| How many heroes have come and gone throughout the spans of history? I speak not of the ordinary men and women who rose to task when greatness called for them but rather of the specific class of ‘hero’ – a ‘true hero’, or ‘summoned hero’ that belongs to ordained souls. Every hundred years, a crisis looms over our world, and often, a true hero is summoned to intervene and to save us. In previous eras, this was done by the gods, who sent them to us. However, in the past generations, after the gods have left us in deafening silence, the Holy Church has learned how to manifest this being themselves through a complicated, exotic ritual that is kept a closely guarded secret known only to the cardinals and bishops of the institution. Not every crisis requires a hero to be summoned to our world, oftentimes, the hero is found within our own region of existence. |
~ Of true heroes and their origins
| ~ [Witch Perchta] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater |
| Location: The City |
Water drips down from her hand as Perchta works, looming over the fountain in the middle of the night.
She’s outside, hovering over the large, water-filled fountain that is just on the other side of the old dungeon-gate, here in the heart of the southern city. It’s an ornately carved, ancient fountain that is constantly refilled with fresh, clean waters from an old, forgotten source that never runs dry. It’s not a lot. But there’s always just enough here to drink.
However, given its nature as a magical construct of the world that was here before any of the people or walls of the city, it has taken on the esoteric role of a wishing well in people’s minds.
Adventurers will drink from it, and now and then, on odd occasions, with hopeful hearts and tired eyes, they'll throw in a coin to make a wish.
Perchta swirls the glass bottle in her hands around, full of water from the fountain and a personal object of great sentimental value — the key to her old, destroyed house in the forest. She holds it up against the moon, letting the light of its night-glow shine on through to illuminate the vessel.
— Perhaps those adventurers' wishes are for a brighter future, for a bed, for hands that are fuller, not with coins and plunder but with the warmth of intertwined fingers, clutching desperately to them as if they were the only thing of value in the whole world.
Each coin that flips into the water, sending out a ripple, carries with it a cherished hope.
The witch looks at the water, full of money that nobody, not even the poorest of adventurers, dares steal. To do so would be to steal someone else’s hopes, their dreams and their loves.
— Even if one is destitute, to be caught doing this is to be as good as dead to the rest of adventuring society.
Those cherished hopes that people had when they threw those coins into the water — they stick to the metal. Like feelings can come to inhabit a place after emotional times, tinging it with a vibe, so too do those feelings stick to the coins. They’re very real, magical imprints. It’s not some abstract, romantic poesy that she’s imagining.
A glow surrounds her hands as the shine of the moonlit water in the jar she’s holding reaches outward, as if the contents were washing over her without ever running dry.
| (Perchta) has made: [Moonwater] |
Witch Perchta looks at the jar and then slowly tips it over, letting it drip out into the wishing fountain.
The moonwater she has made carries with it powerful magical properties; it's an essence of herself and her own hopes, desires, and wants, mixed in with the crying somberness of the lonesome moon.
And as for these feelings from before, those embedded on the coins, they’re not hard to change, at least not for her.
An imparted wish is saved to the metal of each single coin and lingers with it, so with a little pinch of pixie dust and a little splash of some old blood, magic is made and old wishes can be granted.
Perchta smiles as she shakes out the rest of the bottle, catching her key that falls out of it, and watches as the glowing light spreads throughout the fountain.
— And those granted wishes can be granted with but a tiny, little, eensy catch.
But when is life ever perfect, right?
The witch cackles smugly to herself, holding a hand over her mouth to quiet her laugh.
A scratching comes from behind. She turns and looks at the members of the sect, one of them doodling into his journal as always.
“Make sure to get my good side, Andy-boy,” says Perchta, pushing a tuft of her hair to the side.
Scholar Anderwal of the Witches’ Sect looks up from his work, showing her his sketch. “Like the moon, all of your sides are radiant, Witch Perchta.”
Perchta holds a hand to her face, waving him off with the other. “You sly rascal,” replies the Witch. “When you die, I’ll have to pull out your heart and save it in a jar,” she says, shaking the empty glass his way.
“Even in death, I serve,” replies Anderwal, returning to his sketching.
Perchta blinks, staring at him and the rest of them for a moment. “Man, I love this,” she mutters, looking around the dark city. She forgot how nice having lackeys is. Or are they minions? Maybe they’re goons?
What’s the difference?
Perchta stands there, thinking.
She’ll have to ask Spillaholle about that.
Perchta nods her head. “Come on. We’re going home,” says the woman, waving over her shoulder to the members of the sect.
— Or are they cultists?
Perchta walks, lost in thought, as the wishing fountain glows alight behind them.
| [Cursed Wishing Well] |
| A fountain that serves a dual purpose as a wishing-well. The pure, clean waters are refreshing and safe to drink. Coins have been thrown in as offerings for a wish. |
| HIDDEN STATUS CURSE: All wishes made will slowly begin to come true, with a catch. |
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
“I do not think this is necessary, Teal,” says Isaiah as Teal flies around, taking measurements to sew some garments. “I do not wear clothes.”
“Sure, sure,” replies Teal, pulling on Isaiah’s arm to measure its length. “You say that now. But what’re you gonna do when it gets to be winter time, huh?” asks the uthra. He flies in sideways, nudging Isaiah with his elbow. “And what about the miss, or, uh… mister, or whatever, to be?” asks Teal. Isaiah lifts an eyebrow. “You can’t just let them see everything on day one! Where’s the surprise?”
“Teal,” remarks Isaiah, gesturing down to its plain, featureless, wiry, and muscular body. “There is no ‘surprise’.” It shakes its head, looking back out over the landscape in preparation for the spy to come. “Besides. It is not for me to find such a thing any longer. That is in my past.”
Teal flies in front of Isaiah, measuring its chest. “That’s sad,” says the uthra, looking up at Isaiah.
Isaiah shakes its head. “No. My heart belongs to you all, to all of my children,” replies Isaiah. “For me, that is enough already.”
The uthra tilts his head and shrugs.
Isaiah closes its eyes.
| ~ [Crusader Legionnaire Nostrae] ~ |
| Human, Female, (Priest + Warlock Advanced-Class) - Inquisitor |
| Location: The Island |
Nostrae cries, panting and moaning as her hand slaps against the edge of the island and she pulls herself up, desperately distraught. The woman crawls along forward, over the edge of the island, and wiggles her way forward like a worm, clawing herself in as far away from the edge as she can manage. She has finally escaped the ladder.
She flops over onto her back, her frenzied eyes staring up towards the night sky as her chest heaves in a sustained panic that seems to have never stopped for the last few hours.
The woman lifts her hands, looking at them. They’re bloody and raw.
| (Nostrae) has used: [Heal] |
| HP: 100% |
The skin on her palms grows closed again, and she sighs in relief, letting her exhausted arms just flop down as she lays limply on the grass for a while.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Isaiah returns to its vision.
She is an intruder, but it does feel bad for her. That must have been quite the experience. If nothing else, she has proven her dedication to reaching the island. It remains to be seen what her intent is, however.
But, thankfully, there was an idea about that, which has already been implemented in preparation.
Teal runs a string along the side of its neck to measure it.
Isaiah wishes her the best.
If she is of good intent, then all will be well.
| ~ [Crusader Legionnaire Nostrae] ~ |
| Human, Female, (Priest + Warlock Advanced-Class) - Inquisitor |
| Location: The Island |
Nostrae simply lays there for a time.
She could fall asleep right here and now, honestly.
The woman considers making a camp. She has a small tent in her rucksack. She could start a fire and just take the night at least to recover.
She doesn’t move.
Instead, she just lays there, spread out limp on the grass.
She’s too tired to make preparations like that. She’ll just sleep here, like this. It’s fine. It’s warm anyway in this summer heat.
She yawns and closes her eyes, ready to just stay there as she lays.
It’s quiet.
Something cracks off to the side behind the trees.
Nostrae sits upright immediately, looking over her shoulder.
A pair of vivid yellow eyes loom in the dusk-washed wood, staring her way with suspicious intensity.
Slowly, she rises up to her feet, grabbing her bag. A monster? Not too surprising. This is dungeon-territory, after all.
— It steps out of the shadows.
Nostrae blinks.
It’s just a little welp. A small, black puppy wanders out of the forest. It’s hardly bigger than her boots.
She sighs in relief, looking at it. It must belong to some weird wolf monster or something. It’s almost kind of cute.
The woman rolls her eyes, laughing at herself.
| Status Applied: [Black Hound] |
| LUK reduced by 25% |
The dog’s face peels back over itself like a rotting piece of fruit, wrapping its skin down around its neck as an impossible amount of organ meat pushes itself out of its gut, wrapping itself around its torso and legs, causing it to grow impossibly in size into something quite macabre and horrific that a bare, wet skull juts out of.
“Fucking hell,” mutters Nostrae quietly to herself, stepping back and getting ready for a fight.
What kind of weird shit is up on this island?
| ~ [Church Grim] ~ | |
| Class: Monster | Element: HOLY |
| Type: Guard | Category: Warden |
| Rank: S | |
| Level: 100 | |
| A grim is a canine spirit that inhabits holy places of particular note. They are the warding dogs of churches and cathedrals and patrol the territory, chasing away any beings of malicious intent. They are extremely aggressive and violent toward such entities, but will leave anything else alone. It is said to bring misfortune if one sees a grim. | |
| HP: 500/500 | SOUL: 375/375 |
| [Soul Tracking]: Allows the grim to smell the essence of a person’s soul. | |
| [Tar Paw]: The grim leaves inky, staining footprints as it walks. Anyone who steps over these will alert the grim of their presence. | |
| [Black Hound]: Seeing the grim reduces your LUK by 25% for as long as you look at it |
She lifts a hand, casting a spell.
| (Nostrae) has used: [Smiting Ray] |
| (Church Grim) has taken {17} damage (Resisted 30) |
| HP: 483/500 |
Oh.
The lumbering mass that is now the size of her own full person, snarls and charges forward straight towards her, fangs bared and black saliva dripping down past its legs.
Nostrae lets out a surprised cry and then bolts back to the ladder as fast as she can, nearly vomiting as she reaches the edge and quickly slides around, grabbing the rungs below as she lowers herself down a few steps.
The hound snarls, jagged teeth snapping just above her head from the edge of the island, black spit dripping down onto her as the wrong-dog stands there, unable to reach her.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Ah. Unfortunate.
Isaiah shakes its head. It had hoped, in a sense of kindness, that the woman would be able to rest after her long journey.
But if she means harm to this place and to its children, then this must be the way.
It wishes her a nice trip back down. It should be easier than getting up.
— Something grabs its leg, pulling it to the side.
Isaiah sighs. “Teal. Must you?”
Teal, with a bundle of needles in his mouth, looks up. “Yes,” mumbles the uthra, and returns to his work.
“I like clothes!” says a voice from the side. Isaiah looks up to the very-big-tree, where Magenta sits and rests. The uthra have all grown too large for their old nests. But as they grew, so did the nests that had been remade. Now, the very-big-tree is covered in many large nests. It does fill Isaiah with joy to see, admittedly.
Magenta, who is usually more quiet, leans down from her nest. “I think they’re fun!”
Isaiah looks at her curious gaze and then down at Teal.
Perhaps it is simply the fate of a parent to suffer under the passions of their children? It would be cruel to reject them outright, wouldn’t it?
“Very well, I will give it a try,” relents the entity, listening to the excited buzzing of wings coming from around itself, which is a reward in and of itself, it supposes.
| How many heroes have come and gone throughout the spans of history? I speak not of the ordinary men and women who rose to task when greatness called for them but rather of the specific class of ‘hero’ – a ‘true hero’, or ‘summoned hero’ that belongs to ordained souls. Every hundred years, a crisis looms over our world, and often, a true hero is summoned to intervene and to save us. In previous eras, this was done by the gods, who sent them to us. However, in the past generations, after the gods have left us in deafening silence, the Holy Church has learned how to manifest this being themselves through a complicated, exotic ritual that is kept a closely guarded secret known only to the cardinals and bishops of the institution. Not every crisis requires a hero to be summoned to our world, oftentimes, the hero is found within our own region of existence. |
~ Of true heroes and their origins
| ~ [Witch Perchta] ~ |
| ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater |
| Location: The City |
Water drips down from her hand as Perchta works, looming over the fountain in the middle of the night.
She’s outside, hovering over the large, water-filled fountain that is just on the other side of the old dungeon-gate, here in the heart of the southern city. It’s an ornately carved, ancient fountain that is constantly refilled with fresh, clean waters from an old, forgotten source that never runs dry. It’s not a lot. But there’s always just enough here to drink.
However, given its nature as a magical construct of the world that was here before any of the people or walls of the city, it has taken on the esoteric role of a wishing well in people’s minds.
Adventurers will drink from it, and now and then, on odd occasions, with hopeful hearts and tired eyes, they'll throw in a coin to make a wish.
Perchta swirls the glass bottle in her hands around, full of water from the fountain and a personal object of great sentimental value — the key to her old, destroyed house in the forest. She holds it up against the moon, letting the light of its night-glow shine on through to illuminate the vessel.
— Perhaps those adventurers' wishes are for a brighter future, for a bed, for hands that are fuller, not with coins and plunder but with the warmth of intertwined fingers, clutching desperately to them as if they were the only thing of value in the whole world.
Each coin that flips into the water, sending out a ripple, carries with it a cherished hope.
The witch looks at the water, full of money that nobody, not even the poorest of adventurers, dares steal. To do so would be to steal someone else’s hopes, their dreams and their loves.
— Even if one is destitute, to be caught doing this is to be as good as dead to the rest of adventuring society.
Those cherished hopes that people had when they threw those coins into the water — they stick to the metal. Like feelings can come to inhabit a place after emotional times, tinging it with a vibe, so too do those feelings stick to the coins. They’re very real, magical imprints. It’s not some abstract, romantic poesy that she’s imagining.
A glow surrounds her hands as the shine of the moonlit water in the jar she’s holding reaches outward, as if the contents were washing over her without ever running dry.
| (Perchta) has made: [Moonwater] |
Witch Perchta looks at the jar and then slowly tips it over, letting it drip out into the wishing fountain.
The moonwater she has made carries with it powerful magical properties; it's an essence of herself and her own hopes, desires, and wants, mixed in with the crying somberness of the lonesome moon.
And as for these feelings from before, those embedded on the coins, they’re not hard to change, at least not for her.
An imparted wish is saved to the metal of each single coin and lingers with it, so with a little pinch of pixie dust and a little splash of some old blood, magic is made and old wishes can be granted.
Perchta smiles as she shakes out the rest of the bottle, catching her key that falls out of it, and watches as the glowing light spreads throughout the fountain.
— And those granted wishes can be granted with but a tiny, little, eensy catch.
But when is life ever perfect, right?
The witch cackles smugly to herself, holding a hand over her mouth to quiet her laugh.
A scratching comes from behind. She turns and looks at the members of the sect, one of them doodling into his journal as always.
“Make sure to get my good side, Andy-boy,” says Perchta, pushing a tuft of her hair to the side.
Scholar Anderwal of the Witches’ Sect looks up from his work, showing her his sketch. “Like the moon, all of your sides are radiant, Witch Perchta.”
Perchta holds a hand to her face, waving him off with the other. “You sly rascal,” replies the Witch. “When you die, I’ll have to pull out your heart and save it in a jar,” she says, shaking the empty glass his way.
“Even in death, I serve,” replies Anderwal, returning to his sketching.
Perchta blinks, staring at him and the rest of them for a moment. “Man, I love this,” she mutters, looking around the dark city. She forgot how nice having lackeys is. Or are they minions? Maybe they’re goons?
What’s the difference?
Perchta stands there, thinking.
She’ll have to ask Spillaholle about that.
Perchta nods her head. “Come on. We’re going home,” says the woman, waving over her shoulder to the members of the sect.
— Or are they cultists?
Perchta walks, lost in thought, as the wishing fountain glows alight behind them.
| [Cursed Wishing Well] |
| A fountain that serves a dual purpose as a wishing-well. The pure, clean waters are refreshing and safe to drink. Coins have been thrown in as offerings for a wish. |
| HIDDEN STATUS CURSE: All wishes made will slowly begin to come true, with a catch. |
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
“I do not think this is necessary, Teal,” says Isaiah as Teal flies around, taking measurements to sew some garments. “I do not wear clothes.”
“Sure, sure,” replies Teal, pulling on Isaiah’s arm to measure its length. “You say that now. But what’re you gonna do when it gets to be winter time, huh?” asks the uthra. He flies in sideways, nudging Isaiah with his elbow. “And what about the miss, or, uh… mister, or whatever, to be?” asks Teal. Isaiah lifts an eyebrow. “You can’t just let them see everything on day one! Where’s the surprise?”
“Teal,” remarks Isaiah, gesturing down to its plain, featureless, wiry, and muscular body. “There is no ‘surprise’.” It shakes its head, looking back out over the landscape in preparation for the spy to come. “Besides. It is not for me to find such a thing any longer. That is in my past.”
Teal flies in front of Isaiah, measuring its chest. “That’s sad,” says the uthra, looking up at Isaiah.
Isaiah shakes its head. “No. My heart belongs to you all, to all of my children,” replies Isaiah. “For me, that is enough already.”
The uthra tilts his head and shrugs.
Isaiah closes its eyes.
| ~ [Crusader Legionnaire Nostrae] ~ |
| Human, Female, (Priest + Warlock Advanced-Class) - Inquisitor |
| Location: The Island |
Nostrae cries, panting and moaning as her hand slaps against the edge of the island and she pulls herself up, desperately distraught. The woman crawls along forward, over the edge of the island, and wiggles her way forward like a worm, clawing herself in as far away from the edge as she can manage. She has finally escaped the ladder.
She flops over onto her back, her frenzied eyes staring up towards the night sky as her chest heaves in a sustained panic that seems to have never stopped for the last few hours.
The woman lifts her hands, looking at them. They’re bloody and raw.
| (Nostrae) has used: [Heal] |
| HP: 100% |
The skin on her palms grows closed again, and she sighs in relief, letting her exhausted arms just flop down as she lays limply on the grass for a while.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Isaiah returns to its vision.
She is an intruder, but it does feel bad for her. That must have been quite the experience. If nothing else, she has proven her dedication to reaching the island. It remains to be seen what her intent is, however.
But, thankfully, there was an idea about that, which has already been implemented in preparation.
Teal runs a string along the side of its neck to measure it.
Isaiah wishes her the best.
If she is of good intent, then all will be well.
| ~ [Crusader Legionnaire Nostrae] ~ |
| Human, Female, (Priest + Warlock Advanced-Class) - Inquisitor |
| Location: The Island |
Nostrae simply lays there for a time.
She could fall asleep right here and now, honestly.
The woman considers making a camp. She has a small tent in her rucksack. She could start a fire and just take the night at least to recover.
She doesn’t move.
Instead, she just lays there, spread out limp on the grass.
She’s too tired to make preparations like that. She’ll just sleep here, like this. It’s fine. It’s warm anyway in this summer heat.
She yawns and closes her eyes, ready to just stay there as she lays.
It’s quiet.
Something cracks off to the side behind the trees.
Nostrae sits upright immediately, looking over her shoulder.
A pair of vivid yellow eyes loom in the dusk-washed wood, staring her way with suspicious intensity.
Slowly, she rises up to her feet, grabbing her bag. A monster? Not too surprising. This is dungeon-territory, after all.
— It steps out of the shadows.
Nostrae blinks.
It’s just a little welp. A small, black puppy wanders out of the forest. It’s hardly bigger than her boots.
She sighs in relief, looking at it. It must belong to some weird wolf monster or something. It’s almost kind of cute.
The woman rolls her eyes, laughing at herself.
| Status Applied: [Black Hound] |
| LUK reduced by 25% |
The dog’s face peels back over itself like a rotting piece of fruit, wrapping its skin down around its neck as an impossible amount of organ meat pushes itself out of its gut, wrapping itself around its torso and legs, causing it to grow impossibly in size into something quite macabre and horrific that a bare, wet skull juts out of.
“Fucking hell,” mutters Nostrae quietly to herself, stepping back and getting ready for a fight.
What kind of weird shit is up on this island?
| ~ [Church Grim] ~ | |
| Class: Monster | Element: HOLY |
| Type: Guard | Category: Warden |
| Rank: S | |
| Level: 100 | |
| A grim is a canine spirit that inhabits holy places of particular note. They are the warding dogs of churches and cathedrals and patrol the territory, chasing away any beings of malicious intent. They are extremely aggressive and violent toward such entities, but will leave anything else alone. It is said to bring misfortune if one sees a grim. | |
| HP: 500/500 | SOUL: 375/375 |
| [Soul Tracking]: Allows the grim to smell the essence of a person’s soul. | |
| [Tar Paw]: The grim leaves inky, staining footprints as it walks. Anyone who steps over these will alert the grim of their presence. | |
| [Black Hound]: Seeing the grim reduces your LUK by 25% for as long as you look at it |
She lifts a hand, casting a spell.
| (Nostrae) has used: [Smiting Ray] |
| (Church Grim) has taken {17} damage (Resisted 30) |
| HP: 483/500 |
Oh.
The lumbering mass that is now the size of her own full person, snarls and charges forward straight towards her, fangs bared and black saliva dripping down past its legs.
Nostrae lets out a surprised cry and then bolts back to the ladder as fast as she can, nearly vomiting as she reaches the edge and quickly slides around, grabbing the rungs below as she lowers herself down a few steps.
The hound snarls, jagged teeth snapping just above her head from the edge of the island, black spit dripping down onto her as the wrong-dog stands there, unable to reach her.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Ah. Unfortunate.
Isaiah shakes its head. It had hoped, in a sense of kindness, that the woman would be able to rest after her long journey.
But if she means harm to this place and to its children, then this must be the way.
It wishes her a nice trip back down. It should be easier than getting up.
— Something grabs its leg, pulling it to the side.
Isaiah sighs. “Teal. Must you?”
Teal, with a bundle of needles in his mouth, looks up. “Yes,” mumbles the uthra, and returns to his work.
“I like clothes!” says a voice from the side. Isaiah looks up to the very-big-tree, where Magenta sits and rests. The uthra have all grown too large for their old nests. But as they grew, so did the nests that had been remade. Now, the very-big-tree is covered in many large nests. It does fill Isaiah with joy to see, admittedly.
Magenta, who is usually more quiet, leans down from her nest. “I think they’re fun!”
Isaiah looks at her curious gaze and then down at Teal.
Perhaps it is simply the fate of a parent to suffer under the passions of their children? It would be cruel to reject them outright, wouldn’t it?
“Very well, I will give it a try,” relents the entity, listening to the excited buzzing of wings coming from around itself, which is a reward in and of itself, it supposes.
