A complete N00bz first try at world-building...

[Wyntonian]

I've done all four, the Vallheim, Soleh, Sunshan and the Dotze Affariata. I have a game or three in progress in the latter two, and another about to start that will also serve as a background-development project for the recent history of the Dotze Affariata.

I did make a thread for when it's ready to compile, I might as well get started on that.

[Eldest]

Please do, since (as you can see) I missed the two nations, and I've been helping pretty steadily throughout the entire thing.

[Wyntonian]

Wow. That's odd. For the first time in 16 months, this thread made it to the second page.

Anyway, there's an upcoming update about the nature of the Dotze Affariata's fear of magic, and more on the blackcloaks as well. Plus, paladin swat teams. NBD.

Aaaand here's the story bit.

The Cleansing, by The Reasoner

Spoiler

Show

The wind whistled through the gaps in the old window. Reynaldo didn’t care. He care about much anymore, only the Book. The half-dozen candles blazed away, casting frightful shadows around the cramped apartment. But Reynaldo didn’t care. He could see the Book, and that was all that mattered. He couldn’t remember when he last ate. Sleep was a distant memory. His eyes poured over the weathered, ancient pages. The strange symbols seemed to squirm on the page but he paid it little heed. Instead he worked, another book held open as he translated. Under his breath he recited the passages as he translated them, “In the beginning it was Razuel, then when the Firstborn walked the land it was Mazaroth…” and on for page after page.”

In the back of his mind a tiny voice screamed out in warning. His old master, the shortsighted fowl, had warned him not to tread into the secrets of the ancient book. But Reynaldo didn’t care. The ancient tome, the Liber Narcium, had become his great work. He was only a young novice in the art of the
arcane but he knew that the book held the key to greatness. His pitiful attempts at practicing the arcane had been the final straw.

So he stayed locked up in the cramped apartment, driven on to complete his great work and finally translate the ancient book. And he was close. Only a few more lines, one more passage and he was done. As he worked he felt a presence, exhaustion, begin to intrude on his mind. He continued. His
hunched form began to shake as he finished the last line. For an instant the sound of the wind stopped and the light flickered. In that instant Reynaldo realized what he had done. Then, before he could blink, his mind was sent gibbering away into the darkness. His hand moved to the page and his voice came out, the tone and timbre like a voice coming from the depth of the Underworld, “And so it was the in this age he took the name Abbadon.”
And Abaddon smiled with Reynaldo’s face as his pupils turned to pits of deepest black.

BANG! BANG! BANG! The walking stick rapped against the thick oaken door. “Reynaldo di Llanca, you bastard get of a Goliath, what the hell do you think your doing? Ignoring a messenger from the di Marciano’s”
The man who spoke was young, with a luxurious black goatee and shoulder-length black hair. His face had the look of good breeding and his clothing was of top quality; a bright blue and red doublet and matching pants. His red beret was plumed with a massive rooster’s tail. He waited for a response.
Beside him two hirsute thugs waited tensely, hands on their cudgels. Reynaldo, who had taken up residence in the apartments owned by the di Marciano’s, hadn’t paid his rent. Usually they’d deliver a warning. But the reedy, sallow-faced scribe had suitably angered the young nephew of Don di Marciano. So they were there to voice the Don’s displeasure. And break some kneecaps.

The door opened without a sound. The nephew of Don di Marciano, a swaggering youth named Alfonso, had a second to take in the wrecked contents of the room, the burned out candles, the general stink of unwashed flesh and rotting scraps. Then the scribe was standing in front of him, wrapped in a plain brown robe with the hood up. Alfonso scoffed as he raised his club. “You baseless cur, I’ll…” but he couldn’t finish.
The scribe had flipped back his hood. Alfonso had a moment to stare into eyes of utter darkness and begin a prayer for mercy before an invisible hand splattered him across the hallway in a spray of gore. Then the screaming began.

The sound of hoof beats was thunderous. The cramped wagon swung unsteadily as it raced down the cobblestone street. Inside the passengers were silent, their heads bowed in prayer. They were status. Each wore a heavy suit of blackened plate, the edges covered in elegant silver scrollwork. On their knees rested heavy black helms, traced in the same silver scrollwork with a single bar visor. At the head of the sealed compartment sat an obviously female figure. She wore a simple black tunic and robe,
her head completely covered by a heavy hood with a shawl-like screen hanging over the opening.

The wagon slowed, the horses’ whinnied and the figures, as one, placed the black helms onto their heads. The rear door opened, the wagon driver, a man covered in masking black robes, bowed. The armored figures left the vehicle in two rows, dispersing out into the fading light. The courtyard was filled
with bustling noise. The road leading in was blocked off by a line of the City Watch, clad in the livery of the Duke of Marregio. The held their halberds horizontally to keep the crowd at bay. Beyond them silent figures, dressed entirely in black stalked; smooth canes of white oak in their hands and black cloaks draping their shoulders.

One of the armored figures, denoted by golden instead of silver scrollwork, strode toward a distant figure. The man was tall, his face gaunt and haggard. Brown hair streaked with grey hung down to his shoulders and his face was covered in stubble. He wore the black cloak and wide-brimmed hat of the Blackcloaks and idly tapped his cane against his boot. He spat as the armored warrior approached, “I’m glad the Arch-Deacon was willing to spare the most Holy members of our Holy Service.”

The warrior removed his helmet. His face was strong-jawed and scarred; his scalp a mess of scars. “I am Brother Anton, of the Holy Orders. Tell me what awaits my men.”

The Blackcloak spat and smiled, “Straight to the point, eh? Well it’s a witch alright, some magic-using son of a whore. He killed three of di Marciano’s men, including a nephew or some such. Then he rampaged through the building. Killed most of them, did… something to the rest.”
The old Blackcloak paused, his voice suddenly wavering “We tried to save some of the survivors…. I lost six men in there, like that,” he snapped his finger and spit, “Kill it. Burn it. Remove this filth from my city.”

Anton nodded, “The Order will not fail you, servant of the Holy Service. We will save this abomination and send him to the Good God's mercy”
With that he turned and strode back to his fellow Order-Brothers. The half-dozen warriors gathered around him. “Brothers, we know what we face. We have trained for this. The Good God guides
our hand. Strike fast, strike hard.”

They nodded their helmeted heads. As one they drew their swords, the fading sun catching the polished steel. Then they began to stalk toward the faded stone apartment. They walked past the pavise, where Blackcloaks knelt waiting with drawn blades and spanned crossbow. As they walked
they began to chant. The words were powerful, the voices deep and rumbling, in the Old Tongue of the Empire. It was a prayer beseeching the protection of the Good God. Behind them the lone female figure followed. Her voice did not join them in prayer. Instead it spoke in a different tongue, drawing in the energy of the world around her. As she passed the Blackcloaks muttered prayers and gripped talismans of the Good God. The women removed her hood, black hair spilling out to frame her elegant, beautiful face. Her eyes were closed as her lips worked the words of power.

She was one of the Order, but not the Brotherhood of Steel. She was a member of the Order of the Sanctioned. She finished her spell and those that looked at her hands saw nothing, though they would dream of them sheathed in lightning that night. The Order-Brothers and the Sanctioned One passed through the gaping doors and into the darkness.

Brother Anton held up a gauntleted hand and muttered the word of power. The scrollwork thrummed with a deep, resonant power and a ball of light burst into being in his open hand. The light illuminated the dark hallways of the abandoned building. His Order-Brothers were fanning out behind him, swords at the ready. The walls were stained, doors hung ajar. With a crash the entrance slammed shut behind them. The Sanctioned One smiled, “I can feel his presence. This is dark magic, tearing at the fabric of the Veil. Be wary, for he is not alone.”

As if to prove her words truth shapes began to shamble out of the darkness. Hollow eyes, slack jaws hanging open as hands reached for the warriors of the Order. Anton scowled underneath his helmet, “The abomination has taken control of the slain. We must give them release, to sit again with
the Good God.”

The shambling ghouls burst into motion, charging down the narrow hall toward Anton. He meet the first with an oath, slashing the ghoul from left shoulder to right hip. The flesh parted and the corpse fell to the ground. The next leapt, hands clawing for Anton’s helmeted head. A gauntleted fist met the charging ghoul, sending it crashing backwards. A swipe of the sword and the head tumbled away from the body. Anton thrust his open hand into the darkness, the light illuminating the hall, “Brothers, continue forward. Find the abomination and slay it. Isabella stay with me.”

The Sanctioned One nodded in reply and followed along behind him. The other six brothers split off, passing down the darkened corridors. Distant voices howled out in the darkness.

The hallway was streaked with blood. The touch of magic was strong in the room. Anton began intoning a litany of devotion as he peered into the vacant room. “What happened here?” he asked, turning his head toward the Sanctioned. Her eyes were half-closed, her hands held around her head.

“Somebody unleashed s-something. Something that was not meant to be unlocked,” she said, her voice distant, shuddering and laced with power.
They were on the second floor of the apartment, following the trail of magic to its source. Anton’s sword was slick with the blood of the unfortunates who had been placed in their path. He thought a prayer of forgiveness for the innocent souls perverted by the foul magic. A bellowed shout snapped him out of his thoughts. “Brother Lucian is in trouble,” Isabella spoke, her eyes flying open, “the courtyard, the beast is in the courtyard.”
Anton was already running past her and down the hall toward the stairs.

Brother Lucian jerked in mid-air. Invisible hands held him aloft. His armor was traced in silver light, the scrollwork burning itself away as the enchantments fought the invisible grip. The courtyard was empty, the sky above impossibly dark. Hovering before him was a pale figure that radiated power. The Beast
had stripped off the upper half of its robes and painted arcane symbols across its chest and arms with the blood of the dead. The scrawny arms were held out to either side, the hands clawed as they rotated
slowly. The beasts’ black eyes scanned Lucian as the man grunted and prayed.

The other Order-Brother lay against the nearby wall, his helm crushed by the same invisible force that slowly twisted Lucian. Lucian was trying to complete the prayer of vengeance as the invisible hands tightened. “You… shall… burn… abomination….” He managed to spit through clenched teeth.
The courtyard’s door burst open as Anton burst through the door. The Beast‘s gaze snapped onto the newcomer. Lucian screamed as the hands suddenly wrenched him in impossible angles. There was a sickening crack and the armor crumpled before the Beast flung aside the corpse. “Ah, and now the fun begins. Who comes to my home to, what was it, ‘purge the abomination?’”

Anton planted his feet as he felt the invisible hands reaching for him. “I am Brother Anton, of the Holy Orders. I am a Initiate of the Brotherhood of Steel and my fallen brother’s scream for vengeance. I am a servant of the Good God and you will taste my steel.”

“Mighty words indeed. Well, servant of the false god, I am Abaddon, who was called Mazaroth, and before that Razuel. Look upon me and despair,” the Beast said as the hands closed in on Anton.

Then the courtyard was lit by a flash of lightning. Isabella grunted as she stepped into the room. Lightning flashed out from her open hands as her hair swirled around her, highlighting her features with unusual shadows. “He’s powerful, I’m not sure I can stop him. Strike quickly.”

Anton was moving, his powerful stride sending him charging toward the floating Beast. He raised his sword to strike. His armors’ scrollwork began to shine impossibly bright as an invisible hand lifted him up and flung him against a distant wall. He hit with a crunch and slide to the ground. As he lay
there he felt the enchantments begin their work as the pain subsided, postponed by the grace of the Good God so that he could finish His work.

Isabella was moving forward as well, hurling lightning with grunts of effort. Her lips moved silently s words flew from her in a rapid stream. Abaddon struck again, his formerly human body pulsing and twisting with the strain of energy. Isabella flung up her arms, calling the low mist to surge up around her into a shield. She was knocked back by some psychic blow, her shield melting to the ground and throwing her across the room to the brick wall. She hit with a grunt and a crack.

Anton was up again, charging forward with clanking steps. He snatched a small glass globe from his belt, and threw it unerringly at the humanoid shape. It stopped halfway, however, held in place by invisible hands, and exploded in a burst of blue flames and white light.

“Taste the Steel of the Righteous,” a voice shouted from above.
Bursting out of a second-story window above the Abaddon came Brother Marino, sword pointed downward. He came crashing downward, his sword stabbing through the gaunt chest of the Beast, driven by over a hundred kilograms of man and metal.

Marino had a split second to savor his blow before he was flung against the wall, his sword remaining embedded. Anton was moving again as Isabella renewed her attack with fresh bolts of energy. Abaddon was slowly sinking to the ground as his vessels’ lifeblood flowed out around Marino’s
sword. His shield of energy was slowly collapsing under Isabella’s constant strikes. Anton strode forward, his armor shining bright as he forced himself through Abaddon’s defenses. He raised his sword to the high guard, “Prepare to die, abomination,” Anton spat, Abaddon had fallen to his knees, the last life force seeping from his vessel. He looked up, the eyes still pools of darkness. “I have had many names, human, and I will have many more. For I am free, and your false god cannot stop me.”

Anton didn’t bother to respond. He severed Abaddon’s head with a stroke. With a thunderclap of energy the sky lightened and Anton’s armor ceased its glow. Isabella fell against the wall, exhaustion overtaking her. Anton planted his sword point-down and leaned on it. He unclasped his helmet and
removed it. Looking up into the twilight sky he began to chant a prayer of thanksgiving.

The fire burned well into the night. A massive bonfire had been built by the Blackcloaks to purge the tainted remains of the incident. The bodies of the ghouls had been burned, along with the poor scribe who had become the spirit’s vessel and the strange book found in his ruined room. While the fires
still burned the remains of the three fallen Order-Brothers were loaded into caskets and carried to the waiting black wagons. The survivors rode in the second wagon. Across the city heralds would declare that a sudden outbreak of Plague had claimed the occupants of the apartment. Those who spoke of the truth were quickly discouraged under the harsh tutelage of the Blackcloaks. The apartment was demolished and new construction began. In the halls of the Prince’s Palace Don di Marciano was spoken to in private by the Prince. Gold changed hands and the matter would never be spoken of again by any who wore the livery of the di Marcianos.

The melodious chanting continued in the background of the great cathedral in the center of Marregio. Brother Anton knelt in prayer before the Altar of the Good God. He heard a rustling of skirts as Isabella joined him. She wore the long black dress and shawl of her Order. He nodded to her as she
paid her respects. His brothers had been interned in their Orders’ crypts beneath the Cathedral. New initiates would soon join him from the Monasteries in the country.

Anton rose from prayer and in silence walked the halls of the cathedral. He took the back halls and, passing through an ancient oaken door. The room on the other side was marked out by the massive oak desk. The Arch-Deacon rose from his chair, a frail man in the black robes and skullcap of the
priesthood. “Welcome home, my son. I thank the Good God you and your brothers’ had the strength to dispatch the creature that attacked our people.”

Anton bowed slightly, “You favor me, your holiness. We did our duty.”
Anton paused and the Arch-Deacon crossed from behind his desk to approach the younger man, “What troubles you, my son?”
“Your Holiness, it was the words of the spirit. It said ‘your false god’ as if somehow the Good God was beneath him.”

The Arch-Deacon’s face tightened, “Do not let the words of some damned spirit trouble your faith. It was trying to create doubt so you would not end its rampage. Pray on it and the Good God will guide you.”

Anton nodded and it looked as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, “Thank you, your Holiness. I will pray on your words and let the Good God speak to me.”

With that the brother left the room. The Arch-Deacon went back to his desk and retrieved his pen. Dabbing it in waiting inkpot, he went back to his work. Outside, the young initiaties chanted, their melodious voices rising into the high, sun-touched ceiling of the Good God’s Cathedral.

[Eldest]

BANG! BANG! BANG! The walking stick rapped against the thick oaken door. “Reynaldo di Llanca, you bastard get of a Goliath, what the hell do you think your doing? Ignoring a messenger from the di Marciano’s”

Nickpick. Should be you're.
Overall good!

[Zap Dynamic]

The wind whistled through the gaps in the old window. Reynaldo didn’t care. He care about much anymore, only the Book.

Also a nitpick. Should be "He didn't care..."

I like the story a lot! It's got House of Leaves and Diablo all tied up with a bunch of your own stuff.

[Landis963]

Is the fear of magic so great that dangerous magical artifacts such as the book wouldn't be studied, then burned? Also, it seems like a dangerous oversight to not take testimonials from the Blackcloaks regarding the demon, so that they can better fight it should it obtain another vessel or another point of access into the world.

[Eldest]

Is the fear of magic so great that dangerous magical artifacts such as the book wouldn't be studied, then burned? Also, it seems like a dangerous oversight to not take testimonials from the Blackcloaks regarding the demon, so that they can better fight it should it obtain another vessel or another point of access into the world.

Know what the scribe was doing? Studying the book.
Hm. Not sure where I was going after that. But looking at that book would have been bad.

[Landis963]

Know what the scribe was doing? Studying the book.
Hm. Not sure where I was going after that. But looking at that book would have been bad.

But it sounded like the demon Abbadon crept in and addicted him to the book, which gave him a mental beachhead from where he could take over the rest. Something that a suitably paranoid authority figure would think up numerous ways of circumventing, one of which being cycle the scribes - but not the notes - so that the demon in the book has to adapt to multiple minds rather than just one. As for knowing that the book is the vector for possession, I point again to "suitably paranoid".

EDIT: Also, my point about testimonials still stands. Of course, Anton's talk with His Holiness works just as well, but it still seems foolhardy to not keep some record of this just in case something chooses to strike again.

[Wyntonian]

Nickpick. Should be you're.
Overall good!

Good catch. I missed that while proofreading.

So, yeah. Blackcloaks fill a role like an Inquisition meets the FBI, ignoring "state" boundaries. The Brotherhood of Steel is the equivalent of a SWAT team, to continue the analogy.

The Order of the Sanctioned is comprised of suitably repentant heretics (decently powerful magic-users) who devote themselves to the Good God and his work in the name of penitence for their sin of, y'know, being able to blow stuff up with their minds. The woman, Isabella, was probably a wilder or something.


Moving on, we'll get to why there's creepy stuff like this floating around the Twelve Cities. To do so, I need a good name for a magically-inspired psychic EMP-type thing that either kills magic-sensitive people, makes them explode and release their energies destructively, or turn into demon things.

I've been calling it the Asplosion or the Grand Kablooie, but neither of those seem suitably dramatic.

[Eldest]

Moving on, we'll get to why there's creepy stuff like this floating around the Twelve Cities. To do so, I need a good name for a magically-inspired psychic EMP-type thing that either kills magic-sensitive people, makes them explode and release their energies destructively, or turn into demon things.

I've been calling it the Asplosion or the Grand Kablooie, but neither of those seem suitably dramatic.

The Unraveling. Works with the whole metaphorical Veil.

[TheWombatOfDoom]

The Unraveling. Works with the whole metaphorical Veil.

Additionally, The Sundering could be another option.

[Wyntonian]

Both good ideas, indeed.

So, the elevator pitch for the Grand Sundering Asplosion that Unraveled the Kablooie is thusly:

About two hundred years ago, about two years before the Nameless Prophet introduced the faith of the Good God and cast down the Old Gods, the Twelve Cities of the Dotze Affariata were somewhat of a center of magical research. All the wizards that did "it" lived there, and they had made some pretty spectacular stuff.

One day, some fool sonofabitch tried the utterly inadvisable thing of trying to send his actual, physical body through the Veil to the Other Side and back out. The result was reasonably catastrophic. His school and the surrounding city looked like it was hit with a tactical nuke. Because of this, there are really only eleven cities in the Dotze Affariata. They didn't get around to renaming the greater confederacy after the one got literally blown to hell.

So, one city got turned into a smoking and howling and moaning crater. Everyone nearby (hundred miles or so) with any sort of magical talent had a reaction of some sort. The ones that get their power from an external source, the mages, druids, people who draw on the ambient energies of the world, tended to explode. Violently. If a strong Black Mage was affected, one could expect earthquakes. Blue mages would cause storms and the like, Red mages giant fireballs and other explosive nasties.

If someone whose power came from within them was affected, (psions and such), they tended to simply go violently insane, while still retaining full control of their powers. In addition, the radius of the magical pulse, such as it was, propagated in accordance with their power. With this being the case, the pulse of the explosion reached from the Fogbound River to the Stormwall Mountains.

To be continued t'marrah.

[Eldest]

One day, some fool sonofabitch tried the utterly inadvisable thing of trying to send his actual, physical body through the Veil to the Other Side and back out. The result was reasonably catastrophic. His school and the surrounding city looked like it was hit with a tactical nuke. Because of this, there are really only eleven cities in the Dotze Affariata. They didn't get around to renaming the greater confederacy after the one got literally blown to hell.

Not sure if that would be a tactical nuke or stratigic nuke. In researching this, I found some interesting things.

[Wyntonian]

Not sure if that would be a tactical nuke or stratigic nuke. In researching this, I found some interesting things.

Um. I figured tactical ones were smaller. It destroyed all of the city, and most of the curtain wall surrounding it. Those are both neat ideas, though.

I have some games to update, so I'll get to this in a bit.

Oh. And homework. Pshhhhh...

[Wyntonian]

Continuing the story of the Grand Holy Crap We're All Going To Die Event:

So, people started cracking, both literally and metaphorically, and because of the rather high proportions of spellcastery types in the Twelve Cities, this was pretty dramatic. Several cities collapsed, martial law was declared (well, more martial than ususal, I suppose), and people generally ran around screaming and dying.

The spirits of the dead, and other naturally occurring spiritual entities that live close to the mortal realm were driven insane by the turbulence of the Veil rupturing. Powerful demons* and other beings used the tears in the fabric of the world to enter the mortal realm, something generally impossible for them to do.

Commerce, the lifeblood of the Dotze Affariata, came to a nearly complete halt, as traveling down the road meant risking your life and cargo to Grandma, brought back with an unholy vengeance and an evil spirit riding shotgun. And claws and tentacles.

After perhaps two years of a national wailing-and-screaming-fest, the Twelve Cities found themselves possessed of a messiah. The Nameless Prophet appeared as if he had fallen from the sky one day, spurning all modes of travel but his own two feet, and wearing a simple robe. When confronted by demons, he slaid them with a word. When attacked by the possessed, he exorcised them with a touch of his hand. Those driven insane by the touch of demons wept with joy when they were freed from the prison of their minds by the mere sight of the Prophet.

In their desperation, the terrified people had turned to the Old Gods for salvation, building great temples and statues. When he laid his hand upon these, they crumbled. Calling for them to repent, he walked among the people of the Dotze Affariata, preaching, healing and making the broken nation whole.

From among the people of the Twelve Cities of the Dotze Affariata, people came to his cause. From simple, poor worshippers to mighty heroes who had earned glory defending their cities from demons, where he walked, they did as well.

Eventually, he returned to Marcelena, once the greatest of the Twelve Cities, now the most corrupted. It had once held the finest college of the magical arts in all of Patria, but the greatest minds had also been the most destructive when broken. The College still stood, one of the oldest places in Patria and erected by the oldest and greatest minds. No howling demon, no matter how strong they had been in life, could hope to tear it down. The rest of the city, however, could not hope to be so lucky. Not a living soul remained, save for the possessed and the demons.

It was through these walls that the Nameless Prophet walked, alone, while his followers waited outside the gates. For three days he remained inside, until at last one of his lieutanants, who would later found and lead the Brotherhood of Steel, decided to enter. Accompanied by a dozen knights, he entered the wasteland of the city and made their way to the College.

They encountered not a single demon on their way, the city was simply dead. For two years it had howled and rattled, but now it was as silent as the grave.

Inside the great hall of the College, they found their messiah standing near the steps. They rushed to his aid, thinking him injured or broken in mind. As they came near, he smiled and passed their leader a simple wooden pole and a bucket. "Get a mop. This place is a mess." Not a single demon remained, but two years worth of their debris did.

Later that year, the College was consecrated and reopened in a new form, as the first and still the greatest Temple of the Good God. The Nameless Prophet told them of the dangers of magic, how those with weak minds and a lack of respect for the lives of their fellow men could potentially cause a calamity even greater than this one. He also spoke of the evil of the Old Gods, that nobody need sacrifice to them, that the Good God would watch over all those that had faith.

Ten years later, the Nameless Prophet left the first Temple, now the jewel of a blossoming city, where the people of the eleven surviving cities could meet for prayer and diplomacy, rather than fighting in the name of their respective gods. He met with a lesser lieutenant of the Brotherhood of Steel. "I am leaving." he said, "I may be a very great while". With that, he departed for the west, towards the Fogbound River, and was never heard from again.

*Not Tan'ari or whatever, just big evil spirits of one description or another.


Possibly the most fun of writing stuff like this is how naturally it flows once i get started. It's as if it writes itself, honestly.

Thoughts?

The lesser lieutenant is a character The Reasoner built for a game set during this period, one of the first of the Brothers of Steel. We haven't really started yet, but I think it will be pretty fun.

[TheWombatOfDoom]

"Get a mop."

I love it.

[Eldest]

Commissioner Cain reference, or just humility?
Also;

When confronted by demons, he slaid them with a word.

It should be slew. Or at least that's how you pronounce the correct word; I base all my spelling off of pronunciation and it doesn't always work. Which means, ironically, I'm better at spelling in French than English, even though English is my native langue.

[Wyntonian]

Commissioner Cain reference, or just humility?
Also;

It should be slew. Or at least that's how you pronounce the correct word; I base all my spelling off of pronunciation and it doesn't always work. Which means, ironically, I'm better at spelling in French than English, even though English is my native langue.

No, I was going for humble. Compare with people in comparable societal roles, both dead and living in exile.

And yeah, you're right. Good catch. I'm the same way with french, but amener and emener always mix me up.

Also, anyone catch how he didn't actually say magic was evil? Yeah, that came later, once his words actually had to be interpreted, along with the knee-jerk association of magic=Gramma turning into a demon.

[Landis963]

Also, anyone catch how he didn't actually say magic was evil? Yeah, that came later, once his words actually had to be interpreted, along with the knee-jerk association of magic=Gramma turning into a demon.

The Nameless Prophet told them of the dangers of magic, how those with weak minds and a lack of respect for the lives of their fellow men could potentially cause a calamity even greater than this one.

Emphasis mine. Unless he was more specific about magic's dangers than you were, I'm not seeing much of a leap between "magic is dangerous" and "magic is evil", especially in the eyes of his audience. Especially since a mage caused the entire problem to begin with, and that most of the rest of his message was couched in "worship the Good God and he'll protect you from the Old Gods."

[Eldest]

Well, he said it was dangerous. Never evil. Just like the Quaran, which has something about not drinking alcohol and something about all things in moderation. It just depends on how you listen to what he's saying.

[Wyntonian]

Well, he said it was dangerous. Never evil. Just like the Quaran, which has something about not drinking alcohol and something about all things in moderation. It just depends on how you listen to what he's saying.

Magic is dangerous. So are guns, so are words, and so is a lever. They aren't evil by themselves, they're all just tools. Magic is a force multiplier, a single powerful mage can blow a lot of **** up. That doesn't mean that they will necessarily be a rampaging murderhobo.

Big Tool =/= Big Jerk.

Note that their new fancy church was raised by magic, and done so well than two full years of the most powerful demon horde ever seen in Patria whaling on it couldn't do more than tear down the drapes.

But yeah, try telling that to the newly-besaviored masses .

[The Reasoner]

Author here, love the positive response to the story. I wrote it on a long plane ride so some of the details aren't that great. I'll be posting a new copy sometime today that is much, much better then the copy Wyntonian posted. It'll include more of the fluff that Wyntonian and I have hashed out since I wrote the first draft.

A few notes to respond to people's questions. The adept possessed by Abaddon had stolen the book from the Hall of Remembrance (part of the Church, keeps track of tomes of ancient knowledge, histories, etc.) after being manipulated by Abaddon to allow the spirit entry into the mortal world. Miscommunication and the normal bureaucratic BS meant that the Order didn't know the book had been stolen until it was too late.

Also Abaddon isn't just a one-shot bad guy. He's a very pissed off spirit that's been messing around in the mortal world for a while. Reynaldo Santos, a lesser lieutenant of the initial Brotherhood of Steel, banished him the first time. Additionally I didn't bother describing the testimonials but rest assured that some Brothers from the Order took detailed notes from the Blackcloaks along with giving an 'official explanation'.

[Landis963]

A few notes to respond to people's questions. The adept possessed by Abaddon had stolen the book from the Hall of Remembrance (part of the Church, keeps track of tomes of ancient knowledge, histories, etc.) after being manipulated by Abaddon to allow the spirit entry into the mortal world. Miscommunication and the normal bureaucratic BS meant that the Order didn't know the book had been stolen until it was too late.

So it was, technically, being studied and not languishing in some Area-51-esque vault.

Also Abaddon isn't just a one-shot bad guy. He's a very pissed off spirit that's been messing around in the mortal world for a while. Reynaldo Santos, a lesser lieutenant of the initial Brotherhood of Steel, banished him the first time. Additionally I didn't bother describing the testimonials but rest assured that some Brothers from the Order took detailed notes from the Blackcloaks along with giving an 'official explanation'.

Wasn't the scribe's name (before possession, anyway) Reynaldo? Mistaken identity? The same guy? Also, good that it's not just swept under a rug and forgotten about.

[The Reasoner]

Well, I've retconed the adepts name. Also Reynaldo Santos lived ~200 years before the events of this story, during the Sundering.

Oh, and here's the story.

Spoiler

Show

The wind whistled through the old windows and the candles flickered. Moonlight shown through cracks in the shutters and illuminated the hunched figure at the worn old desk. The young hands trembled as they slowly worked across the ancient parchment of the book. A voice, strained and trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and excitement worked over the page, reciting the ancient text in the modern tongue of the Dotze Affariata.

He had been told once, by his old master, that while the pursuit of knowledge was sacred there were places that no man was meant to tread. Three hundred years’ before his birth the people of this land had unleashed a force beyond their reckoning and it had laid waste to civilization before the Good God came and restored the world to its rightful order.

But he had ignored his master’s words. The book, ancient and worn, had fascinated him until finally he took it and fled, fleeing the wrath of his master and the Church elders. He had come to Marregio, to the Central District and its slums of vice to hide. And he had begun his work. The ancient tome, the Liber Nostra, had unveiled great secrets to the young adept. He had learned of the time before the Cataclysm, when man had bent the very spirits of the world to his whim. He read of the days when the sky turned red and the Gods’ wrath struck down upon the people of this land, striking down those who had abused the lands’ power or twisting them into nightmares of flesh and magic.

He had almost completed his translation, almost completed the story. It told of warrior, blessed by the Nameless Prophet who strode the damned halls of the Palace of Seers to strike down a creature of pure, uncontrolled power. With trembling hands and quivering voice he read the final passages. “And the Beast was known as Razuel, and when the Firstborn lived he was Mazaroth, and…”

The adept stopped. The words across the page were squirming and the moonlight had disappeared. The candles went out all at once. In that moment he realized he had unleashed something, something that his forbearers had labored mightily to seal away. Then he felt a new presence touch his mind. In a moment of gibbering madness he felt himself fall away into a pit of utter blackness.

The candles relight at once, the room bathed with reddish light. The Adept lifted the tome and began to read again. His voice was deep, powerful, very syllable laced with power. “When the world was torn asunder and the heavens turned crimson with the blood of the slain, when creatures of magic and malice strode the world he was known as Abaddon.”

And Abaddon smiled with the adept’s face as his eyes turned into pits of utter darkness.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, you spineless scrivener; how dare you ignore the words of a di Marciano!”

With that Signore Julio di Marciano III lifted his cudgel and rapped it again upon the old door leading into the worthless’ scribes’ small apartment. He was a young man, barely old enough to shave with a pitiful excuse for a moustache and shoulder-length oily hair. He wore a richly made doublet of red and blue fabric and matching hose. His beret was decorated with a massive feather. Beside him two hirsute brutes in simple garb bearing the badge of his house waited, hefting hard oak cudgels. The door swung open without a sound. The adept stood in the door, his dirty robes hanging off his gaunt frame. He pulled back the hood and looked into Julio’s eyes.

The young bravos began to form a prayer before an invisible hand splattered him across the far wall in a welter of gore. Then the screaming began.

The sun shone through the beautiful stain-glass window above the kneeling figure. The room was bare, the walls tan sandstone and the floor covered with a beautifully embroidered rug of crimson and gold. A statue of a warrior, clad in intricate plate, his face hidden by a cowl, stood against the far wall, his sword resting point-down and his hands on the pommel. A kneeling figure was dressed in a simple grey robe, the hood pulled up. His hands were clasped around a string of beads as his lips wordlessly moved in prayer. The oak door creaked as it opened and another figure opened. The newcomer was obviously female, her frame draped with a beautiful black dress. A shawl covered her head and a lacy black veil covered her face. She moved with ethereal grace to stand beside the kneeling man. Her voice was a lovely soprano as she spoke, “There has been an Occurrence. The Archdeacon calls you and your brothers’ to service.”

The man rose with surprising grace for a man of his size. He wrapped his prayer beads around his simple rope belt and pulled back his hood. His face was hard, with heavy brow and piercing eyes. He nodded to the women, “Tell the Archdeacon that the Order serves.”

With that, Brother Anton strode out of the chapel.

“When we joined this Order we swore an oath,” Anton began to the brothers.
“Regardless of station, all without exception” the brothers intoned, nine voices speaking as one.
“To safeguard the helpless” – “Even to our dying breath.”
“Those who abuse the Powers are heretics,” – “We shall cleanse them in the Flame of Righteousness.”
“We are Guardians in the Dark,” – “We are the Order, the Brotherhood of Steel!”
The brothers tapped their sheathed swords against the stone floor, a clap of thunder as punctuation.

They broke from the circle in silenced. Anton strode toward two figures waiting across the room. The stables were made of stone, like the rest of the Catacombs beneath the Temple. The black draught horses whinnied and stamped as they were saddled up to the black wrought iron carriage. Anton bowed as he reached the two, “Archdeacon, Lady Isabella,” he said.

The Archdeacon was an old man, garbed in a gold-chased robe of black. He wore the simple skullcap of the Good God’s clergy. Isabella had changed since Anton last saw her in the Cloister. The dress was gone, in its place a black leather tunic, simple black skirt and the same cowl and veil. The Archdeacon spoke, his voice faded with age but nonetheless powerful, “Brother, you go to do the holy work today. I am sending Lady Isabella with you. You have served together in the past and I trust the two of you to see this Occurrence ended.”

Anton bowed, “it is as you will, Your Holiness,” before looking to Isabella, “At your leave, my Lady?”

The outline of a smile showed through the lacy veil, “Let us be about our work,” she replied.

The sun was slipping behind the distant towers of the Prince’s palace. Lanterns hung from poles along the cobblestone road. Men of the City Watch in the livery of the Elect of Marregio were pushing the crowds to the side to allow the black carriage through. Beyond line of Watchmen were the stalking figures, white oak canes tapping against gloved hand and cloaks rustling with each step. The Blackcloaks were nervous. The heralds had announced to the gathered crowd that a murderer was loose in the tenement house. The Blackcloaks put the lie into those words. Dozens patrolled the streets and more knelt behind pavise shields, crossbows held at the ready. A file of the Prince’s Men in half-plate waited behind the pavise wall, wicked halberds and two-handed swords in their hands.

The black carriage rumbled across the cobble stone and out of view from the milling crowd. It came to a halt and the back doors swung open. Bulky shapes disembarked in silence. The nearest Blackcloaks took a few steps back and muttered prayers of protection. The newcomers were clad in matching suits of blackened plate, etched with intricate silver scrollwork. The final two were unique. One wore the same armor but with golden scrollwork. The other was a woman, clad in black skirt and tunic, her face hidden behind a cowl and veil.

The gold-trimmed figure strode ahead of his cohorts towards a cluster of Blackcloaks and Prince’s Men. He spoke in measured tone, his voice distorted by the helm he wore, “Who holds command here?”

A pair of men stepped away from the group. One was a veteran Blackcloak, his wrinkled face marked by a white scar across one check. His salt-and-pepper beard quivered as he spoke, “We have command here. I am Pedro DiTelio, and this is Giuseppe DiMarco, of the Prince’s Men.”

The other man was dressed in a suit of worn plate, a huge two-handed greatsword resting against his shoulder. The armored figure nodded to both of them and removed his helm, revealing a remarkably young face with heavy brow and shaved head. “I am Anton, of the Order. Tell me all you know of this Occurrence.”

Pedro spat and grimaced, “Something happened in there. Maybe half the tenants got out. We sent two dozen men in there, with naked steel to apprehend the… thing responsible. Five came out… in pieces. My men won’t set foot inside that place.”

Giuseppe nodded in agreement, “My Lord wants this dealt with, and soon. I suggest we burn the building and be done with it.”

“What we face cannot simply be burned away,” a soprano voice said and the three turned to watch the veiled women stride up.

Anton nodded in confirmation, “My brothers and I will handle this. Keep your men back, and get rid of those people,” he gestured toward the unseen crowds further down the road.

Pedro spat again and nodded, “Very well, I leave this matter to the Church.”

Anton and the veiled woman turned back toward the silent statues of their party. Pedro spoke again, his voice wavering as he spoke, “Brother, in the name of the Good God, avenge my men. Make their sacrifice matter.”

Anton placed his helm on in a smooth motion, “We shall.”

The double doors swung open without a sound. Anton gestured to his brothers as he drew his sword .The longsword was etched with a prayer of protection and it began to glow slightly as Anton drew on his blessing to imbue the weapon with strength. The other brothers were doing the same, the scrollwork of their armor glowing slightly. The corridor split off in three directions, one leading toward the courtyard, the other two heading off to the left and right. From beneath her veil Isabella’s eyes began to glow with a faint blue light, “We are not alone here. The Beast sends his victims to slow our progress.”

From the shadows a low moan came and shambling shapes began to appear. Anton raised his free hand and activated the spells imbued into the gauntlet. A ball of light shot out and flew down the corridor, illuminating the ghouls. They hissed in anger and burst into a running charge toward the knot of brothers. Anton began to recite a prayer of Safekeeping as he met the first ghoul with a downward slash that cut it from shoulder to hip. The flesh parted and the corpse fell in two pieces to the floor. The next leapt, hands outstretched toward Anton’s helmeted head. He met it with his free fist, his mind drawing on his blessing to imbue strength into the strike. His gauntleted fist punched through the creature’s skull and sent it flying backwards into the next ghoul. The ghoul squirmed under the dead weight and Anton dispatched it with a stroke of his sword. The last of the ghouls was dead, slain by his brothers. “Spread out and find the Beast. Lady, stay with me,” Anton ordered as he willed another orb of light into being and began down the corridor.


The hallway was streaked with chunks of bodies and the walls coated in blood. The door hung open to a simple apartment. Anton stepped over the remains of a di Marciano enforcer and looked into the room. Candles burned around the room, a simple affair with a bed and desk covered in books. Anton strode toward the desk and examined the book that lay open. He could feel the magic reek of it. Isabella stood behind him, her eyes glowing even brighter as she searched the room. “This was where it was born, the Beast that we hunt,” she said, her voice distant.

Anton closed the book and examined the cover, “A copy of the Liber Nostra? What was it doing in a place like this?”

Isabella moved closer and touched the book. She recoiled sharply, “This is no copy, this is the original,” her mouth quirked underneath the veil, “our friends in the Halls of Remembrance have some explaining to do.”

Then she stiffened and her voice took on a pained tone, “Your Brothers found the beast. It’s in the courtyard; Hurry!”

Anton was already moving toward the door. He’d felt the psychic scream of his brothers’ dying.


Lukas twitched as the Beast lifted him into the air with invisible fingers. The silver scrollwork on his armor blazed with light as the enchantments tried to resist the magic tearing into it. The sky above was crimson and seethed with black clouds. Hovering before him was a pale figure that radiated power. The Beast had stripped off the upper half of its robes and dabbed arcane symbols across its chest and arms with the blood of the dead. The scrawny arms were held out to either side, the hands clawed as they rotated slowly. The Beasts’ black eyes scanned Lukas.

Below him a low moan sounded. Brother Fernando lay against the wall, his breastplate horribly deformed by an invisible punch. Beside him lay Brother Tulio. The Beast had effortlessly crushed his head, the deformed helm leaking crimson. The Beast turned its gaze to Fernando and smiled. Fernando’s sword rose from where it had fallen, lifted by invisible hands. Lukas shouted with rage as the blade was thrown, expertly sliding through the grill of Fernando’s helm. Blood flowed around the blade that had punched through his helm to pin him to the wall.

Lukas struggled to complete the prayer of vengeance. He managed to spit through clenched teeth, “you... shall… burn… abomination.”

The door to the courtyard slammed open as Anton burst through, his sword blazing with light and his armor wreathed in a golden aura. The Beast shrugged and Lukas let out a howling scream before he was ripped apart in a shower of gore. The chunks hurled against the walls as invisible hands slammed into Anton. He was thrown backwards but caught himself, planting his feet as his own aura of protection tried to resist the Beast’s attack. Then a female voice spoke out, her words laced with power. Lightning struck in the sky above as Isabella strode into the courtyard.

The Beast recoiled slightly as lightning struck him, dispersing across the invisible shield that surrounded him. Isabella threw another bolt and began to intone the words for another spell. Anton was slowly struggling forward, the litanies of devotion on his lips. The Beast struck back, an invisible hand smacking into Isabella. She fell to the ground, an orb of crackling energy protecting against the Beasts’ strike. Her veil had been thrown aside. Her eyes were blazing with blue light and her long black hair, freed from the confines of the cowl, danced around her. She rose to her feet and struck back again and again, lighting crackling around her as she flung bolt after bolt at the Beast.

Then a thunderclap of energy and power sent Anton and Isabella flying. The Beast slowly descended toward them, laughing. Anton drew up on one knee, propping himself up with his sword. Isabella lay against the wall beside him, a trickle of blood running out of her nose. “Who are you petty weaklings to pose me? I am Abaddon, who was called Mazaroth in the time of the Firstborn and Razuel before that,” the Beast spoke; its voice unnatural and foreboding.

“I am Anton, of the Order, abomination,” Anton spat back as he stood up.

The Beast cackled as it hovered above them and energy crackled around him. “Taste the Steel of the Righteous” a powerful bellow sounded from above.

Brother Marino, his armor surrounded with a silver aura, exploded through the third-story window, sword held in two hands. He smashed through the Beast’s shield, his sword wreathed in light. With a shout of effort he buried the blade to the hilt through the Beast’s chest. The very air reverberated with a thunderclap of energy. Marino was hurled away, a bellow of pain turning to screams as invisible forces crumpled his armor. Blood leaked out of the shattered suit as he slid down the wall to collect in a heap at the base of the wall.

The Beast was sinking toward the ground, its lifeblood rushing out from around the sword blade embedded in its chest. Isabella raised her hand and muttered a word of power. Lightning struck the invisible shield and shattered it. Anton pushed forward with a grunt of effort, charging toward the Beast. He was stopped by invisible hands as he raised his sword to strike. The Beast was kneeling know, blood seeping out of its mouth as it smiled. “Prepare to go back to the pit from whence you came, abomination,” Anton spat as he slowly overcame the Beasts’ resistance.

The Beast spoke, “I have had many names, human, and I shall have many more; your champion could not destroy me, not even your false prophet could –” and Anton roared with rage, battering aside the last of the Beasts’ defenses; his blade slashed down and severed the Beast’s head in a single blow.

Instantly the magical energies which had swirled about them disappeared; the tear in the Veil sealing itself as the Beasts’ spirit left the mortal realm. Anton fell to a knee, exhaustion setting in. He unclasped his helmet and removed it, tossing it aside to take in mouthfuls of fresh air. He looked up to the starry sky and began to recite the prayer of thanksgiving. The battle was over, for now.

The tenement burned throughout the night. The Blackcloaks had seen to the destruction under the watchful eyes of Pedro DiTelio. Across the city heralds would declare that a sudden outbreak of Plague had claimed the occupants of the apartment. Those who spoke of the truth were quickly discouraged under the harsh tutelage of the Blackcloaks. The apartment was demolished and new construction began. In the halls of the Prince’s Palace Don di Marciano was spoken to in private by the Prince. Gold changed hands and the matter would never be spoken of again by any who wore the livery of the di Marcianos.

Anton interned his fallen brothers in the crypts beneath the Cathedral. They joined the countless others who had fallen in the service of the Order over the centuries. New initiates would soon arrive from the Order’s monasteries. As he prayed in the small cloister set aside for his Order he heard the rustle of skirts. Isabella entered the small room. She moved to stand beside him. He nodded to her. She had come to pay her respects to his Brothers. They stood for a while in prayer. Then he rose and left the room.

It was a short distance to the office of the Archdeacon. Anton opened the heavy doors and stepped into the room. Dust motes floated amidst the rays of sunlight shining through the high windows. Bookcases dominated most of the room. A massive oaken desk covered in parchments waited, a richly decorated rug laid out before it. The Archdeacon was writing, his quill dancing across the page. He looked up as Anton approached. “It is good to see you, my son. What is on your mind?”

Anton froze as his master looked up from his parchment, his wizened eyes scanning the young man’s face. Anton bowed his head, “The Beast we slew, he spoke to me. He spoke of his history with our order. I don’t believe the words of such an abomination, but they will not leave me.”

The Archdeacon rose and moved from behind his desk to stand beside a window, looking out over the church’s grounds. His hands were held behind his back and when he spoke his words carried the weight of years, “The Beast you slew has plagued your Order for centuries. The Blessed Reynaldo, who stood beside the Nameless Prophet, first slew the Beast. We have seen his hand in many Occurrences throughout the centuries since. This was message. But Brother, do not let the Beasts’ words weigh on your soul. He cannot defeat the will of the Good God.”

Anton relaxed, relief sweeping through him, “Thank you for your words, your Holiness. I shall take them to heart.”

The Archdeacon turned to the young man and smiled, “May the Good God bless you, my son. Go now, with my blessing. And remember your oath.”

Anton bowed, “I shall, your Holiness,” and with that left the room.

The Archdeacon sighed and turned to his desk and retrieved his quill. Matters far beyond the young Order-Brother had been set into motion. Abaddon’s return was but the first in a long saga that would span the width and breadth of Patria. Before the tale was done Valheimers, Solerians, and Sunshani would all play a part.

The hook at the end is because I've got a few stories kicking around that tie into this one, but follow new characters in new and exciting places (aka not the Dotze Affariata) but tie into a metaplot that I'm fooling around with.

[Eldest]

Delayed reaction, but I like the story. Looking forward to seeing the metaplot.

[Wyntonian]

So, I know it's been three and a half months, but I've been giving this a lot of thought and I think it's time to get back in the saddle.

First order of business, I think I'm going to start naming important people and designing cities. I have an idea for Marregio, where some of us began a campaign, and a half-dozen others.

I plan to take a page from the Dresden Files RPG (which I love, by the way, I might even use it for a Patria campaign) is the concept of Faces and Places in a city. In short, you pick themes for a city. Say Marregio has "City by the Sea", "Luxury and Desperation" and "Families and Guilds Rule Here".

So, you do a Place or three for each Theme. For City By the Sea, I'd do some docks, a shipyard where you could find passage somewhere else and maybe a sailor's bar. I'd also do a Face or two, which can either be aligned with the Places or separate. Maybe a ship captain, a bartender at that sailor's bar and the government official in charge of the port.

This all serves to give a better sense of the city as a whole, gives DM's a good set of pre-made but easily adjustable NPC's and gives instant backstory and roleplay hooks for everyone, making the player characters connected in a way they might not otherwise be.

Something that poked my interest came from the native tribes that lived around modern-day Seattle. They had a rule that you shouldn't say someone's name after their death, lest you awaken their spirit. I think Sunshan will have a similar practice, where dead people are given "death names" at their funerals that people will call them by from that point on.

Another trend I'd like to put forward in interconnected customs. Like, the Elder Folk used to give people Death Names, and passed that onto the Goliath tribes, and to Sunshan. I think it'll help show how every culture is connected in some way, big or small. I don't like big sweeping "CULTURE A AND CULTURE B ARE FOREVER ENEMIES BECAUSE DIFFERENT!" I'd be fine with them fighting (D&D wouldn't exist otherwise) but I want there to be a diversity of thought.

Damn, it's good to be back.

[Eldest]

IT LIVES!

Seriously thought you had given up on this, and I'm happy you haven't.

Anyway... I'd suggest a maybe-face for the bar being not the bartender (in fact, I suggest stealing an idea from the Amber Cronicles and having the bar be named Bloody Bill's when the PCs first see it, and if they ask it's named after the nature of the previous owner's death, and George runs it now. Then a while later, it's called Bloody George's and run by Sam...) but instead a regular ex-captain who likes to bore people with his tales and knows pretty much everyone in the area. I know it was an example but I think bartenders, if not done properly, don't make great faces.

[Wyntonian]

IT LIVES!

Seriously thought you had given up on this, and I'm happy you haven't.

Hey, thanks! It was kinda feeling like more of a chore than a joy for a while, so I took a bit of a break.

Anyway... I'd suggest a maybe-face for the bar being not the bartender (in fact, I suggest stealing an idea from the Amber Cronicles and having the bar be named Bloody Bill's when the PCs first see it, and if they ask it's named after the nature of the previous owner's death, and George runs it now. Then a while later, it's called Bloody George's and run by Sam...) but instead a regular ex-captain who likes to bore people with his tales and knows pretty much everyone in the area. I know it was an example but I think bartenders, if not done properly, don't make great faces.

Yeah, that was mostly an example to help explain the concept. Still, good idea.

[TheWombatOfDoom]

Horray! I was wondering what happened!

I love the idea of death names, and the idea of connected cultures.

Welcome back!

[Wyntonian]

Can anyone here draw, by any chance? I've tried sketching out Marregio, but it's not working out to well, and all my artistic friends are too busy . I can describe it here or in a PM if you'd like.