Vices and Virtues <SIGN UP AND OOC>

Damn i just spent an age writing an intro to find the new boards destroyed it, i will put it back up in a second.

This will be a new story, the sign up thread will become an OOC once the sign-up is done and i have started the IC thread.

Introduction.

In the beginning as in many beginnings was Chaos, and the Chaos had faces. The faces were Sin. These Vices ravaged and influenced the races that were emerging across this land and none held sway but them,

The face of Wrath was Ira, and it made the people war amongst themselves,
The face of Lust was Luxuria, and it made the people wanton,
The face of Gluttony was Gula, and it made the people devour,
The face of Greed was Avaritia, and it made the people hoard,
The face of Envy was Invidia, and the people wanted more,
The face of Pride was Superbia, and the people could not be swayed,
The face of Sloth was Acedia, and the people didn’t care.

The Vices took the peoples and almost reduced the world to ash, the peoples diminished, the land scorched, the sea poisoned and the sky blackened. Almost all was lost, and the remaining people had nothing left. Looking inward, all that remained was hope, and in that hope the people found strength and the Virtues were born.

The face of Patience was Patientia, and it brought the people peace,
The face of Chastity was Castitas, and it brought the people purity,
The face of Temperence was Temperare, and it brought the people moderation,
The face of Charity was Caritas, and it brought the people generosity,
The face of Kindness was Humanitas, and it brought the people satisfaction,
The face of Humility was Humilitus, and it brought the people modesty
The face of Diligence was Industria, and it brought the people the persistence to change.

From the brink the world and the people in it were brought back by the strength of the Virtues, and the world became saved. As order was brought to the Chaos the Vices were pushed back and sealed away and the people healed from the wounds caused as the world healed around them.

However as that which was sealed away became forgotten, so were the lessons learned from the past. As time passed, and the world returned to a normalcy people forgot the virtues, and the people once more let Vices into their hearts and the seals began to weaken.

The seals must not be allowed to break, or the Vices will again be made flesh and rip through the land once more. If the Vices are released, anyone who succumbs to a vice, even for a moment will be overrun, and become nothing more than a plaything, a puppet for these malevolent Gods.

Few now remain who even remember this story, let alone where the seals are or how fragile they have since become. Only those who truly embody the Virtues will have the strength to find them, and even then they will need to harness strength undreamed of to be able to repair the seals or imprison the Vices once again.


OOC: so what do you guys think? I see it set in a ‘traditional’ fantasy setting, blades and bows, powders and potions, magics in the form of glamours and tricks only please because the Virtues will bestow gifts on their ambassador. I hoping to get one person affiliated with each virtue.

Anyone interested?

Shout if you are, simple sign up.

Name, age, appearance, equipment, Virtue associated with. And any information or background you think would be important.

Also shout any questions and I will add some more if theres some interest.

OOC: heres another little bit, to add more flavour to the story. I hope you enjoy.

IC:

Chapter 1: THE RISE OF ENVY.

Corala sat and looked at her twin Sophia, the same red hair with just a touch of purple highlighting it. She also had the same Ice blue eyes, the high cheekbones and the mouth slightly upturned giving that hint of mischief when they smiled. Corola and Sophia were identical, even their parents had trouble distinguishing them, despite the fact they were now both young women of twenty-three years.
Corala was the elder of the two by a full five minutes, and she was convinced her younger sister was prettier, more loved and more popular than she. Though Corala didn’t often let is show, this slight bitterness had left the girl with a darker disposition than her sister.
Un-noticed by all save her twin, who couldn’t fathom the problem, Corala’s jealousy had festered until it was all she could think about. Watching her sister return home from an errand that she had refused, Corala’s jealousy came to a head. As Sophia bounded up the stairs to speak to her sister, Corala’s hads clenched into fists, she wanted to be prettier, she wanted to be better, she wanted to be her…
Sophia stood in the doorway and looked shocked at the sadness on her sisters face. Corala looked up, a tear from each eye running down her cheeks as she saw her sister looking at her, full of concern. Corala wanted her sisters nature, her heart and soul.

SHE WANTED TO BE HER.

There was a shattering crack, and a flash of green light. As Corala opened her eyes she looked upon her own face, a face full of shock. Sophia looked out from her sisters eyes, seeing her face before her go from shock to a joy. It all seemed strangely surreal, seeing her own face but instead of her own ice blue eyes she was seeing a pair of poisonous green ones.
Corala smiled as she realised what had occurred, she had swapped places with Sophia, she had become her, for one blissful moment she believed she was happy. A splitting pain ripped through Corala’s head and her new face contorted into a grimace, and she fell to her knees with a high-pitched shriek. The pain overtook Corala as Invidia used the naïve girl’s jealousy as a gateway to crawl back into the world. Flesh again and no longer held by the seal Invidia enveloped the girl’s consciousness, feeding off her jealousy as she took control of the body and stood.
She looked at the pretty girl before her, absorbing Corala’s memories she knew it to be her twin. Envious of the girl before her as was Invidia’s nature, she first took the necklace the girl was wearing (wanting it for her own) then grabbed her ‘sister’ and dragged her by her hair out of the house they lived in. Invidia looked out over the world through her poisonous green eyes, she wanted it all, and it would be hers.

The Vices were rising again and there was much to be done.

OOC: If anyone is reading this but cant join, i will continue writing it as a story if peeps are interested, and want to keep reading it.

Shout if you want more.

Not very good RPer but the story sounds good...

Please continue :)

OOC: Cheers i think Zarky, heres some more anyway.

IC:

The Ascendence of Wrath

“Ha ha, get up you little scruff”

Janca rubbed the dust out of his eyes, looking up at the person who had pushed him over into the grit, Roca was two years older and those two years made much different. Roca was turning into a man, where Janca was still very much a boy, and a little one at that. Roca had always been one of the bigger children in the village and his entry into adolescence had made the other children look up to him.

The world has long known that power corrupts, and Roca’s new found fame had made him leader of a ‘gang’ of the local children and turned him into a bully in order to keep his place. Roca’s sights had quickly been set on to Janca, quiet, small and vulnerable, Janca had become Roca’s target of choice these past weeks.

Janca wiped his face and turned to slink away when he felt a hand on his shoulder, it spun him round and he was face to chest with Roca again.

“Im not done with you yet, shrimp”

Janca looked up into Roca’s face and felt the anger well up within him, he was tired of being pushed around, being picked on for no reason. He tried not to let any tears show, but the strain on his face was obvious. Roca’s gang saw the trembling lip and they started to laugh. Janca glared furiously at the crowd of people, they followed him like sheep, taking it upon themselves to pick on Janca just because Roca had chosen to.

The anger welled up within Janca, his hands clenched into fists as the red mists decended, he was angry at Roca for picking on him, angry at his gang for following, angry at himself for being the smallest, angry at his parents for bringing him into this world that caused him nothing but pain and ridicule, angry at the world for being what it was, Janca threw a punch.

CRACK.

Janca opened his eyes upon hearing the crowd gasp, the anger not subsiding after the initial exploding as it usually did. Roca lay in a crumpled heap some ten feet away from Janca, his gang were staring at Janca with wide eyes and shocked expressions. Janca was about to spit an angry curse at these sheep when a splitting pain cut through the anger, Janca held his hands over his eyes, trying to block out the light, too intense now for his heightened senses. The pain overwhelmed the young boy as Ira’s being manifested itself through Janca into the world of flesh once again.

The pain subsided, but the anger increased. The crowd stared, its attention torn between the small child, unbeknown to them now Ira, Wrath made flesh and the crumpled heap of their silently elected hero. Adjusting to the light Ira’s hands came down from his eyes and he looked upon the assembled group with contempt. Pointing at a spotty youth his anger peaked, the kid, looking away screamed, and turned back to Ira as if slapped. His scream increased in pitch, drawing everyone’s attention to him as his skin peeled off, melting into a puddle around his feet. The scream ended as the skinless creature collapsed into the still bubbling pool of his melting skin.

As one, the rest of the assembled scattered, running for their lives, perhaps for their very souls. Not all of them escaped, as Ira pointed randomly at the dissipating crowd and they exploded as if made of rotten squash struck with a heavy staff. A twisted, almost inhuman grin spread across Janca’s childlike features at the chaos before him. As Ira willed it the two closest dwellings crumbled, with screams emanating from within.

The commotion caused other villagers to seek out what the noise was, other buildings collapsed and some ran into the main street scared, some concerned for loved ones, others angry at the destruction, they were the unfortunate ones.
Those that allowed anger in were taken by Ira and consumed by wrath, attacking other villagers without reservation, friends, neighbours and family descended on without discrimination. The Wrathful ripped and ravaged all they surveyed, including one another.

Ira’s anger not sated he walked slowly from the small village, now ruined. His direction took him towards a large city, those of his Wrathful that survived would be the strongest and would follow him soon, like moths to fire and there were always more souls allowing anger into the hearts.

OOC: I promise the 'good' guys are on their way lol.

OOC: Heres some more for anyone who is reading.

IC:

Chapter 3: Patience, patience my friend.

Eiran threw a dented copper piece across the counter to the barman,

“A beer please” came his gruff voice.

The barman glanced up, disappeared the coin and started to pour the cloudy ale into a ceramic pint pot. He looked up at his customer, Eiran had been coming into the bar for the past few months, another wanderer, injured and displaced by the various conflicts that spring up across the land.

Eiran scratched the grey stubble on his chin with his left hand, not his dominant hand, but his right hand as well as the lower part of his right arm had been left on some forsaken battlefield years ago. He was passed his drink and blew some of the foam off of the top before taking a long drought; he swallowed and put the drink down, his thoughts turning inward once again, as they had for so long now.

Though always reflective, his thoughts had been more maudlin of late. The world was changing and it was making Eiran uneasy, his soldier training showing him the ripple of unease passing through those around him. There had been an almost imperceptible increase in brawls and the good-natured haggling in the towns marketplace had turned nasty once too often recently.

Eiran tried to push away these dark thoughts away and lose himself in inebriation, he almost succeeded when the door burst open and a man jumped in, screaming at the top of his lungs. Eiran spun on his stool and took note of the man, tall and broad, but dirty and dressed in remnants of what was once sturdy dress, the man was hunched over in an almost feral pose, most striking though were the mans eyes; they were so bloodshot as to appear completely blood red, the original colour lost.

With only moments to take this in the man ran towards the bar where the highest concentration of people were, snarling all the way he looked determined to rip something or someone apart.

“Calm down friend” came a call from the bar owner.

Unheeded the man threw a wild punch, knocking over a man sat at the bar who was into his cups and slow to react. The drunk fell to the floor, and reacting instinctively Eiran grabbed his stout walking stick, a treated staff of ash, swung and struck the mans arm, braking his forearm. The man didn’t even flinch but turned his attention now to Eiran, calmly Eiran struck again this time the mans right temple, the blow was struck with skill and the man hit the floor unconscious.

Eiran stood, his right foot first then gingerly on his left, another souvenir of his soldier days had left him with a badly set ankle. He ignored the commotion of the bars patrons and looked to the man, before he could kneel and examine him he herd another snarl. The knocked over drunk he gotten back up, his eyes now as bloodshot as the man who had struck him.


Eiran had little time to react as the drunk jumped for him, all his intoxication gone, only anger in his face now. Eiran held the middle of his staff in his only hand horizontally; the drunk gripped both ends and forced Eiran back against the bar. Eiran was strong but the drunk seemed to have inhuman strength and was quickly gaining the upper hand. Needing to resolve the situation before his strength was exhausted Eiran pushed as hard as he could, forcing the drunk back two paces. This action further angered the drunk who pushed back with renewed force, this is what Eiran had hoped and used the drunks own momentum to throw him over his head and over the bar, further more as Eiran had hoped he dropped through the hatch down into the cellar below.

Eiran stumbled for a moment and headed towards the door, ignoring the call from the barman. As Eiran stepped out into the night, he herd more noise than usual for this time of day. Broken glass, screams and shouts pierced the air. Eiran made a slow steady walk to his home, his thoughts concerned at the occurrence he had just witnessed.

Eiran reached his house without further incident and unlocked his front door with his heavy iron key and entered, locking the door behind him. Eiran walked into the room that served as living and bedrooms, and threw the key down onto a small table beside his bed. Sitting down on his bed a blinding white light filled his head and vision and he threw his arms up, covering only one eye with his hand. The intensity of the light reduced and a soft voice spoke inside his head;

“Do not fear Eiran, I will not harm you. I seek your assistance”

Eiran was too startled to reply and the voice continued,

“I am Patientia, she of Patience. The seal of Wrath has broken, and Ira is released. He is already destroying the land through his disciples the wrathful, two of whom you met earlier. Now that Ira is free, anyone who lets anger into their soul is courupted, driven likes those you saw tonight”

“What can I do against that kind of power?” asked Eiran,

“The virtues are not without their strengths Eiran, do not forget that. I have come to you, for there is no anger in your soul. Only one such as you can face Ira and not succumb. You must retrieve and repair the seal and then face Ira, you will know what to do and I will give what aid I am able”

“But I am an old, one-armed ex-soldier” Eiran called out,

The voice and light had departed, Eiran looked about his room, his little life he had built. He walked over to his battered travel chest and opened the lid, he would try at least to do as the virtue had asked.

Well, I'm intrigued...but a lack of time would make this hard to post in. How often would you want posts? If it isn't any more than maybe once a week, then I will be interested. ^_^

I read it earlier this week and I am very interested; but pretty busy until this weekend... I'll post my char sheet up and get an intro post going soon, though. :D

ooc: Hey, firstly glad you are enjoying it Mireldeyn and alucard.

Origionally i was just going to write this story myself and post as i went, as there was no sign up, just as a read for people.

Mireldeyn to answer your questions, i dont mind how often you post, and i see one Vice vs one of Virtues emissary (for reasons that will become clear) so it will be 7 stories that will entwine.

Theres several options, i can continue writing if you guys enjoy the read but dont have posting time, or i could start a different story that might take your fancy, or you can both join in on this one (except for Patience, the other 6 emmissarys of virtue are available) if you think you have the time.

What do you both think?

OOC: Just a little bit more... Eiran is really speaking to me at the moment. As are the rest though, hope you enjoy.

IC:

Eiran looked into his open travel chest and took out the carefully wrapped bundles, in his first was a light chainmail shirt with an oil sheen to the metal. Though Eiran hadn’t worn it in a while he often cleaned it, more through habit than need. Underneath the shirt was his sword, clenching his phantom sword hand he lifted the sword in his left and threw it onto the bed, it was less than useless to him now.

Underneath the sword was the object he sought, he took the oilcloth off of his shield and held it up, functional and sturdy. The shield was plain and round, as long as Eiran’s forearm. On the inside it had a metal grip and a leather tie to secure it to the upper forearm. The leather was a dull brown, except along where his arm rested, the sweat and heat of battle polishing it to a mirror like sheen. Eiran turned the shield around again, it had no insignia, and the face was a plain silver steel, battered and dented from blows, bolts and arrows.

Eiran saw his face reflected in his shield, a distorted image though what struck him was his face, much haggard than it had been, the old, gaunt, haunted man that stared back at him was barely recognisable from the soldier he had been though the weapn that had saved his life that day was no different.

Eiran was back on the field of battle, the screams of the wounded and the roars of the fighting deafening him, the smell of sweat and fire assaulting his nostrils. All around him men were fighting, swords clashing, maces being swung, and the remnants of mounted cavalry cutting swathes through the battlefield.

The battle was small scale, another conflict unresolvable by anything other the payment in blood. The tide of the battle was turning, the Lord who had rebelled against his liege had gambled and lost, though not without causing casualties. Now it was time for Eiran and the rest of the King’s men to push the advantage. Dispatching his opponent he pushed on towards the little group of personal bodyguards protecting their Lord.

Eiran watched the men around him on both sides, consumed by bloodlust and wrath, they fought without sense. Eiran’s campaign had made him patient, he had survived by staying calm, pick your blows, and wait for your opponent to make a mistake you can capitalise on. Another young man jumped at Eiran, merely a child, Eiran blocked his wild blow and dispatched him with one of his own. Eiran dispatched more of these young men thrown into this meat grinder until he stood facing one of the bodyguards. Eiran saw instantly this man was different to the rest.

The man was a professional soldier, which was instantly evident. Although his red and gold livery was resplendent the mail underneath was no decoration. The blade and shield were likewise not for show, and the man was calm, already there were men dispatched around him. Eiran raised his blade and felt the shock down his arm as their blades clashed.

The fight was the most evenly matched dual Eiran had been in, his opponent was strong and smart and neither man had been able to create any advantage. The other man seemed not to be weakening either, the Lords bodyguards having not had to fight from the beginning of the fray. Eiran however was tiring, his sword heavier with each blow and his shield not blocking as fast as he wanted it to.

Suddenly the man pressed forward with a flurry of blows, pushing Eiran backwards, losing his footing it was all over. The bodyguard’s sword came down and cleaved off Eiran’s sword arm. Eiran screamed and a sickening throb started to shake his whole body, the warming embrace of shock flooded his system giving his senses crystal clarity. Eiran’s clarity told him he had moments to live, looking at the bodyguard about to deliver a killing blow. Eiran realised his opponent had made a simple mistake, he had thought Eiran was unarmed, this was not so. Eiran knew the shield was as much of a weapon as a sword, and swinging his left arm with all his remaining strength the shield contacted with the side of the bodyguards face, crushing it and killing the man instantly.

As his opponent hit the floor, Eiran fell to his knees, the blood loss had nearly overcome him, moving quickly towards his own lines he made a beeline for the first source of fire he could see. He reached it and picked up the discarded torch and put it to the open wounds.

A scream expelled from his lungs, as the greatest pain he ever had experienced, or would experience emanated from the wreckage of his arm. Dropping the torch, a darkness enveloped him as pain and blood loss caused him to faint, he embraced the blackness of oblivion.

ooc: This is the final part of Eiran's introduction, wanted to put it up last night and i ran out of time. Enjoy.

IC:

Eiran shook himself from this daydream, he had recovered from that wound eventually. A member of his squad had recognised him, realised he was breathing and attached him (retrieving his sword in the process) to a stretcher along with the other wounded following the main company. Eiran remembered little of this time, drifting in and out of consciousness as he was. Eiran was still very weak when he had been left at the gates of the monastery, owned by a benevolent order dedicated to healing. A few gold coins pressed into his hands by his captain, and with a few empty words of thanks the company passed on.

The monks tended to Eiran, treating his blood loss and the infection and fever the wound had brought. Furthermore the monk’s tended to Eiran’s other wound, the one on his very soul. Eiran was crippled, his dominant hand gone, along with much of his functional arm, this was something he needed to overcome perhaps more than the physical injury. After time Eiran had became as recovered as he believed he would ever be. He handed his ‘retirement’ to the monks and left the plain room he had lived and slept in the previous months. Thanking the father he packed his scant belongings and began to wander.

The wandering had lead Eiran here, to this little bit of life he was recovering, just to have that torn away and sent on a seemingly impossible task. Eiran put on his mail, threw a sturdy shirt over the top, strapped on his shield, packed a few provisions into a rucksack and slipped out of the door into the night. He would travel north, he thought the library of Keeshoon was the only place he had herd of that may have some answers, and this city was only going to get worse.

Eiran had patience, he would return when he was prepared…

OOC: I do have one question to anyone who is reading, where does this board stand with age censorship? (im thinking explictly of Luxuria, nothing graphic but wouldn't mind the official line, or where i can find it). Cheers

OOC: Hey to all readers, i havent forgotten you, ive been sorting out some geography for the world... This story is growing like a loon. Its consuming my time (as is my thesis, but we wont worry about that) but will add some further chapters soon.