ERode
In The Mirror
Once, the Sun set and lost its twin.
Once, the Moon rose and was never full again.
Days turned dark, Nights shone bright.
The end of their era was nigh.
On a night now mythologized, the moon turned black, and the aurora drowned out starlight and city lights. Bathed in its viscous hues, life itself changed, warped by a corroding force into a monstrous visage. It was as if the gift of sentience, of thought, was stolen away. Pets turned on their owners. Vermin surged out from the sewers. Crows descended, mauling the unsuspecting. A madness came with that evolution, a curse that pulled out instincts of violence and predation, of aggression. Humans, of course, were no exception, their forms twisted: skin replaced by scale, horns sprouting from where there ought not to be, flesh doubling, tripling in mass, minds set to massacre.
It was a tide of insanity, one that started at the tip of Russia, one that swept westward, as surely as a guillotine to a neck. Real-time news covered the phenomena, but none could outrun the coming of the night. Only ruination remained, prayers unanswered. By the time that one night ended, civilization too had ended, leaving only metropolises filled with monsters, wilderness perpetually changed.
But humanity itself did not end.
Some sheltered in decades-old bunkers. Others sheltered in deep mines and caves. More crawled into the sewers and catacombs. Hiding from the Bright Nights, struggling during the Dark Days. Fearing the sunset, dreading daybreak. But living on regardless, communities of survivors gradually connecting with one another, gradually learning of the monsters that dominated the surface. What was unknown became known. What was supernatural became natural. What was a threat turned into a weapon. What was madness turned into Lunacy.
It was a desperate measure, a fool’s gambit, to extract a certain fluid from the corpses of monsters. To turn that fluid into a serum, one injected into human patients. To willingly allow one’s body to warp and change, to shed one’s humanity for the betterment of humanity.
Yet it paid off, and the first generation of Lunatics, humans who possessed powers once considered supernatural, became the vanguard that allowed their kind to take to the surface once more. They fought back the tides, they built grand strongholds, they guarded the cradle from which civilization could begin anew! When the night fell, they resisted the aurora’s corruption, travelling onwards still to shepherd more remnants to their city!
Their desires burned in place of the stars they had lost.
Their convictions were the steel that severed the night.
Upon their shoulders rested the reclamation of all that had been lost.
281 years have elapsed since the Nightfall.
The Foundation is now the bedrock upon which society rests. Anti-Lunacy Beacons light up the night, allowing humans to reclaim the night once more. Mounted guns stand upon meters-thick walls, while powered suits grant flesh-and-bone humans the strength to stand against the monsters within the Outlands. Whatever weight rested upon the shoulders of the Lunatics now laid in the hands of the collective, and those once-heroes had become outcasts themselves, feared by society as beings more beholden to personal desires than the greater good, beings who blurred the lines between monster and man.
For such irregular pieces, only irregular work remained.
Some became criminals, living beyond the law as players within the gangs that slipped beneath the gaze of the Foundation. Others monetized their supernatural gifts as much as they could, performing miracles still unachievable by means of science, and receiving heavy taxes in response. A few exceptions were scouted by the Foundation itself, given preferential treatment but heavy restrictions. Most, however, became Couriers, commissioned with traversing the Outlands to delivery packages from city to city or investigate and resolve anomalies detected before they can crash against city walls.
That, indeed, is what you are.
A C-Rank Lunatic, an expendable piece with only a few commissions under your belt. Perhaps you threw away your humanity in pursuit of an otherwise impossible dream. Perhaps you injected yourself with a vial of Moondrop so that you had the strength to stand up once more. Perhaps you didn’t understand the ramifications of your decisions, only that it would make more money than toiling away beneath the mill that ground ambition to dust. Regardless of your circumstances, one thing remains a constant.
The Foundation cares not for what lead you here.
It only cares that the job is done.
It was a tide of insanity, one that started at the tip of Russia, one that swept westward, as surely as a guillotine to a neck. Real-time news covered the phenomena, but none could outrun the coming of the night. Only ruination remained, prayers unanswered. By the time that one night ended, civilization too had ended, leaving only metropolises filled with monsters, wilderness perpetually changed.
But humanity itself did not end.
Some sheltered in decades-old bunkers. Others sheltered in deep mines and caves. More crawled into the sewers and catacombs. Hiding from the Bright Nights, struggling during the Dark Days. Fearing the sunset, dreading daybreak. But living on regardless, communities of survivors gradually connecting with one another, gradually learning of the monsters that dominated the surface. What was unknown became known. What was supernatural became natural. What was a threat turned into a weapon. What was madness turned into Lunacy.
It was a desperate measure, a fool’s gambit, to extract a certain fluid from the corpses of monsters. To turn that fluid into a serum, one injected into human patients. To willingly allow one’s body to warp and change, to shed one’s humanity for the betterment of humanity.
Yet it paid off, and the first generation of Lunatics, humans who possessed powers once considered supernatural, became the vanguard that allowed their kind to take to the surface once more. They fought back the tides, they built grand strongholds, they guarded the cradle from which civilization could begin anew! When the night fell, they resisted the aurora’s corruption, travelling onwards still to shepherd more remnants to their city!
Their desires burned in place of the stars they had lost.
Their convictions were the steel that severed the night.
Upon their shoulders rested the reclamation of all that had been lost.
281 years have elapsed since the Nightfall.
The Foundation is now the bedrock upon which society rests. Anti-Lunacy Beacons light up the night, allowing humans to reclaim the night once more. Mounted guns stand upon meters-thick walls, while powered suits grant flesh-and-bone humans the strength to stand against the monsters within the Outlands. Whatever weight rested upon the shoulders of the Lunatics now laid in the hands of the collective, and those once-heroes had become outcasts themselves, feared by society as beings more beholden to personal desires than the greater good, beings who blurred the lines between monster and man.
For such irregular pieces, only irregular work remained.
Some became criminals, living beyond the law as players within the gangs that slipped beneath the gaze of the Foundation. Others monetized their supernatural gifts as much as they could, performing miracles still unachievable by means of science, and receiving heavy taxes in response. A few exceptions were scouted by the Foundation itself, given preferential treatment but heavy restrictions. Most, however, became Couriers, commissioned with traversing the Outlands to delivery packages from city to city or investigate and resolve anomalies detected before they can crash against city walls.
That, indeed, is what you are.
A C-Rank Lunatic, an expendable piece with only a few commissions under your belt. Perhaps you threw away your humanity in pursuit of an otherwise impossible dream. Perhaps you injected yourself with a vial of Moondrop so that you had the strength to stand up once more. Perhaps you didn’t understand the ramifications of your decisions, only that it would make more money than toiling away beneath the mill that ground ambition to dust. Regardless of your circumstances, one thing remains a constant.
The Foundation cares not for what lead you here.
It only cares that the job is done.
Eyo, welcome.
Inspirations are Choujin X, Path to Nowhere, and whatever the hell Ferry's been cooking. Fundamentally, it's an action-adventure set in a post-apocalyptic setting, where a band of nameless superhumans find themselves gradually involved in conspiracies, shadowy organizations, and the machinations of the anomaly that caused the world to change so greatly.
While I'm not 100% on what vibes I'm going for in particular, I'm 100% certain that I'm not going towards grimdark shenanigans filled with pure despair. Your characters are individuals who, in their own way, would rather change the world than change themselves, if that makes sense. They'll still go through plenty of shit though.
Expectations for posting speeds are gonna be once a week, at the minimum. If y'all can post faster than that, I can probably increase the pace too. In terms of group numbers, it's my intention that the PCs are all part of a single company/team, so probably won't be accepting past 10 people.
If y'all got questions about the setting, go shoot. Always happy to answer questions while I turn my notes into a Lore thread.
