as if the events of this day had stirred something to wakefulness.
In the depths of the corrupted ocean, where knowledge fragments from the shattered Patron had fallen, strange glows pulsed beneath the surface—moving, searching, perhaps thinking.
And in the fog that still clung to the edges of the world, the eyes watched. More than before. Closer than before. The Watching Presence had been glimpsed during the firmament's fracture, and it had not looked away.
The gods had marked the world. And the world—and things beyond it—had taken notice.
@SilverPaw There is an incentive for collab posts.
I also prefer collab posts to multiple small posts however I am not going to go out of my way to force people to collab if they don't want to.
If people want to then go for it :_)
<Snipped quote by Vec>
I meant collaboration between players in the form of a collab post (e.g. in a google doc). This is just a suggestion cause I come from spaces that discourage consecutive back and forth posts by the same players but encourage collab posts, so it's what I'm used to.
I also prefer collab posts to multiple small posts however I am not going to go out of my way to force people to collab if they don't want to.
If people want to then go for it :_)
PLAYER CREATIONS / DISCOVERIES
In this post I will be compiling all creations that players of this roleplay introduce in it. Additionally, any discoveries made by gods and/or mortals will also be added here, with as much information as is available to the players at any given point in time.
Due to its general overarching significance to the setting, I along @ActRaiserTheReturned have made a Google Doc file containing all the information about the Magic Framework of this world. Click here to be redirected to said Google Doc file. Please peruse it at your leisure and pose any questions in the OOC thread.
@SilverPaw 3+ gold collaborating on a project reduces that project's action tier by 1. This reduces both potential ripple and can avoid nightmare turbulence scenarios.
Okay, so I will be making a GM post very soon. The default day for GM posts would be Monday wherein I would post a recap of stuff happening as well as Conviction updates for everyone, however I am thinking of making a rule for "GM post every 25 player posts or Monday, if not having reached the 25 post mark until then".
What can I do, you guys have inundated the thread and 3 people haven't posted their first post yet. Crazy but do keep it up, I won't stop you.
What can I do, you guys have inundated the thread and 3 people haven't posted their first post yet. Crazy but do keep it up, I won't stop you.
Very good posts all, only ones who haven't introduced their characters yet are @BingTheWing, @Legion02, and @Stanifly
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