Fallen World (Mature, Dark)

Out there lie the infinite planes, turning forever in a cosmic dance to a tune noone can hear. Out there, connecting all planes, Sigil gleams and reeks in the center of all things. Out there are wonders and horrors beyond imagining, Angels, Demons, Gods. But here... Here are no Angels, and the only God left within our sphere lies dead and eternally rotting. There is no lack of horrors here, for the world is rich and full of life.

A great war among the gods nearly destroyed the world in ages far gone and threw down the greatest of their number to the earth where his corpse still lies seeping life and power into the twisted creatures that feed upon him. The remaining pantheon, wounded, weakened and horrified at what they had done both to themselves and their creation vowed to set themselves apart from their bone of contention and never again interfere in its affairs. Unable to break their vow they now look on in impotent rage as the world is raped.

The world healed and the gears turned. Patient beings looked on greedily awaiting the time to strike, manipulating events from afar. They had no easy task for the gods had raised walls to protect the world when they swore their vows, but all walls weaken in time and barriers that had been erected to fend off intruders from the outside could still be eroded from within. In the end a whisper was enough, a promise of power and bliss. Feeble or powerful, few men could have resisted that promise from that voice. The promise was kept, and the Artificer of Ogaan has been well rewarded for his crime.

They came trough his portal, the Demon-lord Xileg clad in the flesh of scorpions, his consort the Succubus sorceress Love, the Horde Mistress and Marilith Yangava, Ingarr the Master of Balors, the Fiendish human Wizard Cormand and his half-human apprentices Ilva and Kio, the Trembling One, the Wormkeeper, Zarakhar, Valorash, The Creeper, Qagroth, The Vile, Geron, The Fleshcrafter, The Laughing Zephyr, Mersam, The Lady of Flowers, Ubilith, and a screaming torrent, an endless army of demons.

The world fell, for though the nations and powers of the world fought back they were soon overwhelmed. And when the angels came, called by the remaining priests of the Rotting God Lord Xileg was well prepared. The spell that slew him even as he carved his way trough his celestial foes came from another source and his body was consumed along with his enemies.

A triumvirate of Lords took over, but only helped to cause a civil war. The home, an infinite fraction of an infinite plane, was lost. And yet the war raged for nine years before a new order arose. The greatest of the Lords and Ladies divided the world and its souls into their domains and joined into a council to rule each other and coordinate their efforts against common threaths and the few remaining enclaves of unconquered mortals.

This is the world, your world, and there is no escape. The walls around the world are still too strong for you to break trough and death only leads to deeper damnation for the Demonlords have made their mark deep into their domains and the souls of the dead are theirs. The mortal enclaves are far from safe, in time their doom is assured. But you do not have the good luck to be living there.

Fortunately the Lords have need of competent mortal servants, and it's quite possible to live a good enough life for the few who are able to keep their favour. While most of humanity and goblinkind live in great sprawling urban slums kept fed by undead labour until their death brings in the harvest you have the potential for greater things.

You all know this, though it's spoken of in infinite variation, elaboration and brevity. You all know this and you all, in your own ways, misunderstand it. There is no one truth is this demonic world.
20 years have passed, and half a billion souls have passed into demonic hands, half a billion more have been born. 25 Lords, demonic and human, have become 13 and yet the sum of their power is as great as ever. Humanity, accepting the inevitable, have begun to adapt. There is peace between the Lords, as great a peace as Demons desire, and so their wars are fought in the shadows or by proxy. The Council of Lords keeps the world united even as it tares itself apart, keeping the realms of the dead Lords under its central administration and dividing their proceeds as the ever shifting power dictates. You all know this, and most of you have thrived from this in your own ways. For this is your world.



Lords and Domains
ooc: more to come.

1

2 - Ramengres
Lord - Ingarr (the Master of Balors), Balor Blackguard/Frenzied Berserker
3

4

5 - Ijainvaa
Lady - Yangava (the Hordemistress), Marilith Weaponmaster/Marshal,
6

7

8

9

10

11 - Supresa
Lord - Avos Ignatius (aka The Artificer of Ogaan, aka the traitor), Human Wizard/Artificer/Loremaster

The Artificer of Ogaan, aka the traitor, aka Avos Ignatius, rules his old home-land of Supresa (an area the size of France with 25 million souls) with an iron fist and near diabolical organisation. A specialist of magical creation, both of items and twisted creatures he treats his domain as a source of raw materials but takes care not to deplete his stock. Because of an ambitions education programme Supresa is the world's center of the production of magical items and is probably the country in the world that is richest in gold.
The Artificer was one of the Lords who contributed to the erection of the Towers of Life and as such reaps a large share of their harvest to fuel his ever-increasing need for souls.


12

13

14

15

16

17

18 - Samnath
Lady - Love, Succubus epic Sorceress/?

19 - Decay
Lady? - The Lady of Flowers, ???

20 - The Burning Mountains

21 - Shalang

22 - Lomi'ki

23 - The Blackranges

24 - Kalesh
Lord - Derek Cormand, Fiendish Human Wizard/Archmage

Cormand, fiendish a human from the abyss, and one of the consorts of the Succubus Lady Love seems to be deep under her sway, but perceptions can be deceptive. His domain, an area of deserts the size and shape of the Sahara is poor in souls but rich in ores, even of the rarest kind. Still, Kalesh is considered the weakest of the ordered domains and Cormand, lacking a reserve of soul-components to fuel his epic spells that comes close to most others of the spellcasting Lords is wise to ally himself closely to those who are stronger than himself. Because of his apparent poverty in Souls few demons follow him, but he holds great powers over the undead.
Of his two epic apprentices only Ilva remains, but her wereabouts are unknown.

25 - Vimik
Lord - Abarim,

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Ysande.

You were forced to leave the beautiful and cultured Golden Hills district and the court of Samnath's Lady Love due to, well let's call it an unfortunate turn of events. With the aid of your ever faithful ally Kaj and your occasional lover, rival and friend the Incubus Giovanni you made a narrow escape, leaving some of your enemies humiliated and others triumphant. Ijvainvaa may not have been the ideal destination for your flight, but judging from what you know of the local Lady the Marilith Yangava and her relations with the Lady Love it's probably as safe a place as any.
Due to your own reputation and aided by Giovannis surprising influences in the militaristic court of Ijainvaa you have managed to find a high place in Yangava's employ. She is one of the greater Lords, to your knowlege, as great as Lady Love but as different from her as night is to day. Devious, yes, her reputation bespeaks her military genious, but forthright and deliberate in her manners. There is intrigue in her court, but she appears to be above it. Giovanni assures you it is a place you can thrive, and though you know he is trying to use you for his own purposes you seem to lack any better alternatives for the moment. Besides, your occasional use of eachothers have for the most part in the past been pleasant to say the least.

You have been summoned, an hour from now, for an audience with the Lady Yangava, Lady of Ijainvaa, third in the Council, The Hordemistress, The Ravager of Cel-candon, The Slayer of the Dragons, Avenger of Xileg and Protectress of the Fifth Tower (and a dozen other titles stemming from the Abyss). It is a high honour, but a deadly one.

ooc: You did write that she had demonic lovers , hope you don't mind.



Sir William

Your Father is a powerful man. In his own regard he's the most powerful human being in the world, and he's not far wrong. It wouldn't be difficult for him to find you if you lacked the protection of powerful allies. Fortunately, because of what you are, there are many who would aid you. Not that the legitimate rights of an heir counts for much among the Lords, but it is one weapon among many. And why leave a weapon unused? You are valuable, and that is both a blessing and a curse.
Elendarion, the capital of Ijainvaa, a sprawling slum dotted with the crystal ruins of elven civilization, populated by goblins and humans and plagued by undead and demons, may not be a plesant place to stay but as safe as any other. There is evil here to fight, there is always evil to fight, but at least the place seems less chaotic than many other demonic realms. There is a military order here, struggling endlessly against its own chaos, that at the very least is a small relief for you. Yangava, the Lady of the domain, seems to do her job as well as could be expected. Thank the gods for small blessings... The Lady Yangava is known for her enmity with your father and his patroness the Lady Love, their agents are unlikely to be welcome here.

The day is hot, the sun grows unbearable, so you seek the shade and drink of the first bar you see that doesn't use severed bodyparts as a sign. The laughing Wrock, named for the petrified demon by the door seems peaceful and clean enough.



Mystic

You have come a long way in your search for knowlege only to end up back in the city of your birth. It is not an unwelcome sight and though you'd perhaps like to see your childhood in a nostalgic light you cannot say wether the changes wrought while you were away have been for the better or for worse. At least the fires no longer rage in Elendarion, at least the people no longer seem as desperate, though the desperation seems to have given way to resignation. Violence still flares in the streets, but nothing like the chaos in the years following the civil war. Even the demons seem more controlled, the less ambitions kinds kept sated and comfortable by the Towers of Life... The implications of that thought may disturb you for a moment, but it's a familiar threat by now.
You make your way to the library, a familiar building of elven elegance but expanded with some hideous demonic abstraction of a wing. After arguing and bribing your way around the obnoxious Nalfeshnee head-librarian you spend some time bent over the ancient tomes of your craft but finding little of value you leave.

For a time you wander, watchful yet deep in thought as you rediscover the city. A familiar sign catches your eye, a petrified Wrock with a hilarious and vicious expression on its beaked face. You once had a friend, or maybe more of an aquaintance, who owned this bar and you spent some time here in your youth when you wanted to hide from the world. It's a warm day and you are thirsty. Maybe it would be interesting to get a closer look...


ooc: I'll introduce the other characters once they're in the RG (That's not really why I didn't do it now, I'm just too tired, but the inconvenience of looking elsewhere for them and the uncertainty wether their backgrounds are completed the way you'd like them plays a part). I'm thinking we'll have two parties that will merge into one not too far down the line. It makes it easier for your characters to get to know each others (six people (with cohorts familiars and mounts) all meeting at once always leaves some of them in the shadow).

Mystic decides to enter the bar of his old friend, as he is indeed thirsty, and would like to see how his friend is getting on. While he does not partake of alcohol, he does not condemn those who do.

OOC: Woo! First post!

ooc: I don't mind a bit! At least you had the mercy to match her up with an incubus for now instead of a Nalfeshnee or somesuch.


Ysande lies back languidly in the hot, perfumed water of her bath, letting out a deep sigh of relaxation. She closes her eyes and allows herself to drift off for a moment. She had been somewhat afraid that Yangava's military court would be something of a culture shock after the decadence with which Lady Love surrounded herself. She needn't have worried too much - Yangava herself may be just as fearsome and warlike as the stories paint her, but she's still surrounded by the same circles of advisers, ambassadors and hangers-on. And those circles enjoy their creature comforts. So even if the overall atmosphere isn't quite as refined and cultured as the Golden Hills, it's still possible to live in a decent fashion.

An hour... one hour to prepare herself to face the Hordemistress in person. The marilith warlord had a score of titles that Ysande could recite, and all of them related to her martial prowess and merciless efficiency.

Opening her eyes, Ysande rises from her bath and takes a fluffy towel from the rail on the wall. Drying herself as she goes, she opens the door to her bed chamber and enters. Kaj is seated on the bed, reading. His eyes flash up as she enters and follow her appreciatively as she makes her way across the room to stand in front of the full-length looking glass. She flashes him a smile, and then turns her attention to her reflection in the mirror. Discarding the towel, her eyes run critically over her alabaster skin from head to toe, searching for any unsightly blemishes or flaws.

"You look incredible," Kaj rumbles from behind her, moving up to lay his hands gently on her shoulders and massage them gently, the points of his claws tracing lightly across her skin.

She meets his eyes in the mirror with a wry smile. It makes a good picture, she thinks to herself. Her complexion highlighted against his dark skin, his bulk making her look like a porcelain miniature of herself.

"Of course," she laughs, her hands reaching up to clasp his and draw them around her body. "But you know I have no time to play around. Brush my hair, if you like."

The half-fiend gives her a rueful look and then withdraws to fetch a brush. She seats herself on the velvet cushion of a small stool and watches him intently as he comes back and starts to gather up her long, flame-red hair and patiently brush it out to a lustrous sheen.

Canthan

A black sun shines a violet light onto a landscape carved from madness. Shapeless beings devour eachothers as they slowly recreate themselves, throbbing with obscene beauty. A billion tiny paradoxes take place beneath your eyes as time unfolds discontinuously. In your waking dream you blub gleefully as the smell of corruption reaches your nose. And there, emerging from the stench, a body lies, greater than any giant and with the perfection of divinity. The Rotting God, pure and untainted in this place, turns his head to you and speaks...
"Wake up you drooling lunatic. Wake up or raise the ire of the Great One." the voice is nasal, feminine and cruel in a petty way, not the voice you would expect from the God. A tiny hand snaps its fingers in front of your face and the quasit squeeks as you turn your attention to it. "You must get ready for the appointment. The Lady Yangava will not wait for you, and you can not look like that in her precense." You take in the chamber around you, a comfortable private room in the palace, decorated for the human taste. A guest-chamber, you suddenly recall. Your guest-chamber.
Your researches have led you here, to this ancient elven city of Elendarion. You have strong reasons to assume that an important piece of the puzzle is hidden somewhere in this city, but without the support of the local Lord you are unlikely to ba able to uncover anything. Most Lords keep a firm iron fist around their domains, but Yangava have six. Though you hope the purpose of your search shall elude her much could be gained by securing her approval. And if she wants some favours in return, well, you've never been afraid to get your hands dirty.
"You have one hour. One." The tiny fiend underlines its proclamation with a dramatic slash of its tail and winks out of sight.

“One hour.” Canthan cocks his head to the side as if contemplating the measure of time. He puts his fingers to his lips and softly strokes them before smiling. “Yes I recall it all now. I must remain focused on the task at hand” Canthan half whispers to himself as he looks about his room. He walks over to his bath and gingerly fans the water with the back of his hand, “Cold. I did not request a cold bath. I must see that they understand I wish warm bathes to be drawn. This is the second cold bathe they have drawn. Don’t they understand the meaning of warm.”

Casually undressing, he begins tracing his fingers over the runes covering his flesh as the clothes fall away. Lowering himself into the bathe, his pale complexion seems to meld with the white of the basin, “Transmutation magic at work.” He says chuckling to himself as he begins washing up. His curly hair become matted. Dark streaks seemingly cut across his face in a jagged fashion, as the curls spread outward in the bath water like octopus tentacles reaching for a meal , “I am a spirit, exiled from the deep blue, come to rain havoc upon your pitiful realm. Prepare to be eaten mortal.”

Once finished with the bathe, Canthan stands, his slim form shedding water like a thunderhead. While toweling, he begins addressing the chair in the room “One hour, such an eternity, 60 minutes, 3600 seconds, its all a matter of perspective. What is time but the passage of a single moment broken down into its component parts, rearranged in an fashion to comprehend the fleeting immensity of itself.” He turns his head as if listening to a voice at the edge of hearing and smiles, “ I have yet to be proven otherwise. I am wrong when you can prove the concept otherwise it is just conjecture. ” He ends the statement by throwing the towel into the chair.

“I have no time for the niceties of a discussion . I have to stay focused for I must meet the hordemistress in an hour. An hour, 60 minutes, 3600 seconds, you remember don’t you. What shall I wear for the hordemistress? Yes, this will do nicely, not too elegant, yet it speaks of class. I will have to see that tailor again when I request another clothing component for a meeting with the mistress. See I hardly needed any time at all. Now what shall I do with my hair? Where are the scented oils? Yes this will do quite nicely. This should keep the dreaded locks from claiming another victim.” He finishes with a smile.

Big Ironmaul

It had been a raid like any other in the slowly simmering war between the Lords. A squadron under Glabrezu command, a couple of Hezrou bruisers, Babau asassins and the usual batch of scum, mortal and undead mercenaries. A raid, a couple of villages burned, and the whole damn thing gone to hell. They, the faceless beings who had sent you off working for an unknown master, must have intended it all as a move in the game, a way to harm one enemy while implicating another for the trespass. They had sent you all off to die after revealing your false master under torture, the master only the demons must have been deluded into thinking you were following.
The Glabrezu died first of all, withered to an empty husk by a swarm of wraiths bound to the temple as a trap. One of the Hezrous followed, and the other one teleported off with most of his commander's gear, while hostile demons teleported in all around the shrine. The battle was short and brutal, leaving most of your allies dead the demons fled and you in captivity. You were tortured, violated and then tortured some more before your captors were satisfied with your ignorance and conscripted you into the service of a new master.

The cell is cold and dark, but you are used to worse and can barely smell the stench anymore. The food is good enough, though you're perhaps better off not thinking too much about the source of the meat. You're healing, and that's a good sign.
You hear keys rattling in the door and tense up for a moment. The light that shines in trough the opening door is blinding but you can make out the outline of a bent old man. "Damn, you sure are BIG ain't ya boy? Guess you'd have to be to fit into this stuff." He throws a sack to the floor beside you. "Get dressed and come with me. It's time to pay your debt to society." He laughs quietly and bitterly to himself, then spits on the floor.

ooc: Sorry about taking you for a ride, but you're really no worse off than the other characters in the palace. It's just a grittier beginning for a grittier character.

Big rose to his feet grimacing sourly as pain flashed through his body. But the torturers had been very careful to do no lasting harm to him and things were looking up he thought catching a glimpse of glittering mithril out of the heavy sack the man had just dropped. And whatever drugs they had been hiding in the food had finally stopped allowing him to focus enough to use the natural powers of his mind that he had trained over the years.

"Thanks for my gear back it was getting a little uncomfortable in here." He murmered to the shadow as he scooped up the bag and started getting suited up. He carefully tugged the razor edged and spiked mithril plate on, kissed the immense blade of his heavy war axe, restrung the spider silk bow string on his steel reinforced great bow, and finally quickly but carefully went through the non-descript bag of holding to check that his supplies were in order.

These tasks done he went out the door following the bent old man.

---
[sblock=ooc]
I've rewritten this to account for getting my gear back instead of rags [/sblock]

William ordered his drink and sat at a table, his back to a wall but not in a corner. He was aged well beyond his 24 years, his long silver hair a stark contrast to the darkness around him, and accenting his dark gray robes. He kept an eye on all who entered, but made no move to interact with anybody. He wasn't on any particular mission at the moment, merely hiding and waiting. And if any of his father's servants DID managed to find him here.. well, he was willing to bet the Lady wouldn't mind if a few interlopers from a rival lord died in a bar-fight.

He sipped on his drink, glancing around and using his innate ability to determine the inherent sins of the patrons(Detect Evil).. though even when one wasn't so sinful that they glowed in his minds eye, that didn't mean they were necesarily a GOOD person.. just a bit less likely to stab him in his sleep, and right now what he needed was to find someone he could trust. He'd gotten about as far as he could by himself. If he was going to eventually topple his father's corruption (And maybe more beyond that.. though that time was too distant to even contemplate now), he had to start somewhere, and have others on his side. Might as well start here.

Aeryk Voss

You know you must have shaken off their pursuit by now, or they would already have caught you. A slit throat here, a poisoned arrow there, a bit of sneaksmanship and a lot of legwork and they must have decided you were not worth the cost. Being on the other side of the world couldn't hurt either. You know little about this place, but you know enough. Trust noone, that's a good enough rule wherever you go in this world. The ruins that dot the urban landscape, the grand and beautiful shattered elven towers are a good enough reminder of the price of complacency and trust.
Still, survival is not enough. Not when survival must eventually end. The only way to find some safety is to get ahead in the world, but getting ahead only makes you more enemies. The Lords themselves are hardly safe. In twenty years half of them have been killed, their souls devoured and their memories already fading.
You are interrupted in your thoughts by a sudden intuitive sense of danger. In the corner of your eye you get a glimpse of something, someone you have seen before. And there another one. Black clad figures shadowing you on paralell streets, doubtless with more of them behind you. Without letting them see that you're aware of them you walk on, looking for a way out. Invisibility won't help you, and your disguise isn't worth much, you know enough about their capabilities to know that. Maybe you could fight them, but not here in the open.
The sight of the Vrock, laughing sadistically by a doorway to the right, phases you for a moment before you realise it is petrified. You spot a movement to your left and know your reaction must have told them that they were discovered. Cursing you duck for cover and crash in trough the door of the Laughing Vrock. Surprised heads turn to look at you before the hands begin to go for their weapons.
"I've payed my taxes, boy." speaks the man who must be the bartender, "Start any trouble and I'll get the demons here faster than you can blink."


Mystic

You find your old friend Jorin still behind the same old counter, a little the worse for wear just like the bar but his grin when he sees your face is just like old times. "Damn kid, looks like you've done well for yourself. I haven't seen that much magic on a human since the quiet guy over there." he nods his head towards the fellow further down the bar. "But before that it was a long time ago. Say, what have you been up to? But perhaps we're all better off if you dont. A man has to make a living, let's leave it at that."
"So, what can I get you? You still got that thing about alcohol? I've got an opium draught straight from Shalang that will get you as close to heaven as any of us are likely to get, and an antidote to keep the stuff from getting too addictive. Pure. Half the eastern world swears by the stuff." He smiles, a little too brightly. And then the door slams open and a nondescript man tumbles in, cursing to himself.
Jorin's manner changes abruptly, his eyes harden like flint and he pulls a vicious looking axe out from under the counter. "I've payed my taxes, boy. Start any trouble and I'll get the demons here faster than you can blink."


Windwalker

ooc: You've heard little of the barkeeper's conversation with the top-hat but can tell he is lying about being able to get the demons here that fast or possibly at all. (sense motive) You know that most of the people in the bar are evil, including the barkeeper and the gate-crasher (but not the man in the top hat), but not to a demonic degree.


Initiative: (If it comes to fighting)

Aeryk: +15
Canthan: +12
Barkeep: +11
Random patrons (6): +7
Windwalker: +6

Bad Guys ?-?: +?

He must have been seen by a snitch somewhere along the way... Whatever the case he had made an error and now someone was going to pay. Chances are these are rookies, trying to move up the preverbially ladder. Just wait they will make an error and then they'll die!

Into a tavern this should prove interesting!

"Hold your tongue and that axe barkeep! You may have need of it soon enough..." Aeryk slides to the left of the entrance with his back to the wall. Palming his dagger to avoid startling the clients of the tavern, he looks about the room. If its going to happen here he best know his surroundings and if they were brash enough to use the front door he would bury them.

[sblock=OOC]Ready an action to attack if his assailants enter via the front door.[/sblock]