The Legacy of Justin Richards

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Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » November 13th, 2018, 9:57 pm

Full Name: Justin Richards
Birthdate:
Birthplace: Greatport

Appearance:
Age: 30
Height: 5'9”
Weight: 140LBS
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Brown, balding in the front and middle
Skin: Fairly dirty
Handedness: Right
Posture: Varied



Personality Profile: charitable, straightforward to the point of rudeness, hard-working, mentally hardened by surviving the horrors of the world. In the right mood he can be uplifting, jovial, and care deeply for people. In the wrong mood he can kill with little remorse. A contradiction, a walking example of the confused state of man, filled with potential for infinite love as well as immense evil.


General Health: Good
Accent: Greatport
Profession: wanders around
Languages: -Redacted-, common, nothyrian

Briefly provide the pertinent details of your character’s history :

Never knew his biological parents. Raised by a mother who was the epitome of normal and average. She cooked, cleaned, and outwardly showed affection and love to her husband and only child. She was so average that there was obviously more to her. Whatever was going on inside her head was never revealed to Justin. Eventually, she went mad. Dementia they say. He loved his mother. His father was a "nice guy". People always said he was a nice guy. After his wife died, he started to drink alcohol every night, and most of the days. He died within a few months of her death. Justin loved his father. His parents had been rather simple people. Life had been simple for all of them. They worked at their jobs, brought home what meager coins they had been given for their daily labours, they ate food together as a family, they played games together, and then they went to sleep.

After his father's death Justin was left with a small inheritance. Two days after receiving it his house was robbed. All his valuable belongings were taken, the rest of it torched along with the house they had lived in together for nearly 15 years. He decided to leave Greatport to see the world.

15 years pass. Many, many things happen. The boy named Justin would not recognize the man named Justin. He had long since given up the family name. It meant nothing to him anymore. He had learned how to fight, how to kill. He had learned how to read and how to write. He had learned how to lie, and when others were doing so to him. He had met a man who could speak very little of the common tongue, but was well versed in the magical. The man had agreed to teach what he knew, after Justin cut off a few fingers. Oddly enough, they became friends over time. The weasel-like man had been an apprentice to a much greater mage. He had betrayed his master for a chance to gain more power. A foolish deed, the master's book was written in code. The code took Justin several years to decipher. He had the weasel-man teach him as much Principatus as he could wring out from his little mind. Some Justin figured out on his own. The book proved to be a far greater wealth of knowledge than he could have ever hoped for. After very nearly deciphering all of it, Justin killed the weasel-man.

Eventually, the book was lost. Justin had abandoned it out of necessity while fleeing, out a second floor window, from a witch-hunt in little but his underclothes. It had only bothered him slightly. He could make another book. He could fill it with the things necessary to conduct further research into what had become his passion: Magic and the pursuit of power.

---

BETA ACT stories, missing some text and pics:

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Bureaucracy, lines, papers. A swamp and some shacks. Weeks spent nursing a sore throat. Whispering words of power. Trudging through muck in search of parchments. The careful crafting of a quality book. Studies in the dark, sheltered from the rain beneath the leafy branches of trees. Fingers feeling across the pages, touching lines etched and inked. Brushing hands across runes, across mantras. The mind always turning, lifting this piece, set it gently here, fit it in this way or that. A spark, inspiration, sudden realizations of things now obvious. Fresh paper, unscarred. Ink pots infused with essence. The writing begins again, with no light to guide the hand. The eyes are of little use. One must feel the page, trust the hand and the mind. A fresh scratching across the paper. Ink drying in the wet night. More words to be whispered...

---

Grass softened the fall. Dirt and rock ground the skin. Blood leaks out from shallow scrapes. The world slurs, spins, blurs out and into focus as he blinks- hard and slow. Breath hurts. Coughing sends a trickle of vile green phlegm through the air to land with a splash as it mixes into a darkening pool of blood.

I'm alive.

He stands. Two legs wobble with effort to move the rest of the body forward. Arms feebly swing in an attempt to balance as he falls again.

He stands. A brief shake of his head, a cloud of dust with a spray of gritty dirt. A hard blink clears blurry wet eyes momentarily. Deep breathing. He looks down at two feet supporting him successfully.

He turns his upper half awkwardly to look behind him. In the distance his foe's shadow dances, flickering about as multi-coloured lights glow and fade rapidly.

He runs, stumbling and tumbling forward immediately into the ground face down. He stands. He runs, puking from the side of his mouth as he grips at his abdomen with one hand.

---

Tollo.

That had taken a very long time to acquire. Now, the fight would be simple. Turn the first downed against the next, repeat until they stop coming.

Back to the cave.

---

The fight in the caves had been like descending into a living creature, carving down and inside it to explore deeper; he felt like some sick doctor unqualified for the task performing a surgery on something he did not understand. The chance to discover something useful from the eyeless drives him to travel as deep as he can go into their disgusting lair.

The main level was practice. He felled several bandits, then turned the strongest looking of them to his command. Onward he carved, repeating this process to reach the entrance to the eyeless cavern. The bandits ceased to reinforce their friends, retreating back likely to regroup and assess. Nursing their wounds perhaps, but this was their domain on these top levels of the caves, and they would be back to defend it. The gold veins that glittered in the dim lantern light told him as much. Was there more gold to be found below, hidden beneath the gore and living mass that covered the deeper levels?

As he ventures through the red muck he pits his bandits against the younger eyeless. The fight is not pretty. The bandits do their job, absorbing punishing attacks that would kill Justin with ease if landed directly and correctly. The eyeless creatures fight savagely, the undead bandits do as well.

With great difficulty he manages to successfully raise an eyeless corpse intact. It was easy enough to raise one up, but they tended to fall to pieces physically, leaving him a damaged somewhat ethereal spirit instead. Either could be of use, but he needed to conduct some testing while on this mission. In direct combat, how many of the young, converted to undead forms of course, would it take to fell one of the arcane ones? How many arcanes to fell one of the brood mothers? Could a brood mother be raised up successfully? Surely it could not be used for breeding but it would make a powerful minion.

Would a raised up arcane eyeless have any ability with the arcane? Testing along these lines would need to continue. He would require hundreds of test subjects.

He focuses attention on the bloody scene in front of him. Safely far back, with wall to his flank he watched as an undead bandit leader repetitively swings it's axe into an eyeless creature. The bandit fights alongside a young eyeless abomination. The two of them rip their opponent to pieces as it tries desperately to use whatever magics it can to defend itself, as well as it's impressively strong physical form.

It dies, and among it's mass he finds what can be described as a pocket of sorts. Cutting it open reveals what is obviously a morium, a disgustingly smelly emerald. Should be fine when washed off, so he tucks it away into a pouch meant for things that needed to be further investigated. It could be different somehow, tainted, cursed, he would take precautions.

Several of these arcane wielding eyeless are brought down. Pockets sliced open reveal nothing of value. Hours and hours, time passing strangely this deep into the cave.

Low on supplies, nursing several disturbing looking cuts and a blow to the head that had likely caused concussion, he begins the journey to the exit.

An injury or two can be worked around. An uppercut from a giant woman laid him on ass. She had simply stood to one side of the eyeless caverns entrance waiting, listening to the footsteps slowly approach. Then, stepping forward casually, she delivered the mighty blow unseen, as his eyes adjusted to unexpected lantern light thrust at him by one of the other bandits in the ambush party.

Justin woke to an unwelcome smell, his own shit and piss, mixed with the scent of cooking meat and stale, spilled mead.

The group had stripped him down to his underwear. Beside him in a heap lay his pack and belongings, what little remained after they had passed it around taking what they liked. It had been pissed and shit on as well.

He gathered up the leather pack, dressed into the dryer pieces of clothing hastily, then began checking pockets, nooks and crannys to ascertain just what was left.

Plenty of things. Good enough. He moved on, sneaking easily enough past the first group. The second group was involved in some kind of dispute, four of them arguing loudly and very close together. A shove leads to another, Justin moves on past the bridge during the commotion. Halfway there now.

Ahead, the little table that was nearly always manned by someone. Some kind of official post? Is that where they clock in for work?

He stared long and hard at the man sitting at the little wooden table on his little wooden stool. After nearly ten minutes of absolutely nothing, blank stare on the mans face not even giving indication of consciousness, a yawn slowly emits from his face.

Justin bolts past the man with feet slapping cave floor loudly, shoe-less thanks to the looting bandits. The man at the table sputters, arms windmill comically as he tips backwards and off the stool to crash to the ground. Yelling comes from far ahead and far back.

Entrance within sight as Justin rounds the corner. Behind him, the sound of dogs, ahead of him, two women with rusty daggers standing watch over a pair of men with pickaxes. Squat, sweaty, and tired. The men breathed heavily as they took turns striking chunks of iron ore from the cave wall.

Justin charges straight at the two women, trying to barrel them over. Dagger rips into him, tearing angrily through skin. The woman is lightning fast. Strike two comes from the second woman, cutting only shirt sleeve as he dances around the pair gracefully. The two catch on each other slightly as they move to chase, giving him enough time to run past the sleepy looking miners and out into the dim light of the setting sun.

A missile of some type clatters off the cave wall nearby. Justin runs into the night, still bloodied and shit covered and with no special eyeless magical trinkets or knowledge gained.


---

-snow falling, studying ice magic

Always more to learn. What was cold?

Sitting on a dry, warm mat, inside his tent, he watches the snowflakes descending. Orderly laid out beside him are his research materials.

---

It worked. The horrific creature rose to it's full height. Moments ago, a corpse, twitching, life draining from it's hideous body. Now, something akin to alive, moving at least.

He had his tool of destruction, now it was time for further testing.

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---

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Tent that Justin "acquired" that was his work-studio.

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---

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Today I woke with the rising sun. It was, so obvious to me now that it always was, so beautiful. It has been a very long time.

I've heard it said that you cannot walk all paths.

Time to double-back. So tired of squinting. I've bathed in the dark long enough, for now. It's murky water has begun to wrinkle me. Surrounded with only the re-animated as my companions, it is not a life of joy.

Time to enjoy the warmth. The winter has been long enough already, is it even half through? This place... it confuses one's senses.

There is great power to be found in the mysteries of light. Time to study.


---

It was hard to put away. Turning your foe's body to fight alongside your will, a power so great, so hard to put down.

"Tomorrow," he would tell himself assuredly, "I will cease to use this book, I will put it down somewhere, and I will burn the work contained within."

The next day, more corpses, more screaming apparitions unleashed to do his bidding. It was so easy, so quick, and so very effective.

Putting it down would take some time, but he knew inside that he could not continue for long down this path.

---

Weeks pass, intense study continues. The secrets of "cold" are slowly revealed. Is it an opposite to heat? The absence of flame? Is flame the absence of cold?

Weeks pass, intense study continues. The secrets of nothing have been revealed. More questions. Always more questions. At least he could use the mantras to cause massive ice blocks to form, and then direct them towards enemies. Progress? It seems the progress is more often directed towards destruction. Strong is the call to the other mantras, those that form heat, that utilize the power of flame to achieve results. Perhaps more creation could be found down that path.

---

Weeks pass, intense study continues. It has been months since the destruction of the "dark" book, the book that had contained the culmination of years of study. The book that had taken him so long to craft; several months of gathering, writing; several months spent scrounging for raw materials in the desperate swampland of the quarantined area.

It had seemed fitting to burn it, lighting up the darkness so to speak. A massive pile of fire bombs, set off from several hundred paces away, detonated with one of the "fire seeds" he had learned to create from a recovered mantra, had combined to create a fine spectacle of light and heat.

Fire seeds, such a fascinating item. The apostate of this area had much knowledge available to them, and seemed unaware of how to utilize most of it.

With the book of dark mantra burned, his attention was now more easily focused upon learning of other ways to utilize principatus.

He would quickly come to learn that all schools of principatus come with danger.

---

The words sounded accurate as they left his mouth, but the air around him "wavered" for the smallest moment before exploding towards him. The pressure threatened to squish him into a small ball. His entire body felt as if he had been beaten with clubs for the past few days.

His head rests upon his arms, when had he fallen to the ground?

As the morning turns to noon, he awakens, still slumped on the floor of his tent. He puts away the study materials, everything going to its proper bag, pouch, or pack. Time for rest.

---


The little burnt-out fort that seemed home to the apostate cultists and their abominations was littered with the corpses of the recently "re-dead".

As the mantra leaves his lips he knows something is wrong. Dozens of times already today has the mantra been spoken, without difficulty, yet not this time. Perhaps a stutter? Did he slur?

It did not matter; the spell had failed.

Not one, easily controlled spirit-of-blades had been summoned, but instead a half dozen had appeared in a furious explosion which resulted in the destruction of his tiny, shiny morium.

He watched as they turn and slash about, spinning in place momentarily before sliding, floating, darting forth to lacerate anything remotely resembling the living. He watched from his back, stunned by the initial explosion.

There was danger in all principatus. It was a tool of great power, great potential.

He laughed, or tried to. How comical was it that some of his greatest feats of power were often very linked to failure. Had he the ability to summon a half-dozen of these spirits at will? Would doing so always explode the morium? Could a morium powerful enough to handle the energy be found? Could one be created?

Always more questions. He was only one man. Perhaps it was time to find his "ally" and exchange notes. Could anyone be trusted?


---

The heavy, white hood flopped atop his head, beating lightly an almost rhythmic cadence across his ears. Almost rhythmic, his feet frequently pausing, sliding, trying to find the optimal footing as he jogged through the ever-present muck of this place.

He paced himself. There would be more running, more sweating, plenty more work to be done before the day was through. His search for more study materials was a task that would likely never end, not as long as he continued to live.

Could one find a mantra so immense in power that it could not be stopped by anything?

Could one find a mantra so immense in power that it could stop anything?


With mountain in view these impossible questions slide away to a small drawer in the back of his mind. The drawer slides shut.

The pick hits the mountain.

---

Conversations lost in time

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Cleaning out the despoiled small church building:
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---
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He found himself now more often at the plantation than he had been in the previous months. The place had begun to move. Stirring, slowly, like a great beast come to life from a long nap.

Justin opens the door to the small building, yet does not immediately enter. Inside, Carver looks horrified. On the floor lay a bloated corpse, who it had been in life it was difficult to tell now, the features were warped and twisted. It looked as if someone had attempted to drag the body out... or someone had dragged it in???

A long, long journey sees the body dumped at the Templar camp pyre. The group seem surprised. Few words are exchanged, the entire camp has a strange tenseness about it.

Perhaps they've been here too long.

An equally long journey, yet not so difficult without a wrapped-up corpse over his shoulder, back to the plantation area.

Justin performs an attempt at a wash: Alcohol and water used to hopefully clean the remnants of plague from his body and most precious of items.

His jewelry, clothing, armor and some other bits are tossed to the hospital pyre for fear of contamination.


Justin does his best to clean the tailor-hut of potential plague.

---

He shifts across the river, feet landing without missing a step he continues to jog at a relaxed pace. A practiced move executed many times previously without failure. He jogs towards the burnt-out fort, with only a brief stop to be made along the way. A quick peek in to his "secret" stash of parchments and treasure a few days earlier had revealed that it was most definitely not a secret, someone had removed the bulk of the stash.

Today, the tent itself was no where to be found. All things must come to an end, and Justin had been prepared for this eventuality for quite some time. In the previous months he had begun practicing a kind of self-reliance, trying to further himself from reliance upon items and equipment where possible. Items and equipment were tools to be used, the mind, the body, these were the true treasures.

Whistling a jolly tune Justin adventures forth in search of more research opportunities and materials.

---

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---

A detailed note, carefully penned:
Follow the mountain. Along it's rocky wall. The river begins, pouring forth from the rock. So wide is the mouth- too wide to cross. I go down, go too far? Marines. Don't go too far. Cross the river, there is much to be done.

(the note covers locations of suspected corrupted sites and plans to remove active sources of corruption from places such as: Aiwella, Riverside, and the magic forest.)
Signed,
Justin

His trip across the river to the west had been an adventure. He had come to the quarantine zone in search of adventure. Now there was more adventure than he could handle alone.

Almost died to a wooden arrow.

Damned with boundless curiosity he was now forced to find and join the circle. Either they would know what to do, or at the least he could bounce ideas and share research materials.

---

The plantation, sitting around the fire pit:

The long, grey beard somehow stayed out of the way as the strange man blew at the bamboo flute.

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A coin tossed, a book dropped.

He doesn't care.

The "forest warden" of course. Odd, friendly, and grey, just as his ally had mentioned.

Where was that ally?

Conversation. With a human. It heals the mind.
They take a long walk. The way is familiar.

Of course it's the big tower.

---

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Materials placed carefully around him. The rain echoes loudly off the large rocky cliffs, he stays dry. His candle stays lit. He sits in the circle. The study page sits in the center of the circle. The ink bottle sits open, ready. The pen stands erect in his hand.

Inspiration does not come. After some hours he packs away the materials. A look up to the top of the tower reveals nothing, no movement, sound, or sign of life to be seen from his vantage point.

He makes shelter at the tower's base, nestled near to the still-warm coals of the forge, beside the small statue of the stone-worker. There he wraps himself tightly in his now quite dirty and very worn-in robe.

Watch my back...


---

A field of research material tucked in behind a nightmare-heap:

The journey in had not been as simple as the first foray. Marine patrols.

My fault? No way to know.

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He picked from the plants at a frenzied pace, head turning and eyes peeking to the the crows overhead as they watched him. Their brethren lay in bloodied heaps, strewn about the field in chaotic patterns of red and black. The groans and screams of Aiwella Monastery reverberated off the huge mountain of rock nearby, the sound was nearly comical. It was as if Aiwella mocked itself.

The monastery, mocking itself, which is itself a mockery, a mockery of what it once was.
Mockery mocking a mockery.hah
Hahahaha
Perhaps I am losing my mind already?
That's fine.


A fist-full of what looked like useful quality bloodmoss and he was on the move again. Eyes scan the field for threats as mouth repeats the some words spoken so many times previous that day.

From some other plane the thing spins into existence. It lands almost softly, seeming to hover as it spins with such speed and ferocity. With sudden speed it moves towards the first victim. Dry, blood-crusted blades of grass, those unlucky enough to have grown too tall, are relieved of their tips as the bladed spirit slides through the air.

An animated corpse is turned into minced crow food in less than one second. The bladed spirit spins off to seek more victims.

Dangerous.



With his leather bag stuffed full of plants he moves on, following the path through the caves to explore in search of powerful treasures.

---

A road, old but in decent condition. He begins a long jog.

Jungle. Spiders. Snakes. Boars. Leeches. Bigger spiders.

He runs down a road. People lay dead, shredded to bits, they dot the side of the road for some distance behind him. The ground around him ripples. A boom. Dozens and dozens of tiny ripples. Something bites his leg?

He runs off the road awkwardly toward the dense jungle.

After carefully checking the wound, he determines the shrapnel had passed through him. After some quick bandage work, and a concentrated concoction of ginseng and whatever else goes into a quality healing potion, he finds his way to a good scouting position near the jungle's edge.

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Ahead lay some kind of very old building. Pirates and treasure hunters had secured the area. They appeared to have backup units, plenty of supplies and shelter, boats, and most unfortunately they had people with the ability to manipulate magics to spew principatus based destruction the same as he. He detested fighting enemies that he knew so little about.

Dangerous. What's in the building?


The treasure hunters lose a few men to the steady barrage of bladed spirits. The hooded ones arrive. Their words banish the spirits with ease.

Dangerous. Shouldn't have come back alone.


He flees through the jungle, Principatus shifting him through dense brush, in the general direction of the long road.

Wrong way. Wrong road. He travels north and west.

This might be faster.

More pirates. More treasure hunters. Back.

He flees to the dense jungle.
The words, the blades spin.
Again. More spin.
He follows them, flinching slightly at the carnage. The wood chips, the blood, a snake fang, twitching jungle creatures meld with the muck. He gathers the salvageable research materials.

A road, old but in decent condition. He begins a long jog.

Jungle. Spiders. Snakes. Boars. Leeches. Bigger spiders.

The adventure called for full effort. He paid no mind to his bodies cries for rest. He had pushed his mind farther, the whole of the day's light spent calling forth spirits. The trip through Aiwella, twice. The body would pay now.

The trip through Aiwella only a week prior. The countless near-deaths. The research mishaps. The late nights of study. Would you know when your mind shatters?

It was grueling. Food and drink could only replenish so much. The body required rest. Rest was a very, very long way off. Escape from the general fort-area had been fortuitously easy. No patrols encountered, several avoided at a distance.

He walked along near the road, yet obscured safely by jungle brush, until well beyond the Foundry-barricaded bridge. A river crossed, his legs were wobble sticks as the Principatus shifted him to his familiar side of the river. He kept moving at an awkward and painfully slow pace.

The tent. The glorious tent. The smelly bedroll, so cold and stiff. He hugged it, collapsing to the lumpy floor.

So wonderful.


---



With sudden realization he springs to action. He yanks the spellbook from his pack and flips rapidly in search of something.

Aha!

He speaks the words, the door in front of him fades out of sight, revealing a small room. Another mantra spoken, energies focused, and he shifts his body physically through the invisible door. It worked.

For hours he tries to climb the many twisting staircases. Traps make the journey potentially deadly. Magic teleporters that send you to the front door make the journey potentially frustrating.

The obelisks with their strange riddles pull at the edges of his memory.

I should know what they speak of. Important dates and places of history, why can't I recall?

A peek up the final staircase, teleported to the ground level once again.

Another time, perhaps.


---

Two words of power had remained unknown to him for such a long time.

What joke was it that fate played?
The two missing words had been: Free, and Wild.

Time to study.

---

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'Under the forest floor can be found a small cavern. A corpse can be found decaying, slowly, in a pool of water. The water source must be quite deep as the body has yet to have any major negative effect on the quality of the drinking water.

The corpse has been looted, possibly several times. It is unclear exactly how the man died.'

Standing in the underground cave brings back a clear memory.

Not so long ago I stood here once. We barely acknowledged the corpse of the man as we discussed the arcane studies. A moment of confusion as to how he may have died, and then back to what was so important, talks of power.

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---

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---

"Move Living Thing"

That was the one.

Justin watched the mage's mouth move. Lips, tongue, and throat working in conjunction to release the sound of principatus spoken with utmost perfection. Lights flash around the speaking figure, and with a sudden shift of the world Justin finds himself standing nearly atop the mage.

That's the mantra that will make me a shepherd of all.

---

Later, sleep comes easily to one who spent the day working and studying. Dreams greet him, a welcomed change.

Dreams turn to what some would consider nightmares. A... being, a man? It is shrouded. Cloaked in darkness, cloaked in thick clothing? It is impossible to discern the being's true shape. It manipulates the arcane without spoken Principatus. All around it's lair are... tentacles? Vines? They lash out, they move, the ground ripples and cracks as the tentacle vines slither and smash at the people amassed a safe distance from the creature.

An army. A ragtag bunch, a mosaic of colours, a mix of various uniforms, armors, and varied in cultures. All different, yet all united in their quest to destroy the shrouded being. They ride horses, strange birds, green lizards, some sit atop creatures that do not quite exist, spirits of horses? It is a dizzying site to watch a man ride atop a nearly invisible horse.

The human army is amassed a safe distance away from the shrouded being and the tentacle army. They throw explosive bombs, command arcane energy while speaking power words unfamiliar, launch arrows at superhuman speeds, and some command... dragons? Mythical winged lizards, tall as a house.

The dragons rage, spewing flame and fireball at any tentacles too slow to move. The tentacles grab at the limbs of the massive dragons, trying to pull the creatures to the ground.

The being shifts. It's limbs move about in the air and- A woman is shifted across a vast distance to meet face to... face? with the creature. She is devoured by a mouth which opens from the center of the creature's torso. The arm's wave again, another of the vast army is shifted, eaten by the torso-mouth. A third, he tries to flee, the vine-like tentacles grab him, shoving him down the shrouded creature's throat like fingers catching a falling french-fry.

A french-fry? Potatoes. Fried potatoes.

Explosions, so many explosions, a never ending cacophony accompanied by splashing purple liquids and shattered glass flung in every which direction.

The being falters a moment, it's demise is close. The army surges forward, splitting itself in two. The greedy rush to their doom amidst the mouth and the vines. All seek the glory of the killing blow? Or perhaps some great treasure to be found? It is unclear, they are cut to bits. Some are blown to pieces from the discarded bombs which lay about. Their fuses defective, the bombs sit, waiting. As the dragon fire heats the area to unimaginable temperatures, the glass bottles melt, the liquid burns, sizzles, pops, exploding at seemingly random intervals.

A group appears. One uniform. They move as one, maneuvering their invisible horses with great skill they come upon the scene unnoticed by most. They unleash arcane energy upon the nearest of the dragons. It screams, a horrible sound which echoes off the rocky cavern walls. The great winged lizard collapses, a slow process. It's body twitches as it lays dying, caused by an excess energy from the torrent of arcane bolts launched into and through it's flesh.

Something like a laugh emits from the shrouded being. It surges forward, devouring corpse and living without discrimination. It's vine companions mostly lay still, chopped to pieces, burnt or destroyed in some manner.

The greedy are no more. The cautious have fled. The uniformed group of late arrivals take up rehearsed positions with great haste. An organized assault of exploding potions accompanied by lightning chains is directed at the shrouded being. It collapses before it can traverse the full distance to it's foes.

After a quite short victory chant the group gathers the massive amount of gold coins the strange creature had been hording. They bag and drag the loot, taking what they can gather from the nearby bodies hastily.

As Justin watches the group round a corner they disappear into the cavernous maze.

The dream fades, replaced by one detailing much more mundane activities.

---

He remembered the smell. The noise. It rising up slowly from the ground, as awkward in death as it had moved in life. The creatures snapped neck jutting out slightly, somehow functional it moved forward like a maggot with meaty arms.

He had led it out of the cave. It could have spread it's horrid spawn to some other place. Could have created another oozing, fleshy, tunnel of madness.


What was I thinking?


Revenge. Power. Treasure.

How many more caves? How to eliminate it?

He tossed about, kicking at the sheets of his bedroll.

The day had been long. Hundreds of dead pirates lay strewn about their shanty shack-camp. Down and around the swamp-bay and continuing towards the road lay corpses chopped to bits by sharp blades.

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Blades summoned from somewhere, brought to this place temporarily and sent to clash with the closest pirate caught out of water.

The killing spree had been prompted by a near death cannonball experience.

The cannon shot had been sent from across the bay, and the journey to reach the cannon had been long. By the time the he traveled around the edge of the bay to the cannon, his thirst for revenge had been sated. The cannon itself had not decided to fire. Those who had forced it to do so were now dead, slowly sinking into the toxic, swampy ground nearby.

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The journey out: Corpses, blood piles, the occasional straggling pirates found and eliminated. He felt little remorse.

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Had I not been searching for tools of creation? Wasn't I trying to protect life?

No. Not these lives.

Oh that's right, I was searching for power.

They attacked first anyway.

Did they?

---

Stripped down nearly naked, he packs his shoes away for now as well.

Soles are not tough enough yet. Soon? Maybe.

He grips a rough club in calloused fingers. He carried few objects with him for this journey. Book. Food. Weapon. He felt so light. His backpack hung loosely behind him, the straps hung with extra slack. They were unfamiliar with the lack of weight, the bag had not been so empty for months.

He felt so light as his bare feet slapped at the grass. The sharp poke of the occasional twig was simply part of the training process. The jungle would harden him.

---

ACT OFFICIALLY BEGINS:

As the story left off, Justin had recently been knocked unconscious when hitting the ground suddenly and with great force as a cannonball had been shot in his direction. The effects of the head trauma were not immediately obvious to himself, but he had suffered a concussion.

Some hours later he had decided to strip himself of his worldly belongings, save for some coin, his favourite book of spells, and his sturdy shoes.

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After some weeks spent in the wild, he no longer has any of his original gear. A quest of sorts had begun for him, a returning to nature. It had felt so good to lose one's self in the jungle and be pitted against all manner of challenges. It had felt so good to shed the clothes and the heavy bag of gear. It had felt even better to throw his coins to the river, to rip page after page of mantras from his book and toss them to the wind.

He felt more free than he had ever felt in his life. It was a time of self-reflection, of gaining a deeper understanding of his place among the wild. He honed his physical form. He became proud of his ability to survive. He would not speak the magical words any longer, he had no wish to, his search for power had led him in a new direction: Inwards.
Last edited by Justin Richards on March 21st, 2019, 4:34 pm, edited 5 times in total.

Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » November 16th, 2018, 6:32 pm

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The life of a lone adventurer becomes more difficult as the power of his magic fades. The mantras granting defensive bonuses no longer protect him from the cold, he dons clothing. The magic no longer hardens his skin, callouses form slowly, but they crack and rip from the constant battles. The landscape becomes an enemy, he dons boots. His fists hurt, fingers bruise, his arms bear wounds and are no longer as effective at blocking clubs, he begins to carry a stick to defend himself. His water jug breaks, none can be found among the rubble of Riverside. As the injuries pile up, he comes to a realization: He is not as strong as he believed himself to be.

He makes the journey back to civilization. Time for a new plan, a regrouping effort. The land's inhabitants have beat him back from the forest with sheer force. Strange creatures, and stranger people, roam the once empty stretches of rolling plains around the burnt out forest. Justin must train his body further; He refuses to return to the magical arts for power.

Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » November 21st, 2018, 5:48 am

The nights are short for those whose work never ends. He spends his nights among the refugee camp. The horrid smells of rats cooking and garbage burning are a welcome change from the horrid smells of Aiwella monastery. The people of this small camp are a pathetic lot. He wonders what separates them from the people of the Fort.

What prevents them from moving forward? Why do they make no progress? Is it even possible to help people like these, or will they forever be relegated to the bottom rungs of society?

He tried to assist them daily, bringing foodstuffs, tools, seeds, and defensive equipment. The people here were not clever. Some turned their noses up at his offers of fresh vegetables. They prefered to fish in the dirty river. Rats and crows seemed the main source of sustainance for these camp folks.

Maybe some people can't be saved?

Justin helped anyways, it made him feel good. Perhaps it was to balance all the wrong he had done in his relatively young life. In only thirty years he had managed to pack in many a foul deed. It seemed that a sense of Justice had always been there, but it had only recently become too strong to continue to ignore. Returning to the First Province, the journies in the quarantine zone, and seeing the true enemy of mankind had done much to reignite the good in him.

Seeing the Eyeless first hand does something to a man. He struggled with it, trying to brush it off as unimportant, as just another tool to be utilized in his quest for power, but it was not. It was an ancient evil, if the scriptures and the tales of old had spoke true. It was a race of beings that pre-dated man, a race of beings that predated upon man.

There was a war to be fought, and we are busy squabbling on the surface.

He watched as a cat finally caught one of the carrion eating crows. The Crow had become too fat to fly over the short fence. The cat ripped it to pieces, blood soaking in to fur and dirt alike. As the cat became full of meat, it slowed, eventually leaving the kill to find a warm spot to rest. Maggots crawl towards what is left, their tiny eyeless forms wriggle forward, occasionally lifting to... Smell? It was hard to discern how they sensed. They swarm upon the bloodied remains of the crow.

Justin finally drifts off to sleep, catching a few hours of deep, much needed rest.

Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » November 24th, 2018, 6:22 pm

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The stout preacher's words jumble together, but his meanings do not. He speaks rather clearly about the need for unity, and goes into detail on what the Sacred Eight mean. The sermon is a delightful break from the wilderness. It feels good to be among so many people who are well-fed and well-clothed.

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The initial idea of the return to Fort Praesidium had filled Justin with dread, but to see how it was run under the control of the church was a delight to behold. Their rule had seen an increase in business and opportunity not seen at the Plantation. The walls, civilization, some semblance of rule of law, these things were a welcome return to sanity.

---

After slaying a tormented cyst in close combat, Justin is advised to burn his clothes so as to prevent any potential spread of the torment.

They were such nice clothes.

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Last edited by Justin Richards on March 21st, 2019, 1:33 pm, edited 2 times in total.

Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » December 8th, 2018, 3:58 am

The local well had been infected with torment:

He had certainly overreacted. His knowledge of how the torment spread was full of holes. The folk around the fort had tried to explain to him that he was not dying, that a simple sip from the tainted well would not be enough to change him to a raging afflicted. He could barely hear their words as he stared at his hands. Thoughts of clawing at flesh with his fingertips, ragged nails grown distorted rending at innocent or foe alike. Perhaps he had spent too much time in close quarters combat, fighting with those strange claw gloves.

He sat staring at his hands turning them over and back again, wondering how long it would take him to turn mad.
He barely recalled emptying his inventory and his bank box, but it had made sense at the time. He would give what he had to those who struggled to survive in these tainted lands. His thoughts had been of dreams unfulfilled, plans that never saw fruition.

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Feeling his life was over, he spilled out stories that had been pent up inside of him. A kind man led him out to the road outside the Fort, and listened skeptically as Justin rambled about giant eyeless creatures which lived beneath the ground.

Feeling death was not far off, he completely let go of all secrets he had been keeping. He spoke openly about practicing the arcane, and raising the dead. It had felt good to let go of the burden. The conversation was interrupted by a large gathering of men, heading out on a mission of some kind.

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He went to find a good sleeping spot. As morning came, he realized his overreaction, yet regretted very little. It had been worth losing everything to get the weight of secrecy off his shoulders.

Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » December 8th, 2018, 4:34 am

A sermon at the darkest hour:

Word had spread of a sermon being held in the church. Justin rushed to attend despite being tired from a solid day of labour. He arrives in time, quickly finding a seat. There had been no need to rush, as there was ample time for the slow, steady stream of people to arrive.

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He had chosen a seat where the banner of spirituality had hung over his head. He was still considering this as the sermon began. Nearby, a man bends his head in prayer.

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The sermon over, people begin to gather themselves and head out.

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Justin feels the opportunity to confess what he had done was interrupted, and is compelled to fully explain.

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Last edited by Justin Richards on December 8th, 2018, 5:04 am, edited 1 time in total.

Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » December 8th, 2018, 4:57 am

My love won't hurt

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He is wild, brain not functioning, he stumbles out the entrance. His world is tilted, his thoughts block-like. Everything is pain, a numb kind of pain. Shocked, confused and bloody, he falls to a knee. A man follows out the church to assist him.

A jumble of memories:
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Justin Richards
Posts: 31
Character: Justin Richards

Re: The Legacy of Justin Richards

Post by Justin Richards » March 21st, 2019, 2:26 pm

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Laying in the back corner of the refugee camp listening to the sounds of the river and the commotion of camp life. Resting the wounds from the lashing.

Justin's mind drifts to memories of exploring. The world was constantly changing.
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---

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An apothecary removes the stitches.

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Feeling quite sore, and not as flexible as he once was, Justin decides to avoid combat for an extended rest period. The word around the Fort is the construction project for the wall repair. Justin takes this opportunity to get out to the wilds and do something physical without endangering himself.
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Crafting boards for the wall construction.

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---
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The hanging of a criminal.
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---

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Justin's plans to build a training-camp to turn the refugees to militias is reconsidered after hearing that a massacre occurred. He re-evaluates over some weeks and decides to begin creating a small crafting area nearer to the mountains with the intention of creating a group of cave-miners out of any willing refugees.

His construction takes some weeks.
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---

The building had been erected, furnished with a simple quality engineering workbench, and had it's walls stacked with materials for mine support structures in a long day of labour.

The next time he opened the doors to the small building, the engineering table was gone. He had expected people to remove items, for use or for profit, but never had he expected anyone to remove the potential for creating. He had worked hard to set up the small shop, intending it to be for the public mission of expanding expeditions through the underground cave networks. Spelunker's club had been a simple enough idea, it was to be a loose collection of miners and underground enthusiasts.

The building looked as if it had been ransacked. Richards had tossed the place, throwing things into a pile near the center. As he left he quickly paints over the old sign:
"Burn them all"

Overreacting had become a habit for him. The tendency to take things to extremes is why he had turned away from power, he didn't trust himself with it.

Faith in humanity temporarily shattered once again, Richards sets out on his new mission.

---

He purchases a solidly crafted suit of steel armor from a vendor for the steep price of a hundred silvers. He quickly finds the suit to be worth the purchase as it provides greater protection to the body than his greatest magic abilities had provided for him. It was quite heavy, but it made one feel good to move about, sweat, and exert effort. It was a comforting kind of shell to encase his body within. It could be cold to first don the armor in the morning, but it would quickly warm up as he jogged around doing the tasks of trade, survival, and exploration.

Justin hops on a rented horse and rides to Riverside in an effort to re-explore the world to see what has transpired while he stayed near to the Fort area.

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He heads to the plantation, and is disappointed to see the small building that had served as a church is now simply a barracks for mercenaries.

He travels the lands, searching for peace and purpose. Gathering power, but unsure where it will be directed in the events to come.

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There are many secrets to the land of the first province. Thinking that perhaps some answers, some thing unknown and somehow helpful to his cause of... he can't even recall anymore.... He continues to search.

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