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This is an RPG styled Quest focused on following our protagonist ascending into unknown heights of necrotic power or meeting their true death along the way.
As you sit and wait within a Doomcallers' study, your mind travels back to the Rite Of Harrowing that your sister had been administered long ago. A necessary requirement of any civilian reaching adulthood within the twisted city of Pale Ridge and these so-called Doomcallers facilitate the trials required to prove your worth to this society.
Though it happened when you were but a child, the anticipation forces these memories to the forefront of your mind.
*Sitting upon the smooth stone seats of a dark, deary coliseum, eyes transfixed to the bloody battle between two sides. Each desperate to win, not just to stay among the living and avoid being transformed into but a mindless corpse fit for only menial labor, but to continue the respected lineages of their families. Towards the center of the arena, an all too familiar helmet.Thin wisps of hair that streamed out of the sides, face encased in a death mask made of iron bearing your sister's likeness.
Much to your parents dismay, Zaeri had chosen to undergo a Rite Of War. She surges forth, attempting to rally the slowly crumbling front line as her team seemed to be falling one by one to an inevitable defeat. Feet clad in black steel surged across the pale white sands, rushing to meet one of her combatants. This charge was met by the head of a spear, levered at Zaeri's chest. You remember watching in admiration and fear as she gracefully deflected the momentum of the weapon, a crude yet gleaming blade slid down the spear and with a deft step to the side it made contact.
A severing cut to the hand wielding the spear, tearing through the wrist joint and shattering bone. The quickened flow of blood barely had time to fall before the blade was swung in reverse, splitting the throat open of Zaeri's opponent, cleaving through flesh and artery alike.*
The revelry of your sister's Rite is quickly pushed from your mind as the door slowly crept open, a strange scent of intoxicating fumes rushed into the dusty, dark room. The customary robes of the Doomcaller was a sight that made most people stand to attention, but especially those who were yet to face their own Rite. At each side of the Doomcaller followed a wraith. Spirits bound into servitude.
Wordlessly, this Doomcaller takes a seat across from you. A pale aged man peers back at you from underneath the pitch black hood. Regarding you the same way a vulture regards carrion. Cold hunger. In a city built on necromancy, he believes that you will serve. One way or another. "Name?" The cloaked figure asked, a certain monotonous element to his gravelly voice that indicated he had assigned Rites to many others in the past.
What are you known by? Who are you?
> Harley Blackwell, Female
> Keaton Zamora, Male
> Danny Garrison, Male
> Lois Haas, Female
> Write-In.
As you sit and wait within a Doomcallers' study, your mind travels back to the Rite Of Harrowing that your sister had been administered long ago. A necessary requirement of any civilian reaching adulthood within the twisted city of Pale Ridge and these so-called Doomcallers facilitate the trials required to prove your worth to this society.
Though it happened when you were but a child, the anticipation forces these memories to the forefront of your mind.
*Sitting upon the smooth stone seats of a dark, deary coliseum, eyes transfixed to the bloody battle between two sides. Each desperate to win, not just to stay among the living and avoid being transformed into but a mindless corpse fit for only menial labor, but to continue the respected lineages of their families. Towards the center of the arena, an all too familiar helmet.Thin wisps of hair that streamed out of the sides, face encased in a death mask made of iron bearing your sister's likeness.
Much to your parents dismay, Zaeri had chosen to undergo a Rite Of War. She surges forth, attempting to rally the slowly crumbling front line as her team seemed to be falling one by one to an inevitable defeat. Feet clad in black steel surged across the pale white sands, rushing to meet one of her combatants. This charge was met by the head of a spear, levered at Zaeri's chest. You remember watching in admiration and fear as she gracefully deflected the momentum of the weapon, a crude yet gleaming blade slid down the spear and with a deft step to the side it made contact.
A severing cut to the hand wielding the spear, tearing through the wrist joint and shattering bone. The quickened flow of blood barely had time to fall before the blade was swung in reverse, splitting the throat open of Zaeri's opponent, cleaving through flesh and artery alike.*
The revelry of your sister's Rite is quickly pushed from your mind as the door slowly crept open, a strange scent of intoxicating fumes rushed into the dusty, dark room. The customary robes of the Doomcaller was a sight that made most people stand to attention, but especially those who were yet to face their own Rite. At each side of the Doomcaller followed a wraith. Spirits bound into servitude.
Wordlessly, this Doomcaller takes a seat across from you. A pale aged man peers back at you from underneath the pitch black hood. Regarding you the same way a vulture regards carrion. Cold hunger. In a city built on necromancy, he believes that you will serve. One way or another. "Name?" The cloaked figure asked, a certain monotonous element to his gravelly voice that indicated he had assigned Rites to many others in the past.
What are you known by? Who are you?
> Harley Blackwell, Female
> Keaton Zamora, Male
> Danny Garrison, Male
> Lois Haas, Female
> Write-In.
