Excerpts from the letters of Saint Sidonius Apollinaris

"And the dark mist settled upon the Isles like a blanket of doom. The Empire had left The Isles a generation ago and few from the continent dared venture across the channel, for the first few who tried never came back. The fools who went chasing after them all met the same fate. Dark things dwell in the waters and only on the summer solstice does the mist clear, it is an empty land bereft of God. There is nothing there for decent men, only for the desperate, the fools, and the wicked”

This is a world reminiscent of but fundamentally different to ours. God{s) inhabit the world. The western Empire is crumbling, hanging on by a thread, breathing its last. In the vacuum left behind dark forces begin to take hold of the world. It’s a world such as this that serves as our landscape. Our protagonist, from what lands does he hail from?

>Civilised
>Decadent
>Barbarian

Roll 6 2d6

>Decadent

>>6262783
Don't forget to roll the 2d6

Rolled 5 (1d6)

>>6262779
>Barbarian

Rolled 3 (1d6)

>>6262792
Aaaaand one more because I can't read, apparently

Rolled 5, 4 = 9 (2d6)

>>6262779
>>Barbarian
WHAT IS BEST IN LIFE?

Rolled 6, 1 = 7 (2d6)

In the interest of speeding things along, I'll roll one of the 2d6. And I shall open to floor to anons that have previously rolled to do so again. just don't vote again if you already did so.

Rolled 5, 3 = 8 (2d6)

>Decadent
Revolt Against the Modern World

Rolled 2, 3 = 5 (2d6)

>>6262775 (OP)
>Decadent

Rolled 4, 6 = 10 (2d6)

>>6262779
>Civilised

Alright, All the rolls have been completed. But the background vote is still up in the air. I will leave it for 30 more minute and then I shall call it.

>>6262779
>>Barbarian

Rolled 1 (1d2)

VOTE CLOSED. TIE![b/]

1= Barbarian
2= Decadent

Jesus Christ is the Son of God, Who died for our sins and rose from the dead to give us the free gift of eternal life. He also promises to heal your body. You can ask Jesus for His gifts.

There was a time when the Empire stretched beyond the banks of the River Rhein. But successive puppet emperors turned the empire's gaze to rebellions in the east and civil wars within. Slowly the borders began to shift. Legion camps and fortified watchtowers that once were at full garrison began to operate at half strength. When the coin began to dry up, skeleton crews manned the forts. Until finally the men decided they much preferred to not die at the edge of civilization for paltry pay, leaving only wind-scoured stones and the ravens who nest in empty barracks.

Your people count their wealth in cattle and their glory in song. Society is built upon the tribe and kinship. In times of strife a myriad of tribes form to create confederations, with the chieftain of most renown being acclaimed King.

Slowly your people have been marching west, reclaiming lost land and avenging ancient grudges.You were born the nephew of a minor chief, your father slain in a skirmish defending the grazing grounds of your tribe. You live a comfortable life by the standards of your people. Though an imperial would balk at your halls and treasures, proclaiming them measly.

As a child, the tribe noticed you were special. You were god-touched—you could feel the threads of power that connected the mundane to the divine. Your uncle went to great lengths finding you a teacher for your talent.

Choose 1

>He found a Berserker of the Cult of Bear and Wolf, who taught you the secrets of rage and violence. How to harness them to become a warrior of unstoppable fury.

>He brought you to a Volka, a sorceress of great knowledge and skill. She taught you the old tongues and rituals. How to converse with spirits and make bargains with them.

You learned magic as a child, but the years passed. As you grew into a man, you learned the ways of the world, how to make yourself useful to the tribe and make a living for yourself. You inherited your father's livestock and hall, but only the mediocre rest on their laurels.

Choose 1

>You made your name known all across the Rhein valley by forming raiding parties alongside other young men. You took your fair share of cattle and goods from neighboring tribes. It's made you rich but notorious among your neighbors.

>The lands west of the Rhein are a patchwork of tribes, imperial cities and lawless wilderness. It's your job to scout these lands, to find allies and know what to avoid before your tribe marches west.

>You've stayed closer to home and have earned a place among the hunters. You don't hunt ordinary game like deer or boar. No, you hunt monsters. Lindworms, ghouls, giant beasts and more, you protect your tribe from them.

>>6263606
>He brought you to a Volka, a sorceress of great knowledge and skill. She taught you the old tongues and rituals. How to converse with spirits and make bargains with them.

>The lands west of the Rhein are a patchwork of tribes, imperial cities and lawless wilderness. It's your job to scout these lands, to find allies and know what to avoid before your tribe marches west.

Spirit Scout

>>6263606
>He brought you to a Volka, a sorceress of great knowledge and skill. She taught you the old tongues and rituals. How to converse with spirits and make bargains with them.

>The lands west of the Rhein are a patchwork of tribes, imperial cities and lawless wilderness. It's your job to scout these lands, to find allies and know what to avoid before your tribe marches west.

>>6263606
>He found a Berserker of the Cult of Bear and Wolf, who taught you the secrets of rage and violence. How to harness them to become a warrior of unstoppable fury.
>You've stayed closer to home and have earned a place among the hunters. You don't hunt ordinary game like deer or boar. No, you hunt monsters. Lindworms, ghouls, giant beasts and more, you protect your tribe from them.

>>6263606
>He brought you to a Volka, a sorceress of great knowledge and skill. She taught you the old tongues and rituals. How to converse with spirits and make bargains with them.
>You've stayed closer to home and have earned a place among the hunters. You don't hunt ordinary game like deer or boar. No, you hunt monsters. Lindworms, ghouls, giant beasts and more, you protect your tribe from them.

Looks like Volka option is safely in the lead. The occupation vote is tied. I'll give jt another hour, if it's still tied. I shall roll the tiebreaker.

>>6263606
>>He brought you to a Volka, a sorceress of great knowledge and skill. She taught you the old tongues and rituals. How to converse with spirits and make bargains with them.

>You've stayed closer to home and have earned a place among the hunters. You don't hunt ordinary game like deer or boar. No, you hunt monsters. Lindworms, ghouls, giant beasts and more, you protect your tribe from them.
Monsters you say? Worthy prey, more like.

Vote Closed. Volka and Monster Hunter

>BEARSERKER

>MONSTER HUNTER

Absolutely Based setting thus far

>>6263606
>Lindworms, ghouls, Giant beasts
Qm are you any chance inspired by the battle brothers game?

>>6263992
It's definitely part of the group of games and literature that inspire the world and tone.

Rain falls from the sky in a torrential downpour. You can feel the droplets hit your cloak, one after the other in quick succession, so quick that it all blends together into a constant shhhh, as if coaxing you to sleep. All the rain has made the ground soft, and each of your steps feels as if it is sinking into the earth. The forest feels off, heavier somehow. It takes extra effort to pull your feet up and keep on walking.

Besides the rain's steady rhythm, the woods are too quiet—no birds, no rustling leaves beyond what the storm disturbs.

"Frida! Wait, stay close," you call out to your younger cousin as you race to catch up with her, putting a hand on her arm when you reach her, pulling her back to signal that she should not walk too far ahead of you.

"You're very slow," she barks back, but yields at your touch, slowing her pace to match yours. You could make a comment on the way her body shivers ever so slightly from the cold, but you refrain from it. It's never a good idea to poke the bear, especially young Frida.

This outing was her idea after all. And any implication that any idea of hers is bad usually leads to more bad ideas. She'd presented the idea as a simple stroll in the woods. Frida wanted a small taste of adventure, and you the fool forever indulged her.

Now the clear skies had turned to storm, and the stroll into an exercise. The change in weather had come too quickly, supernaturally quick.

"We need to turn back, Frida, your father is sure to be looking for us, and when he finds us he'll beat me blue and make sure you never step foot outside the camp."

"You worry too much, cousin. Where is your sense of adventure?" A thunderous sound drowns out her next words and the both of you stop and stare, watching as the sky is split in half by a rampaging lightning strike.

"I value my life more than I value adventure, Frida, come now." You tug her towards whence you came. "We need to turn back, Thunor is awake today."

Your hand finds the hammer amulet at your neck. It trembles against your palm—or perhaps that's your own hand shaking.

Frida's eyes widen as she looks into your gaze, she sees something in them. You have always been more in tune with the workings of the divine and their magic, you feel the hairs on your body stand at attention, no doubt your eyes reflect your body's apprehension. Another lightning strike splits the sky.

You feel your throat go dry, swallowing does nothing to help. You look down at the amulet still clutched in your fist, true worry starts to set in as you notice small cracks spreading through the wooden hammer.

Even brave Frida shows fear now, for your amulet isn't just a token, it’s inscribed with runes meant to ward off dark things and worse. Another lightning strike flashes, and in the dying light you swear you can spot an unnatural silhouette in the distance. Pulling Frida along you can't help but yell

“RUN!”

(1/?)

Your body obeys and the two of you bolt in the direction of the camp. If it had been just yourself you'd stand and fight, but Frida is with you and keeping her safe takes precedence over slaying whatever monster is lurking in the shadows.

The rain has turned the ground into a treacherous mire. Mud sucks at your feet, and more than once you have to catch Frida as she stumbles, steadying her with a firm grip before pushing her onward. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, mixing with the drum of rain and the pounding of your heart.

Behind you, something crashes (slithers?) through the underbrush—heavy and deliberate.

It's the first time your amulet has failed to ward off a beast. The realization gnaws at you even as you run. Perhaps it's not a beast at all. Perhaps it's a daemon, stirred by Thunor's fury—

You force the thought away. Focus on the present.

But as Frida stumbles again, nearly going to her knees in the mud, you realize that she won't make it. Not at this pace. You strain your ears, trying to gauge the creature's distance by its gait—or lack thereof—but the storm swallows most sounds, a glance back leaves only glimpses of movement, flashes of something large between the trees.

Spotting a hollow tree you pull Firda in that direction, stopping to catch your breaths once you reach it. You push her into the cavity telling her to not make a sound before tossing your amulet at her and running off in the opposite direction.

Sure enough without the amulet clouding your presence the beats advances on your position. You think as run, formulating a plan.

>You'll find a tree you can climb and set up an ambush, for sure your first arrow will reach its mark, but after that you can't say.

>A foolish (but glorious) thought comes to mind. Stop running and stand your ground. You have a bow, a stick, and your wits.

>You teacher said you were almost ready to make a spirit pact, two even. You'd spent time conversing with the local spirits in preparation. You could do it now before the monster reached you.

Write-ins are always welcome, as stand alone votes and or as embellishments to existing options

>>6264006
>You'll find a tree you can climb and set up an ambush, for sure your first arrow will reach its mark, but after that you can't say.

>>6264006
>You teacher said you were almost ready to make a spirit pact, two even. You'd spent time conversing with the local spirits in preparation. You could do it now before the monster reached you.

>>6264006
>>You'll find a tree you can climb and set up an ambush, for sure your first arrow will reach its mark, but after that you can't say.
Surely if we wound it enough it will turn away for its own safety. Surely it is simply a fearsome beast and not a daemon.

>>6264006
>You'll find a tree you can climb and set up an ambush, for sure your first arrow will reach its mark, but after that you can't say.

>>6264006
>You teacher said you were almost ready to make a spirit pact, two even. You'd spent time conversing with the local spirits in preparation. You could do it now before the monster reached you.

Vote closed:

You'll find a tree you can climb and set up an ambush, for sure your first arrow will reach its mark, but after that you can't say.

Interesting setting. We will watch your career with great interest.

With a small flourish you spread out your cloak and jump, grabbing onto a nearby tree's protruding branch. The wet bark bites into your palms, rain streams down your face as you push your muscles to climb, faster and higher, racing against the sound of splintering wood that grows nearer.

You reach the tree top just as the beast comes into view. It's a serpent, unlike any you've seen before. Instead of scales, its skin is made of bark and wood, jagged and layered, with branches sharp enough to be spears protruding from its spinal column. Its teeth are a series of razor sharp wooden spikes.

This thing isn't mundane—you know that right away. The acrid scent of crushed ferns and rotten wood wafts up from below. You go through the possibilities: a Forest spirit in physical form, a Fae animating the wild, or perhaps a daemon in its own right.

Perched atop a thick tree branch, you unsling your bow and draw an arrow, the familiar movement calms you down. You keep both bow and arrow beneath your cloak so as not to get them wet until the last moment.

You hold your breath and wait for the beast to present its face. Whole swaths of underbrush are crushed and cleared underneath its body as it searches for you.

When it doesn't find you, the destruction below falls silent. Slowly it slithers to the base of your tree, its wooden flesh scraping against the trunk, pausing for a moment before looking up. That's all you need—half a second to knock your arrow and another to throw back your cloak and shoot, straight for the eyes, the tried and true weakness of anything moving.

Best of 1. Roll your Doom: 1d6

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>6264746
Damn. Nature is scary. Goodbye cruel world. GG no Re quick quest mon ami.

>>6264769
Congratulation anon. You have successfully rolled a Doom dice. Think of Doom Dice as meta currency, before each attack or attribute roll you (the players) can choose to call upon your doom and enhance the effects of your actions.

Doom dice is also the currency you use when calling upon external magic powers, be they spirits, demons, gods, etc. The players start with their Doom dice at d6. On a 1 or 2 it is downgraded to a d4. On a 1 or 2, the d4 is depleted and the players are Doomed meaning you guys roll worst of 3 for your action rolls.

Enough info dumps roll bo3 1d6 for damage and choose from one of the following options

>Brutal: add the Doom die's result to
the damage you inflict
>Pin down: inflict regular damage and
your target cannot move this Turn.
>Vicious: inflict regular and ongoing
damage (d4: on a 1 or 2 the dice is depleted).
.

Rolled 4 (1d6)

>>6264784
>Brutal
Rip and tear.

Rolled 3 (1d6)

>>6264784
>>Pin down: inflict regular damage and
Ha ha you can't get me neener neener neener

Rolled 6 (1d6)

>>6264784
>Brutal

>>6264746
You watch the arrow fly from the bowstring in slow motion—the fletching spinning, the point glinting—until it strikes the beast's eye socket with a solid thwack.

6+4 = 10 Damage

The creature's shriek splits the air. It begins thrashing its massive head against the tree, causing it to sway violently. Your bow slips from your hand as you're forced to wrap both arms around the branch, wood scrapes your cheek as you fight to stay mounted. You curse as you watch your bow fall to the ground.

At least your instinct was right about the eye. Already you can see sections of its wooden hide cracking and peeling away. But the beast isn't finished. Its remaining eye fixes on you—a burning green —and with terrifying speed it coils around the tree's base. You hear the trunk groan, then splinter. The ancient oak begins to tip over.

Your stomach drops as gravity takes hold. In the space of a heartbeat, you have to choose: jump clear, ride it down, or something else.

>Jump towards a clearing
>Hold on until impact
>Write-In

>>6265071
>Hold on until impact

>>6265071
>Jump towards a clearing

>>6265071
>Hold on until impact

Vote Closed. Bo3 1d20 DC 12. ROLL UNDER. This means a 12 is a fail. We have to get 11 or under.

Rolled 11 (1d20)

>>6265134
EZ fail, peep this 20

Rolled 16 (1d20)

>>6265134

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>6265134

Excellent rolls.

-2 HP -> 9/11 ( Successful Dex roll reduced damage from original damage of 6.)

For a moment you don't know where you are, but as your vision clears and the ringing fades, you realize you're landed beneath a section of the fallen trunk. Some splintered branches serve as a makeshift cage, their broken ends jab into your ribs.

Somewhere beyond your small enclosure, you hear the beast moving through the debris, wood splinters under its weight

Moving carefully to avoid calling attention, you crane your neck and scan the ground for your bow. Nothing. It could be anywhere in this mess.

You draw your dagger instead, the handle's familiar feel helps you calm down. You press yourself deeper into the tangle of branches.

Through small gaps in the branches you catch glimpses of the beast moving past—close enough that you worry it might simply crush you to death by accident.

>Make a break for it in the opposite direction.
>Try and look for your bow.
>Climb atop the beast.
>Attempt a spirit pact.
>Write-In

>>6265731
>Make a break for it in the opposite direction.

We're not conducting a hunt. We've got our cousin to worry about, and it doesn't sound like we're ready for a serpent like this as a casual encounter.

>>6265731
>Make a break for it in the opposite direction.

>>6265731
>Climb atop the beast.
MONSTER SLAYER TIME

>>6265731
>Make a break for it in the opposite direction.

>CLIMB ATOP THE BEAST
It's Shadow of the Colossus'in' time!

Vote Closed. WE RUN.

Please Roll 3 1d20+2 DC 12. Roll Under.

Rolled 4 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

>>6266193

Rolled 8 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

>>6266193

Rolled 7 + 2 (1d20 + 2)

>>6266193
New Rule to speed things along. If rolls are requested and it's been longer than 3 hour without all the rolls fulfilled, anon who have already rolled may roll once more.

In this instance I will roll but in the future anons feel free to do so.

You wait for the next thunderclap before bolting from your hiding spot. The storm covers your movement as you sprint through fallen branches and gouged-out roots. Your feet slip on the rain soaked debris, but you don't stop until you reach the intact parts of the forest.

You lean against a thick oak, chest heaving. Three breaths—that's all you allow yourself before pushing off again. Within minutes, your thighs burn, with each step causing pin pricks. Eventually the beast will finish picking through the debris, and when it fails to find your corpse, it'll resume its hunt.

The hollow tree flashes through your mind—Frida, still crouched inside, She's close enough to the camp that she might have gathered the courage to reach it alone. Or she's still there, pressed against the rotting wood.

>Return for Frida
>Circle back to Camp.

>>6266888
>Return for Frida

>>6266888
>Return for Frida

>>6266888
>Return for Frida

Vote Closed

Frida, dear Frida, your annoying little cousin. The thought of abandoning her for the camp flickers and dies in the same thought. You'd never forgive yourself if something happened to her. Besides, your uncle would kill you.

Mentally, you retrace your steps—the tree where you set the ambush, the direction you came from. Once you have that map fixed in your mind, you plot a new route. One that avoids the giant monster. The Woodwyrm—that's what you'll call it, yeah.

You push forward, ignoring the fire in your legs and the discomfort in your ribs. Your world narrows to the rhythm of your breath.

Time blurs. You're so focused on not stopping that you almost miss the familiar trail. This is where you and Frida first saw the lightning strike. Your pace quickens. There—the hollowed tree's distinctive shape.

Your throat tightens. What if she's gone?

"Frida?" The whisper barely carries over the rain.

A branch snaps. Your pulse hammers.

"Frida." Louder this time.

Blonde hair peeks around the trunk. Before you can speak, she slams into you, arms locked around your middle. Hot tears soak your tunic, her whole body shakes. You let her cry.

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," she whispers into your chest.

You grip her shoulder. "Hey. I promised I'd keep you safe didn't I?" You attempt a smile.

Her responding smile is weak, but it's there. You grab your cloak inside out–the parts that stayed dry, and dab at her face.

"Come on. We need to move. You did good, staying put."

You choose a route that loops wide around what you imagine is the Woodwyrm's territory. It adds an hour to your journey, but you want to be well clear of any path the creature might take.

The walk passes in exhausted silence. Frida stumbles twice. You're not much better, your feet feel like stones. The rain stops halfway through your journey.

You reach camp as dusk begins to cover the sky A line of armed men stand along the entrance, some in mail with long spears, others in leather with massive warbows. Their faces are grim beneath their helmets. They've been waiting, for you or your killer.

Your uncle stands at their center, gray-streaked hair falling like waterfalls. His eyes lock onto you both and something dangerous flashes across his face. He strides forward and grabs your shoulders hard enough to bruise.

"You reckless fool." His voice is low, controlled fury. "Taking her out there. Listening to her schemes."

Your legs nearly buckle. You brace for worse.

Instead, he pulls you both against his chest, arms crushing you close. His breath shudders. "Thank the gods you're safe."

He turns to his men, “Stand down, we'll keep a watch though I don't want anything happening tonight.

The men relax and begin sorting out watch schedules among themselves. Someone calls for blankets. Your uncle doesn't let go for a long moment, and when he does, his hands shake the slightest bit.

"Inside. Both of you. You have a lot to tell me.”

No vote tonight. We'll resume on Monday.

Solid writing

>>6267015
Your uncle paces around his tent. The moment you'd arrived, Frida's aunts had whisked her away, leaving you to this conversation alone. Well, not really alone. Inside the tent stands Gerrit, the Hunt Master, his lessons kept you alive, and he's been your father's friend since childhood.

"It was enormous, Uncle. Like a wyrm, but its body was bark instead of scales—imagine the roots of an ancient tree come alive and enlarged to a monstrous size. The thing stretched on and on. I never saw where its body ended."

His jaw remains clenched as he digests your words. "Your thoughts?" he asks without breaking stride.

Gerrit's face furrows in concentration. After a long moment, he shakes his head. "Thirty years of hunting. Never encountered anything like it, and I don't remember anything like it mentioned in the old stories."

"When the thunder began, that's when I spotted it." You lean forward. "That storm—it felt wrong. I knew it, I know it. Someone bent Thunor's power to their will. Someone with real power. Could be related, could be a coincidence."

The Hunt Master's hand moves unconsciously to his dagger hilt. "Fae, spirit, daemon— any of those three could wear such a form." His eyes meet your uncle's. "I won't be sending any scouts that direction. Not until we know more."

Your uncle finally stops pacing, stopping at the foot of his fur-clad throne. He sinks onto it and sighs. "You're right. I'll double the watch tonight. The men will grumble, but safety ranks above comfort." His eyes find yours. "And no one—no one—crosses the outer markers without my word."

"Now, Gerrit, could you leave me with my nephew? I have special matters to discuss."

Gerrit nods and pats you on the shoulder as he takes his leave.

"Old Chlodo wasted no time declaring you and Frida dead." Your uncle's voice carries a bitter edge. "He didn't wait long before he started making moves."

Chlodo—even his name sounds sour, your uncle's distant cousin, they share a great-grandfather but little else. For months he's whispered that your uncle's too old, that a girl like Frida makes an unfit heir. That his eldest son, Merwig, would serve better.

"The fool nearly succeeded." Your uncle's fingers drum against the throne's armrest. "His whispers made some inroads among the other families. If you'd stayed out there another night, if everyone believed you and my girl were dead..." He pauses. "You might have returned to find Merwig wearing the heir's torc."

"Uncle, I—" The words struggle to come out. "I'm sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn't–"

A raised hand silences you. "You have plenty to apologize for, taking Frida out there, risking both your lives on some childish whim. But not for this." Something shifts in his eyes. "This incident has given me clarity."

The tent falls quiet. You wait, knowing he has more to say.

"Chlodo speaks some truth. Frida cannot lead."

His words hits like a fist to the gut. You rise to your feet. "So you're surrendering? A sheep would lead better than Merwig." Your voice rises with each word. "His whole line reeks of naked ambition—they'll plant a blade in your spine the instant they get their way. And Frida? They'll auction her to the highest bidder once you're ash. You know it, so why?" you plead.

Your chest heaves. Your uncle just sits there. Which only feeds your fury.

"Tell me, Elric." He gestures toward the forest's direction. "Out there, if death had breathed just a bit closer, and you had to choose between your life and your cousin's—which would you preserve?"

His question robs you of breath, the fact that he would even propose it. You drop to one knee, taking his hand into yours, the old way, the oath stance.

"Your doubt cuts deep, Uncle." Your voice breaks slightly. "My life for hers. Always. She is my blood, my little sister in all but birth." You squeeze his hand tighter, willing him to believe.

His nod comes slowly. "Then I've chosen correctly."

You release him and stand. You turn away, unable to meet his eyes, not understanding how things have come to this. Your hands ball up.

"Frida remains a child at heart," he continues. "I expect that even when she's grown and wed, she'll still remain a child at heart. She'll always hunger for adventure, sacrifice is not in her nature. Chlodo is right—she cannot rule."

Your fists tighten.

"But you're also right. Merwig would be a terrible Chief. I'd sooner fall on my own sword than see him take the heir's torc."

You turn back, bewildered. If not Frida, and not Merwig, then....

Your uncle's gaze bores into you, reading the confusion on your face. He simply points his finger.

"You, Elric. The chieftainship passes to you."

All you can manage is a breathless, "Oh."

2 Things. I forgot about the content window lol. And I just realized I hadn't put a name to our hero yet. I chose Elric cause I like it. And sorry for leaving you all twice without a vote.

But feel free to speculate about what the future hold for Elric. Should we return to hunt that monster? Investigate the storm? And how terrible is Merwig truly?

>>6268030
>But feel free to speculate about what the future hold for Elric.
Ghost wife. Not a wife who died, they met when she was already dead.

>>6268057
That is some interesting speculation. Something to keep in the back pocket

>>6268030
Betcha the cousin had something to do with the wyrm. Sneaky little bugger is probably consorting with witches and sorcerers.

>>6268028
Your uncle doesn't keep you long after he reveals the news. He lets you retire, and digest it all. It never occurred to you that you could be a candidate. In your mind, the path was always clear: Frida would grow up, marry, and become chieftess. Your role was to do everything in your power to make it so. There was no other option.

How wrong.

Now you sit on your uncle's right, before the assembled clan heads. A thick wool cloak sits across your shoulders, lined with otter fur and pinned with a brooch of gold and rubies. Beneath it, a silk-trimmed red tunic, with linen breeches that fall to your lower shin while fine wool strips bind your lower legs, disappearing into fresh-tanned leather shoes.

Your uncle bid you to dress for the occasion, and yes—you look the part.

A vast fare is spread about the feasting table. Peeking out from behind the rim of your cup, you study each person's gaze. You glimpse different emotions: surprise, disappointment, hope.

Chlodo, your uncle's cousin. His face twists with anger. He leans forward, taking a sip of his drink before speaking.

"Sooo." He draws out the word, voice dripping with sarcasm. "The boy is to wear the heir's torc?"

A wave of movement passes through the table. You notice how some of the family heads shift in their seats—a few nod subtly, others purse their lips in silent agreement with Chlodo's bitter tone.

A larger portion of clan heads, however, regard Chlodo with open disdain. Frigern, a broad-shouldered man with silver threading through his beard, is the first to speak.

"You sound irritated." He teases with faux friendliness. "Did someone piss in your drink?"

Snickers ripple through the assembled. Someone slaps a knee and another raises a cup in mock salute. But Chlodo remains undeterred.

"This was not what was agreed, Euric." He addresses your uncle directly, ignoring all the others. The clan heads turn to one another in confusion, their voices rise in alarm. "What deal?" "What agreement?" Each family head demands to know what has been decided without their knowledge.

Through it all, your uncle remains silent. He leans back into his chair to watch the chaos unfold, one eyebrow raised. The corner of his mouth twitches with barely suppressed amusement. The clans badger Chlodo for answers that aren't forthcoming.

You sit rigid, spine straight as an arrow, trying to project an aura of nobility and authority expected of the heir. Your hands rest stiff on your knees, your chin is raised to just the right height—you aren't sure how convincing your display is. The assembly, at least, seems too preoccupied with their squabbling to pay you much attention.

Your uncle's chuckle cuts through their arguments. The table falls silent as all eyes turn to him. He reaches out and claps a firm hand on your shoulder.

"Relax, Elric." He squeezes gently before releasing.

You maintain your posture, but on your next breath the knots in your shoulders vanish.

"Chlodo," your uncle's voice carries easily to the whole table. "This is exactly what we agreed on."

The words barely leave his mouth and Chlodo surges to his feet. His chair scrapes against the rug-covered floor before toppling backward with a muffled thud. His face has gone crimson, and he thrusts an accusing finger at your uncle.

"Do not lie, Euric!" Spittle flies from his lips. "We agreed that Frida was not suitable. You agreed! I stood here and you shook your head in agreement when I said as such." His voice rises to a near-shout. "The torc is by right Merwig's!"

The amusement drains from your uncle's face. He rises slowly, deliberately, and the assembly begins to follow, but his fist crashes down on the table with such force that the table nearly tilts. Everyone freezes, then sinks back into their seats.

"Do not speak to me of rights and lies, Chlodo!" Your uncle's voice booms. "There was no talk of Merwig—you didn't have the bollocks! I granted you an audience because you wished to talk of private matters. We both came to the wise conclusion that Frida should renounce the torc." He pauses, letting his words land cleanly. "I have taken it from her, and by my will and right, I propose my kin—"

His hand seizes your shoulder, hauling you to your feet so suddenly you nearly stumble.

"—as my new heir!"

"Bah, he is a boy!" Chlodo's face darkens as he gestures at you. "My son is a man, bloodied, wed, with allies and wealth." He pivots from your uncle, spreading his arms wide to address the assembled clan heads. "So tell me then, why is the boy set above the man? Will you all allow Euric to put his blood above the good of the tribe?"

Frigern's chair scrapes against the floor as he stands."This is unseemly, Chlodo. It is Euric's right to choose his heir." His gaze sweeps across the clan heads. "I for one am content with his choice. Elric is a fine young man."

The effect is immediate. Chairs scrape and creak as clan heads rise. "Aye," calls one. "The boy has potential," declares another. The chorus of support swells.

Chlodo's jaw works soundlessly, his arguments die in his throat when he sees his erstwhile supporters stand—not for him, but for your uncle.

Having secured his victory, your uncle spreads his arms wide. "So it has been decided. Now sit, sit! We can't let the food grow cold."

The clan heads need no further encouragement. Hands reach for roasted meats and flagons of drink, the tent fills with the sounds of satisfaction—except Chlodo, who sits rigid, with his untouched plate, spite etched into every line of his face. There is some perverse satisfaction in seeing how little attention his tantrum receives.

The clan heads drink like they're trying to drain the sea. You've never been one for feasts and revelry. You find pleasure in the clean scent of the wild, and the satisfying ache of muscles after tracking prey. When the drink begins to weigh on you and your eyelids grow heavy and your smile begins to falter, your uncle leans close.

"Smile and make merry," he murmurs, his breath warm with wine. "This too is duty."

So you do, until your cheeks ache.

One by one. The clan heads depart in drunken stupor, singing and dancing, all save Chlodo who drank himself into such a state that his household servants were fetched to retrieve him. Bereft of guest it’s just your uncle and yourself that linger.

He’s speaking to you but you're so full of wine that most of his words fail to register, it goes on like this until one particular word cuts through the haze.

"Marriage."

You blink, certain that you've misheard. "What?"

"Marriage, boy. You need children. Someone to manage your household. You need allies outside the tribe." He waves a hand jokingly. "Or did you think your aunts would manage your household forever?"

You're forced to concede that point to him. Still unsure.

He leans forward, and suddenly his eyes are sharp despite the wine. "But more than that—if you're to be chief, we must crush any whisper of doubt. It's time you bind a spirit, Elric. Because when words don’t convince, power does. True power."

Before you can respond, he's rising and pulling you toward the exit. "Halvar," he calls to the guard outside. "See my nephew to his tent. Sleep well," he adds before the tent flap falls closed between you.

>You don’t know if it’s the wine or your uncle's words, but that night you dream vividly of...(Pick 2)

>>Flame
>>Tempests
>>Rivers
>>The Wilds
>>Animals (What animal?)
>>Pain
>>Hunger

>>6268943
>>Tempests
>>Animals (What animal?) a badger
Two vicious facets of nature. The storm and the most ferocious of little beasts

>>6268943
>Flame
>Animals (What animal?) a badger

>>6268943
>>The Wilds
>>Hunger

>>6268943
>>>Rivers
>>Flame

Ah the mighty badger, courageous and honorable. I'm tempted to model them after the Redwall badgers.

1 more hour of voting then I close it and roll in case of ties.

Vote Closed. Flame and Badger win

>Rivers
>Tempests

Hey guys, no update yet unfortunately, I'm working on it thought. Apologies for the radio silence, I went on a 4th of July trip and recently came back.

>>6272488
Hope you had fun. Waiting to see what Badger skills we'll get.

It's night, you're in a forest, the trees tower above you more than they should. It makes you feel so small.

You are small! The conscious part of you screams. That same part of you also notices that the colors of the forest aren't as you remember, there's no verdant green, or warm yellows, instead it's all a similar shade of grey and green mixed together, drab and stale. As if someone placed a cloak over a lamp, dimming it, leaving only an impression of the light beneath.

You raise your head and take a deep breath, oh what a new world this is. What you've lost in color seems to have added to your sense of smell. The wind seems to carry all the scents of the underbrush with supernatural intensity, a convocation of autumn scents, earthy, musky, and sweet, and at the end a whisper of winter to come.

That whisper awakens something primal, it reminds you that with winter comes the long sleep. And to make it out of that sleep you need a full belly. Hunger awakens, not the familiar pang of missed meals but something deeper, more primal.

You walk, exploring the trails of the forest. You let your nose and instinct guide you. The scents of this place whisper to you, they tell you where to go, and you dutifully listen.

They lead you through a familiar series of landscapes, trees, shrubs, and trails that instinctively feel familiar, like a half-remembered poem, you follow the cadence, until you reach the white edge, there, memory gives way to obliviousness, you have no choice but to continue.

You're lost now, searching for something, anything that feels familiar to the nose. You don't know how long you spend wandering about, you're tired and your feet need a moment of rest. There! Beneath a raised tree root, the space could comfortably fit the entirety of your body. It's packed with dying leaves and remnants of moss, it shouldn't take you long to clear it out and make yourself comfortable, indeed it's quick work and your claws clear the way until the spot where roots and earth meet is visible. What is also visible is a small opening, half your own size, and the smell that wafts from within, delicious is the only fitting word.

A fog begins to creep across your consciousness, obfuscating it. In its place something older and simpler slithers in. Something that doesn't question or think, but knows the primal truth and acts upon it.

You try to squeeze into the space, never mind that it's too small. Of their own accord your claws begin to move, scraping and scratching at the earth, enlarging the space to fit your measurement. In you go, and on you dig, dirt showers onto you, but beyond the smell of dirt that delicious smell lingers, it stirs an ardent yearning within you.

Your journey ends when you break through into a small chamber. Three small rabbits huddle together in a nest of grass and fur. Their soft ears and button noses twitch incessantly. Your fading conscience thinks they look cute. But another voice tells you that's wrong, they are not cute. They are food.

A dark veil descends, the kind that leaves no room for thought or reason. The link between action and comprehension is torn. Only impressions of actions are discernible, meaningless shadows and shapes. Oh but the senses are alive, they burn and flood in waves and cycles. Bypassing thought in its entirety. It all becomes a hazy dream.

There is no you. Only He.

The beast is finally in control of his own flesh. Only self-satisfaction matters now. He tears and rips, turning everything inside out painting the chamber red. This pure moment of satisfaction, he wants it to last forever. But alas all dreams end.

His muzzle is wet with blood, around him the remains of three small forms litter the den with only their brown fur remaining, everything else having been consumed.

He leaves the rabbit warren. Tasting the night air he can tell something has changed, there is a foreign scent. The beast grows curious, the scent pulls him as if having invisible hooks. He follows this new trail until it leads him to a small clearing. There he finds an alien creature.

It stands upright on its hind legs. Not as he or any member of his clan does—for a short period of time. This one stands continuously, walking on them from one place to another. He ponders on its unnatural stance wondering how it does not fall over from exhaustion.

It moves to the center of the clearing where a small mound of sticks and grass is arranged in purposeful order. It crouches and the beast thinks that is a more sensible position. It begins to work with its front paws, its claws look dull and useless, but each individual phalange has incredible dexterity.

What is it doing? The beast's question is answered a moment later when a burning flower appears. It dances beautifully, terribly, mesmerizingly. It has no petals or stem, it emits warmth and a strong smell of burning earth.

He waits patiently until the strange animal retreats to the edge, drawn by animalistic curiosity he creeps forward. The flower gently caresses him, wrapping the beast in a warm embrace. Tempted by the pleasant sensation he moves even closer. At a certain point the warmth becomes uncomfortable, he should retreat but he doesn't, he edges closer still. With a whisker between him and the flower, he knows that going any further will burn him.

He's so entranced by the flames, that he fails to notice movement at the edge of the clearing. An arrow is nocked, drawn and loosed.

The impact spins him sideways, a punch of fire blossoms into agony. He tumbles, his legs suddenly can’t support him. A whimper escapes him. The thing's face swims into view above him, wearing an expression he can't comprehend. Sadness? Satisfaction? Pity? Something else entirely? An edge scrapes against leather and a blade emerges.

To end the pain, some part of him understands. Mercy.

The blade plunges and retreats in one movement, a momentary burn is replaced by an out gushing of warm blood. It leaks, sapping his strength until a final kind of darkness descends. The burning flower continues to dance, casting wild shadows as the beast descends into the deepest sleep of all.
.
.
.
You wake in a cold sweat, your head rings, as if someone hit you from behind. Your tent flap opens, one of your uncle's men comes rushing in, speaking.

“Give me a moment” you say. It’s after that moment passes that his words finally register.

>There is a fire in your uncle's tent, come now!
>A talking Badger!? What!?

>>6273007
>A talking Badger!? What!?

>A talking badger started a fire in my Uncle's tent?! (we might be delirious)

>>6273007
>There is a fire in your uncle's tent, come now!

Vote Closed