The Jungle (Mature) Begins
Such is the start of this role-playing game. I do believe my posting this is slightly late, so help yourself to one of my many apologies, which come in a series of designer colors. In any case, the original sign-up thread is here. You do not need to repost your character form unless you feel motivated to do so.
We have certain views on escapism. For the larger part of our history, we have been dreamers. In olden times, we were music-makers. The ancient human race was one obsessed with mysticism in all its forms: monsters, magic, gods. They were enraptured by everything which we have come to call "myths."
There is no explanation as to why it happened. Suddenly, the imaginative fables our ancestors considered truth became "just stories." Some say this was due to the advent of science, but there is little actual proof of this. Belief in such things fell out of favor before the golden age of civilization. In medieval times, in poverty and with little knowledge of technology, such beliefs had already disappeared. People became persuaded of the fact that, all and all, those superstitions, those legends, that folklore, was nothing more than lies.
And if they were lies, we can see what must have occurred. Some compare many lies to a tangled web, forgetting the strength of the spider's silk. A number of lies together are nothing more than a precarious tower, hastily built, which at the right time, in the right wind, has a tendency to collapse. But bricks and mortar do not just disappear. Ruins remain; our own science tells us matter cannot be destroyed. And if matter, why not ideas? Why not deceit?
On a plane of vast mist and in an ocean of water black, through and through, there lies an island. There is a wall here, broken at the edge of the sea. Beyond here, past a small stretch of sandy, listless beach, there is only an endless wood. Like any true rainforest, it holds unmeasured biodiversity. Creatures lurk here, some of which have never been seen by human eyes, and at least a few of which are malevolently intelligent. Its existence has never been marked. You will uncover it charted on no map. But be aware, for there are many places here to trespass, that it is not, by any means, undiscovered.
No living human, or at least in the Terran sense of the word, has ever seen it. That is, perhaps, until now. At one time, the island had a lower half, a bleak wilderness, dotted with pine trees and covered in snow. It had mountains, which, despite the physical impossibility, have been completely devoured by the sea. The land was ruled by an iron-fisted mistress, Zhila of the River, who had molded the land to her purpose with her power over all things aqueous. The wall now broken once towered here, an impassable barrier, the exact function of which remains unknown.
And then they arrived. An intrepid band of humans, maybe the only ones to ever come to the island, found their way through. Instantly thrust into survival, they were visited by a nightmare and gifted powers they did not understand and whose origin was surely sinister. Using them wantonly, their fear soon gave way to curiosity. For unexplained reasons, Zhila opposed them. In attempting to murder them, she was killed by them, by the trespassers on her own lands. With her death, the fabric of the lower island weakened, and the humans were forced to flee past the crumbling wall. Zhila's domain was swallowed by the sea which she had thought she controlled, and her killers found themselves again forlorn on the sandy beach, at the edge of the jungle.
Unbeknownst to them, they have drawn the attention of many. Few who walk the island are unaware of the death of the mistress of the River world, Zhila. The arrival of man is an omen, linked to countless things. There are more cultures here than one could count. There are inklings of beings, stalking the dark. There are secrets, always, many kept from the humans themselves.
For what would they do if they knew, perhaps, that a city lay just past the jungle? That a harbor, consumed by the white man's greed, existed. It is a vast labyrinth, and within, perhaps, is a way home... however, even within civilization, things prowl the night.
The objective of the humans is simple: discover the way back to their own world. It is always these incomplex plans which go most wrong in the end. Even now, some within the group seek to deviate from that path. Home is not always where the heart is.
The motives of the island denizens vary, but there is one certainty. They cannot escape. All have become part of it. They have been swept into the irreversible change that has come, and as the plot thickens, the consequences may be dire.
If you need help with what to put in your first post, feel free to contact me via private message. The thing is, given the nature of this role-playing game, it really is up to you to start making your own story already. I dropped Rajnish and Sirin Ito-ku in my first post, so if either of you, River or Weasel Overlord, are interested in interaction, there's that opportunity. Please do me a favor and refrain from attaching your signatures in your posts here so that the thread is easier to read.
Joseph Alone
Deep within the bounds of an enormous rainforest, a single man stood, hands on his knees, out of breath. Even with his better-than-perfect eyesight, it still did not allow him to see when there was no light. The last rays of moon had disappeared minutes before underneath the thick foliage above, when he was a bit less concerned with trying to see. Now, there was more than one impediment to him going further. Besides this velvet darkness, he was exhausted; his legs, his arms, his everything ached, his scalp matted with blood. He was covered in dirt and pustules and itchy hives, having brushed up against more than one offended plant. The combination therein had splayed itself across his skin, and he was now covered in raised red splotches, which he knew only by the touch. Feeling along before him, he discovered the trunk of a tree and, defeated, he slumped to the ground, bowing his head, and beginning to succumb to sleep. The previous day's events did not so much flash through his consciousness as lurk there, a painful reminder of his own stupidity. He had left them. It had seemed a good idea at the time, when the first rays of dawn were just beginning to illuminate an illustrious plain, a woodland of verdant, lush trees and mysteriously vibrant flowers. A single foreign bird chirped in the meager dim light, a wit-wit-ee-rill-rill-wit that throbbed in his head still, nestled deep. Now, though, this original innocent imagery was corrupted by the primeval events that had come to pass.
He had forgotten his original justifications for leaving them. Perhaps he had felt listless, Sara having rejected him on her return, changed, inhuman. Or maybe, just maybe, like so many times in his former life, the weight of his duplicity had finally forced him to his knees. He knew, however, as he always did, that these were emotional reasons, which hid the truth of his dispassionate nature. He had left because, as he had sensed and as he knew they would begin to, his purpose had diverged from theirs. Despite the horrors suffered here, there was something in the air here. This world thought like him, breathed like him, moved like him. It came at you from the side, grinning the while; nothing was ever as it seemed. Now, however, a liar amongst his own kind, he was at a disadvantage. It just might get him killed.
It had all started earlier. Even as soon as the beach where he had been had disappeared, he was hopelessly lost. This did not initially bother him, as he had been aiming to go nowhere anyway. That is, until they came. There were several creatures, flitting between non-existent shadows in the terribly sunlit forest. He would get a glimpse, every now and then, of a predatory eye, or a horn, or occasionally, a seemingly human face. Once, a figure ahead, half visible behind what appeared to be a tree full of small orange mangoes, stood stock still as he approached. At first glance, he saw a cheerful, perhaps even playful, blonde-haired woman with big blue doe eyes, wearing gleaming black plate armor. As he neared, he realized this protection was seamless, and her eyes began to seem hazy, as if by cataracts. A few steps closer, and, still fascinated, he could see what appeared to be knobbed antennae, flexing occasionally, protruding through her hair, which seemed wilder up close. Finally, she stepped fully out from behind her tree, and he understood. Her eyes were as a fly's, multi-faceted, reflecting his own image within. She opened her mouth to speak and realized then, it was not a single mouth, but two with the bottom and top lips sewn together. She made a terrible sound; a high-pitched shrieking intermixed with the tinkling of glass, her dual tongues vibrating softly. The brush beneath his feet began to move, carrying him with it, flowing towards her. As he looked down, he saw himself being carried by a wave of small black beetles and many other insects, all together, all continuing to live and mate and eat one another even as they obeyed the command of the two-mouths. He jumped up once, and stomped down, temporarily slowing the wave, and he ran, as a million small bodies skittered after him through the undergrowth. He might have been swarmed there, carried off or devoured by thousands of hungry mouths, but he passed through a fast-flowing stream, leaving his pursuers to drown.
Across the stream, he found himself standing in ruins of gray stone; well, he thought so at first, but realized, perhaps, that they were only half-built. There were inscriptions on the wall and his interest was piqued, perhaps, only because some of them were in languages he recognized. Having taken time to learn a little French, he picked up one such tablet, which was simply discarded on the floor. There was nothing here in English, but that any human language would be represented at all- it was nothing less than strange. He left it though, driven on by uneasiness.
He heard the footsteps, then, and the net as it was thrown. He swept just out from under it, but a weighted end caught his foot. He cut himself free with his fan, which made a pleasantly vicious sound as it unfolded. In anger, he had spun to face the nearest; it was a short-haired brown man, appearing almost as a satyr. He was wearing buckskin and his unshod feet were hoofed, his head sporting small horns. As he took a closer look, the man changed, flowed, the horns curling and growing massive, his legs hooking and forming his body into a hunched shape, and he began to paw the ground with black beady eyes wide in rage. As the creature charge Joseph, regrettably, had let go of his fan. He told himself he had not been intending to throw it anywhere, that he had simply wanted to be left alone, but he was unable to deny the reality of it slashing almost clean through the neck of the creature, which slumped to the floor. He could hear the sound of many retreating through the brush, intimidated. Of these creatures, he could only think of one word adequate to describe them: demons.
He wondered, then, if it had been entirely him. There was other movement out there, quieter. He watched, and he swore, for the briefest of moments, he saw a... horse? An aberrant breed, surely, for what little of his coat he could see was a shimmering silver that was all too unfamiliar. There were patches of dark grey as well, which puzzled him. It was too late to think much on it, however, as perhaps knowing it had been seen, it had melted into the forest as easily as if it had never been there at all. Even then, he continued to ask himself what other predators might be just as silent and, motivated by the thought, he pressed on.
He started out at a tired walk, but his ears keener than most men; he knew something was following him. So he ran, and when he had just begun to rest and a twig broke underfoot some ten yards away, he sprinted. That was how he had found himself here, in the dark, running from some invisible assailant. Usually not so much courageous as unflinching, he felt as if the only emotion this place could bring in him was the fear. Of what was known, of what was not, and of what might be watching him, at any moment, somewhere high in the trees; or perhaps, just maybe, he felt nothing at all, and was simply using it as a reason to brood. In this world, his body was acting much faster than his brain, and it disgusted him. Leaned against the trunk where he was, he clutched the tablet, which he had somehow managed to keep hold of in his flight. As far as he knew, he had escaped whatever it had been. He always tended to. It was one of his few talents, surviving, and he had been doing it some months before he had come to this world. The thought of it revolved in his head, drawing back poor memories, and old hatred. Some months before he had come here...
He was standing in the empty street. His hands were grimy, his depressed palms, held outright, still cupping some small amount of it. He let his hands drop to his sides, and there was a splatter as the liquid fell against the ground. He had stopped here, right here, in the middle of it all, because he thought he had heard someone screaming. His hearing had always been terrible, so he had waited to hear it again, to know for certain that he could trust himself not to be imagining it all. He heard nothing but the echo of that quiet shriek kept pounding into his mind, begging him to do anything but stand still. He pushed this instinct away, but remained ensorcelled by the crackling flames before him. Eventually, after staring long into the fiery depths, as building and life crumbled, he turned around; a siren blared mere yards from his ear, and a flashing red light struck his eyes simultaneously with a flashlight. Two men stepped out and the one on the passenger's side suddenly yelled, "There he is, and he has a gun!" Wait, he had not had it, no, not then... but the pistol was cold in his hand. Neither police officer tried so much as to coax him to drop it, but judging by his unreal, steel grip on it, it was unlikely to happen anyway. They raised their own handguns, and the younger one, the one that had been riding shotgun, muttered, "This is for-" the name was lost over the crackle of the car radio, but the gunshot wasn't.
He woke almost instantaneously, knowing without confusion where he was and how. He breathed a sigh, grunted, and shifted as he realized his frantic sleepy movements had caused him to roll headlong into a patch of thorns. He was now covered in small scratches, but even so uncomfortable, he knew he would have to return. That it would replay itself again, pressing into his head, his own dreams asking again and again, "Where is your regret?" These were not nightmares borne of his own insecurities, but by the natural order, which was insecure with him in it, at least the way he was.
As his eyelids closed, as the image desperately came back, there was movement in the undergrowth. The canopy seemed different since when he had last looked there, and now, just barely, a miniscule amount of starlight was frantically pushing through. He thought he saw a shadow, with a face wreathed in a blur, as if by some amount of hair, and a face that, when it turned to the side, elongated strangely, in the semblance of a trunk. Still, he continued to doze off, letting himself fall back into the past. The shifting steps were closer this time, and before he could keep himself from doing so, he called gently, "Who is there?" In response came a soft, wavering whisper, like wind passing through, but there was no breeze. It came again, and only then did he understand what it had said.
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I left it open for anyone to hear/notice the lil girl romping through the woods XD
