| Clockwork is the term we use to describe delicate machinery, the likes of which is only found in the western city, atop the mountain. This is because the creations there are powered by crystals harvested from the mountain that are able to be used as fuel sources for these devices. However, these crystals only act as energetic resonators while on the mountain, which is rich in ambient natural magics. Outside of it, they lose their power, and so all of the machinery becomes entirely nonfunctional. Magical residue in general is plentiful atop the western mountain, as it is one of the rare few high-magic zones left in the world. This has led to the western mountain becoming a central hub for casters and technical craftsmen. Several prominent academies for both crafts are found there. Ironically, however, the dungeon in the west has adapted to this and has fielded highly magic resistant monsters, creating a high demand for physical combatants in the caster-dominated society there in the lofty, cold peaks. The west is a pinnacle of technological and magical innovation. |
~ The best place to be a fighter! Top five locations that you’ll never be able to guess!
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Isaiah stands within one of the new floors of the tower, which have been created by the fervent, zealous worship that the tower receives day in and day out. The name of Isaiah is repeated over and over millions of times a day, and all of this energy goes not to Isaiah but to its core manifestation in this world — the tower.
It grows and grows, high and higher.
Currently, the highest assault on the tower has reached floor sixty. But the tower itself is now at floor one-hundred and eleven.
Isaiah wanders the halls of its own dungeon, looking at the walls. They appear to be brickwork, like the rest of the tower, but upon closer inspection, there is an odd, glassy shimmer that might hint that things aren’t quite what they seem to be.
— Its talon runs along the wall, and a ripple emanates outward into all directions over the ‘stonework’, as if it were touching a body of water.
The spirit-world.
It is the place where all creatures that leave this physical domain end up. It is a place where it itself has been before, after living the life of the man known as Isaiah. It is where the souls of those who died in the tower have moved onto, where the souls of the uthra it had failed in its naivety have gone. But not just them; everyone who has died and will die in this carnage to come, they will all go to the spirit-world.
Then, after a time of rest and processing, they will likely be reincarnated again. These lost dead will be, presumably, placed into a new shell to once again be able to play the game of life.
In a way, it’s comforting.
But in another, it’s not, because even if one is able to ‘try again’, nonetheless, all of the things that matter most in the life lost will be gone. The connections to people, places, memories, and feelings. It’ll all be erased, and the new thing that will emerge from the cocoon might vaguely resemble what it once was, but it will be blank and disconnected.
It itself had felt this, when it became a blackbird. It was still the same soul, but it was nothing like what it was as a man during the life before, because the circumstances of its new life — being a bird — simply didn’t allow for these human feelings to manifest and so, Isaiah does find itself wondering, what ever is the point?
Yes, it’s nice that one continues to exist, but, fundamentally, what is the point? From the perspective of an individual, it is exactly the same as permanent death. The only reason it knows this is because of whatever mishap has allowed it to become this creature, this entity, that it now is — the thing that carries the name of Isaiah, but it is not the man now. It carries some of him in it, yes, just as it carries some of the blackbird in it, but it is now something new.
Isaiah shakes its head, unable to come to any clear reasoning as it examines the bridge to the spirit-world that has begun to be constructed.
These rooms are interesting, these new dungeon floors. It is able to shape them, like any other form of its dungeon, but they seem to have a differentiation from the physical floors below — that being that each floor of the spirit-bridge seems to have a little of its own characteristics to it. Previously, Isaiah would have an idea and order Crystal to construct it, or it would simply do it itself. But these floors have a tinge of their own, as if they came with an idea pre-set in the room — not a fully locked in theme, but a nudge.
| ~ [Dungeon] ~ |
| Floor {111} |
| The Guardian Angel’s Mirror |
| Within this floor, a person will be forced to confront moments of death in their own life that they were blissfully unaware of ever coming close to. |
| Room Effects: The lower a person’s LOV value, the higher the difficulty of this floor will be set. If multiple intrusions occur, the lowest LOV value of the group will be chosen. |
Isaiah lifts its gaze, staring at a large, massive beast that it has a hard time describing itself in coherent thoughts. Before itself sits a mirror, gigantic. It rises up to the height of a good ten men together, and perched atop it is the entity. It has frilly, soft wings like a dove. But its face is nothing but a porcelain mask, attached to a black, wiry body. It sits atop the mirror and looks at Isaiah.
| ~ [Guardian Angel]~ | |
| Class: DIVINE BEING | Element: HOLY |
| Type: DELIVERANT | Category: GRACE |
| Rank: SSS | |
| Level: 100 | |
| The guardian-angel is a heavenly spirit that is tied in secret to the souls of some of the living. Not every living person is given a guardian; only particular souls that are considered to be in specific danger, given their birth beneath a dangerous combination of stars. Guardian-angels are not particularly kind entities, however, they will protect their wards no matter what — even at the cost of the lives of others. If two protected souls find themselves fighting, their guardian-angels will fight a brutal fight to the death. They can not be seen by the eyes of the living. | |
| HP: ∞/∞ | SOUL: ∞/∞ |
Isaiah and the creature with a porcelain mask stare at each other for a moment, before it lowers its gaze to look into the mirror out of curiosity.
— A large, incredibly long, wraithly arm lowers itself down from above, blocking the sight of the mirror with its wide palm. The guardian-angel shakes its head, the porcelain mask on its face, one of a hundred, turning into a laughing expression.
Isaiah tilts its head. It would seem there is a joke at play here, somewhere.
It could just order the spirit to move. After a moment of consideration, however, Isaiah decides to let it be. After all, has it not learned that it is best to sometimes simply do nothing?
It nods and keeps walking, examining more of the tower.
| ~ [Cardinal Erzael of the West] ~ |
| Human, Male, Cardinal |
| Location: The base of the Western Mountain |
It has been weeks since the witch retrieved them from their state of death. Weeks since they left the southern city in secrecy to return to the west, to the mountain, his seat of power, after he and his brother cardinal had been killed by cardinal Schweig, of the north.
Erzael lifts his gaze, staring up at the mountain that crests high, high above the world. This is his home. The church does not have a strong presence in the west, but there is enough of one to do what he needs to do. He looks at his brother cardinal, the quiet man from the south, and nods. The two of them begin heading up the mountain road, towards the city that lies nested within the heights above.
They need to work in secrecy for a little while longer. Cardinal Schweig will be making his move against the tower soon, if he hasn’t already. But with all of the messages from Isaiah that have been appearing, Erzael knows that they are still within the span of the gods’ graces. They need to reach his people so that they can organize a counter effort.
Cardinal Schweig needs to be displaced. The crusade needs to be dismantled or, at the very least, redirected. The messenger of the gods cannot be harmed, lest they offend its creators.
As for the witch, Perchta, and their deal…
— That just has to be what it is for now.
He’s a man of his word.
No matter what, come hell or high water, when this is all over — he’ll have to use his full influence in the church to allow the last of the witches to live their lives in freedom and peace.
| ~ [Barnamen] ~ |
| Human, Male, Fighter |
| Location: The Southern-City, Wishing Fountain Behind the Dungeon |
The coin hits the water, splashing as he throws it in.
“You’re wasting your money, idiot,” says his party-member, sighing and shaking her head.
Barnamen holds his hands together in a form of pseudo-prayer as he says his wish to the fountain and then finishes, looking her way. “You won’t be saying that when I strike it big in the dungeon tonight,” he replies.
She rolls her eyes. “Please, you say that every day,” she explains, nodding her head to the fountain. “And every day you waste money that you could be giving to me instead.”
“It’s not a waste,” says Barnamen. “You gotta keep the faith.”
“Shh!” she hushes him, looking around. “Don’t say it like that, idiot,” she warns, nodding for them to go. “People will think you’re with those kooks from the Sect.” She gets up.
“Come on, take it easy,” he replies, patting her on the back as they go to the dungeon, unaware of the shimmering of the water in the fountain. “Those guys all died a decade ago.”
| ~ [Anderwal] ~ |
| Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches’ Sect |
| Location: A House Within the City |
“What do you think?” asks Witch Perchta, holding her arms out to her side to show off a new dress. It is entirely black.
“You look great, Pipi,” says Witch Gauden, the green slime crawling over his shoulders. It has grown considerably, now wrapping around him from arm to arm. “You two look like you're sisters now,” he jokes.
Perchta turns her head, looking at Witch Spillaholle, who is also wearing a completely black, plain dress. Although, she always does this. The two of them look at each other, and Spillaholle turns away. “Witch Gauden. Do not encourage her delusions,” says Witch Spillaholle. “You know how she gets.”
“You hear that, Spoonful?!” asks Perchta excitedly. She runs over, wedging her body against Spillaholle, who is simply sitting there and suffering in silence as Perchta presses her cheek against her's.
“Witch Perchta. Please refrain from touching me at all times,” says Spillaholle, not budging.
Perchta squishes her cheek against the woman’s face. “Anty-pants,” says Perchta, looking over to him. “What do you think?” she asks.
Scholar Anderwal looks up from his journal. “Like both halves of the moon, you two come together as a whole,” remarks Anderwal.
Perchta blinks and then turns away. “Damn. This guy always has a line, Spispi,” she says, whispering into Spillaholle’s ear. “Do you want to go for it?” she asks, elbowing Spillaholle. “I think you’re his type. He’s always looking at his book too.”
“Witch Perchta,” replies Witch Spillaholle. “Will this nightmare ever cease?”
“What?” asks Perchta. “You need to get out more, you know?” she asks. “It’ll do you some good. All you ever do is sit there and read.” She turns her head back. “Andy-boy,” begins Perchta.
“- Witch Perchta,” warns Spillaholle.
Perchta grabs Spillaholle’s shoulders. “— Do you want to take my Spindles on a date?”
Anderwal tilts his head. This is a dangerous situation indeed. He knows that the question is sincere coming from Perchta, but he also knows the repercussions of answering. If he says yes, she’ll get jealous, and it will end badly for him. If he says no, she’ll get mad that he rejected her friend, and it will end badly for him.
This is the song and dance that must be had with witches in order to navigate their temperaments.
“Of course, it would be a blessing,” replies Anderwal, lifting a hand. He watches Perchta’s face begin to glow as she becomes happy for her friend, but then contort almost immediately after as she begins to become jealous. It may have been her own idea, but that’s just how witches work. He shakes his head from side to side. “But it would be unbefitting for such a graceful creature such as Witch Spillaholle, or anything like her, to be seen with a lowly thing like myself,” he replies, before returning to his journaling.
Perchta blinks, staring at him, before leaning back down to Spillaholle. “See? I told you that he’s good,” she replies. “The guy always has a line. Must be all the books.”
Anderwal exhales in quiet relief, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Perchta returns to normal, fiddling around with her new dress.
Crisis averted.
In a way, his job is like being a wildlife observer or a documentarian of monsters. It’s a dangerous task, but if one knows the ins and outs of it, it becomes manageable.
He scribbles into his notes, next to a sketch of the two of them.
‘Strange sisters’.
– Although out of the top of his eyes, he can see Witch Spillaholle still looking his way.
| Clockwork is the term we use to describe delicate machinery, the likes of which is only found in the western city, atop the mountain. This is because the creations there are powered by crystals harvested from the mountain that are able to be used as fuel sources for these devices. However, these crystals only act as energetic resonators while on the mountain, which is rich in ambient natural magics. Outside of it, they lose their power, and so all of the machinery becomes entirely nonfunctional. Magical residue in general is plentiful atop the western mountain, as it is one of the rare few high-magic zones left in the world. This has led to the western mountain becoming a central hub for casters and technical craftsmen. Several prominent academies for both crafts are found there. Ironically, however, the dungeon in the west has adapted to this and has fielded highly magic resistant monsters, creating a high demand for physical combatants in the caster-dominated society there in the lofty, cold peaks. The west is a pinnacle of technological and magical innovation. |
~ The best place to be a fighter! Top five locations that you’ll never be able to guess!
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Isaiah stands within one of the new floors of the tower, which have been created by the fervent, zealous worship that the tower receives day in and day out. The name of Isaiah is repeated over and over millions of times a day, and all of this energy goes not to Isaiah but to its core manifestation in this world — the tower.
It grows and grows, high and higher.
Currently, the highest assault on the tower has reached floor sixty. But the tower itself is now at floor one-hundred and eleven.
Isaiah wanders the halls of its own dungeon, looking at the walls. They appear to be brickwork, like the rest of the tower, but upon closer inspection, there is an odd, glassy shimmer that might hint that things aren’t quite what they seem to be.
— Its talon runs along the wall, and a ripple emanates outward into all directions over the ‘stonework’, as if it were touching a body of water.
The spirit-world.
It is the place where all creatures that leave this physical domain end up. It is a place where it itself has been before, after living the life of the man known as Isaiah. It is where the souls of those who died in the tower have moved onto, where the souls of the uthra it had failed in its naivety have gone. But not just them; everyone who has died and will die in this carnage to come, they will all go to the spirit-world.
Then, after a time of rest and processing, they will likely be reincarnated again. These lost dead will be, presumably, placed into a new shell to once again be able to play the game of life.
In a way, it’s comforting.
But in another, it’s not, because even if one is able to ‘try again’, nonetheless, all of the things that matter most in the life lost will be gone. The connections to people, places, memories, and feelings. It’ll all be erased, and the new thing that will emerge from the cocoon might vaguely resemble what it once was, but it will be blank and disconnected.
It itself had felt this, when it became a blackbird. It was still the same soul, but it was nothing like what it was as a man during the life before, because the circumstances of its new life — being a bird — simply didn’t allow for these human feelings to manifest and so, Isaiah does find itself wondering, what ever is the point?
Yes, it’s nice that one continues to exist, but, fundamentally, what is the point? From the perspective of an individual, it is exactly the same as permanent death. The only reason it knows this is because of whatever mishap has allowed it to become this creature, this entity, that it now is — the thing that carries the name of Isaiah, but it is not the man now. It carries some of him in it, yes, just as it carries some of the blackbird in it, but it is now something new.
Isaiah shakes its head, unable to come to any clear reasoning as it examines the bridge to the spirit-world that has begun to be constructed.
These rooms are interesting, these new dungeon floors. It is able to shape them, like any other form of its dungeon, but they seem to have a differentiation from the physical floors below — that being that each floor of the spirit-bridge seems to have a little of its own characteristics to it. Previously, Isaiah would have an idea and order Crystal to construct it, or it would simply do it itself. But these floors have a tinge of their own, as if they came with an idea pre-set in the room — not a fully locked in theme, but a nudge.
| ~ [Dungeon] ~ |
| Floor {111} |
| The Guardian Angel’s Mirror |
| Within this floor, a person will be forced to confront moments of death in their own life that they were blissfully unaware of ever coming close to. |
| Room Effects: The lower a person’s LOV value, the higher the difficulty of this floor will be set. If multiple intrusions occur, the lowest LOV value of the group will be chosen. |
Isaiah lifts its gaze, staring at a large, massive beast that it has a hard time describing itself in coherent thoughts. Before itself sits a mirror, gigantic. It rises up to the height of a good ten men together, and perched atop it is the entity. It has frilly, soft wings like a dove. But its face is nothing but a porcelain mask, attached to a black, wiry body. It sits atop the mirror and looks at Isaiah.
| ~ [Guardian Angel]~ | |
| Class: DIVINE BEING | Element: HOLY |
| Type: DELIVERANT | Category: GRACE |
| Rank: SSS | |
| Level: 100 | |
| The guardian-angel is a heavenly spirit that is tied in secret to the souls of some of the living. Not every living person is given a guardian; only particular souls that are considered to be in specific danger, given their birth beneath a dangerous combination of stars. Guardian-angels are not particularly kind entities, however, they will protect their wards no matter what — even at the cost of the lives of others. If two protected souls find themselves fighting, their guardian-angels will fight a brutal fight to the death. They can not be seen by the eyes of the living. | |
| HP: ∞/∞ | SOUL: ∞/∞ |
Isaiah and the creature with a porcelain mask stare at each other for a moment, before it lowers its gaze to look into the mirror out of curiosity.
— A large, incredibly long, wraithly arm lowers itself down from above, blocking the sight of the mirror with its wide palm. The guardian-angel shakes its head, the porcelain mask on its face, one of a hundred, turning into a laughing expression.
Isaiah tilts its head. It would seem there is a joke at play here, somewhere.
It could just order the spirit to move. After a moment of consideration, however, Isaiah decides to let it be. After all, has it not learned that it is best to sometimes simply do nothing?
It nods and keeps walking, examining more of the tower.
| ~ [Cardinal Erzael of the West] ~ |
| Human, Male, Cardinal |
| Location: The base of the Western Mountain |
It has been weeks since the witch retrieved them from their state of death. Weeks since they left the southern city in secrecy to return to the west, to the mountain, his seat of power, after he and his brother cardinal had been killed by cardinal Schweig, of the north.
Erzael lifts his gaze, staring up at the mountain that crests high, high above the world. This is his home. The church does not have a strong presence in the west, but there is enough of one to do what he needs to do. He looks at his brother cardinal, the quiet man from the south, and nods. The two of them begin heading up the mountain road, towards the city that lies nested within the heights above.
They need to work in secrecy for a little while longer. Cardinal Schweig will be making his move against the tower soon, if he hasn’t already. But with all of the messages from Isaiah that have been appearing, Erzael knows that they are still within the span of the gods’ graces. They need to reach his people so that they can organize a counter effort.
Cardinal Schweig needs to be displaced. The crusade needs to be dismantled or, at the very least, redirected. The messenger of the gods cannot be harmed, lest they offend its creators.
As for the witch, Perchta, and their deal…
— That just has to be what it is for now.
He’s a man of his word.
No matter what, come hell or high water, when this is all over — he’ll have to use his full influence in the church to allow the last of the witches to live their lives in freedom and peace.
| ~ [Barnamen] ~ |
| Human, Male, Fighter |
| Location: The Southern-City, Wishing Fountain Behind the Dungeon |
The coin hits the water, splashing as he throws it in.
“You’re wasting your money, idiot,” says his party-member, sighing and shaking her head.
Barnamen holds his hands together in a form of pseudo-prayer as he says his wish to the fountain and then finishes, looking her way. “You won’t be saying that when I strike it big in the dungeon tonight,” he replies.
She rolls her eyes. “Please, you say that every day,” she explains, nodding her head to the fountain. “And every day you waste money that you could be giving to me instead.”
“It’s not a waste,” says Barnamen. “You gotta keep the faith.”
“Shh!” she hushes him, looking around. “Don’t say it like that, idiot,” she warns, nodding for them to go. “People will think you’re with those kooks from the Sect.” She gets up.
“Come on, take it easy,” he replies, patting her on the back as they go to the dungeon, unaware of the shimmering of the water in the fountain. “Those guys all died a decade ago.”
| ~ [Anderwal] ~ |
| Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches’ Sect |
| Location: A House Within the City |
“What do you think?” asks Witch Perchta, holding her arms out to her side to show off a new dress. It is entirely black.
“You look great, Pipi,” says Witch Gauden, the green slime crawling over his shoulders. It has grown considerably, now wrapping around him from arm to arm. “You two look like you're sisters now,” he jokes.
Perchta turns her head, looking at Witch Spillaholle, who is also wearing a completely black, plain dress. Although, she always does this. The two of them look at each other, and Spillaholle turns away. “Witch Gauden. Do not encourage her delusions,” says Witch Spillaholle. “You know how she gets.”
“You hear that, Spoonful?!” asks Perchta excitedly. She runs over, wedging her body against Spillaholle, who is simply sitting there and suffering in silence as Perchta presses her cheek against her's.
“Witch Perchta. Please refrain from touching me at all times,” says Spillaholle, not budging.
Perchta squishes her cheek against the woman’s face. “Anty-pants,” says Perchta, looking over to him. “What do you think?” she asks.
Scholar Anderwal looks up from his journal. “Like both halves of the moon, you two come together as a whole,” remarks Anderwal.
Perchta blinks and then turns away. “Damn. This guy always has a line, Spispi,” she says, whispering into Spillaholle’s ear. “Do you want to go for it?” she asks, elbowing Spillaholle. “I think you’re his type. He’s always looking at his book too.”
“Witch Perchta,” replies Witch Spillaholle. “Will this nightmare ever cease?”
“What?” asks Perchta. “You need to get out more, you know?” she asks. “It’ll do you some good. All you ever do is sit there and read.” She turns her head back. “Andy-boy,” begins Perchta.
“- Witch Perchta,” warns Spillaholle.
Perchta grabs Spillaholle’s shoulders. “— Do you want to take my Spindles on a date?”
Anderwal tilts his head. This is a dangerous situation indeed. He knows that the question is sincere coming from Perchta, but he also knows the repercussions of answering. If he says yes, she’ll get jealous, and it will end badly for him. If he says no, she’ll get mad that he rejected her friend, and it will end badly for him.
This is the song and dance that must be had with witches in order to navigate their temperaments.
“Of course, it would be a blessing,” replies Anderwal, lifting a hand. He watches Perchta’s face begin to glow as she becomes happy for her friend, but then contort almost immediately after as she begins to become jealous. It may have been her own idea, but that’s just how witches work. He shakes his head from side to side. “But it would be unbefitting for such a graceful creature such as Witch Spillaholle, or anything like her, to be seen with a lowly thing like myself,” he replies, before returning to his journaling.
Perchta blinks, staring at him, before leaning back down to Spillaholle. “See? I told you that he’s good,” she replies. “The guy always has a line. Must be all the books.”
Anderwal exhales in quiet relief, watching out of the corner of his eyes as Perchta returns to normal, fiddling around with her new dress.
Crisis averted.
In a way, his job is like being a wildlife observer or a documentarian of monsters. It’s a dangerous task, but if one knows the ins and outs of it, it becomes manageable.
He scribbles into his notes, next to a sketch of the two of them.
‘Strange sisters’.
– Although out of the top of his eyes, he can see Witch Spillaholle still looking his way.
