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    1. VitoftheVoid 7 yrs ago

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Thanks! And here's a student!)

(Here's my Professor! (Any references to Professor Byrne will become clear later. :D))

Yesss. I'm gonna be after the roles of the Aquamancy Professor, and the heir to the Pyromancy position on the council, I think. :D
Thanks for the response folks! :D Probably going to start working on this properly then.
@Framing A Moose All of it aside from the final set of directions was projected on speaker.
Heyyy I'm hopin to try out a new character concept of mine and develop it a bit, all good if I hop in with a female bugbear?
(Bugbear as in Dungeons and Dragons definition, large, pretty intelligent goblinoid with bear-like noses.)
Declaring my intention to go for Professor of Aquamancy/Shadowstep and a student of Pyromancy! :D
@Framing A Moose Oh no problem, Kora doesn't really make her heritage much of a secret.

Also, Mag intro is up and I'll do a Kora/ORIN in the morning assuming I've got time, off on a trip so might be scarce for a few days!
There was blood everywhere. One the walls, the floor, the mouldering volumes left on the old shelves, everywhere.

Out at the doorway, a silhouette of a man slipped out of the door, spreading a dusty light across the room, and to the body on the floor, a young woman in a dark jacket. She lay on the dusty floor in an expanding pool of arterial blood, watching as the man who had just shot her stroll off into the wastes, with her duffel bag in hand.

The trade had not gone well.

He hadn't even had a very good aim. What she suspected had been intended to hit her head instead hit her in the side of the neck, nicking the carotid artery and causing far more mess than it needed to. Maybe being the one who got shot gave her a bit of personal bias, but some of the last thoughts that flickered though Magdalene Atwood's as she bled out in the ruins of a pre-war bookstore, was that the murder had been a very sloppy one.




It was around 48 hours that the corpse of Magdalene Atwood lay in the abandoned bookstore. The blood puddle had begun to become dry and sticky, though no flies or vermin had made any approach upon it.

About 48 hours after she had died, the body gave a sudden spasmodic twitch, the back arching up before pushing back down as she was flung up into a sitting position and let out a sudden gasp for air. Two more desperate intakes of breath before she threw herself onto her knees and violently threw up, splattering the already ruined floor with congealed blood and stomach acid.

However many times it happened, re-animation was still impossible to get used to. Like even the body rejected such a violation of natural laws. Everything had to die. Very few things had made it a two way street.

It took a while, but Magdalene was able to rise onto her feet. Her skull felt like it had been chipped out on the inside with a mason's chisel and her throat was burning with bile. All kind of par for the course, but she was pretty sure she was going to need to find something to drink pretty soon or this was going to get into a really unpleasant cycle.

Clumsily, Magdalene reached round the bookshelves.
She just hoped that bastard hadn't found the-

Her fingers closed round a book.

Got it.

With shaky hands the book opened, revealing the hollowed-out inside and a concealed ID card with its chesspiece symbol sat within.

The motheaten rug in the corner was pulled aside, and the white plastic crates bearing similar chesspiece insignia that had been set into replace the floor beneath were revealed, and the first opened with swipe of the card. LED strips on the inside flared and lit the packages inside.

The bag, with a couple of day's worth of rations stuffed inside, was a decoy. It served its purpose very well. Apparently her trader buddy had completely missed the real prize.

Three crates of Erubesco field unit supplies. Freeze-dried rations, water purifiers, heat packs, medical supplies...all the kinds of things you might miss living out in the ashlands. Also worth their weight in gold.

If anything gold was less important. You couldn't eat gold.

Mags reached round in the interior until her trembling hands seized upon an orange carton, which she cracked and downed near enough in one, but for what she lost when it spilled down her bloodstained shirt.

Electrolyte drink. Should probably at least render some of the negative side effects manageable whilst she moved onto shifting these things to a new hiding place. Now it was known some shifty fuck would eventually end up at the place. Wasn't usually a problem but...

Noise.

The reanimator, sat gracelessly propped up against her crate cache, paused and listened. She'd barely noticed over the crashing inside her own head up until then.

The explosion, following shortly after, shook the building, and the ceiling shed some dust and little bits of loose plaster.

Maybe worth a check before starting the move. Maybe.

Magdalene took a shemagh from the chair by the door, and wrapped it round the sticky neck wound that was still rather evident underneath her jawline, before making her way out into the daylight. The momentum by which she did so overtook her a little, and the woman found herself half stumbling out further than she'd really intended to venture. The sight to greet her when she summoned the wherewithal to look around was...unexpected.. to say the least.

A man, a man who appeared to be made of metal. In his arms appeared to be a badly injured woman. Trotting up alongside him was a winged horse that the metal man appeared to be trying to shoo away. Behind them a little distance, a build was on fire.

Of all the things Mags might have predicted to be out there on her emerging...this would not have ranked too highly on the list.

The natural response, at least perhaps for someone with any wish to thrive in the ashlands, would be to walk straight back in and let this bizarre parade keep going on its merry way. What the once-Liberty member found herself doing, perhaps in part down to years of collectivist mentoring, was call over and show concern.

"Uh..you alright over there?"

Maybe it was a stupid question. For most people it probably was a stupid question, though your perspective changed a little when you were standing half-drenched in your own dry blood with a fair-sized gash left in the side of your neck, but actually feeling relatively alright. It seemed kind of hypocritical not to ask.

----

Kora, still grasping her knife in one hand, was not really in the mood for casual conversation. Not when her target was rapidly getting away from her. As such she took the ashlander's response to her in not the most graceful manner.

"Ignorant hick. You don't know a thing about me, or about my line if you think we're nothing but a bunch of savages."

She was about to speak when ORIN interjected.

"Contemporary accounts that portray the norse people as unusually savage or chaotic can be attributed to a saxon christian perspective, shaped by the adversarial relationship between the two cultures, and the christian disdain for pagan religions. The treaty of Alfred and Guthrum in 876 was-"

"ORIN shut it! We're not here to give a scrub a history lesson."

"I am not here at all. You however are here to pursue the targets, not knife fight with the locals. Disengage."

"You want me to just let her get away with it."

"Yes. Disengage."

Kora cursed under her breath, but complied. She flung her hands downwards and another blast burst out of her hands. It was smaller than before, or possibly reduced by its open area, but in this case it was not meant for offence. Instead what it succeeded in doing was kicking up a great amount of debris into the air. Dust, mud, bits of wood and stone, mixing with steam and ash in order to render the area a cloud of beige and grey.

It was, for both involved, most likely difficult to see.

But only one of them had a computerized system of guidance.

"Turn left, move."
Wilde Jagd


The apocalypse. The end of the world. That was the only way people who witnessed the days of the Old One, as it cut a swathe of destruction across the world. A hideous incarnation of primal destruction that rose from the depth of the earth to bring about the end of the world.

There had always been vague stories of the apocalypse, the coming of some ancient avatar of destruction that was prophesied to one day set upon the earth. For the religious men it had always been just a little way away. Each generation was the end times. And each generation passed without incident. Technology grew and people lost interest in much of that old fear and mysticism.

That was until the day the earth split and the great cities of man burned.

When the moon shone red in the smoke-choked sky and humanity faced the summation of its most old and primal fears.

It had no name. They called it many things. After the dust had settled, generations after the burning times, people would refer to it in hushed voices as The Old One.

A god of destruction and death and infinite malice, charged with taking apart the world and returning it to the days before light and life.

And it very nearly succeeded. So many died in those times. And so much progress was lost forever. Armies set loose their greatest and most advanced weapons in hopes of destroying this horrifying thing, and in doing so they would seem to blast it apart, only to watch in dismay as it reformed, unharmed.

Humanity stood on the verge of extinction when a man stepped forward with nothing but an ancient book in one hand.

The man's name was Gabriel Herne, and he would be responsible for saving the world.
A man of mystic knowledge and power, Gabriel knew that The Old One could not be killed. It was a force of nature, a constant that the world could never be rid of once awoken. Something like that could not simply cease to exist. The man had pored through every source, every old text he could find until the solution had present itself before him.

The Old One could not be killed.

But it could be split.

He faced the horrific thing, looked into the face of madness and death, spoke the words he'd spent years of his life searching for, and tore the Old One apart.




That is the story told to near any child when they are young. The story of Gabriel the magician and how he saved the world from this walking death. Of course decades have passed since then. Few live who remember the burning times, and even fewer who could say they knew anything about what transpired in the epic battle that took place.

That said, it was true enough that Gabriel Herne did manage to save the world.

What was left of it anyway.

The world is far from what it could have been.

They say that once mankind had all sorta of wonderful technology that every man, woman and child could make use of.
These days tech is a luxury. Unless you are a Lord or Lady, have cosied up to the latter, or are obscenely wealthy, the level of advancement would be little better than medieval times.

The land it split up into provinces that the Lords and Ladies rule over. For all the regal titles, these people are essentially warlords. Either they were vicious enough to hold the lands their mothers or father took after the burning times, or they were vicious enough to take it from someone else. They range from the fair but unspeakably tough, to the out and out psychopathic.

People aren't just more medieval in their technological level...but medieval in their attitudes. People are highly adherent to new gods and cults. They're wary of strangers. They hate and fear things that are strange or unnatural.

Which makes the occurrence of the Witch Gene even more tragic.

The influence of the old one, the dark energy it left in its wake, had a lingering influence, not just on the land itself, but the people.

A few years after the burning times children began being born with horrifying deformities. Claws, sharp teeth, single wings protruding from their shoulderblades. Progressively these things also manifested as strange, dark abilities.

People were disgusted by these tainted creatures, and shunned them. Most 'witch children' will not live past infancy, and those that do can anticipate a dangerous world.

And then, you have the Fragments. The pieces left behind from the Old One. The stories of them are sparse...well..the true ones are. Any drunk bastard in a roadside inn would tell the story of some red-eyed fiend that they fought off in the night, one of the monsters that formed a piece of the shattered Old One itself.
Much of it are only tall tales.

But not all. From time to time the reports filter through of death and destruction. Entire towns levelled and dozens of soldiers torn to pieces in the most horrific ways.

And if those stories are true then those who tell them might have run into something else. The people with guns and armour, and the silver badges that resemble a hunting hound.

Much like the Fragments, many people talk about them, but few have actually met the people. The hunters and jailers on whom the fate of the shattered world now rests. For it's known enough that the pieces of the Old One will seek to re-unite one day, and when they do, everything will be consumed with fire and darkness.

The Wilde Jagd. The last hope we've got, and the newest class of cadets is about to begin their training to earn the title of Hound.

But are all the cadets really human? Or did something else sneak in?





OOC Stuff


Hi there! Vit here. Outlined the basis of a plot I've had knocking round for a while that I've elected to try and rework and revamp, focusing on the arrival of new recruits and their development as hounds, but also the Fragments opposing them and, possibly, Fragments who've managed to infiltrate the latest cadet class.

It'll need to be a fairly diverse mix, as, say, a bunch of Fragments, or a bunch of humans, or a bunch of witches aren't going to make things anywhere near as interesting as a good assortment. Instructors would also be fab. The whole thing is mid-rework and sorta in flux a bit, probably won't start it formally for a little while, so any ideas or potential subplots are welcome! :D
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