“That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sounds like rain.” -- Rad Bradbury
Welcome to the Autumn Country. Here death and growth, decay and abundance, walk hand in hand. Here fields lay lazily with bellies full, ready for harvest. Gravestones jut from the ground like hungry teeth. The dead wander the threshing floors and the leaves dance rhythms through the ever present gusts of wind. Autumn people wander and feast and fall through Fall in dreams of yellows and oranges and browns and dying, dying greens. The denizens of this decaying growth, this bedtime, graveyard yard land, bring about thrills and chills and kills. And all is under the watch of the candle glow eyes of Augustus, King of the Autumn Court.
The King of the Autumn Court. Feel his breath. It is the wind. Listen, those are the howls of his Fox Hounds. He is the harvester of these fields, his sickle is the bite of coming cold. You feel his step in the crunch of the leaves and the wingbeats of migrating fowl. He is the governor of this land and its season, each leaf flutters at his command.
Are you a member of the Autumn Court, one of the autumn people? Are you a visitor from another realm? Many of the lost wind up in this Autumn Country. Are you searching for something? Many of those sort wind up here as well. Who knows if they ever find what they seek.
The Keep of Painted Leaves stands on the tallest hill, surrounded by tombstones and aged trees with barren branches. The door is always open to the Keep. The table is always laden with a freshly harvested feast. The cellars continually flow with wines and beers and ciders. You are welcome in the Keep, but so are the ghosts and ghouls. Beware.
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 a Fall month in your first post to show you have read the rules.
Listen to the mods, The Summoning Dark and TheFriendlyArchfey.
*I don’t know autumn months. I probably won’t be on this thread because I don’t have any sheets available, but I just want to say, Dark you are such a good writer, I aspire to write like you one day.*
*I don’t know autumn months. I probably won’t be on this thread because I don’t have any sheets available, but I just want to say, Dark you are such a good writer, I aspire to write like you one day.*
*Thank you!*
*Also, I'll point out that I rarely use character sheets. Almost never. You don't always need them and I usually find them too constricting and time consuming. If you ever need to roll it's easy to estimate what modifiers they would have.*
*October fan, here. Dark this sounds fan, tast, ic. Imma either rummage up a character that fits this or make somebody entirely new! Hopefully relatively soon.*
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
⌜╔═════════════The Board══════════════╗⌝
...and started me on my way into my next chapter in life...
There is a town out in the woods. It's unclear how they found a clearing big enough for a town, let alone a farming town, but they did.
It has no name, and it only pays taxes directly to the King instead of to any of the four nobles nearby, none of whom claim the town as their own. The nobles used to use those woods for hunting game, but for whatever reason they begrudgingly stopped once the town appeared. Frequent hand-painted signs deter hunters and trappers, claiming that a license from the local mayor is required. Those who do not follow the signs usually disappear on their trips. Those who don't disappear refuse to speak of what caused their scars, even when thoroughly inebriated or interrogated.
The town itself isn't especially remarkable. The beastmen who inhabit it are welcoming and gentle, living an almost idyllic country life. Secrets grow like crops in this place, diligently tended and hidden by the fox-man, Mayor Drowse. At the moment, he is in his workshop by the main road, as signified by his dusty, leaf-covered model T sitting beside it. Drowse is presently performing maintenance on the townsfolk's firearms, mostly farmhouse double-barrels with the occasional hunting rifle.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
There is a town out in the woods. It's unclear how they found a clearing big enough for a town, let alone a farming town, but they did.
It has no name, and it only pays taxes directly to the King instead of to any of the four nobles nearby, none of whom claim the town as their own. The nobles used to use those woods for hunting game, but for whatever reason they begrudgingly stopped once the town appeared. Frequent hand-painted signs deter hunters and trappers, claiming that a license from the local mayor is required. Those who do not follow the signs usually disappear on their trips. Those who don't disappear refuse to speak of what caused their scars, even when thoroughly inebriated or interrogated.
The town itself isn't especially remarkable. The beastmen who inhabit it are welcoming and gentle, living an almost idyllic country life. Secrets grow like crops in this place, diligently tended and hidden by the fox-man, Mayor Drowse. At the moment, he is in his workshop by the main road, as signified by his dusty, leaf-covered model T sitting beside it. Drowse is presently performing maintenance on the townsfolk's firearms, mostly farmhouse double-barrels with the occasional hunting rifle.
The distant call of hunting hounds is carried to the town by the autumn wind.
A tall, strong man walks along the main road, coming across Drowse in his workshop. His hair and beard are a thick mane of reddened maple leaves. His arms are bare and tight with muscles and his chest is armored with pinecone scales. A goose feather cloak shrouds his shoulders and ripples with every gust that blows by. Birch bark boots carry the man and three large, red hounds flit nimbly about his feet. The hounds seem to be a strange mix of fox and hunting dog. Their fur is red and their tails are bushy and white tipped. Their snout is long but wider than a fox and they move with vulpin dexterity, tasting the air with their noses.
The man looks at you with eyes that shine out of his face like candlelight from a jack-o’-lantern’s gaze. “That’s quite a lot of firepower you have here.”
There is a town out in the woods. It's unclear how they found a clearing big enough for a town, let alone a farming town, but they did.
It has no name, and it only pays taxes directly to the King instead of to any of the four nobles nearby, none of whom claim the town as their own. The nobles used to use those woods for hunting game, but for whatever reason they begrudgingly stopped once the town appeared. Frequent hand-painted signs deter hunters and trappers, claiming that a license from the local mayor is required. Those who do not follow the signs usually disappear on their trips. Those who don't disappear refuse to speak of what caused their scars, even when thoroughly inebriated or interrogated.
The town itself isn't especially remarkable. The beastmen who inhabit it are welcoming and gentle, living an almost idyllic country life. Secrets grow like crops in this place, diligently tended and hidden by the fox-man, Mayor Drowse. At the moment, he is in his workshop by the main road, as signified by his dusty, leaf-covered model T sitting beside it. Drowse is presently performing maintenance on the townsfolk's firearms, mostly farmhouse double-barrels with the occasional hunting rifle.
The distant call of hunting hounds is carried to the town by the autumn wind.
A tall, strong man walks along the main road, coming across Drowse in his workshop. His hair and beard are a thick mane of reddened maple leaves. His arms are bare and tight with muscles and his chest is armored with pinecone scales. A goose feather cloak shrouds his shoulders and ripples with every gust that blows by. Birch bark boots carry the man and three large, red hounds flit nimbly about his feet. The hounds seem to be a strange mix of fox and hunting dog. Their fur is red and their tails are bushy and white tipped. Their snout is long but wider than a fox and they move with vulpin dexterity, tasting the air with their noses.
The man looks at you with eyes that shine out of his face like candlelight from a jack-o’-lantern’s gaze. “That’s quite a lot of firepower you have here.”
The humanoid fox calmly lays down the shotgun he was oiling and turns around in his chair. "All the arms in this town, in fact. It's the monthly inspection day." He gives a short bow, his hands folded over his lap. "My Lord."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
The distant call of hunting hounds is carried to the town by the autumn wind.
A tall, strong man walks along the main road, coming across Drowse in his workshop. His hair and beard are a thick mane of reddened maple leaves. His arms are bare and tight with muscles and his chest is armored with pinecone scales. A goose feather cloak shrouds his shoulders and ripples with every gust that blows by. Birch bark boots carry the man and three large, red hounds flit nimbly about his feet. The hounds seem to be a strange mix of fox and hunting dog. Their fur is red and their tails are bushy and white tipped. Their snout is long but wider than a fox and they move with vulpin dexterity, tasting the air with their noses.
The man looks at you with eyes that shine out of his face like candlelight from a jack-o’-lantern’s gaze. “That’s quite a lot of firepower you have here.”
The humanoid fox calmly lays down the shotgun he was oiling and turns around in his chair. "All the arms in this town, in fact. It's the monthly inspection day." He gives a short bow, his hands folded over his lap. "My Lord."
Augustus’s eyes flicker and he nods his head, his hair and beard rustling with the movement. “Splendid. Forgive me for neglecting to visit your township. My duties called me elsewhere, the first days of the season are always the busiest. Tell me, are your people simply very fond of the hunt? Or is there some other reason they all maintain their arms?”
The humanoid fox calmly lays down the shotgun he was oiling and turns around in his chair. "All the arms in this town, in fact. It's the monthly inspection day." He gives a short bow, his hands folded over his lap. "My Lord."
Augustus’s eyes flicker and he nods his head, his hair and beard rustling with the movement. “Splendid. Forgive me for neglecting to visit your township. My duties called me elsewhere, the first days of the season are always the busiest. Tell me, are your people simply very fond of the hunt? Or is there some other reason they all maintain their arms?”
The middle-aged fox smiles gently. "No good farmer lacks a shotgun, or hunter a rifle. We have more farmers than hunters, but as you say, we are fond of the hunt. This town has a long, long history of hunters, not all of them dutiful. We had to bring the wildlife back some time ago, but we were as overzealous as the hunters way back. So the people buy firearms to protect themselves. I instated the license system to protect the local animal population, but if it's on your land, you have the right to shoot it if you don't waste it."
He pulls out a small piece of paper. "Now, I know these lands are all yours, but it would still be nice for you to have a permit. Makes the spirits all comfortable-like. I've already signed everything, and there isn't much to read, but if you intend to hunt here I'd like you to read this and give your own signature."
The humanoid fox calmly lays down the shotgun he was oiling and turns around in his chair. "All the arms in this town, in fact. It's the monthly inspection day." He gives a short bow, his hands folded over his lap. "My Lord."
Augustus’s eyes flicker and he nods his head, his hair and beard rustling with the movement. “Splendid. Forgive me for neglecting to visit your township. My duties called me elsewhere, the first days of the season are always the busiest. Tell me, are your people simply very fond of the hunt? Or is there some other reason they all maintain their arms?”
The middle-aged fox smiles gently. "No good farmer lacks a shotgun, or hunter a rifle. We have more farmers than hunters, but as you say, we are fond of the hunt. This town has a long, long history of hunters, not all of them dutiful. We had to bring the wildlife back some time ago, but we were as overzealous as the hunters way back. So the people buy firearms to protect themselves. I instated the license system to protect the local animal population, but if it's on your land, you have the right to shoot it if you don't waste it."
He pulls out a small piece of paper. "Now, I know these lands are all yours, but it would still be nice for you to have a permit. Makes the spirits all comfortable-like. I've already signed everything, and there isn't much to read, but if you intend to hunt here I'd like you to read this and give your own signature."
The Autumn King takes the paper with his large hand. “I think it would be right for me to have a permit. A king should lead by example.” His fox hounds sniff around the workshop as he quickly scans the permit.
The middle-aged fox smiles gently. "No good farmer lacks a shotgun, or hunter a rifle. We have more farmers than hunters, but as you say, we are fond of the hunt. This town has a long, long history of hunters, not all of them dutiful. We had to bring the wildlife back some time ago, but we were as overzealous as the hunters way back. So the people buy firearms to protect themselves. I instated the license system to protect the local animal population, but if it's on your land, you have the right to shoot it if you don't waste it."
He pulls out a small piece of paper. "Now, I know these lands are all yours, but it would still be nice for you to have a permit. Makes the spirits all comfortable-like. I've already signed everything, and there isn't much to read, but if you intend to hunt here I'd like you to read this and give your own signature."
The Autumn King takes the paper with his large hand. “I think it would be right for me to have a permit. A king should lead by example.” His fox hounds sniff around the workshop as he quickly scans the permit.
It is a simple permit regarding these specific woods around the village. It grants him the "right" to hunt a limited amount of game during certain months of the year. This particular license allows the Autumn King an ample amount of time and quite a body count if he so desires, but it does have one stipulation: he must use every part of the animal in some way, and any part he fails to do so with must be returned to Mayor Drowse. It lists decoration and adornment as "uses," but it specifies that using the body to fertilize land outside of the village is not okay.
The fox hounds find a bucket of lard beside a small wooden refrigerator filled with bones and meat, a couple of eggs, and a single bottle of milk. There is a list of simple recipes on the front, mostly for meat pies. One is circled with the words "Knight's Favorite" beside it.
The Autumn Country
“That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sounds like rain.” -- Rad Bradbury
Welcome to the Autumn Country. Here death and growth, decay and abundance, walk hand in hand. Here fields lay lazily with bellies full, ready for harvest. Gravestones jut from the ground like hungry teeth. The dead wander the threshing floors and the leaves dance rhythms through the ever present gusts of wind. Autumn people wander and feast and fall through Fall in dreams of yellows and oranges and browns and dying, dying greens. The denizens of this decaying growth, this bedtime, graveyard yard land, bring about thrills and chills and kills. And all is under the watch of the candle glow eyes of Augustus, King of the Autumn Court.
The King of the Autumn Court. Feel his breath. It is the wind. Listen, those are the howls of his Fox Hounds. He is the harvester of these fields, his sickle is the bite of coming cold. You feel his step in the crunch of the leaves and the wingbeats of migrating fowl. He is the governor of this land and its season, each leaf flutters at his command.
Are you a member of the Autumn Court, one of the autumn people? Are you a visitor from another realm? Many of the lost wind up in this Autumn Country. Are you searching for something? Many of those sort wind up here as well. Who knows if they ever find what they seek.
The Keep of Painted Leaves stands on the tallest hill, surrounded by tombstones and aged trees with barren branches. The door is always open to the Keep. The table is always laden with a freshly harvested feast. The cellars continually flow with wines and beers and ciders. You are welcome in the Keep, but so are the ghosts and ghouls. Beware.
Rules:
The first ever tavern summoned by Dark.
Mods: The Summoning Dark, TheFriendlyArchfey
*OCTOBER*
*YESSSSSS I LOVE IT*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
*I'll be on tomorrow with a new character*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
*Perfect.*
*I don’t know autumn months. I probably won’t be on this thread because I don’t have any sheets available, but I just want to say, Dark you are such a good writer, I aspire to write like you one day.*
*Fun fact, I'm a child of autumn. As in, my birthday's in November. I'll intro here if I think of a good idea, this seems awesome.*
Hello! I am a perfectly sane gibberer. Hi! :D
Locations are dead, the Temple of Potassium has fallen but its ideals live on
A mysterious link of chain... (Extended signature). PRAISE JEFF THE EVIL ROOMBA! REALLY cool video.
One of the Warlock Patrons on the forums. Low, low price of your soul, your firstborn child and your liver!
Titles: The Echoing Story Spewer from Drummer, the Endless Maws from Isis, the Mad Murderer from PJ
*Thank you!*
*Also, I'll point out that I rarely use character sheets. Almost never. You don't always need them and I usually find them too constricting and time consuming. If you ever need to roll it's easy to estimate what modifiers they would have.*
*woohoo! It’s here! Time for spooky month! (October)*
*October fan, here. Dark this sounds fan, tast, ic. Imma either rummage up a character that fits this or make somebody entirely new! Hopefully relatively soon.*
⌜╔═════════════ The Board ══════════════╗⌝
...and started me on my way into my next chapter in life...
⌞╚════════════ Extended Signature ════════════╝⌟
The doors to the Keep of Painted Leaves are always open.
*I'll be around all morning.*
*I am here a bit early!*
*A momentous occasion!*
*I ended up writing a whole village just so I could play a mayor. It's nice and spooky and autumnal.*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
*Welcome! That’s awesome and exactly what I wanted to happen here! I’m at work now but I should be around later in the afternoon.*
There is a town out in the woods. It's unclear how they found a clearing big enough for a town, let alone a farming town, but they did.
It has no name, and it only pays taxes directly to the King instead of to any of the four nobles nearby, none of whom claim the town as their own. The nobles used to use those woods for hunting game, but for whatever reason they begrudgingly stopped once the town appeared. Frequent hand-painted signs deter hunters and trappers, claiming that a license from the local mayor is required. Those who do not follow the signs usually disappear on their trips. Those who don't disappear refuse to speak of what caused their scars, even when thoroughly inebriated or interrogated.
The town itself isn't especially remarkable. The beastmen who inhabit it are welcoming and gentle, living an almost idyllic country life. Secrets grow like crops in this place, diligently tended and hidden by the fox-man, Mayor Drowse. At the moment, he is in his workshop by the main road, as signified by his dusty, leaf-covered model T sitting beside it. Drowse is presently performing maintenance on the townsfolk's firearms, mostly farmhouse double-barrels with the occasional hunting rifle.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
*I see you, six people viewing this! Don't feel afraid to jump in!*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
The distant call of hunting hounds is carried to the town by the autumn wind.
A tall, strong man walks along the main road, coming across Drowse in his workshop. His hair and beard are a thick mane of reddened maple leaves. His arms are bare and tight with muscles and his chest is armored with pinecone scales. A goose feather cloak shrouds his shoulders and ripples with every gust that blows by. Birch bark boots carry the man and three large, red hounds flit nimbly about his feet. The hounds seem to be a strange mix of fox and hunting dog. Their fur is red and their tails are bushy and white tipped. Their snout is long but wider than a fox and they move with vulpin dexterity, tasting the air with their noses.
The man looks at you with eyes that shine out of his face like candlelight from a jack-o’-lantern’s gaze. “That’s quite a lot of firepower you have here.”
The humanoid fox calmly lays down the shotgun he was oiling and turns around in his chair. "All the arms in this town, in fact. It's the monthly inspection day." He gives a short bow, his hands folded over his lap. "My Lord."
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
Augustus’s eyes flicker and he nods his head, his hair and beard rustling with the movement. “Splendid. Forgive me for neglecting to visit your township. My duties called me elsewhere, the first days of the season are always the busiest. Tell me, are your people simply very fond of the hunt? Or is there some other reason they all maintain their arms?”
The middle-aged fox smiles gently. "No good farmer lacks a shotgun, or hunter a rifle. We have more farmers than hunters, but as you say, we are fond of the hunt. This town has a long, long history of hunters, not all of them dutiful. We had to bring the wildlife back some time ago, but we were as overzealous as the hunters way back. So the people buy firearms to protect themselves. I instated the license system to protect the local animal population, but if it's on your land, you have the right to shoot it if you don't waste it."
He pulls out a small piece of paper. "Now, I know these lands are all yours, but it would still be nice for you to have a permit. Makes the spirits all comfortable-like. I've already signed everything, and there isn't much to read, but if you intend to hunt here I'd like you to read this and give your own signature."
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
The Autumn King takes the paper with his large hand. “I think it would be right for me to have a permit. A king should lead by example.” His fox hounds sniff around the workshop as he quickly scans the permit.
It is a simple permit regarding these specific woods around the village. It grants him the "right" to hunt a limited amount of game during certain months of the year. This particular license allows the Autumn King an ample amount of time and quite a body count if he so desires, but it does have one stipulation: he must use every part of the animal in some way, and any part he fails to do so with must be returned to Mayor Drowse. It lists decoration and adornment as "uses," but it specifies that using the body to fertilize land outside of the village is not okay.
The fox hounds find a bucket of lard beside a small wooden refrigerator filled with bones and meat, a couple of eggs, and a single bottle of milk. There is a list of simple recipes on the front, mostly for meat pies. One is circled with the words "Knight's Favorite" beside it.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.