Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
This RP will be for 3-5 players, a group of fresh-made Vampires lost in the world and brought together by an enigmatic elder for... archeology?!
The system is easy enough to learn, a dice-pool system that's simple to use but has mechanical depth if you want to engage with it.
No prior experience with this game or dice games required. All skill levels welcome.
I will handle the mechanical half of your character sheet if you prefer.
One post a week is ideal, once a month is acceptable.
No set post length - just post what you feel is necessary to move things along.
============================================
"Our origin is steeped in confusion and obfuscation.
We are the forgotten dead, vengeful and rapacious. We are the get of a mad wizard, long dead. We are the whelps of mortal men and Demons...
But I prefer a much older story.
They say that the gods abandoned us because we found a way to murder one. We slew that impossible thing, and drank the divinity from its veins. For this, we were cursed.
I'll admit to ego, in my preference for this tale. To be the inheritor to a deicide! How must one live up to that legacy?
It begins with the same waking death in which you now find yourself, little one. I'll not lie - you are a dead thing, prone to rot, seared by sunlight, burned by pure waters, thirsting for blood to sustain your decaying frame. This will seem like an eyeblink, an awkward adolescence, one hundred years hence. Even now you must feel it, hm? The strength, the heightened senses. Stop breathing, it only makes you look foolish.
No, air is not life, for you.
Let us first teach you to hunt, fledgeling."
Monster. Outcast. Inheritor. Vampire.
You died because your sire demanded it. You exist between life and death at her will. You hunger because hunger is your nature, now.
Resurrected in your own rotting corpse, blood is the only way to maintain the constant decay of your body, and the best is taken from those still living.
The sun will destroy you, and pure water scorches like acid, but the sickness, the wounds, the mortality which once plagued you is now... gone.
This too shall pass. In time, you will be a lord of the night, for this is the destiny written for you. To be one of the secret kings of the world, playing the mortal cattle like an instrument, doing what thou wilt.
THE CLANS
Gorite are the mightiest warriors of Vampirekind, reclusive in their mountain fortress. Strongest, perhaps the hardiest. Kindred of flame, masters of earth and stone. No other forges such as you, no other fights as ferociously. When the mortals cry terror and give light to their dwellings to punish your trespass, you laugh and walk through fire. You take slaves and cattle, force your favourites into bloody duels for the honour of embrace.
Even now, decimated from a purge, your elders design the great furnaces whose smoke will blot out the sun.
Yaundae are tricksters, liars, poisoners. Immune to the burning touch of water, you live in the sewers and waterways - close to man, but out of his reach. You lack the hardiness of your peers, but your guile and stealth more than make up for it. You charm the mortals with honeyed words and they thank you for taking their blood. You change the face of the city with the ears of the right people, and the deaths of the wrong with the most cunning venoms.
The elders will not speak of their ultimate goal, but it seems even now the configuration of city streets begin to thrum with power.
Wahran are the serpent-kings of the jungle. You rule from stepped pyramids and call lightning from the skies. The peoples of the land make tribute of their own to forestall your wrath or win your protection. The very trees and vines bend to your will, and where you are benevolent the harvest is rich indeed.
Worse monsters than you prey on them, and their numbers are limitless - the spirits that infest these lands. They hate you and many cannot even comprehend why, but they will act on that loathing. Many of your kin are denied eternity. How the elders intend to halt this, they do not say.
Ithim are the masters of Black Forest. Dwelling in the deepest part of the wood, amid the most ancient trees and the forgotten city built upon them. If it can be known, you know it. You can read memories in blood and ride the winds on leathery wings. Your library is the oldest and largest. While you are surrounded by hateful Fair Folk, your stealth and speed allow you escape into the world where your knowledge might manipulate the mortals.
The eldest lurks in the depths of the library. Waiting. But for what, it does not say.
Uthar are the despised. Their blood carries a sickness which enslaves the spirits of the dead - spirits they rebirth in the bodies of spiders. They are scattered and disparate, each one intent on carving out their own kingdom. Too often, though, they are slain by skilled mortals, their presence hard to hide... but with the ghosts in their blood, who knows if they truly die?
Loxite are the dark and brooding nobles in their ancient homes, refusing any lord but themselves. Masters of both flesh and shadow, each lives to cultivate mortal followers, to alter the course of history to their own ends, and derail the plots of their kin. In spite of this fractiousness, their leadership and intellect cannot be denied - physically weakest of their kind, the Loxite prefer to seize goals with mind over matter.
Aberrations are the result of Necromantic blasphemy - clanless, deranged, pathetic corpses given unholy animation.
The system is easy enough to learn, a dice-pool system that's simple to use but has mechanical depth if you want to engage with it.
No prior experience with this game or dice games required. All skill levels welcome.
I will handle the mechanical half of your character sheet if you prefer.
One post a week is ideal, once a month is acceptable.
No set post length - just post what you feel is necessary to move things along.
============================================
"Our origin is steeped in confusion and obfuscation.
We are the forgotten dead, vengeful and rapacious. We are the get of a mad wizard, long dead. We are the whelps of mortal men and Demons...
But I prefer a much older story.
They say that the gods abandoned us because we found a way to murder one. We slew that impossible thing, and drank the divinity from its veins. For this, we were cursed.
I'll admit to ego, in my preference for this tale. To be the inheritor to a deicide! How must one live up to that legacy?
It begins with the same waking death in which you now find yourself, little one. I'll not lie - you are a dead thing, prone to rot, seared by sunlight, burned by pure waters, thirsting for blood to sustain your decaying frame. This will seem like an eyeblink, an awkward adolescence, one hundred years hence. Even now you must feel it, hm? The strength, the heightened senses. Stop breathing, it only makes you look foolish.
No, air is not life, for you.
Let us first teach you to hunt, fledgeling."
Monster. Outcast. Inheritor. Vampire.
You died because your sire demanded it. You exist between life and death at her will. You hunger because hunger is your nature, now.
Resurrected in your own rotting corpse, blood is the only way to maintain the constant decay of your body, and the best is taken from those still living.
The sun will destroy you, and pure water scorches like acid, but the sickness, the wounds, the mortality which once plagued you is now... gone.
This too shall pass. In time, you will be a lord of the night, for this is the destiny written for you. To be one of the secret kings of the world, playing the mortal cattle like an instrument, doing what thou wilt.
THE CLANS
Gorite are the mightiest warriors of Vampirekind, reclusive in their mountain fortress. Strongest, perhaps the hardiest. Kindred of flame, masters of earth and stone. No other forges such as you, no other fights as ferociously. When the mortals cry terror and give light to their dwellings to punish your trespass, you laugh and walk through fire. You take slaves and cattle, force your favourites into bloody duels for the honour of embrace.
Even now, decimated from a purge, your elders design the great furnaces whose smoke will blot out the sun.
Yaundae are tricksters, liars, poisoners. Immune to the burning touch of water, you live in the sewers and waterways - close to man, but out of his reach. You lack the hardiness of your peers, but your guile and stealth more than make up for it. You charm the mortals with honeyed words and they thank you for taking their blood. You change the face of the city with the ears of the right people, and the deaths of the wrong with the most cunning venoms.
The elders will not speak of their ultimate goal, but it seems even now the configuration of city streets begin to thrum with power.
Wahran are the serpent-kings of the jungle. You rule from stepped pyramids and call lightning from the skies. The peoples of the land make tribute of their own to forestall your wrath or win your protection. The very trees and vines bend to your will, and where you are benevolent the harvest is rich indeed.
Worse monsters than you prey on them, and their numbers are limitless - the spirits that infest these lands. They hate you and many cannot even comprehend why, but they will act on that loathing. Many of your kin are denied eternity. How the elders intend to halt this, they do not say.
Ithim are the masters of Black Forest. Dwelling in the deepest part of the wood, amid the most ancient trees and the forgotten city built upon them. If it can be known, you know it. You can read memories in blood and ride the winds on leathery wings. Your library is the oldest and largest. While you are surrounded by hateful Fair Folk, your stealth and speed allow you escape into the world where your knowledge might manipulate the mortals.
The eldest lurks in the depths of the library. Waiting. But for what, it does not say.
Uthar are the despised. Their blood carries a sickness which enslaves the spirits of the dead - spirits they rebirth in the bodies of spiders. They are scattered and disparate, each one intent on carving out their own kingdom. Too often, though, they are slain by skilled mortals, their presence hard to hide... but with the ghosts in their blood, who knows if they truly die?
Loxite are the dark and brooding nobles in their ancient homes, refusing any lord but themselves. Masters of both flesh and shadow, each lives to cultivate mortal followers, to alter the course of history to their own ends, and derail the plots of their kin. In spite of this fractiousness, their leadership and intellect cannot be denied - physically weakest of their kind, the Loxite prefer to seize goals with mind over matter.
Aberrations are the result of Necromantic blasphemy - clanless, deranged, pathetic corpses given unholy animation.
