Thebes Roleplay


Disclaimer: These forums tend to get used for trash-talking early on by whatever alliance comes out the gates hard by setting everyone red. Then it dies down while everyone else talks trash about that first alliance being not as great as they made themselves out to be. Then the externals just die in general, as nobody really has anything more to say. Alliance leaders reign in their rogue members. The cocky individuals get bored and move on to the next server to repeat the process. This thread is not meant to continue that cycle. These are in-character stories based on actual server events. They are not unbias, nor are they meant to be. Aside from certain artistic liberties that must be taken, they are honest. Actual players may be included, and likely will. I’m not asking for permission, but if you genuinely do not want the depiction of your character to be included, you may message me and I’ll entertain the thought. The story itself is inspired by a few characters and events from the book series, The Black Company, by Glen Cook. If you’re looking for some gritty fantasy without an overwhelming amount of worldbuilding, I highly recommend it.

I. Atrocity

The door to the tomb lay broken on the ground. Dead grass surrounded the broken door, radiating outward like the impact of a meteor. This too, pleased us.

It is here that our story begins, for it has been very long since we’ve had a hero worth singing about. The breaking of the tomb, the forthcoming atrocity; it has awakened us.

Let us peer closer, shall we? Let us glide upon the air and slink into this dark cavernous tomb. The dust is thick in the air, yet we may pass through just fine. The darkness around us conceals the carnage from most, but not us. For we revel in it.

The bones of the Forvalaka, werepanthers of the forgotten past, lay arranged in intricate patterns on the floor of the tomb. Fifty of them were entombed here, captured by the greatest sorcerers of a thousand generations. For two hundred years they tried to survive among themselves, until the hunger, the need to consume the flesh of the living, caused them to fight amongst each other. Only one would survive. The strongest among them. The maddest among them. And now…

There were foosteps at the door. A Spartan Warrior, known only by his identifying catalog as R2535 peered into the tomb, a hand covering his face as he coughed.

“The hell happened here,” he spoke into the darkness.

Humored, we allow ourselves to drift in closer to this soldier of a ragtag army. We ride the dust, allowing it to carry us into his nostrils, into his lungs, examining just what this man is made of.

He coughs again, and we are expelled. We smile. Can we smile? With this thought, we remember that our introduction has not yet been made. Of course, we are known. That much is true. Every soul will someday experience the rancid taste of us on their lips. For we are as certain as taxes.

We are death, the innumerable, the unfathomable. We drift from place to place, observing, feasting. We may ride along the hairs of a disease-carrying rat or dance in the flames of an inferno. Sometimes, we can be glimped in the eyes of a jealous lover.

But today, today we have found our hero. We rejoice as the tomb has been unsealed and the last living forvalaka has been set loose upon the world.

From behind the soldier, a voice breaks the silence.

“Seal it back up. Find whatever it is that escaped, and report back to me.” The voice came from the boss, as his soldiers called him. The head of the Spartan Warriors, he’s more of a bureaucrat than a general.

“Do you think he’s responsible for the town?” R2535 asked, inquisitively.

Boss shrugged his shoulders, his mind already occupied on the next task. Whether that task is military advancement or a visit to the local brothel, it remains to be seen.

But the town… this interests us. Already on the winds, our dear friends the crows have sung their celebratory song. Let us follow this sound, let us... drift down the road to the town. In the air, the scent of lilac can be recognized from the gardens lining each side of the main road. But with it, the sourness of decomposing flesh.

The town is dead. Such an atrocity, we have not witnessed in quite some time. We will take a moment here to revel in it. A hundred corpses lay exposed in the street, the carrions feasting on their eyes and innards.

It was calculated and horrible. The rending of flesh obviously the work of an animal, but the attention to detail was intelligent; the work of a madman.

The Spartan Warriors wished to contain this beast, it would seem. To tame it or harness it? Already, the future seems to be written in blood. And with this, we rejoice. For we are death, and a massacre is quickly approaching.
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II. Brutality

The sun begins to rise over the expanse of flat ocean. Slowly, the residents of the town begin to emerge from their homes, now that the night has gone. The darkness had been full of misery, with frightened otherworldly cries echoing throughout the streets at times. The previous day had been rowdy. Debates and boasts over the prowess of this army, or that. But as the day had slipped away, the population was gripped in terror. Windows were shuttered and doors latched. A beast dragged its claws across the cobblestone streets.

But now it is daylight. Let us take this moment to view our surroundings. Beyond this nameless city, let us drift away and look upon the stage where our drama has begun to unfold.

Every good story deserves its villain. Unfortunately, in most cases the villain is a poor caricature of itself, and this story proves no different. At the center of the world we have the evil empire, or so people would believe. This army which takes on an aspect of our own nature, is not what it seems. They characterize themselves as a rigor mortis upon the land, of conquerors with bloody swords and a love for death. In truth, they hold no love for us and do us no favors. Their conquers are decreed upon letterhead with calligraphy that would impress kings. They are only conquerors of birthright, where they wish to claim an inheritance neither earned, nor attainable.

“We wish to inform you that tomorrow, you shall be evicted from your homes along with any allegiances you hold to others.”

The handbill blows down the street, ignored by the residents, for they know that one cannot rule by law and decree alone. The armies of Mortis are weak, led by misguided generals who have grown fat with the spoils of their oppression. Like children, they wear the masks depicting death, but hesitate in the presence of war.

Alas, the tyranny of the Mortis empire is not unanswered. Ready to point out the stuffed bellies of the generals is the cult of the human body, shamers of all that is imperfect about the human form. Their church is the streets, where there is no hesitation about stringing up the guilty by their necks, displaying their ugly forms for all to see.

This cult is found primarily in the east, but their reach and aspirations are far. Like Mortis, they are driven to achieve world dominance. Unlike Mortis, they are not hindered by the gluttony of this world. As death, we smile upon this cult. With every misshapen corpse they raise, sometimes by high-tension cables to support the girth, they draw one step closer to liberating mankind from its slothful nature.

There are others. There are purveyors of priceless antiquities to the north, seeking wealth and riches wherever they may be found. Lurking nearby are the angels, masters of time itself, whose precision and aim may be influenced by forces outside this world. There is the elven kingdom in the south-west, who pride themselves of magnificent structures, yet fail to even lift a sword to protect their lands. There are the shapeshifters of the south, namechangers whose identity resides in their ability to adapt like chameleons. Their neighbors, fanciful men who wear flamboyant tights and live for their remarkable theatre stageplays and drama.

From horizon to horizon, there are warriors ready to spill blood, whether it be others or their own. By the sword or fire, it all serves us.

Take joy, we shall. Ecstatic, we drift upon the smoke of the coming war and eagerly await the reward it brings.
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now thats funny
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