[M] Ages Undreamed Of (OOC)

[StormWolf]

This RP is rated M/R for the promises of blood, violence, ritual sacrifice, slavery, fantasy racism, perverted sexuality, and other such adult themes.


”The nostalgia of things unknown, of lands forgotten or unfound, is upon me at times. Often I long for the gleam of yellow suns upon terraces of translucent azure marble, mocking the windless waters of lakes unfathomably calm; for lost, legendary palaces of serpentine, silver and ebony, whose columns are green stalactites; for the pillars of fallen temples, standing in the vast puerperal sunset of a land of lost and marvelous romance. I sigh for the strange and hidden cities of the desert, with burning brazen domes and slender pinnacles of gold and copper, that pierce a heaven of heated lazuli.”

— Clark Ashton Smith: Nostalgia of the Unknown

Hither came all manner of intrepid folk from the glit-chased domes and spires of great kingdoms that lay as blue mantles beneath the stars, and thither did stalk wild and moody persons from their scorching sands and sullen hills. Knights and pirates, exiles and mercenaries, drunkards and sorcerers. Vital and elemental spirits all, stubbornly resolute against an unforgiving world of cruel kings, foul sorcery, and the shadowed terrors that lurk within the brooding ruins of bygone aeons.



“Know, O Prince, that all men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.”

— The Chronicles of Prospero

These very words have no doubt fluttered past your ears as you made your crossing to Zakharan, the fabled crossroads of the world. It is fitting poetry for such a place — with its shadow-steeped temples and cyclopean ruins, ensconced in the ever-shifting, primordial sands that no adventurer was ever meant to plunder.

Whatever their circumstances or their reasons, whomever these individuals are, they themselves on the great Ivory Road, the greatest inland trade routes in the world. It is a perilous journey, rife with dangers both monstrous and mundane, one that no sane fellow would make lightly. Perhaps it is the promise of gold as a caravan guard, or the burgeoning opportunity that spots the deserts, steppes, and wilds. Or, nestled deep within the labyrinthine confines of a sorcerous mind, one seeks the eldritch powers left by those who came before. Whether privateer or pilgrim, all can find a place on the Ivory Road to Zakharan, whether they are returning home, seeking refuge, or on the road to plunder. But remember, Zakharan is the azure gateway to the gleaming cities and long-forgotten mysteries of ancient and temperamental lands. Enter if you dare, effendi. Fortune and death are the most generous gods here, fickle as they are furious.

Which of them will mark you first?


“The Lion strode through the Halls of Hell;
Across his path grim shadows fell
Of many a mowing, nameless shape
Monsters with dripping jaws agape.
The darkness shuddered with scream and yell
When the Lion stalked through the Halls of Hell.

— The Scarlet Citadel

This is to be a tale of Sword and Sorcery, pulled from veins adjacent to the works of Robert E Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Jordan, and Charles R. Saunders . Might, magic, gods, and devils all prowl in such a place, but they do not do so idly. The gods are uncaring and indifferent to the plights of mortals, who desperately seek their favor through ritual and sacrifice. Demons take many forms to deceive, corrupt, and ravage mortalkind. Sorcery may grant great power, but it always comes with a hefty price, never to be trifled with lightly. Finally, there is might - the Iron Way of sword and axe which makes men like chaff before your scything steel.

While many great civilizations sprawl across the world, much remains undiscovered, or lost in the world-shaking cataclysm that swallowed the greatest kingdoms ever known. Strange races may lurk beneath the shifting sands, or within the night-dark shadows of great jungles. As such, players may freely submit lore of all kinds to the GM(s), but the validity of said suggestions are to the discretion of the GM(s) alone, and some submissions may be denied in order to maintain the tone and aesthetic of the world.

Spoiler: Enter the Library of Alisandreja 

The greatest vault of collected knowledge across Nuria, the Library of Alisandreja has been the focal point for higher learning for thousands of years. Here, all that is known about the mysteries of the world are chronicled and kept.

Spoiler: Chronicled Races, Kingdoms, and Cultures 

Azimba: Also known as the “dwellers in the cities of stone” by their tribal neighbours, the Azimbans have an old culture centered around their stone fortresses and bird-worship. The black warriors of Azimba are tall, strong and proud, known for their discipline in formations with shield and spear. The men are usually shaven-headed, and the wearing of brightly colored robes, where the women are often seen wearing their waving manes up in scarves or decorated with colored string and beads. Feathered plumes are common as signs on status among both genders.
The god of the Azimbans is Jul-Juggah, a reptilian bird-god that must be propitiated with human sacrifice. His feather-cloaked priests know the secret spells to summon lesser winged lizards, survivors of a lost age.

Bhangari: The mysterious eastern realms of Laksha, Ghoma and Azjan are inhabited by a multitudinous people known for their fierce warrior castes, master craftsmen, skilled herbalists, and ranks of ascetic priests. The Bhangari live in great walled cities and build temples that soar to the sky. Bhangarians are of middling height, with golden skin and delicate features. The men keep their black hair cropped short and dress in simple cotton garments, while the women wear colorful silken gowns and weave their hair in long braids. The armies of Laksha, Ghoma and Azjan wear medium armor decorated with silver and gold; the officers have turbans set with feathers or gems to denote their station.
Not much is known about the cults of the east. The cult of the ape-god Simatala originated in the land of Laksha, and there are several cults that worship aspects of the elephant.

Calbann: The Northron realm of highlands and hinterlands, lochs and glens. Its people as fierce as the famed storms of their land, vibrant with beast-like vigor. There’s nothing a true son or daughter of Calbann loves more than a free land, a fierce song and a well-fought battle. The Calbannach are a tall and pale race, whose fair skin is so often seen painted before battle. While tribal chieftans or Bann’s may reside in stony keeps, the common Calbannach will live in wooded huts with peated roofing, tending their herds and fields from sunrise to sunset.
Unlike many cultured peoples, the Calbannach do not worship gods as priests and cultists of the south may define then. Theirs is a druidic way, paying dutiful homage to the spirits of the wild, coaxing their faerie nature for boons of fertile body and harvest, for mild winters and long summers.

Daka: The Daka are the pygmies inhabiting the Silver Isles of the Eastern Ocean. They live in jungle caves and know the secrets of the rare lotus herbs that grow only on their islands. Short of stature (even adults are rarely 5 feet tall) with curly black hair and dark, wrinkled skin; dressed in loincloths and jewelry of feather and bones,and armed with hunting bows and blowpipes.
The Daka worship as gods the monstrous slugs of colossal size that inhabit the marshes and swamps of the Silver Isles.

Halcyona: An archipelago of sunny, fertile islands, Halcyona produces both fearsome warriors and sagacious philosophers. Its people are olive skinned and dark haired, each island a kingdom with a crown all its own, known for its tall tales of hero-kings. Differences from city-state to city-state are nuanced, as Halcyonians worship the same gods as their neighbors and build in the same fashion. They are unified by a nautically-centrist culture, the silk-sailed ships carrying tricks of trade with mercantile, and new songs on their lips.
Halcyonian gods are a fickle bunch, ruling contemptuously from their great mountain. They are numerous, greater and lesser, often attributed with elemental forces of nature and the primal urges that burn in the hearts of men. Chief among them is Matriva, king of the gods, lord of wind and justice.

Ikunas: The cannibalistic tribes of the Ikuna lands are a constant plague upon the neighbouring nations. From their homeland south of the Hills of the Dead, between the jungle and the coast, the Ikunas wage a war of terror upon the Zadjites, Azimbans, and anyone venturing into the southern waters. Few dare go into these lands; likewise, an Ikuna raiding party on the warpath is something best avoided. Black-skinned with wavy hair and slightly green-tinted eyes that give them a preternatural, fearsome appearance. The Ikuna warriors are heavily muscled and move with pantherish grace, clad only in loincloths. The women, who are often shamans and tribal priestesses, adorn themselves with necklaces of bone and teeth.
The Ikunas worship several tribal gods, some of which are simply deified serpents, giant bats and great lizards from the nearby jungles of Yalotha. But also on the blood-stained altars in the witch-houses of the Ikuna are grotesque idols of older demon-gods and grinning, inhuman skulls of unnatural proportions.

Jairania: Dwellers in the desert-cities of the west, the Jairanians are renowned as master craftsmen, breeders of fine horses, and cunning thieves. Mercenaries from the cities of Jairan are employed across the continent. Light brown skin, deep brown eyes, wearing loose pants and short vests, their dervishes making one of the most famous war-dancer casts in the world.
Various grim gods are worshipped among the Jairanians, including Yadar, Othabbhon, and even Al-Tawir.

Khazistan: Conquering horsemen of the northwestern steppes, the Khazis or Khazistanis are a proud people, and justly so. From humble nomadic roots, they have established an empire with glittering cities stretching from the Eastern Sea to the deserts of Jairan, and scores of caravans bringing tribute and loot to the proud nobles of Khazabad. The ruling warrior caste consists of mounted archers riding magnificent purebred horses into battle. Tan-skinned, brown-eyed and black-haired, the Khazis are generally lithe of build, although large individuals certainly exist. The men sometimes wear turbans and grow long moustaches or beards. The women usually wear veils and robes.
The Khazis primarily worship Yadar and Nhakhramat, neither of which are native Khazistani gods, but whose cults have replaced former elemental and ancestor worship. Some cults of their old beliefs remain, but remain cloistered against the ever growing influence of the Great Khazad.

Khazrajites: The nomadic tribes of the northwestern desert are descended from Khazistani stock. Calling themselves the Khazraj, they are a free-willed, fierce and stubborn lot; a constant menace to caravans and travelers. The Khazrajites are physically identical to the people of Khazistan, but of a slightly darker tan due to their exposure to the desert sun. Adult men usually grow thick, black beards, and wear white khaftan robes and silver-hilted scimitars.
Chief among the gods of the desert is Al-Tawir, the Ancient One, although his name is more often used in curses than in prayer. Still, the nomads fear the Lord of the Empty Wastes and make small offerings to avoid getting lost or suffering from hunger and thirst.

Khora: The Isles of the Sea Reavers are inhabited by dangerous men and cunning women from many nations, and their couplings have brought forth many who are born as natives of the isles, in the fortified pirate-city of Khora. Such children usually inherit the worst traits of both parents. The skin-tone of Khorans range from the icy white of Njornheimir to the night-black of Ikunas, but is usually somewhere in-between. They dress in gaudy pantaloons and adorn themselves with gold earrings and ivory-hilted knives pilfered from burning merchant-vessels.
The gods are more feared than worshipped in the lawless port of Khora, but even the Sea Reavers occasionally offer sacrifice to the gods of the sea and the sky. Akhlathu, the god of twisted fate, is also a popular patron of many pirate crews.

Kush: Recorded as one of the first great civilizations to crawl from the chaos of the Cataclysm that drank Atlantis, the Kushite kingdoms are the oldest civilization to worship sacred Set, the great death-serpent. However, being such an ancient civilization, the Kushites have long since fallen into the depths of depravity in their decline. What was once a vast empire that rivaled Yar-Ammon has splintered into warring tribes, baronies, and kingdoms beyond counting. Kushites are dusky-skinned, much of their kind reed-thin with whipcord muscles coiling beneath their scarification-marked skin.
As they have since before the Cataclysm, Kushites worship Set, the great serpent. It is said that Set constricts the world, lording over the boundaries between life and death. Set is a cold and unfeeling god, expecting the same of his most-devoted.

Kutha: The people of Elder Kuth, known as the “Gi-
ant-Kings”, is a race believed to have become extinct after the fall of their ancient empire. The decayed ruins of their cyclopean cities can still be glimpsed in the western wastes. Rumored to have been fully 9 feet tall (or even taller, by some accounts), the Kuthans were truly giants among men. Few of their ilk remain, scattered and solitary, marauding and reaving in lands adjacent to wherever they make their home.
The Giant-Kings of Elder Kuth were themselves worshiped as gods by their human slaves, servitors, and concubines.

Lamu: The men of Lamu are regarded as a degenerate and evil people by other nations, a belief that mainly springs from ignorance, but is strengthened by the fact that the Lamurans have unnaturally keen eyesight in the dark, and that they worship many weird and loathsome gods in the isolation of their remote hill kingdom. Gaunt of build and pale-skinned, with long flowing hair, although the priests are often shaven-headed. The Lamurans dress in flowing robes and wear distinctive tall caps, often wound around with turbans.
The cult of Yot-Kamoth is best known, but a multitude of other deities is worshiped.

Mazania: Deep in the southern jungles rise the moss-grown palisade walls of the Mazanians, a matriarchal society whose female warriors raid into the surrounding lands for male slaves. The jungle kingdom is ruled by the black sorcerer-queen of Ahmryscera, the forbidden city of the amazons. Female Mazanians are all stunningly beautiful, since all girls with the slightest physical flaw are quickly abandoned in the jungle. These copper-skinned warriors are not shy about using their charms and pantherish grace against their opponents
The gods of the Mazanians are not well-known. Some say they worship female snake-beings, others that their queen is the thrall of a male demon-god.

Nabastis: The sun-drenched land of Nabastis consists of a collection of city-states ruled by petty kings with their own armies of bronze-armored pikemen. While the interior terrain is dominated by rolling hills and forest-covered mountains, the coast has sandy coves nestled amid jagged cliffs. The cities along the coast are centers of trade and are protected by fleets of trireme galleys. The great city of Khargamum is well-known for the temple of Apsis, with its vast library-halls, founded by the scribes and philosophers of ancient Halcyona and Totha. Bronze-skinned, with gleaming white teeth and curly black hair, and short of stature. The Nabastisseans dress in brightly colored robes, and don breastplates and full helmets when going to war.
The Nabastisseans have few gods of their own, but tolerate the temples of foreign gods to be built in their cities. The coastal peoples usually make small offerings to the gods of the sea before setting out on voyages of trade or war.

Njornheim: The unforgiving fatherland to the two Njornic races inhabiting the Far North, the Njorn, also known as Njornheimir, are northern tribesmen inhabit the bitter wastes at the edge of the world. In each generation, there are always some Njorn who leave their ancestral lands to escape the ancient blood-feuds of their clans and explore the decadent empires of the south. Revered metal-workers, reavers, and sailors of the untamed, uncharted seas, Njornheimir have proven time and again their worth as mercenaries. Many a king, priest, and emperor has had their palace guard comprised of these fiery-tempered northrons. Bisected into two distinct races, the Njorn of the west are the fiery-haired Varagnir, of Varagheim. Loathsome sea-raiders reviled the world ‘round. Landlocked against the moody hinterlands of the Great Steppe and Elder Kuth is Ysgard, homeland of the golden-haired Ysir, who jealously guard their secret of obsidian steel
The Njornheimir revere the Moon-Goddess, the Wolf-God, and the Skull-God

Ptahaana: Like the people of Elder Kuth, the Ptahaanans are believed to have become extinct during the last days of their bloodstained empire. The bulk of the Isles of Ptahaana sunk beneath the waves in ancient times, perhaps as a result of failed sorceries. Surviving depictions of the Ptahaanans show them as short of build, with bronze skin, and slightly slanted eyes. Other sources claim they were tall, with elongated skulls and fingers, clad in voluminous robes that concealed blasphemously mutated bodies.
The Ptahaanans are said to have worshipped Ia-Azutlatl, the “Blood-God”, atop their stepped pyramids.

Rhakasha: Said to be the descendants of the beastly gods of Yar-Ammon, these elusive creatures are said to have the meshing of humanoid and beastly anatomy, some deviant branch of the Tree of Life that survived the genocide of their sorcerer-king oppressors. To see one living is a rare sight, as many are hunted and hounded until death, or driven from city walls as ill-omens. As such, they often stick to the vast wilds of the world, making trade along the great Ivory Road, where their preternatural talent in tracking and survival are best used. Of the tales that mention these degenerate spawn of beast-headed gods, those spoken of in the greatest frequency are of a felid, canid, or saurian composition.
Due to the loathing imparted on their behalf by many civilized and tribal cultures, any Rhakashan shamans or priests have been negligent to share any of their ways with the Great Library.

Rosna: A great peninsula girdled by the gleaming gems of the Halcyian islands, it's great kingdoms consolidated under the one great leader, forming the Rosnian Empire. Through political shrewdness and military might, the Rosnian Empire has spread its influence to every corner of the known world, its scarlet-cloaked legions found posted at every city with a wall and cobbled roads. Rosnians are a short people, olive skinned with bright eyes and curly hair.
They value loyalty to their Imperator over even those of their gods, as they believe that the Imperator is the orator of the gods themselves.

Shoma: The kingdom of Shoma is rich in gold, to the extent that even the king’s great herds of cattle wear golden ornaments. There are many skilled artisans and goldsmiths among the Shoma. Outside of the capital city of Katanga, the land is peopled by semi-nomadic tribes. Dark brown skin, with close-cropped curly black hair. The Shoma dress in simple loincloths, but even commoners are often adorned with golden jewelry.
Nataka, the ivory woman, is worshiped among the nobles and upper class, while various tribal gods are revered by commoners.

Susrah: The fertile plains of Susrah are home to a race renowned for their skill in war and their religious devotion. Broad-shouldered, with hooked noses and black, curly hair, the Susrahnites are dressed in flowing robes. The men braid their long beards. The women are lithe, wearing golden armbands and necklaces of pearl; they are prized as slaves in Taraamite seraglios.
Nowhere, except perhaps in Yar-Ammon, can there be found as many gods as in the city-states of Susrah. Above the hundreds of lesser gods arise the names of greater deities such as Baal-Khardah, Belet-Lil, Mag-gash, and Yammosh.

Taikang: The realm of Taikang is near-mythical, a land of teeming yellow masses, bamboo towers, and serpentine dragons. Few westerners have ventured here, but merchants who brave the unknown can make a fortune when they return with caravans of silks, lotus flowers and painted ceramics. Lithe and yellow-skinned, with slanted eyes and long, black hair, both men and women dress in silk if they can afford it, although the commoners often wear little more than a loincloth.
The chief god of the Taikangians is Wa-Ying, the so-called “Emperor of Hell”.

Taraam: The plains and highlands of Taraam are inhabited by a people known both for the sophistication of their culture and their talent for intrigue. A caste of mounted warriors is the backbone of their army, which threatens the lesser cities of Susrah and Nabastis with destruction unless tribute continues to flow into the thousand-columned palace of Achad. Taraam’s royal palace is a also a place of thousand intrigues, where the eunuchs and priests of the court wear coats of golden brocade and baggy silk pants, great scimitars always at their side. Male Taraamites usually favor short, trimmed beards. Warriors carry straight short swords and lances, and dress in robes decorated according to their status, with the king’s personal guard wearing gold-trimmed robes and circlets of gold, in the fashion of princes. Women are seen dressing in golden girdles worked with opal and amber, swathed in gossamer-thin silks and satins
Ahyada, the “high god”, is the chief god of the Taraamites, served by an influential priesthood of astrologers and omen-readers.

Yar-Ammon: Also known as the “kingdom of tombs”, Yar-Ammon is a land covered with desert and haunted by ancient sorceries. The silent streets and broad ceremonial avenues of black-templed Amenti is a awesome sight to behold. The papyrus used by the scribes and sorcerers of Yar-Ammon is harvested from the inland marshes of Fakhuum. Ammonites are tall and slender, with bronze skin, dark hair and black eyes. The nobles and priests wear golden pectorals and masks carved with beastly visages, while commoners dress in simple garments of white linen.
The ancient ancestors of the Yar-Ammonites, who are worshipped as gods, are depicted as beast-headed humanoids. These ancient ones are said to have had lives spanning millennia; they brought humankind knowledge and civilization. Some claim they returned to the stars from whence they came after being buried in the depths of the black pyramids of Amenti.

Zadj: The turbaned fire-worshippers of Zadj are an offshoot of the Jairanian race in the west. They have exploited the riches of their new homeland well, and grown rich as spice merchants and slave-traders. Having brought with them a high level of culture from Jairan, the Zadjites are skilled artisans and Iraab, the marble capital by the sea, is a center of learning as well as rich trade and exquisite craftsmanship. The interior plains and forests of Zadj are dominated by the fortress-city of Al-Qazir, also known as the City of Slave Sultans, for it is held by a council of slavelords who only pay lip service to the emir of Iraab. Men are swarthy, turbaned, wearing colorful robes and gold-hilted curved daggers. The raven-haired Zadjite women are famed for their sensual beauty; they are often scantily clad and adorned with glittering jewelry, holding little more status as a slave, even if they are born free.
The Zadjites hold “the Sacred Flame”, a nameless elemental god, above all others.

Zakharan: The Zakharanians are a sub-race of the Susrahnites, who dwell in and around the great port-city of Natal on the coast of the eastern ocean. The Zakharanians are known both as avaricious merchants, ruthless warriors, and excellent sailors. Slightly smaller of stature than their plains-dwelling brethren, Zakharanian men and women often have some foreign blood, the result of intermingling of races. Such cross breeding usually manifests as a flat nose, blond hair, green eyes, swarthy skin, or some other unusual feature.
The Zakharanians worship the gods of Susrah, in addition to many strange gods brought to their cities by foreign sailors, mercenaries and merchants.

Zorab: These tribesmen inhabit the Zorab mountains that jut up between Lamu and Khazistan. The southernmost tribes have accepted the overlordship of the Khazistanis, at least in name, while the rest are opportunistic raiders who feud incessantly among themselves. These mountain wolves wear white turbans and heavy cloaks, and are armed with scimitars and shortbows. They have long black beards, and their brown skin is wrinkled by the sun and mountain winds.
There are few priests among the Zorabi, but worship of certain Lamuran gods is probable.

Spoiler: Myth and Fable 

The people and beliefs of Nuria are far too numerable to give them all mention. One small deed may grow into godlike heroism should the tale be told and retold every day for a hundred years. There are other stories, though, that maintain their purity despite the march of ages.
Haggard sailors gibber of hypnotic songs in the mists and womanly shapes dancing beneath the waves. Shomite merchants meticulously carve the visage of a fertile woman bearing the head of a cat. A highland-man weaves a tale over his tankard of a giant with the legs and horns of an elk, heeled by hounds of smoke and cinder. These Tales from the Outlands are as common as Halcyonan wine; common enough that there may yet be truth to them...
Should someone bring evidence of such fantasy indeed being fact and flesh, the Library of Alisandreja will gladly make additions and revisions to the chronicles.

This is the open invitation for players to submit lore for races, cultures, religions, and other nuggets of world-building. They, of course, must be passed through the GMs, your “lore-keepers”.

Spoiler: Eldritch and Sorcerous Ways 

Magic is a cosmic force no mortal can fully understand while retaining their sanity. It ebbs and flows, not like a stream, but an ocean in a storm. It brushes against the borders of our world from the cold and unfeeling cosmos, allowing a particular few with the Talent to channel such forces at a cost. To most, they only ever can caress the flows of magic in their dreams. Such is the power of prophecy, oracle, and premonition, but also the cause of possession and sleepers eternal, forever trapped in the abyssal halls of some place between places.

Others who have fostered their Talent and trained in the Arts, can manifest sorcerous powers through the use of artifice, ritual, sacrifice, or focus. A high priestess of Set may command demons and fiendish powers through the ancient ring of power she wears, but remove her ring and she loses her connection to the flows of power. In the highlands of Calbann, a shaman chats in an ancient tongue as he spills the blood of a bull in a stone circle, calling upon the wild spirits of the world for service. One slipped word and the spirits may scatter him to the far corners of creation.

To court the sorcerous powers is to meddle with the primordial, elemental powers of creation and destruction, as well as the vile and demoniac arts that have been carried upon the backs of devils to the lotus-dreams of madmen.

”As I told you longe ago, do not calle up That which you can not put downe; either from dead Saltes or out of ye Spheres beyond. Have ye Wordes for laying at all times readie, and stopp not to be sure when there is any Doubte of Whom you have.”

— H. P. Lovecraft: The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

Spoiler: Now tell me… Who are you? 

Answer me this: what is best in life?

Name: By what are you called? Are you a woman of many names and titles, or a man deprived even of his name? Keep in mind the race and culture of your character. No “Tom the Thief” or “Coldsteel the Barbarian”.
Race: Which of the races are you? Or are you one of the fantastic Outland-folk? (Creating an Outlander will require a justifying lore contribution. If you cannot confidently contribute to the world-building, select from the known Races.
Gender: What is your gender?
Age: How many winters have you seen? Minimum age is 14.

Visage: Describe your appearance, through pictures, words, or a marriage of the two.
Temperament: Whether through words, body language, or actions alone, people will be able to get a feeling of who you are. Will you be the chivalrous champion, fallen from grace? The reaver with the answer to the Riddle of Steel? Stoic, raging, mirthful, or melancholy?

Skills, Talents, and Virtues: What is your character most skilled at? Are they a rogue who can sneak their way past a great serpent, or perhaps a barbarian of insurmountable strength? Perhaps they are a jack of all trades?
Weaknesses, Blunders, and Shortcomings: The guru’s of the Zadjian say that balance is the nature of the world. For every two skills you have, you must also have a weakness to balance them. Perhaps your temper is as short as it is violent, or you have an unerring fear of sorcerous powers and the unnatural?
Faith: What gods or demons do you call out to in your darkest hours?
Origin: Who were you before taking the Ivory Road? With whom have you forged Bonds with during your journey
Bonds: You must choose at least one other player-character and form a bond (or bonds) with them. Describing the bond can be as simple as a sentence or two. These should flow with your Origins, and be kept in mind during play.
EX: -Tyrgan believes that Yasmina is weak and pathetic, but will protect her so long as he continues to be paid by her father.
-Yasmina believes that Tyrgan, the mighty barbarian, is protecting her because he cares for her. Could she ever convince her father to permit such scandalous romance with a savege?[/i]

Spoiler: Rules and Guidelines 

-The GMs word is law, and by law you must abide.
-I am currently seeking a Co-GM or two
-God-modding, meta-gaming, powerplaying, or rail-roading will see you ejected on the first offense.
-All RPA rules and regulations apply.
-Harassment of fellow players will not be tolerated.
-Do not flame, spam, or shit-post in the OOC thread. This is your only warning.
-There will be no RSVPs or first-come-first serve character applications. There are 7 character slots I will fill with players/characters the GMs find best fit. Just posting a character does not mean you will get in. Character quality and writing skill will.
-Character Sheets must be submitted through PM to Stormwolf. Only if your character is accepted may you post their sheet in the OOC thread..
-GMs reserve the right to deny character or lore submissions if they do not fit the style of story being told.
-The world is dangerous and savage. If you are in a knife fight, you are going to get cut. No wading through throngs of enemies unscathed. If you break this rule, you’ll get a slap on the wrist and the GM will rectify conditions appropriately.
-Characters can die. If yours dies and you wish to continue playing, you are welcome to make another character. If you wish to depart following your character’s death, your spot in the cast will open.
- Note: Your character will automatically know their mother tongue. If they are well traveled, you may choose 1-2 additional languages. If they have been on their road their whole life, they may know 3-4 languages in full, as well as 2 languages at a sub-conversational level.
-If you understand and hereby swear to all of the rules, and that they are always subject to change, tell me “what is best in life” at the top of your character submission. Yes, there is but one answer. Yes, you probably know what it is if you are still reading.

IC Thread

[StormWolf]

Adventurers

Hither came...

Spoiler: Tyrgan, Lion of Ysgard 

Name: Tyrgan Ysgrimnir, the Lion of Ysgard. The Shatter-Shield, Raven-Feeder, Dune-Ravager. The Gallows-Born, Grim-Raider, Foe-Slayer, Storm-Crow, Rain-Bringer, Cross-Breaker. It is said he has as many names as there are winds, as many titles as there are ways to die.
Race: Ysir
Gender: Masculine
Age: 28 bitter winters

Spoiler: Visage 

As hawked by those who managed the pale goliath’s thick iron chains, Tyrgan is, by birth, a pure-blooded son of Ysgard. Standing little eight-and-a-half spans, his mane is the color of molten brass, wild and thickly braided against the wind, bound back by a simple band of braided leather. Sullen is his flaxen brow over eyes like smoldering blue coals, seeming to burgeon and boil with a thunderous contempt for all that draws breath. His hirsute body bears the suppleness of a tiger. Weighing sixteen stone of steely sinew cords, Tyrgan’s mighty thews push tightly against a sun-tanned hide, marked nearly as frequently by tattoos as it is by scars. Having endured years beneath the clawing Southland sun, Tyrgan often dresses in but a simple tunic if he is feeling modest, though he is frequently bared to the waist, a splinted girdle clasping his middle, laden with tassets, his lower half in naught but a loincloth, kilt, or the skins of some savage desert beast. Should he engage in warfare, then he will don a hauberk of tightly-meshed maille and the horned helms of his kin. However, true to his name, Tyrgan wanders the jeweled cities and blistering wastes of the world in his crimson cloak, mantled with the gargantuan hide of an Ammonite lion. From his broad girdle, the beholder may often spy the tools of Tyrgan’s preferred trades; a sword of some kind, a double-bitted axe, a poniard, and a leather bladder swollen with water or wine. About his bull-neck is hung discus trinkets and bestial trophies of claw and fang.

Spoiler: Temperament 

Borne of the moody arctic highlands of Njornheim, Tyrgan is a man of great mirth and great melancholy. He is a man of earth, primal and elemental in his countenance with nary a shame toward himself nor what he has done. A purebred barbarian, he places great value in a man’s word, and will dash a skull to bone-chips for ill-begotten gossip or a broken oath. However, the fury of Tyrgan is not the inflammatory rage attributed so frequently to those reared outside the boundaries of revised civilization. Tyrgan’s battle-rage is, rather, bitter and cold as the land from which he hails. It makes him as a wolf among fellow men, an upright apex predator whose claws and talons are as steel.

Spoiler: Skills, Talents, and Virtues 

Barbarian, gladiator, rogue, ranger. Tyrgan is all of these things, and more. Since he could walk, he was taught to hunt, farm, and make war. Such is the Njonheimir way. As such, he is skilled in the spear, but he truly excels with the sword and axe - capable of sonorous blade-songs and the visceral dance of war. Having grown in hostile highlands and fjords, Tyrgan is a masterful climber and survivalist, able to endure the most grandiose tortures of man and nature with the sober resolve of his moody people.
From his time in the pits and arenas across Nuria, Tyrgan has become bedfellows with pain, tiring the bitch with his savage grit and resolve. He is a wild beast of tenacity, vitality, strength, and stamina. Also in these pits was he tutored by a great menagerie of warrior, from the battle-poets of Calbann to the phalanx-fighters of Halcyona, to the blade-dancing monks of Taikang. He is a student of war, even in the scholastic sense, taught to read and write by the master of his first Ludus.

Spoiler: Weaknesses, Blunders, and Shortcomings 

Many years ago, Tyrgan had a vile doom placed upon him by a black-hearted sorcerer, a mark upon his flesh as well as his soul that draws great evil to his presence. Wherever Tyrgan goes, eldritch vileness follows. In his struggle for survival, Tyrgan has done a great many things that have drawn the loathing and ire of powerful individuals. Pirate Queens, power-mad wizards, marauding warlords, and tyrannical governors have all sought Tyrgan in his time, the list of his enemies as long and thick as his leg. From this sorcerous doom is borne the superstitious fear of a cornered tiger, a tangible hatred for the arcane and unnatural. When the mage’s moon glares unblinking in a starless night, Tyrgan will huddle close to the fire with naked steel rested across his knees.

Raised about barbarian tribes and clans, there is little delicacy or decorum to Tyrgan’s bearing or behavior. While this may provide a roguish, brutish charm to some, it goads nothing but repulsion from most of finer living. His tongue is rough, his accent thick, and he has a tendency to speak what is on his mind in any language. He has little patience for the minutia of civilized folk, and has been known to scatter the brains of folk who are careless with their tongue. Along a similar thread, Tyrgan simply cannot abide fools who seem only to have a tongue waggling betwixt their ears.

For much of his formative years, Tyrgan was shuffled between various fighting pits, arenas, and coliseums for the entertainment of the masses, the revulsion and reputation done unto him growing with every man he slew. Those well-traveled enough will know the great lion-cloak of Tyrgan, and likely know one of the monikers provided for public consumption as he bloodied foreign sands.
While some may not immediately deem the following a weakness, Tyrgan has the scarred-over kisses left by the daggers of jilted and jealous lovers who mistook or misunderstood his culture. Life in Ysgard is brutal and short, and breeding is done on a whim. As such, Tyrgan is about as monogamous as the beast whose hide is draped about his shoulders. He follows fancy where it takes him; he eats, drinks, and fornicates when he likes, and with whom, often with little inclination to possible repercussions.

Spoiler: Faith 

Tyrgan’s faith to his gods are etched into the living flesh of his arms. Upon each shoulder he bears the ravens of the Skull-God upon his broad shoulders, great crescent moons of the goddess rest below the scrutinous gaze of the ravens, trailing an intricate knotwork over his sinuous limbs, featuring panthers and serpents in abundance. At his forearms, the lacing knotwork give way to the detailed, slavering jaws of the Wolf-God. His gods are gods of winter and war, and so every swing of the sword is a hymn sung in their honor.

Spoiler: Origin 

This, the Nurian Age, is an age of bleakness and brutality. War is done on countless fronts, nameless evils crossing the inky blackness of the cosmos while the baser instincts of mortals drive them ever-deeper into vile savagery. One such vile act of violent rape was the soil and seed in which Tyrgan was sired, left to burgeon beneath the heart of a young woman who had yet to experience a score of the moon-goddess’ womanly cycles. Cast out from her Hold for her weakness, the young woman wandered the sparsely-traveled roads of her homeland, now as bitter an enemy as the man who seeded her. Traversing bitter tundra and boggy marshes with their biting flies, she lost purpose, falling into an abyssal pit from which few are wont to return. Perhaps it was a bitter, sardonic humor that brought the girl to her final rest, but for the first time in nine long months, he eyes glittered with joy at the sight of the twisted boughs of white ash. Straining her reedy limbs as she climbed the great tree, she fashioned her cloak into a rough noose, fastening it to a strong branch with the sailor-knots her father taught her. Tightening the loop about her slender neck, the woman threw her swollen body from the branch to hang until dead, freeing herself from the shame and pain of her brief life.

Alas, it is in times of death that life may begin anew. This poor girl, whom the annals of clan and kin will never remember, tread the glaciers and mountains of her vile motherland in the grasps of labor for nearly two days. As she swung and convulsed from her gallows, the woman and the tree together dropped reviled fruit to the perpetual snows. None can say for sure how long the boy lay in the shadows of the gallow-tree. Only that a passing warband of Jarl Wodanulf found the tree laden with ravens as surely as leaves would bloom in spring, their ebon beaks pecking at the cord that still bound mother to son. He was not a weeping child, but he was jotun-blue in complexion from cold. A superstitious folk, many of the warriors bid leave the child behind as an offering to the Skull-God, whose ravens seemed so interested. But it was the bear-cloaked champion of the war-band who swaddled the child in furs and fed him milk from his scarred mare. He was a barren man, after an arrow pierced his loins, and his young wife desired a son.

Named Tyrgan of the Ysgrimnir, the boy was raised with firmness and fondness in equal measure, though he was always given a wide berth as he walked the narrow passages of their village. As Tyrgan grew, the grimness of his birthright made itself manifest in his eyes. A cold, blanketing hatred that kindled relentlessly for all who beheld him. Sages and Seers warned of a beast of darkness, some demoniac doom that rested in the boy’s future as surely as his past. He was born of shameful death, and was owed to the Skull-God as a tribute yet denied. In an attempt to appease the fickle gods, Tyrgan was taught the ways of his adoptive clan; the way of shield and spear, of sword and axe. As the moons came and went, winter remained, as it always did, but the softness of youth melted in lieu of the snows. In time, Tyrgan came to replace his adoptive father, leading the warbands of Jarl Wodanulf on raids for gold, silver, and steel, as well as women and livestock. In his brief years as berserker, Tyrgan became drunk with the luxuries of his station, drinking deep of wine and mead, hoarding supple flesh as surely as polished gold. He had all that he could desire, but fortune is fickle, and Tyrgan’s bill was ready to come due.

From unknown lands to the east came a solitary figure, dressed richly in silks and gems. He named himself Tamghat, and he rode with foul winds in tow. Tamghat’s tale painted him as a priest or vizier of the great Southlands, but of which he would not specify. Simply that he was learned in arts dark and forbidden, capable of making Jarl Wodanulf into the first High King seen since the slaying of Ysmir and his giant-brood. Perhaps it was ambition, but the maddened gleam in the Jarl’s eyes could only be the work of foul sorcery to Tyrgan. Taking up the generations-old sword of his station, he marched into Hjartatoskr Hall, a gusty bellow from his lips calling for the wizard’s head. Everybody in the hall, from the lowliest cup-slave to the Jarl himself, bore the glass-eyes of a deep lotus-dream. Tamghat alone possessed all of his facilities, his needly fingers fiddling with the various cords of colored hair that hung about his reedy neck like a shawl. The smile of the Outsider was a knowing one, treacherous as a serpent’s as he whispered black words into the Jarl’s ear.

“Traitor!” Quoth Wodenulf shakily, “Usurper!” Like a cornered wolf, Tyrgan bore naked steel against his kinsmen, smiting a score of them with the bastard blade of his sword. “Kinslayer!” The cry rose in an ebbing chant, the fires in hearth and brazier flaring a fel-green as the winds howled with demoniac ferality. Brought low by amassing wounds, bound in thick anchor-chains, Tyrgan was made to kneel before the true lore of Hjartatoskr.

“For your sins, I mark you thrice-damned! Ia! Jehbbal Sag! Ia! Yog! Ia! Nargal!” Tamghat rattled in his blasphemous tongue as eldritch signs burned themselves into the flesh of Tyrgan’s sword arm by unseen brands. “May you find no comfort, no contentment. No rest nor respite. I doom you, Tyrgan Ysgrimnir, in the eyes of gods greater than your comprehension. Your name shall become a curse, all your fields shall be salted and burned. Grow strong in your tribulations, Exile, for the mightier the sacrifice will make my power that much greater.”

Locked in such chains, Tyrgan’s head was shaven, his title removed, and his lands razed. His great hall served as the pyre of his pale-skinned darlings, Tamghat watching with the subtle joy of a man enjoying a fine wine. Ushered to the slave-bays of Varagheim, he was sold as a common slave, bound to an oar for years beyond Tyrgan’s desire to measure. Through a series of trials and tribulations Tyrgan would be loathed to recall, he found accosted by hardship and brutalities abound, tossed into the worst civilized man could conjure. Many a name he was given in bondage, enough titles to choke on, yet they were devoid of any right or weight outside the arena. However, when Tyrgan stood amid the blood and the sand, he was as a king crowned in steel, the rabid throngs of the crowd his subjects. His gift unto them was visceral splendor, and they showered him in their adoration; their gold, their women.

It was from yon crowd came a young woman with the lily-white skin of a noble, her hazel trusses hung in ringlets about her slender neck. From seats of esteem, he had seen the girl, how her supple spine writhed in torturous arousal as the blood flowed. Her obsession began with favors of riches and fine food, particularly opulent wines of a venerable vintage, which she watched him devour with a different hunger. In time, her favors changed. She would pass by the ludus and leave for “her Lion” silks cut from her flimsy garments, eventually leaving an unwashed garter.

It, then, came of no great shock when her personal attendants fetched him from his ludus, mighty in their stature and strength despite being eunuchs. Promptly, Tyrgan was delivered to a moon-shadowed garden, in which lounged the young heiress, swathed in naught but the liquid-silver light of the moon. Tyrgan needed no coaxing in order to take the girl in his arms and crush her against him. She was inexperience, untested in the arts of lovemaking, but her blossom burst into bloom beneath the looming colossus. Hailed from a land unabashed about the matters of coitus, Tyrgan had never in his life been quiet in the act, roaring and sneering as surely as he would matching steel on the battlefield. It was such cacophony that roused the master and mistress of the villa overlooking the gardens - the haughty parents of the deviant lady. Shadowed forms rushed the gardens at the barking behest of the baron, soldiers in maille and armed with swords that glinted in the early morning light.

They encircled the sullen northman and cast the girl aside, her pale flesh flush with swollen marks earned in her ordeal. Like a pack of jackals against some great cat, the guards set themselves on Tyrgan. Though unarmed, his hands were as hammers against the softened sinew of pliant southern folk. Bones crunched against his strikes, heads burst as ripe melons against carven marble columns, and the jewel-crusted pools of the garden were sullen with brains and wriggling innards. But the house guard had numbers, and in time brought the frenzied barbarian low.

He, a slave, was found accused of murder and trespassing, as well charged with rape of the young girl. Among Tyrgan’s kind, such crimes were met with the axe, or exile, but he was among the civilized and refined, now. His punishment was to be crucified, left as an example to those on approach to the great city of Rosna. Stretched upon hastily-made timber beams, iron nails were driven through the Northman’s palms and feet. There, he was expected to die, but word from the Ivory Road brought tell of “the cross-breaker”, a prisoner of flaxen hair to tore himself free of his cross and vanished into rolling hills of the countryside.

Henceforth, Tyrgan took to wandering the wild places of the world. Though he bore the scars and brands of his bondage, his life was once again his, for however brief it may be. Stealing away to the hinterlands of Rosna, the barbarian took refuge in roadside mires, supping on tough roots and biting rats, binding his hands and feet in rough-spun bindings. He chances upon a farmstead, and despite the horrifying visage of a northman, naked but for the skin of a great lion, caked in mud and blood in equal measure, they showed him an open kindness. Offering shelter to him, they properly washed and bound his wounds, fed him and clothed him with what little abundance they had. With nothing to offer in trade, Tyrgan set out at dawn to hunt for the family, repaying their kindness with bounty. It took some hours to track and corner the stag, but Tyrgan’s spear hit true enough. The sun was washing the sky in colors of gold and copper when Tyrgan made his return, allowing him to see the standards of the Rosnian Legion flying high over polished helms, the farmstead billowing in fire and smoke. Spitting a black curse, Tyrgan abandoned his quarry and took to the road once more.

In a few years time, he found himself in Zakhara, where the Ivory Road split into gold rivulets across the shifting and ancient lands of the south and the east. Ever searching for fighting men, the Free Companies of Zakhara all but plucked the lion-cloaked Njorn from the bustling streets. In their selection process, there was little refinement. The men of the Free Companies bid their “volunteers” beat each other bloody, and the one who remembers his name in the end will join their ranks. Given Tyrgan’s intimate understanding of violence in its many forms, he was the one draped in the red cloak of victory. For a time, all was good for the first time in memory. Tyrgan had a place among the Free Companies, once again brushing shoulders with battle-brothers as they ate, drank, and made merry through the Zakharanian nights. They turned war-tides and quelled riots for gold and gems, but their most frequent use was to secure the Ivory Road as it cut towards Natal.

Despite boundless conflicts fought beside the Free Companies, they saw their greatest defeat beneath the hooves of Khazraj cavalry. Whether sabotage or negligence, the mercenary companies sent to secure the Road against the horse-rutting mongrels, only to find that the warband was indeed a horde. Outflanked and outnumbered, the Free Companies fought as caged lions, but Tyrgan knew there was no survival and no honor in such a meaningless death. Hundreds of men snuffed out, and for what? Lotus and silk? When the Free Company lines broke, Tyrgan moved with the flow of bloodied men, but his tribal code of honor forbade the Njorn to turn his back on a fellow Freelancer. Cleaving down the Khazraj outrider before a killing blow could be struck, Tyrgan took up the veteran mercenary, Khars, and together they fled into the fringes of the Road, joining up with Samad’s caravan many days later.

Spoiler: Bonds 

- “Khars is a skilled and honorable man, and he deserves more than an unmarked grave among the wastes.”
- "Iolaire stands as the only man I have met able to out-drink me. Surely, Jotun-blood is in those veins."

Iolaire-Sealgair, The Raging Ranger - SikstaSlathalin
Asteria - Karma
Nomad - Splat
Lasair MacCaderyn - ScottishGal
Besehaedra the head-taker - Cfavano
Khars Damos - NinjaontheRoof
Irazebeth - Koti
Lash - AngelDellaNotte

Important NPCs

Spoiler: Samad el-Fasiel, King of the Ivory Road 

“Mushanu, my esteemed friends! Hello! A thousand welcomes! So, you seek the Ivory Road and the lands beyond? Excellent choice. There you’ll find danger, mystery, and probable death ... but, oh, the riches! So many, many riches.”

- Samad el-Fasiel, Head Caravanserai

Name: Samad el-Fasiel
Race: Zakharanian
Age: 56

Spoiler: Visage 

Samad is a man swollen with the kush comfort of his station as a caravanserai. Though he may not have crown or throne, he is the self-proclaimed king of the Ivory Road, and dresses himself as such. Linen and silks flow from his pleasantly supple figure, jewels twinkling on every sausagey finger, his salt-and-pepper beard glistening with scented oils. About his neck hang passports of lands near and far, his broad sash packed with scrolls of writ and deed, kept company by a jewel-hilted long-knife.

Spoiler: Temperment 

Samad is a man with mirth as great as his girth, loud and boisterous as his songs can often be heard all the way to the farthest camel in the caravan… much to the chagrin of the guards. To counteract this jovial demeanor, Samad is thoroughly bitten by the green demon of greed, and it’s brother-vice of ambition. He is always after the next glit-worked rung of society and status, as shrewd at business as he is silver-tongued. In his caravan, people are only ever three things to Samad: a beneficial investment, a costly mistake, or a loathed rival. He has ways of dealing with any and all of these types.

Spoiler: Skills, Talents, & Virtues 

Samad is charismatic, diplomatic, devious in his cunning, and merciless in is business, all while possessing a mind like a Yar-Ammoniish labyrinth.

Spoiler: Weaknesses, Blunders, & Shortcomings 

Greed and ambition sit on each of Samad’s shoulders, little devils gibbering into his ears. He will always seek higher station and immeasurable wealth, often being as fickle and opportunistic as a jackal. He also has a weakness for women, as a craven lust burns darkly in his breast. Though he has a wife in Natal, it is whispered along the Ivory Road that he has a mistress in every city and playthings aplenty in his caravan. He is also immensely superstitious, fearing the ire of any and all gods, be they greater, lesser, outer, or elder.

Spoiler: Faith 

Being a man of many lands and the open steppe, Samad has been known to pay tribute to any regional gods and goddesses, lesser or greater, should he pass their shrines and temples. He is deeply superstitious, but is ever devout to Ishtar (the goddess of sex, fertility, and seduction) and Nebethet (the goddess of fortune).

Spoiler: Origin 

Samad was born to a family poor as the dirt, simple weavers of baskets and hawkers of fish caught from the great River Styx that bisects Natal. He hated such a life, and loathed his parents for bringing him into it. Through his youth, Samad was a pickpocket. Pilfering trinkets and gems, then fencing them off for enough coin to blunt the gnawing teeth of hunger. In time, his tenacity earned him an apprenticeship at a premier trade post, which he eventually clove his way to the head of. From there, Samad consolidated wealth and influence in the trade markets, consuming smaller businesses under market glut and adding them to the massing and voluminous folds of his enterprise.

Though he was the first to call himself “King of the Ivory Road”, many have followed suit, for Samad is one of the most experienced and wealthy caravanserai on either side of the River Styx.

Spoiler: Bonds 

- ”Asteria has been worth her weight in gold. Not only is her tongue well-versed in the common languages of the Road, but it can so quickly bring me to a blissful rest…”
- ”Tyrgan. I know this name. I have watched this colossus spill blood many a time. Once in Natal, if he has not proven useful, he shall fetch a king’s ransom from every slaver in town.”
- “The Nomad has me nervous. Any man unwilling to use a name is bad for business.”
- “I do not like how the Calbannach Ranger, Iolaire, looks at my slave”
- “The huntress, Lasaire, is an enticing and fiery creature. I wonder if she tastes as tart as her tongue talks…”
- “Besehaedra is as bad for business as any full-blooded Mazanian. A night beneath a Khazraj warband and all of their horses would do her good.”
- “Khars’ military prowess may be worth a deeper investment, if only his pesky morality could be bargained...”
- “Irazabeth unsettles me. So long as she keeps two carts’ distance, I can rest easy.”
- “This Lash behaves as a wild animal. I wonder if she fucks like one, too…

[Splat]

Mmmm I am a slut for fantasy and world building. Consider me interested. I love how detailed all of this is

[.Karma.]

Count me in. Just gotta catch up on things <3

[Cfavano]

color me interested as well, I am thinking of doing an amazon warrioress

[SikstaSlathalin]

*Fantasy powers activated, worlds begin to collide, ides manifest from the lights of dawn, begins playing Two Steps from Hell playlist.*

[Splat]

*Fantasy powers activated, worlds begin to collide, ides manifest from the lights of dawn, begins playing Two Steps from Hell playlist.*

Pretty much my brain 24/7, tbh.

So many ideas... I'll try and think of something concrete on the plane tomorrow haha. I'm thinking of a nomadic, Arabic sorta guy. Because Scimitars.

[Cfavano]

is a fullblade a viable weapon in this world?

[StormWolf]

@Cfavano; no, it is not. A zweihander will be about as greatswordy as it gets.

[SikstaSlathalin]

Hmm zweihander such a sexy sword.