< atton revisited > The information page for Atton has been fully revised and updated with the new map!
< updated calendar > The Fortuna calendar has been updated in the "Other" lore section! This includes a document which displays the calendar for you to see, making it much easier to understand.
< moving map > The first functional map has been released in the News section! This map is also interactive, allowing you to drag and drop between points in order to determine distances. This is the first iteration, and there's more and better to come!
< first annual awards > The results for the First Annual Fortuna Year-End Awards have been posted! Go and take a look at who the finalists were, and who took home the big prizes!
< new default skin > Our new skin has passed the beta test, and is now the new Default for the forums! If you have any issues with this skin, send a PM or Discord to Mellie.
< human lore update > Humans have been updated with TWENTY-FIVE subraces/subcultures which add numerous options, and a little extra lore and flavour.
< magic lore update > Magical Lore has been enhanced with the addition of a post on Magical Education. From Beginner to Expert, this is how you learn the spells.
< a change to member groups > Member groups are now based on storyline! You can change your displayed storyline by editing the settings in your profile.
Welcome to the world of Fortuna, a land of fantastic proportions. This is an original fantasy roleplay that takes place in a world developed over nearly a decade of work and collaboration. We aim to encourage all participants to have a hand in the stories of the characters here, and the world around them. Your choices are key - so make them with pride. You decide who wins the wars, you decide who becomes King, the world is ours, and together we will bring it to life!
The man's smile, simultaneously charming and unnerving, flew to his lips once more as he moved close again and spoke. He informed her that the living had a closer connection to the gods than she gave credit for. His fingernail traced the skin of her cheek as he mentioned the charm her race had, but he trailed off from that train of thought and she did not prompt him.
It seemed the man was also religious, or something of the sort, because he continued speaking of being close to the gods or higher powers. He asked her then if she ever heard the whispers, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. She had never told anyone of her dreams, of the times she lost herself, or of the voice she heard when it happened. The man was surely speaking of something else. "I have not heard your whispers," she replied, looking into his crisp emerald eyes and wondering briefly what secrets he held. This fellow killer, this shadow in the night. Consuming, like her, taking life to sustain his own. They were alike in many ways, she thought, but also very different. "Tell me of them," she requested.
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 7, 2017 19:39:33 GMT -7
He had interested her, which was good. He loved to share his stories... And other's stories. If they couldn't live on, he thought, at least their legacies could. With his own flourishes, of course. But he wouldn't just give it away for free, no. She was not a meal, so he would not have that in return, so he would need something else. And the way that she had phrased herself... That she had not heard his whispers, bubbled a different kind of desire inside of him. A desire for information.
"Tit for tat. I shall tell you my tale, and I promise you that I'll manage to crack that still, sallow expression of your's. In return, I'd like to hear a tale of your own. Perhaps mine will... Spark something in you, remind you of whispers that have filled your mind while no voice was present to utter them. What do you say, dear killer?"
The man wanted her to trade, a tale for a tale. He promised to crack her expressionless face and in return wanted a sorry if her own whispers, something she had never before shared. There were some who had witnessed the times she lost herself, but many of them were dead now. She crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. "I am no bard, but I will tell you a tale in exchange for yours."
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 7, 2017 22:29:12 GMT -7
"A private show," Ichabod told her simply, turning to go back to the alleys. There was some perverse joy he took in what the two of them had been doing on the street, but in this case the voice was right. He did not wish for simply anyone to hear his tale. No, this was to be a special, one-night-only event. Solely for his fellow devourer of mortalkind.
When he'd found a suitably dim corner - with enough torchlight to make him look particularly menacing - he turned to her once more, gesturing for her to make herself comfortable. "My tale is one of a little boy... A little boy who knows some very bad people."
A stupid boy, a stupid boy who should not take such foolish risks, the voice was no longer simply reprimanding, or warning, which made Ichabod laugh. He may be doing her bidding - as she was his mother - but he was not her slave. He was no one's slave. "Now now, not in front of our guest," Ichabod responded, not caring what Sabela thought of it. If he was right about her, she might understand.
"Now, this boy... He knows a girl. She is beautiful, and incredibly charming. Blonde hair falls down to her waist like honey, and her bosom is buxom enough to spare. Her laugh echoes, and men fall over themselves to hear that beautiful sound. Her beauty however, is not her sin... It is her magic. An evoker who calls forth elements to torment those around her. Perhaps a wind to knock someone off their feet. Ice, to embarrass a poor young girl with a chilled chest. Fire... Is the most dangerous, and she reserves it for her slave. She burns him everywhere and wherever - simply because it pleases her.
"There is another girl - as all bad things come in pairs - and she is also beautiful, though has no magic, no charm, and her laugh stops shorts of her breath. Still, her blonde hair hangs to her waist like maize, a twin of the other, lacking in so many ways. She is bitter, jealous, but knows that her sister is more powerful, more dangerous. She would not dare cross her... And so she takes out her frustrations on the slave. She prefers the whip, you see. Something that leaves a more violent scar than fire, and the horrifying crack can echo more soundly than her voice. But that is not all she enjoys. She is smarter than the other, and plays pretend. She likes to convince the slave that she is sorry, that she pities him. She brings him a meal - something he is so desperate for - and he gorges himself. Just as he finishes, she tells him that he's just eaten from her bowels, and she's quite glad that he enjoys the flavour of her shit.
"And then there is a man, as there always is. A father. And because cruelty is not simply born, there is no way for the man to be anything but terrible... And he is the cruelest of them all. He brings a boy into the world, and curses it. He offers it none of the love a child needs, and none of the favour the boy deserves. He gives it only the life of a common laborer by day, and a slave by night. An outlet for all the cruelty his blood can muster.
"But... The slave is not alone with these horrors. He has whispers. They come into his bed at night and comfort him. They are his sister, his father, his mother, if those things were as they ought. They whisper sweet nothings. They whisper stories. They whisper tales of glory that one day he'll be certain to achieve... They comfort him. They give him the strength to continue," He pauses then, wondering if the voice will answer. She knows of course, that this is not true. Any whispers he heard then, were in his mind. She doesn't speak. Perhaps, he wonders, she is regretful over how long he was alone. More likely, she has abandoned him. Frustrated with his insolence.
"As the boy is burned," Ichabod continues, preparing his stage whisper, "His skin disappearing to flames, devoured once more and forced to start anew; he cries, but the Whispers come... And they tell him: "Persevere, young one, just a little longer. If you do, your opportunity to escape shall come." And so he perseveres. As the boy is whipped, and his skin is carved with welts that will never heal... As the cloth on his back merges with skin and blood and muscle; he cries, but the Whispers come... And they tell him: "Bleed, young one, just a little longer. If you do, your opportunity for freedom shall come." And so he bleeds. As the boy's father holds his shoulders and submerges the boy in bathwater, and the boy's lungs burn with desperation for air, and he fights with all the might a starving, injured little boy can muster; he cries, and the Whisper comes... And they tell him: "You are a good child."
"The boy fights back for the first time. The man dies for the only time. And while the boy things only of escape, the Whispers remind him that there is more revenge to be had... Traitorous blood, black in his veins. A curse that needed to be cleansed.
"He first goes to his sister with hair like maize. She lays with a man because he is not good enough for her twin, and she screams at the boy to leave. The boy stands there, and she grabs the whip. But as she offers it to the man - a harder hand to knock the stupid out of the slave - it's enough time for the boy, instructed by Whispers, to wrap the cord of it around her neck with a force unknown to mortals. Her head falls off her shoulders, her worth gone just like--" He snaps his fingers, "That. The man is horrified, but only for a moment. Then, he is dead, too.
"Next the whispers guide him to the sister with hair like honey, and she is more prepared. Her magic is in hand, and she blows at him with a strong gust of wind: But his feet are rocks and do not budge; "You are rock," Tell the whispers. She blasts him with the chill of ice: But he is dry as a bone and the ice breezes through him; "You are soil," Tell the whispers. She strikes him with fire: But it only hardens him; "You are diamond," Tell the whispers. "You are not a slave," They affirm, and he rips her hair from her head with his hands, scalp and all, bit by bit. He revels in her screams, screams that echo just as well as her laugh."
He pauses now, allowing the story to settle on her ears before needing to wrap it up. He had never told this one aloud, of course. He had never wished to share it. But now, here, with a woman so like him and yet so distant... He wanted to. He wanted to know of her whispers as badly as he wanted her to know of his. He finished his tale with aplomb: "The boy knew some very bad people. But the Whispers were a force of good. They praised him... And since that time the boy - since that time I - have learned just what She is. And you see, this is how I know the Gods are not watching from afar, simply waiting on our deaths..." He closed any gap between them and gently tapped on her temple, "They're right here. Aren't they?"
Last Edit: Jan 7, 2017 22:30:38 GMT -7 by Ichabod Afof
The man insisted on a private show and she followed him into a nearby alley, somewhere dark but not too dark, perfect for a dark tale. The man made a motion that she should settle in, and she was comfortable standing while the man prepared his story. He said something then that didn't sound like part of a story or talking to her - mentioning not doing something in front of a guest - and she wondered again what kinds of whispers the man heard. They were not like her own, she was sure. Perhaps he was simply broken.
His story starts at the beginning, with a young child being cruelly beaten and taken advantage of by his family. He says the whispers came to him then, to help him through. To hold out, until one day breaking free. The boy kills his father, and then his sisters and a man. He discovers he is diamond, rock, soil. He said that the boy knew bad people, but the whispers were good. The whispers saved him. The whispers were God.
He moved to her then and said the Gods were not far away, they were right here. Her hand went to his at her temple and she gently moved it away. "My whispers are no god," she replied quietly, looking distant, ”and my story does not start at the beginning.
She put some space between the two of them before she spoke again. She was not a storyteller, and in truth she rarely spoke more than a few words to anyone but Harel. She knew no other way to tell a story, so she ended up emulating his style as she spoke.
”This story begins with a woman, broken in body and mind. She awakens in the deserts of Muerte with no past, and is found by a man who does not know who she is. Who does not know what she is. The first act the woman can remember is killing the man. His blood restores her, and his horse takes her far away.
The woman learns much about herself after the desert. She learns there are people who know her more than she knows herself, and she is approached by many who pay for her service. It seems killing was what the woman did even before she lost her past, and she slips back into the role smoothly.
The first time she hears the whispers is in a dream. They call her White, a name that is both hers and not hers. The whispers compel her to obey, but she does not know what, or who. The next time she hears the whispers her head splits and she falls, falls and doesn’t get up for a long time.
She is found again by a man, but this man knows who she is. He knows what she is. He brings her to the capital and says she works for him now, and orders her to kill many on his behalf. She is not compelled to obey the man but she does anyway, for she is a killer.
The whispers are not god, but they feel godlike. They come still in dreams, dreams that feel like memories. Memories out of reach. The woman does not know her past, but the whispers do.”
She didn’t have an ending to her story, for the story had not ended. She still knew nothing of the whispers, and the whispers had shown her nothing of her past.
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 12, 2017 23:04:27 GMT -7
She told her story, and it left Ichabod frustrated. First of all, it felt as though he had been robbed. What was the word he had heard passed around between bards? Plagiarism. He had been plagiarized. Sure, imitation could be a form of flattery, but when done so embarrassingly rough-shod, with no character, no excitement, no flair -- it was downright offensive. She could probably note his displeasure, his face twisting out of its usual grin to find itself in an unfamiliar position. A teeth-gritting scowl, his cheeks no longer full and rounded - in this position, it was almost like they were hollowed out caves.
The worse part of it was that there was no ending. There was no story without an ending, which meant what she had told him was not a tale of any sort. It was just... Words. Meaningless, fruitless words. If she was going to pretend to be interesting, and then leave him hanging, leave him disappointed, leave him without a climax? --Well, that was not going to do.
"Perhaps, White," His mouth tried out the name carefully, not quite seeing it in her. Her skin was pale, yes, she was albino. It was too on the nose, too boring. His name meant no glory, and he would do the opposite. That was ironic. Her's... Was plain. It left nothing to live up to, and nothing to conquer. She needed a new name. But first, an ending. His hand met his chin and he stroked it impatiently, "It ends with the woman coming face-to-face with her god. And she stands before it, bows before it and then... Two options. She submits to its will, and commits every sin as a righteous act for it. A paragon of its nihilistic virtue. This sets her as a warrior doomed to fall to the sands of time, a wasted life in service."
He considered his own life in service, and likely the Voice did, too. She would not be concerned, did not think she would have reason to. After all, she was in his head. But not all of his intentions were her's to read, or her's to control. Should he grow bored with her, he might find himself dealing with her himself. After all, a boy ought not rely on his mother all his life long.
"Option two... She strikes her god down. She uses the power she has found in her time absent from its will, and faces it with all the power and skills she has learned from this man. She rips from her god every power it holds -- and rises to godhood herself. More powerful than ever dreamed before. No longer the subject of whispers... But the whisper herself."
The man appeared angry, though she did not know why. Perhaps he thought her story wasn't up to par, and she would agree that she was no storyteller. He had asked, and she had given. It was only his own fault if he was displeased with the exchange.
The man called her 'White', like the whispers in her dream did, and she scowled. It felt wrong enough for the whispers to call her White, but it felt even more wrong for this man, this demon to do so. It was not her name. It was not who she was. If it ever had been, it wasn't anymore. The man was right though, in a way. He had gotten through her expressionless face eventually, though perhaps not how he anticipated.
The man produced two possible endings for her story - both included meeting her god, the man whose whispers filled her head. One had her submitting to it, obeying its commands as she obeyed the commands of Elias Harel, doomed to a wasted life in service. The other ending had her striking it down, moving beyond and rising above it, perhaps even to become a god herself. Sabela had no godly aspirations, and even though her life was already committed to servitude she was happy enough. Her service was only to do that which she would do anyway - take lives for personal gain. Perhaps one day she would meet her god, her whisper in the night, and perhaps she would submit to it or perhaps she would rise above it, but regardless of which occurred she may very well spend her life in service to another. She did not think it such a bad thing.
"Whatever the whispers say," she began, closing the distance between the demon and herself, pushing him back against the wall of the alley and wrapping her fingers around his neck, "White is not who I am, and that is not my path to follow. Perhaps the story ends without answers. Perhaps the whispers were never even real. Perhaps the demon would have to look elsewhere for a story that could satisfy his appetite." She bit the last word off harshly and pulled back, raising her hood and casting her face in shadow. "Goodnight, to you and your God both." She was finished here, with him and his whispers. When she left it was to walk further down the alley, away from the street from where they had come, and she was quickly swallowed by shadows.
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ooc: I made some assumptions, so if there's anything you don't like please let me know and I will modify it
Post by Ichabod Afof on Jan 15, 2017 13:32:37 GMT -7
Her hand around his neck made him tingle, her threats falling on excitable ears. He met her gaze with a glinting mischevousness that her blank, stolid ones likely could never imagine. But - that didn't mean she was boring. No, she had given him exactly what he had wanted. When she pulled her hand from his throat, it was almost a disappointment - a tease like her story had been. She was not one for follow-through.
By the time she had disappeared into the shadows, Ichabod was laughing. "Did I say something to offend?" He chuckled, going the opposite way down the alley, back to where she had left a man without blood. Back to where he would enjoy a meal before carrying on with the voice's tasks. He hoped that White would find an ending worth telling of. Until then, he'd happily retell her story as his own - with a proper ending.
The skin OTHERWORLD was made by JAWN of WICKED WONDERLAND.
FORTUNA-RPG was created by MELLIE. Images belong to their respective artists. All codes and scripts belong to their respective coders. Please DO NOT take anything without the owners' permission.
