Act I: Awakening // Chapter 1: You are a Witch.
K0mori
Servant Supreme
Somewhere far below, a million damned spirits swirl and howl in anticipation of your arrival.
You killed a man. How could it have happened!? You - a whelp, nothing but a peasant farmgirl - you murdered a merchant of the Sea of Cassia in broad daylight! And now, you dare to rest your head and shut your eyes, as if you could close out the world and keep to your imagination. But you won't be safe, not even in your own mind, where visions of a violent vortex of darkness and evil tugs at your soul, even as you clutch your fragile body and breathe ragged breaths.
Try as you might, you can't bring yourself to pray. The Gods have never felt more distant than they do now... But you never really felt their grace in your sixteen years, did you? All those days you called on them, hopelessly seeking some reprieve from the cruelty of life, the cruelty of fate and its fickle whims. The cruelty of others. But while murder may be the most decried act in all of scripture, there is one sin which is greater, in fact:
Poverty.
The poor are beyond saving, and always have been. They are less than dirt in the eyes of the nobles, less than vermin to the merchant class, and less than the lowest and most depraved heretics in the eyes of the church, because they have nothing to offer beyond the most meagre of tribute. You had nothing to offer: all your life, you and your brothers and sisters worked with calloused hands in your father's field, or in your mother's shadow, always working, cleaning, cooking, and caring for others without so much as a scrap of luxury for yourselves. And yet, what of the sum total of this labor? A few baskets of produce to offload for a pittance at the market square, only to be taxed and tithed away before it could ever return to your homestead as "profit." Seasons change, children grow into wiry and world-weary adolescents, and your family grows poorer, grows sick, and eventually...
No loving Gods could beckon you to paradise, only to pull back the veil and reveal a place full of the well-fed and contemptuous: the very same pious, vainglorious gluttons who allowed you to suffer and starve in the name of God and Country. What is the conclusion, then? They say it's for the safety of the Empire. They say it's for the salvation of your soul. But what of your body and your better years!? For most of your life, you've cried, late at night, questioning why such suffering was an inseparable fact of existence. You gave all you could, and yet it wasn't enough in the eyes of all who offered such phantasms as security and deliverance. And for that reason, they would ignore your shivering in the winter cold, and the scraping of your spoon against an empty pot in search of soup.
You feel the anger rising within. The anger that caused his death.
It's always been there, lurking somewhere deep in your heart, licking its ghoulish lips in hungry anticipation for the moment you would finally break. It was the very same darkness which called your sister away, four years ago. You watched her, late one night, creeping out of the farmhouse and stealing away into thin air. Her eyes, wild and young and scared, nonetheless burned for something. Freedom? Vengeance? Perhaps your own eyes resemble hers, now that you've become what all who knew your sister feared that you'd be.
You are a witch.
---
Choose your race:
1. Human - You are a human named Azel. If nothing else, your membership in the majority race of the Empire of Zuklanar guarantees that this realm, and others nearby, will be tailored to your needs, if only you could afford it. Other beings will view you with indifference, and you will have no trouble blending in as long as you don't make a habit of slaying any man who looks at you cross. Humans are known for their affinity for combat and skill with tools, although a select few become great magicians of light.
2. Elf - You are an elf named Aenwyn. Many years ago, your ancestors ventured across the Sea of Cassia, during the golden age of elves and their homeland of Sonnamille, in search of rich and fertile lands. Instead, they became subjects of the Zuklan march, and had everything that distinguished them ground away under the boot of poverty. Nonetheless, you are heartier than most humans and will probably live longer than them, which leads to some resentment. Elves are also said to be natural mages, although many are equally skilled with the bow or the blade.
3. Drow - You are a drow named Akryth. Your heritage traces back to the coasts of Aelesh, where colonists from Sonnamille experienced a shocking transformation, centuries ago. Many blame the divergence in the ancestral religion for the sudden appearance of dark-skinned, silvery-haired elves with yellowish eyes. Elves are especially weary of their dark cousins, although humans often characterize them as dark, moody, and possibly dangerous as well. It is often asserted that there are more witches and warlocks among the drow than any other race, but there is no reason why they cannot be skilled in more common crafts, and in fact, most are.
4. Tabaxi - You are a tabaxi named Agranne. Your lineage traces far south, to the jungles of Chasamein. While the catfolk of that distant state have experienced their own golden age as of late, having stolen away nearly half of the elves' ancestral lands, the glory and prosperity could not reach you all the way in cold and barren Zuklanar. Your sinewy body has allowed you to work faster and more deftly than a human would, not that it's brought you any closer to escaping poverty. It's rare to hear of tabaxi witches, but given that two have been born to your family, perhaps they're more common than the humans believe. Either way, most will expect nothing of you aside from physical talents- aside from the elves, who view you as a bloodthirsty marauder.
5. Goblin - You are a goblin named Aga. It isn't quite clear how or why your ancestors left the swamps of Athea and Sonnamille and marched north overland through Turadal, and eventually west into the wastes of Zuklanar, but it was a terrible decision. At least the elves, and even the drow, recognize the great martial aptitude of the goblin race, and its occasional penchant for engineering brilliance, but the humans are largely ignorant, and judge you by your lowly appearance alone, deriding you as a "beast." Perhaps they should be afraid, as goblins aren't strangers to dark magic, either.
You killed a man. How could it have happened!? You - a whelp, nothing but a peasant farmgirl - you murdered a merchant of the Sea of Cassia in broad daylight! And now, you dare to rest your head and shut your eyes, as if you could close out the world and keep to your imagination. But you won't be safe, not even in your own mind, where visions of a violent vortex of darkness and evil tugs at your soul, even as you clutch your fragile body and breathe ragged breaths.
Try as you might, you can't bring yourself to pray. The Gods have never felt more distant than they do now... But you never really felt their grace in your sixteen years, did you? All those days you called on them, hopelessly seeking some reprieve from the cruelty of life, the cruelty of fate and its fickle whims. The cruelty of others. But while murder may be the most decried act in all of scripture, there is one sin which is greater, in fact:
Poverty.
The poor are beyond saving, and always have been. They are less than dirt in the eyes of the nobles, less than vermin to the merchant class, and less than the lowest and most depraved heretics in the eyes of the church, because they have nothing to offer beyond the most meagre of tribute. You had nothing to offer: all your life, you and your brothers and sisters worked with calloused hands in your father's field, or in your mother's shadow, always working, cleaning, cooking, and caring for others without so much as a scrap of luxury for yourselves. And yet, what of the sum total of this labor? A few baskets of produce to offload for a pittance at the market square, only to be taxed and tithed away before it could ever return to your homestead as "profit." Seasons change, children grow into wiry and world-weary adolescents, and your family grows poorer, grows sick, and eventually...
No loving Gods could beckon you to paradise, only to pull back the veil and reveal a place full of the well-fed and contemptuous: the very same pious, vainglorious gluttons who allowed you to suffer and starve in the name of God and Country. What is the conclusion, then? They say it's for the safety of the Empire. They say it's for the salvation of your soul. But what of your body and your better years!? For most of your life, you've cried, late at night, questioning why such suffering was an inseparable fact of existence. You gave all you could, and yet it wasn't enough in the eyes of all who offered such phantasms as security and deliverance. And for that reason, they would ignore your shivering in the winter cold, and the scraping of your spoon against an empty pot in search of soup.
You feel the anger rising within. The anger that caused his death.
It's always been there, lurking somewhere deep in your heart, licking its ghoulish lips in hungry anticipation for the moment you would finally break. It was the very same darkness which called your sister away, four years ago. You watched her, late one night, creeping out of the farmhouse and stealing away into thin air. Her eyes, wild and young and scared, nonetheless burned for something. Freedom? Vengeance? Perhaps your own eyes resemble hers, now that you've become what all who knew your sister feared that you'd be.
You are a witch.
---
Choose your race:
1. Human - You are a human named Azel. If nothing else, your membership in the majority race of the Empire of Zuklanar guarantees that this realm, and others nearby, will be tailored to your needs, if only you could afford it. Other beings will view you with indifference, and you will have no trouble blending in as long as you don't make a habit of slaying any man who looks at you cross. Humans are known for their affinity for combat and skill with tools, although a select few become great magicians of light.
2. Elf - You are an elf named Aenwyn. Many years ago, your ancestors ventured across the Sea of Cassia, during the golden age of elves and their homeland of Sonnamille, in search of rich and fertile lands. Instead, they became subjects of the Zuklan march, and had everything that distinguished them ground away under the boot of poverty. Nonetheless, you are heartier than most humans and will probably live longer than them, which leads to some resentment. Elves are also said to be natural mages, although many are equally skilled with the bow or the blade.
3. Drow - You are a drow named Akryth. Your heritage traces back to the coasts of Aelesh, where colonists from Sonnamille experienced a shocking transformation, centuries ago. Many blame the divergence in the ancestral religion for the sudden appearance of dark-skinned, silvery-haired elves with yellowish eyes. Elves are especially weary of their dark cousins, although humans often characterize them as dark, moody, and possibly dangerous as well. It is often asserted that there are more witches and warlocks among the drow than any other race, but there is no reason why they cannot be skilled in more common crafts, and in fact, most are.
4. Tabaxi - You are a tabaxi named Agranne. Your lineage traces far south, to the jungles of Chasamein. While the catfolk of that distant state have experienced their own golden age as of late, having stolen away nearly half of the elves' ancestral lands, the glory and prosperity could not reach you all the way in cold and barren Zuklanar. Your sinewy body has allowed you to work faster and more deftly than a human would, not that it's brought you any closer to escaping poverty. It's rare to hear of tabaxi witches, but given that two have been born to your family, perhaps they're more common than the humans believe. Either way, most will expect nothing of you aside from physical talents- aside from the elves, who view you as a bloodthirsty marauder.
5. Goblin - You are a goblin named Aga. It isn't quite clear how or why your ancestors left the swamps of Athea and Sonnamille and marched north overland through Turadal, and eventually west into the wastes of Zuklanar, but it was a terrible decision. At least the elves, and even the drow, recognize the great martial aptitude of the goblin race, and its occasional penchant for engineering brilliance, but the humans are largely ignorant, and judge you by your lowly appearance alone, deriding you as a "beast." Perhaps they should be afraid, as goblins aren't strangers to dark magic, either.
