"Imitation is the highest form of flattery... right?"
Inspired by the Autumn Country by The Summoning Dark.
The Construct. The Model. The False Country. It has many names, but for all that care, it was left to rot just the same.
The Prince lurks in dark corners, waiting to lure in desperate victims who are willing to become desperate villains. The Harvesters drag away the dead and dying, and sometimes create casualties themselves. The machines rust, filled with fallen leaves as they work evermore, powered by the burning of Charnel Gold, a material found only in decaying corpses. The Sugarplum Court ignores our strife, consuming our resources endlessly while we starve. Where were you, King Augustus?
The Construct is as common a place for visitors as prisoners. Those barred from the Autumn Country, whether through association with the Sugarplum Court or crimes of some sort, often find themselves here. Enemies of the Court are often banished to this handcrafted hellscape as well. But who are you?
MAJOR LOCATIONS:
The Harvestlands
Miles and miles of reeking, sun-baked fields, dotted with occasional homes, farms, Ghoulish Gatecrackers, and factories. Only rarely will an entire town be seen. These crops are tainted by otherworldly forces and fed on mountains of the dead and near-dead. They say that the deceased live on as Harvestborn, sapient, eldritch plants that act on their own. They are harvested entirely by machines. Horrible, clanking, inhumane automatons that scream almost as loud as the slaughtered animals and sentient plants.
The City of Neapolitan
A formerly glorious, metropolitan city, more of a broken-down theme park than a place to live. Garbage and bones litter the ground, and corpses are stuffed wherever they can be hidden from the Gatherers. This city was built with thousands of hidden oubliettes, each now stuffed so full that no more sinners can be compacted within. The marvels and wonders of the city, up to and including its legendary river, have mostly fallen to disrepair, clogged with leaves or refuse. There is no support from the Castle, only punishment for unmet candy quotas in the form of scattered bombshells.
Cornucopia Castle
Once meant to be home to the Queen, but she found it offensively austere despite its ludicrous opulence and technological advancement. She is still seen sometimes, but it’s rare that she shows up here. The bulk of all resources are sent to the Castle, but without proper staff most of it is left to rot, leading to the moat of decay surrounding it and the nickname “The Keep of Flies.” Currently run by Lord Amberot, a former butler playing as a king. The staff, nobles, and others have fallen into gluttonous depravity, indulging in excess as the world around them collapses.
The Howling Down
Deep underground, in the former home of the ghouls, there swarm the Gatherers in their secret tunnels. What was once known as Ghulheim has been expanded deeper than ever before in a desperate attempt by miners to find enough charnel gold to satiate their masters. Horrors long forgotten run rampant, released by the miners in their endless search for burnable material.
The Painted Reign
An endless downpour pounds down on the gold and red forest, said to be the tears of the Autumn King himself. There is a constant, inch-high flood moving over the ground, but the gargantuan trees continuously root themselves deeper against the erosion. Tree-houses and entire tree towns exist here, somewhat protected from the elements by their perches just beneath the auburn canopy. Lord Amberot believes that this place is home to something truly evil, but no one believes him anymore.
The Rotten Heart
Spiders and moths used to live here, protected by their mother. Now she is gone, and all the silk has been washed away by the ceaseless monsoon. Now exists a spire of blackened, compressed charcoal, an aching hunger, and a palpable grief. Some legends say that this is where the Queen abandoned her children, one after another, but any who speak openly of those rumors often find themselves broken open and spilt across the fields.
Feel free to come up with your own locations, as per rule 5!
RULES:
Please no vulgar language. It doesn’t become you.
Let’s be polite y’all. Settle any disagreements in a pm so others don’t have to deal with it.
No extreme violence or gore (though the macabre and grotesque is welcome if done appropriately) and absolutely no sexual content.
Try to go easy on the quote chains.
Feel free to explore both the castle and the country and add to this land creatures and creations of your own design.
I’ve become very busy recently so feel free to carry roleplay interactions on over several days.
Put the numbers 13 and 4 in your first post to show you have read the rules.
Listen to the mods, Baalzeboop, WendigoOfLore, and 10_30inDutch
*What a wonderfully delicious thread you have conjured! I can think of roughly thirteen different ideas for characters to bring here, though I'll have to narrow it down to four or so- for now, I shall start with one. But who to pick? The chosen curse-bearer? The solemn knight? That abominable weaver of sinew and silk? What say you, friend?*
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Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
A man wanders the city, mostly via the back alleyways and the darker corners. His clothes are loose, baggy even. A frost cakes a thick bomber jacket with a black outer fabric and fluffy lining inner fabric, a pair of baggy cargo pants that are slightly stained with dark blotches of something, thick boots that are caked in similar liquid. His hooded head conceals a simple faceless wooden mask made of white birch. His presence seems to bring minor frost to anything around him, turning the air cold and misty in a ethereal way.
He leans against the wall, slumped in a way, exhausted. He stares at people who walk in the central square, eyes burning with something despite his cold exterior.
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"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
*What a wonderfully delicious thread you have conjured! I can think of roughly thirteen different ideas for characters to bring here, though I'll have to narrow it down to four or so- for now, I shall start with one. But who to pick? The chosen curse-bearer? The solemn knight? That abominable weaver of sinew and silk? What say you, friend?*
*Bring me the abomination. It shall be plated for the feast in more ways than one.*
A man wanders the city, mostly via the back alleyways and the darker corners. His clothes are loose, baggy even. A frost cakes a thick bomber jacket with a black outer fabric and fluffy lining inner fabric, a pair of baggy cargo pants that are slightly stained with dark blotches of something, thick boots that are caked in similar liquid. His hooded head conceals a simple faceless wooden mask made of white birch. His presence seems to bring minor frost to anything around him, turning the air cold and misty in a ethereal way.
He leans against the wall, slumped in a way, exhausted. He stares at people who walk in the central square, eyes burning with something despite his cold exterior.
A scarecrow with a shattered pumpkin head lays curled up on the ground in a nearby alley. He wears a massively oversized coat with striped sleeves, collar, and shoulders, but the rest is brown. On his twiggy hands are fingerless gloves, and on his feet are ancient, heavily damaged boots. He groans, slowly moving to scoop up pumpkin guts and place them on his wooden neck.
A man wanders the city, mostly via the back alleyways and the darker corners. His clothes are loose, baggy even. A frost cakes a thick bomber jacket with a black outer fabric and fluffy lining inner fabric, a pair of baggy cargo pants that are slightly stained with dark blotches of something, thick boots that are caked in similar liquid. His hooded head conceals a simple faceless wooden mask made of white birch. His presence seems to bring minor frost to anything around him, turning the air cold and misty in a ethereal way.
He leans against the wall, slumped in a way, exhausted. He stares at people who walk in the central square, eyes burning with something despite his cold exterior.
A scarecrow with a shattered pumpkin head lays curled up on the ground in a nearby alley. He wears a massively oversized coat with striped sleeves, collar, and shoulders, but the rest is brown. On his twiggy hands are fingerless gloves, and on his feet are ancient, heavily damaged boots. He groans, slowly moving to scoop up pumpkin guts and place them on his wooden neck.
The man's hands twitch, something quietly burning inside, but he relents and steps forward. Without a word, he kneels down and begins to help.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
A scarecrow with a shattered pumpkin head lays curled up on the ground in a nearby alley. He wears a massively oversized coat with striped sleeves, collar, and shoulders, but the rest is brown. On his twiggy hands are fingerless gloves, and on his feet are ancient, heavily damaged boots. He groans, slowly moving to scoop up pumpkin guts and place them on his wooden neck.
The man's hands twitch, something quietly burning inside, but he relents and steps forward. Without a word, he kneels down and begins to help.
The scarecrow delicately takes chunks of pumpkin from the icy man's hands, sticking them back into place to form a head. "Thank you..." He wheezes despite not having reconstructed a mouth yet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you in return. I'm... not good at much."
A scarecrow with a shattered pumpkin head lays curled up on the ground in a nearby alley. He wears a massively oversized coat with striped sleeves, collar, and shoulders, but the rest is brown. On his twiggy hands are fingerless gloves, and on his feet are ancient, heavily damaged boots. He groans, slowly moving to scoop up pumpkin guts and place them on his wooden neck.
The man's hands twitch, something quietly burning inside, but he relents and steps forward. Without a word, he kneels down and begins to help.
The scarecrow delicately takes chunks of pumpkin from the icy man's hands, sticking them back into place to form a head. "Thank you..." He wheezes despite not having reconstructed a mouth yet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you in return. I'm... not good at much."
"I don't need anything.." the man rasps quietly "Be careful with it.."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
The scarecrow delicately takes chunks of pumpkin from the icy man's hands, sticking them back into place to form a head. "Thank you..." He wheezes despite not having reconstructed a mouth yet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you in return. I'm... not good at much."
"I don't need anything.." the man rasps quietly "Be careful with it.."
The construct accidentally touches the man's hand before jerking back in surprise. "You're freezing! Do you want to borrow my coat? It's thin, but it's something." He doesn't seem to see that the guy is already wearing a coat.
The scarecrow delicately takes chunks of pumpkin from the icy man's hands, sticking them back into place to form a head. "Thank you..." He wheezes despite not having reconstructed a mouth yet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you in return. I'm... not good at much."
"I don't need anything.." the man rasps quietly "Be careful with it.."
The construct accidentally touches the man's hand before jerking back in surprise. "You're freezing! Do you want to borrow my coat? It's thin, but it's something." He doesn't seem to see that the guy is already wearing a coat.
"No.. it's always been like this." He shakes his head "Keep your coat, you need it more..'
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
*Bring me the abomination. It shall be plated for the feast in more ways than one.*
*Wonderful- then an abomination is what you shall receive!*
The air smells of soot and rain. It always does around the rotten spire of packed charcoal and burnt bone- even with no fires in sight, and the constant monsoon that paints the sky a sickly shade of grey, ash still hangs in the air, a lingering scent and a lingering taste. That obsidian monolith towers about the blackened trees, only a scant few remaining across the torched landscape that once thrummed with life, but... with all the rain, how does this place not flood like the forest of gold and crimson?
The tower sits atop a sturdy pillar of rock, reinforced by beams of that packed charcoal and bone, with a triune of bridges leading to the gates. Surrounding the tower, though, is a gaping sinkhole that continues down and down and down, its walls stained grey and black with soot and waterfalls flowing into the darkness below from above. That is where it's rumored it happened- where the Queen cast her children from the spire's top, one by one, into the maw of the pit below. That is the Rottenveins.
None know much of the bottom of the pit other than those cast down into its darkness for crimes large and small. Most merely know that the pit opens into a myriad of tunnels, winding, churning, writhing, that nearly reach the roof of the Howling Down. Underground rivers and lakes and streams that all flow, eventually, into Amina's Tears- the tallest waterfalls in all of the Construct. For any that are unlucky enough to survive the fall, however, know that that isn't all there is to this place. That wouldn't explain the scraping and scratching and tapping on the stone that echoes through the tunnels, leaving wounds in the rock that don't make sense for the rivers' erosion to cause. That doesn't explain the absence of bodies at the bottom of the sinkhole, and it definitely doesn't explain the webs. Oh gods, the webs- scarlet with old blood, haphazardly woven from sinew and muscle and sodden dregs of silk.
What could possibly be down there, that those doomed to the pit so often pray the fall simply kills them? Whatever it is, it's rumored that at the dead of night, when all falls quiet... you can hear it crying up from the depths.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
*Bring me the abomination. It shall be plated for the feast in more ways than one.*
*Wonderful- then an abomination is what you shall receive!*
The air smells of soot and rain. It always does around the rotten spire of packed charcoal and burnt bone- even with no fires in sight, and the constant monsoon that paints the sky a sickly shade of grey, ash still hangs in the air, a lingering scent and a lingering taste. That obsidian monolith towers about the blackened trees, only a scant few remaining across the torched landscape that once thrummed with life, but... with all the rain, how does this place not flood like the forest of gold and crimson?
The tower sits atop a sturdy pillar of rock, reinforced by beams of that packed charcoal and bone, with a triune of bridges leading to the gates. Surrounding the tower, though, is a gaping sinkhole that continues down and down and down, its walls stained grey and black with soot and waterfalls flowing into the darkness below from above. That is where it's rumored it happened- where the Queen cast her children from the spire's top, one by one, into the maw of the pit below. That is the Rottenveins.
None know much of the bottom of the pit other than those cast down into its darkness for crimes large and small. Most merely know that the pit opens into a myriad of tunnels, winding, churning, writhing, that nearly reach the roof of the Howling Down. Underground rivers and lakes and streams that all flow, eventually, into Amina's Tears- the tallest waterfalls in all of the Construct. For any that are unlucky enough to survive the fall, however, know that that isn't all there is to this place. That wouldn't explain the scraping and scratching and tapping on the stone that echoes through the tunnels, leaving wounds in the rock that don't make sense for the rivers' erosion to cause. That doesn't explain the absence of bodies at the bottom of the sinkhole, and it definitely doesn't explain the webs. Oh gods, the webs- scarlet with old blood, haphazardly woven from sinew and muscle and sodden dregs of silk.
What could possibly be down there, that those doomed to the pit so often pray the fall simply kills them? Whatever it is, it's rumored that at the dead of night, when all falls quiet... you can hear it crying up from the depths.
*Beautiful. Utterly beautiful.*
The Prince stands at the edge of the pit, the artery of this haunted place. Haunted not by ghosts, but by a desperate desire to run, run from responsibility, run from false hope, run from life itself. He kneels, listening closely, straining his ears to hear another note of sorrow. It's too early. The rain is too loud. The people are watching. "Shush..." The striders skitter away from him, screeching as usual. The waterfowl squawk and fly away into the storm. "Quiet..." Nothing is working out for him lately. He hates it here. Especially here."Please..." He pulls his hat down over his pointed ears.
He lets out a wheezing, rattling breath. The rain stops. The birds stop. The people stop. Everything within about thirty feet of him has gone silent and still, drops of water hanging in the air. Decay spreads over the area, even the rain turning green with algae as villagers and animals fall dead.
The Prince stands at the edge of the pit, the artery of this haunted place. Haunted not by ghosts, but by a desperate desire to run, run from responsibility, run from false hope, run from life itself. He kneels, listening closely, straining his ears to hear another note of sorrow. It's too early. The rain is too loud. The people are watching. "Shush..." The striders skitter away from him, screeching as usual. The waterfowl squawk and fly away into the storm. "Quiet..." Nothing is working out for him lately. He hates it here. Especially here."Please..." He pulls his hat down over his pointed ears.
He lets out a wheezing, rattling breath. The rain stops. The birds stop. The people stop. Everything within about thirty feet of him has gone silent and still, drops of water hanging in the air. Decay spreads over the area, even the rain turning green with algae as villagers and animals fall dead.
"Let me hear you."
*Thank you- I'm happy you like my additions!*
When all falls quiet around him, the Prince can faintly hear something- a faint, echoing scratching against the stones, resonating from the deepest depths of the Rottenmaw. It's getting louder, whatever's lurking at the depths of the pit getting closer, though it seems to remain at the bottom of the maw. He can almost swear he can see something moving in the darkness- something large and monstrous. It looks up at him, and if he listens closely enough, he can faintly hear a few echoing, yet very quiet words.
"...Who... who was that?... It wasn't food, I think... there's nothing new here..." The being doesn't seem fully aware of where the voice came from, skittering around the depths of the sinkhole and looking up from the darkness.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
The Prince stands at the edge of the pit, the artery of this haunted place. Haunted not by ghosts, but by a desperate desire to run, run from responsibility, run from false hope, run from life itself. He kneels, listening closely, straining his ears to hear another note of sorrow. It's too early. The rain is too loud. The people are watching. "Shush..." The striders skitter away from him, screeching as usual. The waterfowl squawk and fly away into the storm. "Quiet..." Nothing is working out for him lately. He hates it here. Especially here."Please..." He pulls his hat down over his pointed ears.
He lets out a wheezing, rattling breath. The rain stops. The birds stop. The people stop. Everything within about thirty feet of him has gone silent and still, drops of water hanging in the air. Decay spreads over the area, even the rain turning green with algae as villagers and animals fall dead.
"Let me hear you."
*Thank you- I'm happy you like my additions!*
When all falls quiet around him, the Prince can faintly hear something- a faint, echoing scratching against the stones, resonating from the deepest depths of the Rottenmaw. It's getting louder, whatever's lurking at the depths of the pit getting closer, though it seems to remain at the bottom of the maw. He can almost swear he can see something moving in the darkness- something large and monstrous. It looks up at him, and if he listens closely enough, he can faintly hear a few echoing, yet very quiet words.
"...Who... who was that?... It wasn't food, I think... there's nothing new here..." The being doesn't seem fully aware of where the voice came from, skittering around the depths of the sinkhole and looking up from the darkness.
"Is food your desire?" He asks in his deep, rumbling voice, a voice that tumbles like an avalanche to the depths. A voice faintly desperate.
When all falls quiet around him, the Prince can faintly hear something- a faint, echoing scratching against the stones, resonating from the deepest depths of the Rottenmaw. It's getting louder, whatever's lurking at the depths of the pit getting closer, though it seems to remain at the bottom of the maw. He can almost swear he can see something moving in the darkness- something large and monstrous. It looks up at him, and if he listens closely enough, he can faintly hear a few echoing, yet very quiet words.
"...Who... who was that?... It wasn't food, I think... there's nothing new here..." The being doesn't seem fully aware of where the voice came from, skittering around the depths of the sinkhole and looking up from the darkness.
"Is food your desire?" He asks in his deep, rumbling voice, a voice that tumbles like an avalanche to the depths. A voice faintly desperate.
The Beast of the Rottenveins looks up at where his voice echoed from- for the faintest moment, he though he could see several pinpricks of silver staring up at him, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. "It's... one of my desires, yes. What I really want is to escape. The walls are too damp from the rain, I can't climb out..."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
The scarecrow delicately takes chunks of pumpkin from the icy man's hands, sticking them back into place to form a head. "Thank you..." He wheezes despite not having reconstructed a mouth yet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you in return. I'm... not good at much."
"I don't need anything.." the man rasps quietly "Be careful with it.."
The construct accidentally touches the man's hand before jerking back in surprise. "You're freezing! Do you want to borrow my coat? It's thin, but it's something." He doesn't seem to see that the guy is already wearing a coat.
"No.. it's always been like this." He shakes his head "Keep your coat, you need it more..'
"If... you insist." He shakily continues sorting through the pieces. Eventually, he picks a large, black candle engraved with a goats face out of the orange brains. He pulls a match from his boot and, after pushing away some leaves in the way, strikes it against the concrete. He lights the candle, causing a scarlet flame to appear. "I got this from my patron... he's very generous..." Some crows begin to gather overhead as soon as the candle is lit.
"Is food your desire?" He asks in his deep, rumbling voice, a voice that tumbles like an avalanche to the depths. A voice faintly desperate.
The Beast of the Rottenveins looks up at where his voice echoed from- for the faintest moment, he though he could see several pinpricks of silver staring up at him, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. "It's... one of my desires, yes. What I really want is to escape. The walls are too damp from the rain, I can't climb out..."
"Well, then, perhaps we'd better make a deal." He pulls a climbing kit out of his coat, complete with a bag of holding with a silk rope coming out of it. "What do you have?"
"Is food your desire?" He asks in his deep, rumbling voice, a voice that tumbles like an avalanche to the depths. A voice faintly desperate.
The Beast of the Rottenveins looks up at where his voice echoed from- for the faintest moment, he though he could see several pinpricks of silver staring up at him, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. "It's... one of my desires, yes. What I really want is to escape. The walls are too damp from the rain, I can't climb out..."
"Well, then, perhaps we'd better make a deal." He pulls a climbing kit out of his coat, complete with a bag of holding with a silk rope coming out of it. "What do you have?"
It's silent for a while, the creature pacing as it thinks. "...I don't have much of anything, really, unless you're in the market for corpses. But then, most want corpses for that golden stuff, and... well, that's the part I eat." It mutters something to itself, but he can't fully hear that. "...My strength? If there's something or someone you need to get rid of, maybe I could help with that?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"Well, then, perhaps we'd better make a deal." He pulls a climbing kit out of his coat, complete with a bag of holding with a silk rope coming out of it. "What do you have?"
It's silent for a while, the creature pacing as it thinks. "...I don't have much of anything, really, unless you're in the market for corpses. But then, most want corpses for that golden stuff, and... well, that's the part I eat." It mutters something to itself, but he can't fully hear that. "...My strength? If there's something or someone you need to get rid of, maybe I could help with that?"
"I can create Charnel Gold, and soon I will be bereft of foes. But... I'll give you a bargain." He thinks. "I'll take credit. You've been down there a long time, after all, and you aren't getting any richer." He jams a climbing anchor into the Rottenmaw's edge and lets the rope slide down out of the bag and through said piton. "I'm lowering a rope. It will take a bit. Tell me about yourself."
"Well, then, perhaps we'd better make a deal." He pulls a climbing kit out of his coat, complete with a bag of holding with a silk rope coming out of it. "What do you have?"
It's silent for a while, the creature pacing as it thinks. "...I don't have much of anything, really, unless you're in the market for corpses. But then, most want corpses for that golden stuff, and... well, that's the part I eat." It mutters something to itself, but he can't fully hear that. "...My strength? If there's something or someone you need to get rid of, maybe I could help with that?"
"I can create Charnel Gold, and soon I will be bereft of foes. But... I'll give you a bargain." He thinks. "I'll take credit. You've been down there a long time, after all, and you aren't getting any richer." He jams a climbing anchor into the Rottenmaw's edge and lets the rope slide down out of the bag and through said piton. "I'm lowering a rope. It will take a bit. Tell me about yourself."
"...About... myself?" It seems genuinely confused by the question, as though it had never thought of the answer itself. "...Let me think... I liked knitting? That's one thing I think I know. Though, there's not much silk down here to use, and the thread I make with the corpses is too sticky for knitting. I don't knit much anymore." It's pacing along the bottom of the pit as it thinks, before looking up again. "What about you?"
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
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The Autumn Construct
"Imitation is the highest form of flattery... right?"
Inspired by the Autumn Country by The Summoning Dark.
The Construct. The Model. The False Country. It has many names, but for all that care, it was left to rot just the same.
The Prince lurks in dark corners, waiting to lure in desperate victims who are willing to become desperate villains.
The Harvesters drag away the dead and dying, and sometimes create casualties themselves.
The machines rust, filled with fallen leaves as they work evermore, powered by the burning of Charnel Gold, a material found only in decaying corpses.
The Sugarplum Court ignores our strife, consuming our resources endlessly while we starve.
Where were you, King Augustus?
The Construct is as common a place for visitors as prisoners. Those barred from the Autumn Country, whether through association with the Sugarplum Court or crimes of some sort, often find themselves here. Enemies of the Court are often banished to this handcrafted hellscape as well. But who are you?
MAJOR LOCATIONS:
Feel free to come up with your own locations, as per rule 5!
RULES:
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
*What a wonderfully delicious thread you have conjured! I can think of roughly thirteen different ideas for characters to bring here, though I'll have to narrow it down to four or so- for now, I shall start with one. But who to pick? The chosen curse-bearer? The solemn knight? That abominable weaver of sinew and silk? What say you, friend?*
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
*13.4*
A man wanders the city, mostly via the back alleyways and the darker corners. His clothes are loose, baggy even. A frost cakes a thick bomber jacket with a black outer fabric and fluffy lining inner fabric, a pair of baggy cargo pants that are slightly stained with dark blotches of something, thick boots that are caked in similar liquid. His hooded head conceals a simple faceless wooden mask made of white birch. His presence seems to bring minor frost to anything around him, turning the air cold and misty in a ethereal way.
He leans against the wall, slumped in a way, exhausted. He stares at people who walk in the central square, eyes burning with something despite his cold exterior.
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
[Taken by my gourmand boyfriend]
*Bring me the abomination. It shall be plated for the feast in more ways than one.*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
A scarecrow with a shattered pumpkin head lays curled up on the ground in a nearby alley. He wears a massively oversized coat with striped sleeves, collar, and shoulders, but the rest is brown. On his twiggy hands are fingerless gloves, and on his feet are ancient, heavily damaged boots. He groans, slowly moving to scoop up pumpkin guts and place them on his wooden neck.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
The man's hands twitch, something quietly burning inside, but he relents and steps forward. Without a word, he kneels down and begins to help.
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
[Taken by my gourmand boyfriend]
The scarecrow delicately takes chunks of pumpkin from the icy man's hands, sticking them back into place to form a head. "Thank you..." He wheezes despite not having reconstructed a mouth yet. "I'm afraid I don't have anything to give you in return. I'm... not good at much."
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
"I don't need anything.." the man rasps quietly "Be careful with it.."
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
[Taken by my gourmand boyfriend]
The construct accidentally touches the man's hand before jerking back in surprise. "You're freezing! Do you want to borrow my coat? It's thin, but it's something." He doesn't seem to see that the guy is already wearing a coat.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
"No.. it's always been like this." He shakes his head "Keep your coat, you need it more..'
"I am the white deer, I am the flowers blooming in the moonlight, I am the blue moon, I am the Feywild."
[Taken by my gourmand boyfriend]
*Wonderful- then an abomination is what you shall receive!*
The air smells of soot and rain. It always does around the rotten spire of packed charcoal and burnt bone- even with no fires in sight, and the constant monsoon that paints the sky a sickly shade of grey, ash still hangs in the air, a lingering scent and a lingering taste. That obsidian monolith towers about the blackened trees, only a scant few remaining across the torched landscape that once thrummed with life, but... with all the rain, how does this place not flood like the forest of gold and crimson?
The tower sits atop a sturdy pillar of rock, reinforced by beams of that packed charcoal and bone, with a triune of bridges leading to the gates. Surrounding the tower, though, is a gaping sinkhole that continues down and down and down, its walls stained grey and black with soot and waterfalls flowing into the darkness below from above. That is where it's rumored it happened- where the Queen cast her children from the spire's top, one by one, into the maw of the pit below. That is the Rottenveins.
None know much of the bottom of the pit other than those cast down into its darkness for crimes large and small. Most merely know that the pit opens into a myriad of tunnels, winding, churning, writhing, that nearly reach the roof of the Howling Down. Underground rivers and lakes and streams that all flow, eventually, into Amina's Tears- the tallest waterfalls in all of the Construct. For any that are unlucky enough to survive the fall, however, know that that isn't all there is to this place. That wouldn't explain the scraping and scratching and tapping on the stone that echoes through the tunnels, leaving wounds in the rock that don't make sense for the rivers' erosion to cause. That doesn't explain the absence of bodies at the bottom of the sinkhole, and it definitely doesn't explain the webs. Oh gods, the webs- scarlet with old blood, haphazardly woven from sinew and muscle and sodden dregs of silk.
What could possibly be down there, that those doomed to the pit so often pray the fall simply kills them? Whatever it is, it's rumored that at the dead of night, when all falls quiet... you can hear it crying up from the depths.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
*Beautiful. Utterly beautiful.*
The Prince stands at the edge of the pit, the artery of this haunted place. Haunted not by ghosts, but by a desperate desire to run, run from responsibility, run from false hope, run from life itself. He kneels, listening closely, straining his ears to hear another note of sorrow. It's too early. The rain is too loud. The people are watching. "Shush..." The striders skitter away from him, screeching as usual. The waterfowl squawk and fly away into the storm. "Quiet..." Nothing is working out for him lately. He hates it here. Especially here. "Please..." He pulls his hat down over his pointed ears.
He lets out a wheezing, rattling breath. The rain stops. The birds stop. The people stop. Everything within about thirty feet of him has gone silent and still, drops of water hanging in the air. Decay spreads over the area, even the rain turning green with algae as villagers and animals fall dead.
"Let me hear you."
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
*Thank you- I'm happy you like my additions!*
When all falls quiet around him, the Prince can faintly hear something- a faint, echoing scratching against the stones, resonating from the deepest depths of the Rottenmaw. It's getting louder, whatever's lurking at the depths of the pit getting closer, though it seems to remain at the bottom of the maw. He can almost swear he can see something moving in the darkness- something large and monstrous. It looks up at him, and if he listens closely enough, he can faintly hear a few echoing, yet very quiet words.
"...Who... who was that?... It wasn't food, I think... there's nothing new here..." The being doesn't seem fully aware of where the voice came from, skittering around the depths of the sinkhole and looking up from the darkness.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"Is food your desire?" He asks in his deep, rumbling voice, a voice that tumbles like an avalanche to the depths. A voice faintly desperate.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
The Beast of the Rottenveins looks up at where his voice echoed from- for the faintest moment, he though he could see several pinpricks of silver staring up at him, but maybe it was just a trick of the light. "It's... one of my desires, yes. What I really want is to escape. The walls are too damp from the rain, I can't climb out..."
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"If... you insist." He shakily continues sorting through the pieces. Eventually, he picks a large, black candle engraved with a goats face out of the orange brains. He pulls a match from his boot and, after pushing away some leaves in the way, strikes it against the concrete. He lights the candle, causing a scarlet flame to appear. "I got this from my patron... he's very generous..." Some crows begin to gather overhead as soon as the candle is lit.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
"Well, then, perhaps we'd better make a deal." He pulls a climbing kit out of his coat, complete with a bag of holding with a silk rope coming out of it. "What do you have?"
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
It's silent for a while, the creature pacing as it thinks. "...I don't have much of anything, really, unless you're in the market for corpses. But then, most want corpses for that golden stuff, and... well, that's the part I eat." It mutters something to itself, but he can't fully hear that. "...My strength? If there's something or someone you need to get rid of, maybe I could help with that?"
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"I can create Charnel Gold, and soon I will be bereft of foes. But... I'll give you a bargain." He thinks. "I'll take credit. You've been down there a long time, after all, and you aren't getting any richer." He jams a climbing anchor into the Rottenmaw's edge and lets the rope slide down out of the bag and through said piton. "I'm lowering a rope. It will take a bit. Tell me about yourself."
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Forever burdenless and terminally live!
"...About... myself?" It seems genuinely confused by the question, as though it had never thought of the answer itself. "...Let me think... I liked knitting? That's one thing I think I know. Though, there's not much silk down here to use, and the thread I make with the corpses is too sticky for knitting. I don't knit much anymore." It's pacing along the bottom of the pit as it thinks, before looking up again. "What about you?"
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)