Bay 12 Games Forum

   The world of Alleria is a war torn place. Mercenaries fight alongside loyal soldiers in the endless feuds of city states, whilst merchants and craftsmen in cities mourn their lost husbands and wives. Foolhardy adventurers risk their lives for whispered rumours of power, whilst strange creatures guard the mountains that hem in the realm.

   The world around you is black. No light, no sound, no sensation. You try to turn your head, but nothing changes. Your head doesn’t even seem to react. Then you remember - flashes of blood, of violence; poison and deceit; a soft bed and family. You remember your death.

   Is this the afterlife? You ask yourself.
   NO. Comes the answer. YOU HAVE BEEN GIVEN A SECOND CHANCE.
   A pause follows, and the black lightens, a room coming into focus…

In the beginning, there were only the Makers, and the void. Eons passed, and the makers grew bored. And before long, they started to create. Islands drifted and vanished, brief sparks. A small sun flared and faded, and returned to nothing. But the Makers were not satisfied. They began to dabble in life, creating beings of thought - and destroying them. And so one became the
Arbiter, the channel by which all creation must occur. He bound the Makers to him, and to each other, and let them begin their true act of creation.

I'm looking to take 6 players. Each will start with 10 power. Events should ideally have a description with them.
To join, simply put in.

OOC Link

Cyne Alwyht - remember this name. It is a name you should fear, lest his like ever come again. Once, he was ruler of this land. King before the fall. Then the armies of Arlandia marched upon us. They razed the ground as they came, and when the King rode to meet them in challenge, he was slain with neither care nor mercy.
 I do not know how we should have fared if Arlandria had had us at their feet. I was not alive during that strained decade where our people were little more than slaves to the barbarian troops. Regardless, I can scarce imagine it was a fate worse than that which did follow.
 It began as a murmuring, in the outskirt villages of Parbrook.
 ‘The King has returned,’ they whispered, ‘and no blade may kill him now.’
 At first, we did not believe the news. We laughed at the messengers with sadness, for they teased us with our own dreams. Then the raids began. Patrols disappeared. Entire towns were found destroyed and empty.
 Our people rose up in rebellion. We did not think of those we had lost to the attacks, only of what we had gained. Soon the people of Arlandria were fleeing - their remnants huddles in a single force, poised nonetheless to destroy the seized rebel capital.
 Then, overnight, they vanished. Come daylight there was no sign they had ever existed. We thought ourselves blessed, for what but the gods could have done such a thing. Our answer was given the next night, as the walls resounded with the pounding of flesh and stone. The gates burst beneath the mass of the horde, and we stared into the eyes of friends long dead and enemies far fresher. We scattered, spirit broken even in those who were physically not, and we ran.
 Some few escaped that slaughter. Most did not. Over the course of years the cities were torn down, and their stones formed a vast tower in on the site of old Parbrook. In the topmost chamber of the tower, surveying the lands below, sat a throne of skulls - and on this throne sat the King, Cyne Alwyht.
 He had not been content to die in battle. He had not been content to surrender his throne. And so he had made a pact with dark forces I can only imagine. He returned from the depths where only death may tread, and tore our lands asunder. Only the utmost edges escaped his influence - and it is here we shelter now. Our ancestors still walk their streets, along with horrors that I could not describe within these pages. They are the servants of the Necromancer, and they are our captors.

Twenty years have passed since the fall of Biarule. Twenty years of fear and struggle, the pressure at the borders ever growing. And yet, this last year, it has begun to fall. Now, the merest drips of the horde break on our walls, and even our furthest reaching scouts find nothing they cannot handle alone. To be frank, I do not know the cause, and this troubles me. But these are merely the worries of an old man.
 No, the point of this letter is to ask if this is the case elsewhere - and if so, to carry to you a proposition. Now is the time to reclaim the fallen kingdom. And failing this, to slay the Necromancer himself.

 You stand before the King in the throne room of Arlandria, the best that the kingdoms could muster. The King himself stands in stark contrast, old and weak, his brow heavy with the weight of the crown. He pushes himself - ever so slowly - to his feet, and the red of his robes slides from the gold of the throne. His face lies grim, as if proclaiming a death sentence.
 ‘You all know why you are here.’ His eyes glance at the group gathered before him. ‘But for the sake of formality, allow me to repeat them.’
 ‘You are tasked with settling in the lands to the North, in the shadow of the Necromancer’s tower. The specifics of how and where will be left down to you. We have provided you with the basics you might require, all of which are loaded into the wagon outside. You have been chosen as the best of the best, as those in which we can put the greatest faith of survival.’ The King pauses, eyes flicking between the people in the room - the religious and the blasphemous, the gunners and the warriors. Differences set aside at the call from him. A sad smile settles over his face, and his tongue flicks out, moistening his lips.
 ‘May you die as heroes.’
-----
 The king sighed as he hobbled to the exit. The best of the best. Again, the sad smile touched his lips, as he shook his head. He motioned to someone out of sight as he exited the throne room, and a younger man took his place. He was dressed in simple attire, with dual pistols hanging from his belt, and his long blonde hair hid his left eye from view. His right shone a vibrant green, though one corner was clouded where a small scar slips across the corner.
 His gaze moves across the group arrayed before him, and he nods, once, before leading them to a side door. The room that follows is small, barely big enough to contain the group, and in the centre is a table supporting a couple of sheets of parchment. The first is aged and crinkling, and appears to be a map. The second is a list of supplies.
 ‘You know your job, right? We leave immediately - first though, we need to choose where we’re settling down.’ He taps the map. ‘This is the lay of the land. I’m just a supervisor, so I’ll leave the final choice up to you, but bear in mind that the closer we are to the tower the worse things will get.’ He pauses a moment, seemingly distracted, as a hand raises to stroke his scar. His other points to the list. ‘And this is what we’ve got to take with us. I doubt we could get our hands on anything else, but if there’s anything seriously lacking, do say.’

PLEASE DO NOT POST HERE UNLESS IT IS A GAME POST. AN OOC THREAD CAN BE FOUND HERE.

Reserved post

’Would you like to hear a story? Yes? Then gather closer. For once the story begins, who knows where it will end. But of course, every story needs a setting. And here is ours. A world, at our fingertips, where the flame of life flickers and dances at our every whim.’

 The lone isle. The land in the void. Viewed from outside, there is at first nothing. Then come closer, and the near transparent streams of water flowing from its rim into the immeasurable depths become visible, the land itself seemingly ripped from the surface of some greater world. As you come closer still three distinct landmasses emerge out of the fog, surrounding within them a gargantuan spring, from which fresh waters spring eternal.
 Some say this spring was formed by the spirit Water as its gift to the world, as Earth gave rock, Air wind, and Fire motion. Others say the spirits simply came upon the land at a later time. Regardless, it was they who truly made the Isle what it is today. For they made the peoples of the lands. From Earth were born the dwarves, hardy and practical. Men arrived from Air, infinitely resourceful. Orcs were kindled from Fire, warlike and honourable. And from Water sprung forth the Mira, peaceful and graceful beyond compare.
 But even more was to come. Bitter rivalries sprang up between the traditional and practical Earth and the innovative and creative Air, and between the aggressive Fire and the peaceful Water. And new life sprang up between those who were not opposed. Between Earth and Water came the trolls. Peaceful shepherds at peace, their stamina and regeneration made them powerful foes once roused. Elves came from between Water and Air, gifted in the arts of all kinds, and possessing a unique attunement with nature. From Air and Fire came the Drow, a race of thieves and assassins, with the violence of the orcs but without their morales. And from Fire and Earth came the Ogres, physically powerful and aggressive, but sparse and isolated from their innate savagery.
 And now, now the gods seem to rest, but for indulging the wishes of some of their more pious followers. The magic of the world now lies focused in runes, a language some say was written by the gods themselves. The land abounds nonetheless with peoples of all professions and kinds, from mages who seek only to discover more of the tongueless language, to mercenaries seeking gold and glory.

’Ah, such a vibrant place, so full of life. But all of it so…. irrelevant. What we need are characters. Heroes. Perhaps even villains. We shall call them…. the Fated. yes. it seems to fit.’

 Gamblers speak of the Grey Lady, snake eyes and charms. Adventurers speak of the fates, the tides of battle. Some cultists even speak of Ranog, the god of randomness, though we know that there are no gods besides the Four. But we shall call this figure, this force, simply luck. And it favours few. In fact, it favours so few, that the chances of them ever meeting are one in a million. And as we all know, one in a million chances happen nine times out of ten.

’And what a coincidence, such a chance is happening right now. I’ll be quiet, and let the story flow. After all, we wouldn’t want to break the story, would we?’

 We look now to a single island, floating in the middle of the sea, on the isle in the void. On this island, there is a city. A hub of the world, where it’s cultures and races mingle and mix in peace. But not all is so quiet. A number of houses lie in ruins in the wealthy district. A mansion, once spanning a road by an overhead walkway, lies sundered in two, passage between it’s halves blocked by rubble. The palace lies unharmed. Most would say thankfully, too. A few scorch marks ordain it’s walls along with the banners parading the royal crest, but it stands. And in the courtyard in front a single soldier kneels before the queen, an elvish spearman, as a plume is mounted on his helm. We could call him Fated, and no doubt he will have a part to play in many tales to come, but he is not the focus of this one. Nor is the focus on the corpse lying in the park next door, a dragon, terrifying even in death. In it’s belly rest a number of spear wounds, courtesy of the now-knight we saw moments earlier. The Alchemist, who many consider mad, and rightfully so, crawls over the cadaver with cleaver in hand, seeking new materials for experiments so volatile that his laboratory sits on a separate outcrop of rock out in the bay itself. Another Fated, another world changer. Another that is not ours.
 No, ours are elsewhere. They still rest in this city, this crossroads, besides which the spring that replenishes the oceans of the world glistens in the light. But they rest beyond the reach of the mists that fall from this titanic column, in a place known to many as the home of those who have no home. The Traveller’s Rest, perched on the third of three tiers, overlooking the frantic recovery occurring down below, and ignoring it completely. The inn is a place of rest for those better accustomed to panic and haste, and only the ending of the Isle itself could break the rest of those within. Whilst a rather different place to the inn on the bottom tier, with it’s smell of fish and the sea, but it has a similar agreement with those looking for workers - that is, a free drink in return for listening to a list of jobs in need of doing. It profits everyone. Including a number of figures sitting at various positions in the room.
 A bell rings as the barman walks round said bar, made of crimson bloodwood and screaming opulence almost as much as the finery the man wears himself. His gold ringed hand clutches a sheaf of papers and he sighs at the rabble occupying his shop. The lower inn received major damage in the dragon attack - mainly the lighting of it’s stores - and its usual custom has come here instead. Then he plasters a weak smile over his face, and calls for all those seeking work.

   Blood runs down my chest as I pin the man to the wall. Even in the state he’s in, his unconscious stirrings still threaten to tear him from my single hand. In the other, the grip of the his pistol drips with sweat. The shot echoes around the room, and sends a wet chunk into my cheek. I run then, because the sound will draw the others out like moths to a flame. I know of at least twenty of them in the nearby area - now nineteen, and each even angrier than before. By dawn they will be after blood.
   Welcome to my life. - Donor & Survivor.

   In the year 2010, a seemingly unassuming man was the victim of a merciless attack on the streets of London. The corpse was found a week later, entirely drained, floating in the Thames. Two years later, came the 2012 Olympics. A challenge for athletes on a level playing field. Except for Antonin Dvorak, a Russian marathon runner and biochemist. He won with a lead of almost two miles. The ensuing drugs test found nothing, and the man was declared a victor.
   Skip forward another two years, and two things are on the increase - motiveless murders, and the usage of a crimson fluid drug nicknamed ‘Blood.’ It grants the user superhuman physical ability, for seemingly no payoff. It is not uncommon to see the drug on construction sites, or at the homes of manual labourers. Then some worrying research emerges - the drug bonds with a person’s DNA. An addiction from a molecular level. And when Blood really does start to run out, users get restless.
   It took the gates of the Palace being literally torn from their hinges for the creator to come forward. A certain Dr. Dvorak, biochemist. The drug comes from blood found only in a small proportion of the population. Ingestion of this causes the actual effects. Addicts, far from being horrified, were thrilled. No processing, no chemicals. Just a thrill so au naturale that all you needed was a knife. A hunt ensued. People began to disappear - the kind of individuals with lineages dating back clearly to one of the many ancient civilisations. In desperation, the government rounded up the victims. far from protecting them, they sacrificed them, sealing them in small sections of their cities, and releasing them from the bonds of the law. Sheep before predators with a hunger to match their strength.
   But it was not long before even these supplies died. Those ‘donors’ that lived disappeared, untraceable. Soon, the killings started again. The addicts, commonly called ‘vamps,’ ran riot, tearing the cities apart. Crazed by hunger and the depravities they had committed, they took what they wanted from wherever they could get it. In the end, even the police could not stop them, and retreated, bent and broken.
   Over the last year, things have returned to a degree of normalcy. After all, normal is only what you’re used to. Weapons are present on most hips, although guns remain thankfully rare. people work and sleep, and pray they don’t disappear. And if they do, everyone pretends not to notice.


((OOC: This is also the world i plan to use for my NaNoWrimo project.
1) This means it will probably hiatus in november. Also
2) Any feedback is appreciated))

For a long time I've had a certain universe in my head. I've used it a few times in forum games, and things have started getting a little difficult to keep track of. Thus I ask - would there be any interest in a wiki?
 It would be moderated purely by me to start, because the world is my personal project, but you would be perfectly entitled to use the world, and suggest any locations, characters etc....


Link.