How about this!
This is a character development forum. However, it's also the prime hub for flavor and storytelling! And I propose we exercise our creative skills in a constructive manner!
So here's a game. I will post a picture:
. . . and then the poster below me will create a story to go with the picture! It certainly doesn't have to be overly long; a paragraph could definitely suffice. It also doesn't have to be a specific kind of story either. It could be a mini-backstory for this mysterious dragon rider, or an excerpt, perhaps, of a battle scene he's in, or maybe a delve into the character's mind at this moment as to what he's thinking. Anything to provoke juices of creativity!
And the poster will include another picture, so that the poster below him can continue the process.
And so, to kick this thing into gear, I'll provide a story for that picture I just posted:
The power coursed through him -- the elemental energies of his sorcerer blood, the infernal pact he made as a child providing arcane power, and the divine strength of Bahamut himself in his blade. This king looked upon his army, the peoples of Eberron gatherered underneath a single banner in a manner not seen since the time of Galifar. He would provide justice for these people this day. He would lead them against the divine armies of angels and devils, and show the gods that Eberron was not a world to be controlled by their will. He would show them that he, son of Bahamut, was not one to be trifled with.
He raised his sword above his head, and gave the shout of war.
There! Get the idea?
Here's another picture, so that the poster below will have something fresh to work with!
. . . And let's begin!
Menechtaurun was terrible, it was over 100 degrees with no water within sight. Garath shaded his eyes as he looked up to the sky. The sun was not as high as it could be, it was at just a little over a quarter. It was to the east, though. Hours and hours would pass until the rays would even lengthen to be tolerable in the evening. He turned to Dana.
They shared a chuckle.
“Didn’t they teach you any useful magic at Morgrave? Set up a blizzard or anything?”
Dana actually looked a little annoyed. “You know that’s not how it works”
Garath was prepared with some other retort, but a shadow fell across them. Actually, the shadow fell as far as they could see. The temperature immediately dropped. Garath took a long draw from his wineskin.
Sorry that was not great, but I wanted something to keep this thread going.
PS: That was inspired by the RW weather here, WNBC keeps reporting severe heat advisories all over the area. The idea of an icy undead dragon (what the pic immediately brought to my mind) seemed almost nice.
The people of Aztoria had settled into outrageous decadence. Ruudi had adventured for years abroad, wielding the sword of the holy way against the demonic denizens of the underworld. He was near death many times, and other times saw his righteous companions fall under fiery blade. After all this sacrifice, he returned to his blessed city only to see the indolent lounging in the street and the immoral gorging their licentious lusts with no shame. He didn’t pause to eat or drink or even remove his armor. From the city gates he strode directly to the Temple of the Elders. Upon the sight of the great paladin, the false prophets shrank to the shadows, and Ruudi went so far as to rip the stole from the shoulders of their chief. The benches were empty as Ruudi took the pulpit, but he began to speak passionately. He spoke of the sacrifice of his brothers and sisters, and of the horrors he had seen. His fiery prose flowed into the streets of the city, and a few of the curious began to trickle in.
I am having some issues with my connection posting photos. I want this thread to keep going, can someone back me up here?
The young girl swatted at the low-hanging branch in front of her as she ran through the forest, tears streaming down her face. She choked out sobs as she ran, her grief blinding her to the myriad nicks and scratches she incurred as she ran, her once-pristine dress now frayed and torn in numerous spots. Behind her, the sound of clanking armor and shouts could be heard in the distance. Her father's lackies; henchmen, really. No doubt sent to retrieve her, to bring her home to dear old dad. Her grief mingled with rage and spurred her to run harder, her muscles burning, her ankles felt like lead, yet she saw this only as inspiration, yet another grievance the world had heaped upon her, one that she might rebel against still, each footstep it's own triumphant defiance in the face of her treasonously tiring body.
Finally, she could no longer hear signs of her father's influence, and she felt herself slowing. She quietly stepped towards a fallen log, sitting on it without a sound. She looked around suspiciously, daring fate to send her more hardship. When none came, she let her head fall, exhaling slowly and loudly. She looked at her hands; muddy. Grimy with sweat and dark and flecks of bark from when she had grabbed at passing trees to keep herself from falling during her escape. She wiped them on her dress, which also stood as a tattered testament to her current place in life. All because of her father.
She stood up in a flash. Her father. The villain. The monster. Only a monster could take from her what he had, under the pretense of caring about her, no less. The man didn't know the first thing about her. All he cared about was his precious reputation. What would the other merchants, or, Heaven forbid, the Duke say if they knew his daughter was off gallivanting with some penniless musician?
Oh that poor, beloved, beautiful minstrel. Had she not snuck out to go to the tavern those few weeks earlier, she'd never have met him. It was fate. Surely she had met her soulmate. He was sweet, and kind, and loved her as she had always dreamt someone would. How she missed him now, and the sight of his beauteous face, the sharp features of his elven heritage mingling perfectly with the softness of his humanity.
But she would never see that face again. Her father had made quite sure of it. One night, after the third week since their romance had begun, she snuck him inside her father's estate, up to her room, so that they might spend the night in one another's arms, as she had so fondly dreamt of. Everything had gone perfectly, until her father's steward had come in to inform her of some event she would be accompanying her father to. She knew she was doomed from the moment the door opened, and the steward's beady little eyes screwed in on the sight of her with her love. Without a word, he about-faced and disappeared, off to inform her father.
She knew what was to come, and tried desperately to get him to the stables where they might steal a horse and escape, but her father and his men stopped them before they could even reach the gate. She was taken to her room, her last sight of her Half-Elven lover being that of watching the guards drag him away. As she wept in her room for what felt like an hour, her father gently opened the door. She looked at him, her eyes red and puffy, as he sat down at the foot of her bed. She had screamed at him, telling him what an outrage this was, what a horrible man he was for separating them, and all throughout he simply looked at her, his face calm, his eyes shining with intensity. When she had finally stopped, she was breathless, huffing with deep breaths of air in an attempt to catch her breath.
When she did finally recover her composure somewhat, her father informed her that the Half-Elf had been killed, reported to the town guard as an act of self-defense when found breaking into the estate, and that there would be no further insolence in his household. Her eyes grew wide with horror, and just as her mouth contorted to speak, she felt a sharp sting as he reached out and slapped her. She stared at him, numb with shock. He stood up, looking down at her.
"I thought I had raised you better than to disobey me, my dear. I will rectify this, and you will learn to obey."
He walked out of the room without another word. She sat on her bed in shock for what felt like hours, before coming to a conclusion. She could not stay here. No. She had to leave. Forever. She had to go somewhere else. Anywhere else.
As she looked at the forest around her. Were she not so distraught, and were life not so cruel, she might actually find the foliage beautiful, as it lay beneath the glowing crescent moon of this cool spring night. But it's beauty could not shake her dark thoughts; thoughts of malice. Thoughts of vengeance. She paced about as her mind spun with ways in which she could get back at her father, ruin his business, ruin his life, even going so far as to end it.
She could have kept on for hours were it not for the unnatural, ghostly figure that emerged from a copse of trees. The girl let out a stifled cry of surprise as the figure walked towards her, clad in a shimmering black dress. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and her raven hair seemed to flow out like the black waters of an ocean in the night. She instinctually backed away from the advancing figure, until her foot caught on the log she had been sitting on, causing her to fall backwards and land on a patch of wild grass. Fear consumed her as the tall, unearthly figure stood before her.
"Worry not, little one. I mean you no direct harm."
It's voice was thick with dark appeal, sultry and yet somehow radiating with an energy of forbiddance.
"W-.. What do you want?"
It smiled at her, ruby red lips parting to show dull-white, sharpened teeth.
"I have watched you, child. Your story is that of tragedy, your love stolen from you, and now your heart screams for vengeance. I wish to help you."
She looked at the creature, the woman, with uncertainty. If it had wanted to kill her, it could have, surely. She felt the merest sense of intrigue fluttering just at the edge of her fear.
"What will you do for me? What do you want for your help? Who are you?"
The figure held up a hand, the shimmering, transparent shawl around her flowing outward.
"I will simply give you the power to have your revenge on the one who has wronged you and cruelly taken that which cannot be replaced. My help is now freely given, and for now, you may simply call me a friend. Surely that is what you need most, little one?" Her voice taking on a sympathetic pout, enticing the girl with thoughts of commiseration.
The young girl looked at her feet, then at the unspeaking trees around her. Finally, locking eyes with the creature before her, she nodded. The creature waited, silently, until the girl said,
"Yes, I want your help. Please."
The creature smiled once more, and extended her arm towards the girl, holding up her thumb and index fingers. Between them materialized the tip of a dagger, then the blade, then the silvered pommel, ending with a forked curve at the bottom of the hilt. She held out the hilt of the blade to the girl, her eyes shining in the moonlight in a way that almost reminded the girl of her father.
Raising her own hand, the young girl realized it was shaking, and did her best to conceal this fear with determination. She gripped the hilt with what she hoped looked like confidence. Letting go of the tip of the blade, the creature looked at the girl in a manner almost predatorial, before looking down at the girl's feet. Looking down herself, she saw a thick, black fog was encircling her feet, and beginning to swirl upwards, all along her body. Just before it covered here eyes, she looked up towards the creature, but she; it, was gone.
Sorry if it's long, I wasn't sure if there was a specified limit.
The Next Image Show
Ectar walked along the forrest, smiling at Melora's bounty spread about him. He loved his nature walks, as they always reminded him of why he had chosen to devote his life to the goddess all those years ago. sadly, what with his recent travels with Garud and the other adventurers, he had had scant chances to explore the wilderness of late.
Ectar's smile faded as his senses picked up something. it was faint, almost non-existant, but there was no mistaking it. the smell of decay and rot are ingrained into the mind of every person who have ever faced undead of any sort. Ectar had hoped to never face such a smell again. It always seemed to be different when malign forces were involved, and that's how it smelled now, his nose rising in an unintentional grimace.
after a moment, Ectar found the direction of the smell, and began his search. In the springtime growth, it wasn't hard to find the source: drake bones, covered in fowl runes, and releasing a visible blue putresence into the air above them. Ectar pulled out his journal, where he had a record of every prayer he had ever performed, including the simple rhyme he sang to himself every night when he went to sleep.
"Melora, mistress of all that is wild and free..." removing the malign influence from this spot would not be too difficult, as the ritual performed here was old, and the magic was wearing thin. But that was not what worried him. He had heard rumors through his fellow priests that such bone circles were apearing all throughout the forrest. Who, or what, would do this? Ectar only hoped that he and his freinds would be able to figure it out in time...
next pic Show
This pic comes from criticalbrit.blogspot.com/ and is not mine
Here's the next one.
"You need something?" asked the Librarian.
"Yes." Willamin said. "I need the book of the dead. In Draconic."
"Fifth room, second shelf, third row. Check under 'The Dead'. " The Librarian said.
Here's a fun one.
i had an awesome essay written, but my computer gimped out and took me back a page, and i don't have either the inspiration or the perseverance to rewrite it, so here's a short draft that will hopefuly make do:
Mikkel Graveraiser Show
It had taken her three weeks to find the scroll she needed, the map with the exact location marked clearly, the ritual with the correct formula...but she had found it all, and now she stood in the middle of the desert, the midday sun beating down on her in her black clothing, and the ritual memorized and ready for incanting*.
"...errada, Nicto!" Mikkel cried the last of the incantation, releasing the arcane energy she had collected for the ritual, and with it completing the raising. the ground, made of sand with only an occational stone, began to shake like an earthquake, and a huge mound of sand began to rise. as the sand hill got larger and larger, the upper sand began to slough away, revealing the giant skull beneath. the skull continued to rise, and with it the rest of the skeleton, until finally the entire upper torso had been revealed.
"Welcome back to the realm of the living, Bellial the Overgrown! I have plans for you and I!" Mikkel laughed as the monolithic titan of a skeleton rose out of the sands...
and here's another picture:
I'll go ahead and play, if only as an excuse to post another picture. XD
"But I have done well," the dracolich hissed, purveying the twice-dead bodies of the Karnatthi skeletons he had so amply obliterated. "The ritual is nigh complete; one more passage spoken from the Demonomicon and the second Mournland will be born!"
Asmodeus chuckled. Petty, petty dracolich; it knew so little of his plans -- plans to dismantle the Soveriegn Host, the 'gods' of this so-called Eberron, establish he, Asmodeus, as supreme ruler, as he had already done to world called Greyhawk.
"No matter," Asmodeus said. "You will be disposed. It amuses me of how tiny a pawn you really are."
As Asmodeus' magic pulled the dracolich from the realm of the living, it calculated its next plan of action. Asmodeus knew not of his true power. For when Asmodeus killed Bahamut of Greyhawk, he had not considered the reformation of the god on another plane. The madness. The transformation.
The dracolich began to exert its will on Asmodeus' magic, retaining his grip on Eberron. He would show him the true might of Bahamut reborn.
Now for le picture:
I like this idea!
Standing at the gate forced Timjin to reflect on his path. It had taken 6 years of war to bring him the the captial. His white robes were now matted with blood and sand and he was surrounded by crule savage mercineraies of the dark tribes.
"It takes many sacrifices to do the will of Pelor" He reminded himself. Few of that origional army of priest remained most had left calling him mad or a tratoir to Pelor himself and for those that stayed their goals were not to fulfill his quest they were there for the loot and victory he was bringing across the Iron content.
Unknown to Timjin the city was nearly abandond fleeing before his vengance the only resdents remaining were hiding waiting for them to enter. The trap was set the unholy alliences made deeper because of his actions. "Many would leave the city but few would leave alive!" was the promise of the now fully insane king Abdul Alhazred.
the eladrin surveyed the ruins of the old church, the lichens and vines laying claim to what little was left. in the distance he could see the ruins of the central structures of the city, the marble walls not yet reclaimed by nature's intrusion. the halfling at his side followed his gaze, a look of wonder on his face.
"It's so strange, looking at a dead city like this. to think these streets were once filled with people going about their lives, this church full of devout followers of whatever forgotten gods these people worshiped..." the warlord's chainmail clinked as he turned slightly to look at his companion out of the corner of his eye.
"Do i detect a soft spot in the unblemished armor of the incorrigible 'Samwise the Scam'?" too late Sam frowned and tried to look unimpressed, his brown curls falling in his eyes.
"No you don't Hadaris! I was just...whatever! Why are we wasting time looking at all these old buildings, anyway? the city's been dead for centuries! all the people who lived here are dead! It's a ghost town! the sooner we leave the better!" Hadaris watched his young companion storm off, a knowing grin on his face. after a moment, he looked down at the tiny tombstone in front of him, and read the inscription:
Here lies Anastriana Lorhalien, daughter of Hadaris Lorhalien, Captain of the Guard
DoB: 479 DoD:484
"Yes, they're all dead..." After a short prayer, the 400 year old warrior left his family's cemetary for the final time...
I have to admit i'm just here for the writing, but this is really an awesome thread!
Next pic Show
"... and wit a swing of me axe, I felled the Lich!" roared Bolin, his orange beard saggin under the ale he had already spilt. Grasping his mug heartily the dwarf took another swig, downing what had to be his 12th of the night. "But don't be askin for no booze, ye vermin, his treasure be mine and mine alone!" his eyes glinted at the thought of gold.
A chill breeze swept the smoky room, drawing the patrons' attention away from the rowdy adventurer and towards the entryway. Under the arch stood a shirtless man, heavily built and tall as the door he stood in. The winter frost gathered on his fur loincloth and boots, but he did not seem bothered. His long hair could not hide piercing white eyes, the sign of a Northerner. Behind this giant of a man was a small entourage consisting of a halfling in gaudy apparel, a raven haired and bearded man in robes, and a smaller fellow who looked out of place carrying a multitude of scrolls and papers.
"That, dwarf, was a lie. Cowards and thieves lie. Which are you?" The giant of a man bellowed. "The thief who stole my treasure, or the coward won't admit it?"
Bolin glanced nervously at the man. His cheap axe was heavier than the dagger he preferred, and was more for decoration than anything. He knew he couldn't defeat these adventurers in a fair fight, so he called on his only friend for help.
"A year of booze fir the man who cin defeet this villain for his insolence!" Bolin cried, raising his mug to his fellow drunks. In an instant, the room erupted into chaos. Chairs and stools began flying and bottles were broken into makeshift weapons. The dwarf slipped into the fray long enough for the large man to lose sight of him, and then tackled him from surprise. Caught off guard, even this massive warrior could not keep his feet with the full weight of a dwarf on him. Bolin saw his chance, and began to reach for his razor-sharp knife...
(how do you hide things?)
As the ritual ensued, the shadows around him began to warp and move, slowly encircling him. The darkness drew closer and closer untill it began to seep into his skin and tear away his flesh. Screaming in agony he fell to the ground. He trembled as pain and power filled his core.
when it was over he rose. Looking himself over he couldnt help but laugh. Finally, he said to himself. Finally ive done it! Soon those fools will learn what reall power looks like!!
(best i could do on short notice :/ ) but heres a pic
sorry its not bery big
Guardian Scythe Show
The necromancer and his apprentice worked quietly in the night, carefull to make no noise. They were deep in a canyon, the sheer rock faces forming natural walls around their hideaway, but also a natural megaphone, channelling any loud noise in the direction of the nearby town. As they worked with their latest cadaver, they failed to notice two figures stealthily slipping along the path.
Finally, the master noticed the presence of two extra lives in the canyon.
"Who's there?" the necromancer's voice was confident, surrounded by his element. "Reveal yourselves!"
From the shadows stepped two figures; a cloaked figure, with a large book in his hands; he looked the part of a priest, but it was too dark to make out the emblem on his chest. The other was much clearer, a young girl with long, dark hair, and a stylized dress. She carried a gargantuan scythe, the blade alone bigger than she was. slowly she aproached the necromancer and his apprentice, while the preist stayed back, holding his book, his acolyte's tome, as though reading it. The apprentice stepped foreward brashly:
"You think you can handle me, little girl? I'll enjoy turning you into my undead slave!" before the master could rebuke his wayward pupil, he charged the girl, launching a bolt of necrotic energy at her.
The girl moved like a dancer, sureal grace making her appear to fly through the air as she cut through the dark bolt, then catching the youth and draggin him to his knees with the keen edge of her scythe. Holding him there, still alive, she stopped, calmly waiting for something. The preist behind her began to speak:
"And the raven spake, saying thusly; though yea may seek to persevere, and sustain the flame of life within you, my Queen will call you to your final resting place, and none may deny her beck and call." the preist clapped shut the divine text, "Sister Elezandria, i permiss you to release Death in this place."
The master, confused by the strange manner of the priest, blinked. By the time he opened his eyes again, the girl had remove his apprentice's head, discarded the no headless body, and had jumped to the top of a jutting rock, her small figure and large scythe sillouetted by the unusually large moon. As his fate set in, the necromancer felt the blood drain from his face, as though his head had already been removed as well. The girl now charged him, her deadly implement gleaming in the moonlight...
Edit: Buzzhorn1! You didn't keep the cycle going! lol i love this thread!
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