Reversed Creation [DD Survival]

[relentless]

Reversed Creation
"Broken, defeated. Lost, and bent by the might of the Eldritch Machine.
We fight, and die, for such a meaningless cause. To survive in this Armageddon, where our homes, my manor... is but a fortress of festering, malignant stone.
For what hope is there, in hell?"
-The Last Ancestor.

Explanation:
Reversed Creation is depicted as a Darkest Dungeon Survival theme, where the roles have been switched in this alternate timeline. The Heart of Darkness has burst open, killing itself in the process, but unleashing a literal tidal wave of hellspawn that rushed through the lands, infecting the swinemen, fish folk and walking bones alike with their corruptible webbing. The hamlet was the first to fall, swarmed by millions and millions of these eldritch thralls, with most of its inhabitants murdered, or assimilated into the eldritch machine. Those that were lucky fled from the lands, rumors spreading of this new found threat.

Though instead of dealing with it... nations, from England, Germany to France and other foreign lands to the East contributed to a very heavy quarantine of the area. Armies surrounded the hamlet's location from afar, either by boat or by land. This threat didn't seem to stop, it just seemed to grow, and mutate further.

Mercenaries, cutthroats, zealots and street vermin reformed in the Weald or Ruins, surviving off scraps, building fortifications and barely staying alive. Most of these groups would fall victim to madness, or paranoia, killing one another until the last took their own life. The main group however, seems to be holding up rather well. The last ancestor is afterall, a good public speaker.

Eventually, it would just be this group left, encamped near a lake far from the Hamlet. They cannot leave, those that have tried have been cut down by the English footsoldiers, or have had an arrow in their eye. Contamination must not be allowed, so they kill anything that comes close.

Rules:
>There can only be one character of each class. E.g. cant have two crusaders. The hamlet has been overrun, and a majority of the inhabitants have been killed or assimilated into the scourge of Eldritch Horror.
>Powerplay, or perform Meta and there will be severe consequences.
> Characters must respect the setting. No fancy tents, or a wealth of supplies.
>Characters are technically level 6 at this point due to the severity of the scenario and the time where this takes place e.g. after the heart bursts open. That being said, try not to go too crazy with character design.
>Once you die, you die. Of course that's obvious, but no other characters can be created if your character perishes. Exceptions may be made if you can persuade me to allow a second character to appear, but that's highly unlikely.
>Have fun!

Slots:
10 Character slots.
>Crusader [Unter(loser) -Francois]
>Plague Doctor [Available]
>Vestal [Available]
>Graverobber [Vanitypirate - Tilly]
>Highwaymen [Swagwalker - Derek Gagon]
>Arbalest [PorkyLabrador - Ariana]
>Leper [KidneyBean - Roard]
>Abomination [UNAVAILABLE - The call of the heart, and the wailing of the eldritch beast seemed to have driven the Ancestors monster units mad, turning them into raving monsters. Some are stuck in their normal physical state, others are stuck between their eldritch side, and their human side. Others... have suffered a more horrific fate.]
>Men At Arms [Relentless - Libourg]
>Flagellent [UNAVAILABLE - The call of blood was too much to bear as the denizens of the hamlet were slaughtered. The one, and the only Flagellant had gone stark raving mad, and fought the swarm with immense vigour. His flail swung, and bloodied, broke and choked many. But he eventually fell, and became one with the Heart's Parasite.]
>Antiquarian [Can - Ariel]
>Shield Breaker [Azmowow - Beatrix Balogh]
>HoundMaster [Available]
>Occultist [Blade - Nasuris]
>Hellion [Black376 - Courcy ]
>Jester [AVAILABLE]
Buildings(?):
Makeshift forge [Blacksmith - Upgrade weapons and armour, instead of gold, utilise parts that are found on missions and scavenging the area.
Ale Barrel Cave [Tavern - Limited supply of alcohol to squench thirst, raise morale and celebrate... on the rare occasion.]
Training Grounds [Guild Hall - Sharpen skills to fight the horde.]
Hunters Tent [Camp Skills - Learn camping skills, such as alchemy, hunting, foraging, berry picking etc.]
Rows of tents for survivors. [This is where the characters will sleep, nothing fancy, just enough to survive.]
Lookout Post.
Wagon Armoury. [Stockade of used, dulled weapons gathered from the dead. Mostly used to reinforce structures when need be.]
Alchemist's Bench

Overall Plot Stretch:
The plot can end in a large variety of ways that I have plans, a couple for example being:
>The camp gets overrun and all the inhabitants are murdered.
>The camp escapes the quarantined zone.

This is one of many endings that could potentially happen, either being amazingly good... or a malignant evil. So in this RP, I strongly encourage your characters to step out of their norms. To survive by any means necessary... even if that means becoming the monster they faced down on expeditions long ago.

But what I can say is that there's about 10 endings.
The Hunt:
The malignant horde, the hearts disease that caused it to burst. It was dying... so painfully, with this ravaging horde of peculiar, otherworldly creatures eating their way out. They are contorted, twisted, and deadly. Some cannot even be killed, whilst others are so horrifying that the mind simply falls apart after admiring the creature for too long. Humanity has been drained from this land, where even the remaining swine scampered and the dwindling fishmen have swam to other isles, lest they become fish food.

Of course, the walking dead are simply too mindless to ignore the swarm, which resulted in the undead becoming the backbone of the eldritch swarm, their resilence is formidable.

But from what other surviving camps have gathered, and relayed to others whilst they were still alive, information about varying types of these creatures. Mainly the more troubling, and horrifying ones they had come to know in this damned time.

The Pack:
This is a common enemy that will be apparent throughout the lands of this decrepit place. Thankfully they are rather weak, with only one eldritch being regarded as a stronger foe, possibly an alpha male. They should not be overestimated however, in rare cases there have been... interesting mutations.

The Wailer:
An eldritch being that was once a cultist priest in life, and mindless abhorrent in the other. It's purpose in the swarm of crimson webbed flesh is uncertain, other than producing a chilling scream, which not only hurts the ears, the mind and soul... but also lures a pack of the swarm.

Eye Walker:
A truly horrifying eldritch creature, one that poses no physical threat, but poses a significant mental threat. Only three have been killed, with the ones that have killed them going mad or taking their own lives from the madness that they have been caused. These creatures have been reported to 'sing', which sounds delightful. But when that horrific multitude of eyes bears witness to a survivor, only God knows what it does to their minds. But those eyes, they breed nightmares if they bore their gaze into their prey for too long.

There are more out there in the shadows of this place, some are towering; bigger than trees. Whilst others are nigh unkillable. The other camps simply didn't have enough time to record them all, since they're all dead...

The Map:
Abandoned Warrens [Stinking of aging waste, the catacombs of the warrens are quiet. The sounds of pigmen no longer echo, only the droplets of swine blood, piss and shit. And the occasional hum of beauty, of course. It denizens are smelly, but rather sparse. Though disease seems to run amuck, as per. Now, the hamlets survivors become the squatters of the sewers... and the swinemen are 'free'.]

Quiet Cove [The rocky cove has not seen a lot of action after the great eldritch flood had ran amock. The sands remained untampered by the fishfolk, their scale feet carried them through the waters... or malformed into the thing that drove them out. So at last, the beach can finally be enjoyed for a time. Though the rumbling of large, almost horrific footsteps can be heard within the depths of the watery cove. A thunder of weight, along with a long, drawn out groan of pain and discomfort.]

Decayed Ruins [This memorable row of stone is the most dangerous of places to rest, since the walking dead did not flee, but stand fast. It was a fruitless venture, and now they lumber around, with contorted eldritch skin wrapped around their bones. Though a strange presence can be felt within this place, a rather alluring hum. Along with a rather... annoying ticking sound. Insectoid like.]

Overgrown Weald [The Weald has seen better days, even before the Heart's Parasite descended upon the land. Thankfully, wildlife is more fruitful, since the swarm has been reported to ignore them, and with less threats they come out more often. But that doesn't mean that it's not without risk. What does seem to scare them away on occasion is unknown, hunters have reported a boar that they've been hunting just disappear without a sound.]

The Hamlet [Demolished, overrun, and decimated beyond repair, the swarm makes it's rest here in the denizens of this place. A large majority of the buildings are used as breeding grounds, through asexual means. Alien like pods of all sizes have been reported, but other than that, no one truly knows what goes on in the hamlet with its new owner.  The pantry, the guards armoury and the sanatorium seemed to have remained untouched. And from what the last scout party saw, the stage coach seemed to be quite bulky. Must've been preparing for the celebration for when the heroes come back, after destroying the heart.

But it's important to note that at night, something large looms over the Hamlet. Large enough to swat out the stars out.

Do not enter, or the swarm will gather. In the thousands, or millions. No one has ever lived to count them all.]

The Crimson Court [Nothing of value seems apparant upon the vast swamp of the crimson course, other than the castle upon its stoic perch, with the chorus of mocking laughter being heard from afar.

Dr Vlad Vakl's Tower [The meteor plowed into the earth, though thankfully it didn't seem to hold that much impact, more so tumbling and falling apart. Shards formed in the ground after the swarm had descended, glowing a bright green. There luminescence was peculiar, and it shined in the night sky to betray the red moon that hung overhead. And so, the tower that stood unabandoned for so long, would not be inhabited by one man with... vicious contraptions. Only for the sake of allowing him to research undisturbed, that is.]
Alchemy
Alchemy at this time has become more needed than ever. With how fast they charged the hamlet, no one had anytime to take any medication with them. So as such, herbs, flowers, seeds and natural extract from the enviroment can be used in order to produce ointments, poisons, explosives or... more revolutionary products now that the environment has mutated beyond repair. But to combat the more interesting eldritch creatures, it would best be advised to gather their crystallized blood clots that resemble rubies. I don't know what it is about them, but they're quite reactive with a mortar and pestle.

Currency
Anything that can be used to survive, is currency within this camp. Survivors trade weapons, food, armor, potions or whatever can be used to fend for their life, or to survive. Though what seems to be a prized commodity, would be the crystallized blood clots. Dangerous to find, but outside of this quarantine zone? They would be worth chest loads of gold. Of course... to be put in the wrong hands could be the undoing of the world.

Job Roles in the Camp:
Everyone must put themselves to the grindstone, for if one does not, the chance that they will all the pay the price.
>Guard [Watches food rations, brutalizes rabble, keeps the peace and watches the border of the camp]
>Hauler [When the camp needs to be relocated when Wailers have been sighted close to the camp, these large, stern farmhand esque men or women will move the wagons quickly with all their belongings put onto it.]
>Scout [Scouts out the area, places traps, occasionally hunts, looks for ways out or some resolution for the camp, good with traps.]
>Hunter [Hunts for animals, scouts on occasion, best at hunting animals.]
>Enforcer [Expert at dispatching eldritch filth, immune to assimilation.]
>Medic [Medical knowledge, acidic warfare, can make acidic traps, good with alchemy.]
>Crafter [Able to craft a numerous amount of objects such as traps, small palisades, trip alarms etc.]
>QuarterMaster [Distributes Rations/weapons, keeps track of inventory.]

Food, Water and Materials
I will be keeping a track on how food, water and materials. With every dm post I make, I will include the current stock of food rations, water barrels and materials. All of these can be preserved and gathered in a variety of ways, all it needs is creativity from the characters mind to do so. Torch light in itself will act as normal if people venture out, but all three of those aspects will burn slower or faster depending on the situation.

CS TEMPLATE

SPOILER: Click to show

Name:
Sex:
Age:

Armour Description:
Attire:
Weapons:
Unique Detail:

Inventory:

Sanity:
Hunger:
Health:

dick size

[🐴Can🗡️]

Name: Ariel le Blanc
Sex: Male (can easily be perceived as female by people with poor perception and/or prejudices)
Age: 28 (Birthday: August 18)
Class: Antiquarian / Arbalest
Preferred Roles: Crafter (Alchemist, Herbalist) / Medic (Healer) / Hunter (Gatherer) / Scout (Ranger)

Armour Description: Leather gorget, brigandine armor vest, left reinforced brigandine gauntlet and armguard, right long leather glove, thigh-length sturdy leather boots
Attire: Worn blue & white embroidered cloak with natural green paint, short-sleeved faded turquoise tunic, dark green linen pants
Weapons: Scratched white light crossbow, reforged baselard, bolas, shortened military fork, survival knife
Unique Details: Soft androgynous voice, refined speech, slightly unkempt long peruvian brown braided ponytail, hazel eyes with a reddish tint, hair and skin have sporadic reddish splotches

Inventory: Large sturdy leather bag with quiver compartment, precision bolts (30), old censer, bandages, empty salve containers (6), hand mirror, mortar and pestle, a bunch of edible leaves (0.5 days), alchemy vials (6), philosopher's stone (a red gemstone that transforms focused thoughts and emotions into mild magic), a variety of herbal and alchemical compounds like antiseptics (2.5 vials), healing salves (2 containers), ointment (1 container), anti-toxin (1 vial), weakening toxin (2 vials), flashpowder (1 container), transmuter's dust (0.6 containers), panacea powder (0.5 containers)

Sanity: At least feeling at home so long as the nature around him isn't awfully corrupted.
Hunger: Satiated for now thanks to fruits, berries and leaves.
Health: Not as well-groomed as before, but he's been successful at avoiding disease like the plague so far.

dick size: 0

[The Carrying Blade]

SPOILER: Click to show

Occultist Template: Guard/Enforcer/ Spiritual Scout: Occultist.
Name: Nasuris
Sex: Female
Age: 32 (Birthday: February 28.)

Armour Description: A hardened cloak that covers her face in shadow while protecting her back and sides in battle, she is better dodging than full on attacking because of this.

Attire: The woman wears a hardened brown cloak, long leather pants, undergarments, a leather jerkin with a black undershirt, along with leather shoe’s that are padded inside and out to give comfort and increase durability while maintaining agility.

Weapons: A weapon called Katar (picture will be shown.), it is essentially a punch blade being fitted to the persons hand and with one large claw like dagger piece that is able to split into 3 smaller Wolverine claws for more damage or hitting multiple vital points.
Then she has her magic, which has exponentially grown in power and adaptability, a few skills of use is healingwounds, melding the flesh together and knitting it closed. Then she has her shadow tendrils, which come in 3 varieties, Large crushers, lean whippers and rooted grabbers, along with being able to morph a tentacle onto her less dominant hand for a more direct use such as to whip and lash, along with reaching farther with it than usual.

Unique Detail: Thanks to the heart and her own experience in this ruined hell, her soul and the demon it was merged with has fully become one, completing the form in its entirety. Her skin that was dark seems actually lighter than before yet more ashen, but only slightly to give off a more shadowy look. Her ruby red eyes are more pronounced and gem like, their natural glow has stayed the same, as well as her body type becoming leaner and more agile. Her hair has grown down to her stomach, grey, and now feels like silk to whoever touches it. This is the true form of Nasuris, and there is no turning back from the change, this is her life now and she owes it all to herself. Side note: Her voice has become permanently one, it is calm, calculating, and smooth as she speaks going from one word to the next like water.

Inventory: A Katar, a torn in half toy bear, the crystalized blood clot of Jack, and a canteen of water with a loaf of bread, everything else was left behind being non-essential.

Sanity: She is sane, but her mind has been broken a little more permanently in other ways, so she is a bit unhinged for the entire time she will be alive now.

Hunger: Mildly Peckish, could go for a bite to eat.

Health: As best as one can be in this deathfilled, horrific grounds, she is better off than one would be able to tell from her body shape and is not sick in the slightest. One could call it peak condition except there would never be a chance to be truly healthy again.

[Kidney]

Name: Roard 
Sex:
Male
Age: 36 (Birthday April 2nd)

(Class: Leper, Hauler)

Armour Description:
Roard wears what appears to be bronze armor, with pieces of rusted chain mail holding back pustules slowly growing under it. The chestplate resembles a chest of an ancient Olympian, a imprinted musculature, decorated once with vine-like designs and stains of spilt wine. Now, it sits, beaten, battered, a symbol of the hardships of the world, but also of the never-ending mental constitution this same world helped synthesize.
Hard pieces of crusty wrappings hold back waves of pestilence growing upon him, giving a mummy-like appearance.  Bronze shin-guards also adorn his legs, among stained sandals holding down swollen feet, covered in perhaps three layers of sock. The lack of a mask sits as the stark contrast to other Lepers of his time, not a single piece of metal to cover a face turned black with eldritch sickness, glowing flecks of purple madness among black pus oozing from holes so dense on the nose and cheekbones it scares every trynophobic within the area. His eyes stand though, bloodshot and brown, soft, and hopeful.
Attire:
The works, wrappings, sandals, no mask, a single draping of sewn rags to act as the hood of his clothing.
Weapons:
A mighty blade of epic proportions, a haggard, sharp, serrated edge hewn from the finest steel the Hamlet could once offer. It has now taken a bluish tint, the blood of thralls and fishmen alike running upon its edge for so long as to gleam with a soft blue on the Cove Adventurer's steel.
Unique Detail:
Although the signs of pure infestation cover the Leper, Roard's sickness is surprisingly hard to contract. The mosquito within the horrible swamps surrounding the mighty castle so far from camp were mutated long ago, in a stage creating his disease, before mutating beyond recognition. Whatever Black Death stayed with him, does not stick to others for very long. He appears to only transfer a harsh flu with fluid contact.


Inventory:
Wheatcutter (The blade), a hefty edge, with an old oak handle and a fatty glaze over it to keep splinters from impaling his hands. He carries a burlap sack filled with brewing equipment, the simple stuff, as well as some jars of fermenting bread starter and cherries.


Sanity:
Roard holds a sense of worth, and his life of hardship and battle has left him with a strong mind.
Hunger:
Roard is a stress eater, consuming food in the throws of stress. But recent events have wholeheartedly harmed this, leaving him with a gurgling stomach and not enough food to satisfy his gluttony.
Health:
Roard's body is badly damaged and broken, to the point of not even continuing anymore, but his own toxicity has left him with a weakened immune system as well as thin blood.


dick size: Whatever could be considered a penis between Roard's swollen thighs is probably unsafe to touch, let alone put inside you, but it is swollen with disease, leading to a not-very-large size, but a considerable width.

[Vanitypirate]

Name: Tilly Fanuschrat
Sex: Female
Age: 30, [birthday December 31]
[Scout, Grave Robber]


Armor:
Silver-plated, bronze scale armor. A leather jerkin protects the torso beneath the armor.
Steel kneepads, padded on the inside to cushion the knee. Her gauntlets rise high and are well-padded, too, to serve as some form of a buckler. At the elbows, they are pointed and sharp, so as to thrust the edge into an enemy in close quarters.
Her boots rise high, up to a point equidistant from her knee and her hip. The toes are steel-capped and cushioned.

Attire:
Leather pants with a simple button to fasten them. A bronze-buckled belt holds them up.
She wears a faded, blue coat with only few, recent holes and stitches, though there were a dozen or so pockets sown onto the inside using matching fabric. The coat flairs out at the end in a cascade-cut to obscure her legs, in some attempt at finding a happy medium between modesty and practicality.

A faded, white silk shirt was worn underneath it all. She has a very well-worn cockel hat atop her head, and a satchel that was almost equally as battered hanging off her shoulder.

A sunny, orange-and-green cloak is worn from her shoulders, too, though the color had faded significantly, and the hem is disastrously frayed.

She wears a simple, steel-banded wedding ring with a diamond-cut, ruby gem.

Weapons:
A count of 14 throwing daggers, all stashed in pockets on her coat.
She has a pickaxe hitched onto her belt. Its tooth was pocketed and chipped from use.
A longsword is draped across her back in its sheath, and opposite the side of the pickaxe on her belt is a rapier.

Beansprout, a plant-based blade, in an awkward length between a sword and a dagger. The unmistakable hilt shape stuck out. Though even that was tinted green, its grip winding like vines, and the pommel spread out like roots to a tree. Clasped by those roots was a brilliant emerald. All in all, the grip was a bit long for a dagger; capable of fitting a hand and a half perhaps. And the box was roughly the same size. Closer to a shortsword than a dagger, in truth, though a hair shy of being either. There were old and ancient runes carved into the boxxy sheath, and even without being attuned to magic, there was a definite aura of power to them. It wasn't intimidating, but it was definitely worthy of respect. Like a great, aged oak that'd held strong through countless years.


Unique Detail:
Tilly had seen the Estate long before it had been run over by monsters and fiends and the like.
She never spoke, anymore, of who she was or where she had been before then, nor did she speak of the husband and child that had fled the Estate for safety while Tilly remained out of some, naive hope that scouting for the heir would quell the darkness his ancestor unleashed. There was simply a deep-seated fear that even the slightest utterance of their names would draw the evil to them, as well. Consequently, Tilly is blind to the past, negligent to the present, and ever-persistent in chasing a better future outside of the quarantined zone.

To escape, she's digging a tunnel, just at the edge of the Warrens. Planned to span a length of two kilometers, at a height of two meters and a width of just one meter, it would sneak beneath the fortified borders of the area.
After nine months of work, unfortunately, it was a measly 160 meters in length. To have any hope of escape, she would have to enlist the help of others.

---
Inventory: 1 battered shovel. A canteen for water. She has a wine bottle full of a light-blue dust that induces sleep to those that inhale it, and a cloak that produces it.
A handful of dead moths in her bag. She also has an apple and two cabbages she's bringing back.
For practicality's sake, she also has a compass.

Sanity: Relatively decent, all things considered.
Hunger: She has eaten recently.
Health: No fresh injuries yet.

[porkylabrador]

Name:
Rania al-Salawi
Sex:
Female
Age:
32
[Enforcer, Arbalest]

Armour
Certainly were it not for the decorative elements upon her person, Rania's armour would make her look rather shabby. Her breastplate is dinged and scarred, cold steel that tells the story of its owner. The plate itself has ample breathing room over the bust to accommodate the ample muscles of this woman's form. From the chest of the plate itself, extending upwards, is a verge of bronze coloured metal that hugs tight to the Arbalest's neck and chin, it might look uncomfortable and feel worse but it'll stop blade and claw from tearing one's throat out in close proximity. Scratched across the front of the breastplate are the lovingly articulated words "fuck you." Despite having bare arms, the Arbalest wears gauntlets and wrist-guards that extend up to her elbow. Respecting sometimes even she has to reload, cruel spikes have been fashioned onto the knuckles of each gauntlet.  Similarly her shin-guards and armoured boots rise up to the joint of her knee, the joint itself armoured with its own weaponized protrusions. Both gauntlets and leg-armour match the bronze coloration of her neck-guard.

Attire
'Neath her breastplate she wears her aged and slightly moth-eaten woollen vest, now beaded with a large number of fetishal good luck charms and tokens. To keep the wind out the Arbalest wears a leather half-cloak that skips half way down her back and over her shoulders, clasped at the front with a ring of ivory. Onto the leather of the cloak itself are painted Arabic spiralling patterns, what is only useful as pigment at an alchemy station usually finds its way into Rania's pocket, indeed even her armour has finger-painted markings cast over it in rich reds, deep purples and earthy notes of yellow ochre and burnt sienna, certainly nothing too bright lest it give her away to the enemy. Rania has tied several scraps of colourful fabric around her scarred and exposed biceps, perhaps to cover some of the nastier wounds or perhaps to emulate her eclectic style a little more, that and balance her ever-present blue-sunburst bandanna that is never not draped about her head. Her trousers are less puffy at the tops now and have been traded for a more practical, fitted option. A black leather harness is worn over Ari's armour and beneath her half-cloak.

Weapons
Verona is still Ari's most loyal companion, though she has a couple more teeth and few extra friends to play with. The gargantuan crossbow has been retrofitted with a mechanism allowing for a much quicker reload for a practice'd Arbalest, indeed two serrated metal bayonets or 'fangs' just from 'neath the crossbow's firing point. Verona is also still very much accompanied by Rania's hip-quiver-come-satchel. Through the black-leather harness on Rania's chest, a brace of four flintlock pistols are stuffed, hanging tight against her chest as her new "Plan B" against the Starspawn. "Plan C" and Ariana's least favourite plan is a hatchet from her mother's homeland, a barbed axe with a single head whose handle is wrapped in some scaly creature's leathers. The axe hangs from the hip not occupied by her quiver. "Plan D" is her get out of dungeon free card, it involves flares and lamp oil, certainly it's good for clearing a sea of enemies, certainly it's bad for filling that new space with fire. The D in Plan D stands for delight, Rania's delight.

Unique Detail
Rania was one of the first through the door and she intends to be the one to close it behind her and her companions. In truth, this setting feels familiar to her, soaked in her history as a battlefield medic as she is. Indeed living in tents surrounded by miserable, sick and triage'd people is something she was all too good at. The constant threat of death hanging over their heads? The strange half-heard noises in the night? "What of them?" Rania would say. In truth her "without a care" attitude is a front for a deep-rooted loyalty to the other survivors. Is she brazen and short with them at times? Certainly. They're are and remain, the closest thing she has to a family however. Besides, what mother bear doesn't growl at her cubs a little before ripping whatever might hurt them to pieces with its 'bear' hands.  She doesn't smile or joke nearly as much as she used to and when she does it's tired and sad at the eyes which she assures people is her coming to terms with her now relative sobriety. Her arms are littered with inked names of the fallen and tally marks. Without the necessary means to keep her braids managed or wash her hair properly, the Arbalest now sports a thick mane that has started to dreadlock in the last month or so. Side note: is on a personal quest to salvage any and all liquor.

Inventory
Bolts, Ball Bearings and Powder, Lamp Oil, Flares and a near empty hip-flask with "Mana from Heaven" scratched onto its surface. 

Sanity
About as good as one could expect, suffering the early stages of alcohol withdrawal but putting on a brave face about it.

Hunger
Her appetite is currently satiated, she doesn't mind having the bones and the offal that nobody else likes to chew. "S'where the flavour is" according to her.

Health
A little shaky and sickly but as hardy as she ever was. Sporting some fresh and nasty scars but what can one expect when its one's personal mission to exterminate any and all Starspawn. She'll always believe nobody turns purging into the art form she does and that helps her smile. 

dick size: (No dick to speak of but the highest balls stat in the rp).

[Vanitypirate]

It was a long walk back.

Tilly walked silently through the corrupted undergrowth that she knew like the back of her hand, if that hand had been carved up by a hot knife and sprinkled with salt for good measure.

She had a moth in her hands, dead, mercifully, as she was busy pulling the pretty pale-blue wings off of the insect. A cabbage was nestled in the crook of her arm, and another was safe in her bag, along with another two apples and a handful of identical moths.

She discarded the wings, which floated pleasantly off into the breeze like flakes from an old man's scalp.
Tilly popped the fuzzy thorax of the insect into her mouth. Furred and soft, it melted in her mouth like a well-ripe peach. She told herself it tasted like peaches. She told herself she wasn't going to sit here and dig the rest of her life. She told herself she'd be back home soon to--

Tilly punched herself in the arm, then winced. Back to the present. Back to camp.

Smiling, she gave a glance around the premises, looking for a potential dinner-mate...

[Unter]

Name : François Louis Xavier de Paladines
Sex : Male
Age : 27
Class : The Crusader
Prefered Role : Guard

Armour Description : A once fine armour, with glistening gold and silver when he arrived at the Estate, it was now a beaten, dented, and blackened by several heat-treat do to intense repairs. One of the pauldrons were lost, and absolutely every decorations were scrapped off to pay for past problems. To compensate, Francois drew the Banner of the Flame on the chest, with in additions his own heraldry that was a Gold Griffin trampling a curved sword. The armour is still good however, the repairs nicely done and still offered nearly full body coverage. His old helmet was lost however, and he had to settle for a new one. A round shaped designed to shrug away blows and arrows, not like his bucket like helm of old.

Attire : Nearly all of his fines clothes were burned for warmth, or sold, or stolen, or even lost. When he isn't wearing his armour, he prefers simple clothes, not that he really have a choice. He still has the leather garments he wears under his armour, but he prefers to just preserve it for combat.

Weapons : He still has his old sword. A family longsword, still maintained to top shape by sheer determination, and the soldier's routine. His shield changed however : His old one was broken by a filthy pigman. He now has a metal kite shield, with the symbol of the Flame painted on it too. The paint is rough, and partially erased by multiple blows exchanged. It is still a very sturdy shield, and Francois trusts it with his life. The Crusader also got his hands on the Banner of The Light. It is a most holy relic, carried by only the mightiest of Crusaders. It bolsters his willpower and determination, he trained all of his life to be able to carry such a banner and inspire others. He also has a dagger, and the Banner can serve as a lance in dire times.

Unique Detail : When Francois entered in the Estate, he was unprepared. Vanity filled him, and he couldn't fathom even the simplest horrors of the Darkest Estate. He is used to that now, and the shock of his first expeditions and his first fights helped him achieve a greater power. His willpower and faith are boosted, granting him a greater controls over his Crusader powers. He can heal somewhat using the power of the Light, but the Flame gives him the ability to empower his voice, and his newly found confidence will hopefully be contagious. Even if the fall of the Hamlet was a blow to his certainty, he will be the Sword of the Light and he will bring the Flame into the darkness of this place. Others fought for survival : He fought for a far greater thing than himself. But in his mind, Survival was fighting the darkness too.

Inventory: Throwing knives, a drawing of a woman, a flask of water, his sword, shield, armour and The Banner of The Flame.


dick size : bigger than Relentless'

[The Carrying Blade]

Amongst the shadows was Nasuris, she was looking out to the surrounding terror filled woods, waiting for the ones that left to come back to their little camp or keep an eye out for swarm, maybe even more powerful creatures as well given her demonic sense to Eldritch presence. It had been a year or more since the heart burst, since that unfaithful day hell broke loose and her entire life got washed away in madness and sorrow. If only she could go back....spend more time than she had with.....no, the name will not be thought or spoken, the pact she had made would not falter to silly rememberance.

Noise thankfully brought her out of the pit, and she spotted the woman known as Tilly, holding a much welcome sight....food. It was hard foraging and trying to survive, anything that could be found was treated with jubliancy and respect. She stepped out of the shadows so that the woman could see with clear view of the Occultist. Her face still a bit hidden in shadow thanks to her hood, but otherwise it was clear as day how human she truly looked if only the natural ruggedness everyone had acquired. She waved back, and the faintest look of a smile was on her face, even as dour and cynical she could be, she learned to appreciate the small amounts of company the people could give her.

Let the fog fall as my mind is cleared. There is no room for regret, only vengeance and escape from the wretched Hamlet. Let this woman be the camps savior, for even the ancestor alone cannot keep our spirits high in the darkest of nights. Darkness will not seep deeper into this heart, for hell has closed its doors to me. I will not fall, I will not falter, my promise will be fulfilled, mark my words world.

[relentless]

SPOILER: Click to show

Name:
Libourg Tundel - Scout/Enforcer/Guard
Sex:
Male
Age:
30

Attire:
Bascinet with Klappvisier + chain coif + gamberson hood
Gothic steel cuirass + long chainmail haubark + crimson gamberson longsleeve
Rounded pauldrons + Plate arms + fluted segmented gauntlets
Longskirt split into three parts (two flaps at the front one at the back) + gothic plate greaves.+ mail leggings
Gothic plate Sabatons
(The Armour is inscribed with holy runes, for religious purposes which display his faith and improve his magical capability when he prays)
Weapons:
An ornate Scottish bastard sword, one of pride and prestige. A beautiful silver blade, with a brass handguard and pommel. His fathers ring was forged onto the bottom of the grip, so it would always be with him.
A heater shield depicting Libourgs faith embroiled and carved onto the front of his shield with a blue and yellow paint, which has seen better days.
A scroll of offensive holy magic, the rarest of its kind, capable of setting enemies aflame from the sheer intensity of its glow.
A scroll of soothing holy magic, capable of easing the mind and healing moderate wounds.
Unique Detail:
Libourg was one of the few to undergo an expedition to the Darkest Dungeon. Thankfully, he didn't fight the heart himself, but rather placed the hands of glory. A week later, the third expedition was taken place not by mercenaries, but by a large battalion of the heirs men. A vast majority of the guards were sent, clad in plate armor and given the finest weaponry to kill whatever was inside. A day later, a great scream sounded off in the weald, a collection of torment and agony. Almost immediately as he stepped out of his house, a torrent of the Wealds creatures had began to run the other way down the old road. Giants trampled on stalls, mushroom men crawled at the dirt desperately. Next, it was the pigmen, bursting from the basements of peoples houses and fleeing from the Hamlet as well. The citizens simply tensed up, and cut down some of them, but not all. They all just... ran.

And that's when it the hamlet. The swarm. The coalition of eldritch abominations, human sized and house sized marched through the weald. The ruby glow of their eyes was obvious in the break of dawn, but their cries of agony, their cries of washed up torment shook the very foundation of the Hamlet. Then they charged with such ferocity, the creatures with tendrils for arms, two mouths on their head and no eyes dragged the women and children away, or devoured them alive on the spot. Men were killed, severed in two or dragged into the bulk of the swarm.

A massacre.

Libourg simply took to the wind, since there was no honor in being brutalised. He could only flee to the woods with all his belongings, alone. Citizens and mercs alike would flee for their lifes, some being caught and dragged back, hands gripping at tufts of dirt to be free but to no avail. Libourg just ran, until he was so knee deep in the Weald he could barely see. For a few days, weeks even, Libourg hunkered down in the heavy brush of the Weald with his heavy suit of plate armour, his ornate longsword and a bag of food he nibbled on. He then started to hunt, both the boar, and the thrall alike.

It wouldn't take long for him to meet up with a camp, only for him to move onto to another as a wailer called out, signalling packs of the swarm to come down on the survivors. But eventually, he would find himself rather comfortable in one of the many groups that held all notable individuals. Perhaps he had a chance after all, with these people.

Hope, in such a dark, and terrifying time.

Inventory:
Flask of water, two pouches to carry small items such as herbs/whetstones, a sack with a sling, recovered bandolier.
Sanity:
Fairly stable, considering the weight of such an event.
Hunger:
Could do with a bite.
Health:
A harsh bruise on his shoulder after an encounter with a thrall, but nothing life threatening.

[black379]

Name: Courcy Vivers - Quartermaster(Armorer)/Enforcer Hellion
Sex: Female
Age: 29

Armor Description: Chain hauberk and skirt. Half plate armor - coarse and singed.
Attire: No clothing - mail obscures her nakedness.
Weapons: Halberd fashioned into battleaxe (one handed). Limited pyromancy.
Unique Detail: Possessed by a demon's soul. Nidhogg ignites her - embers escaping her hair and arm, skeleton glowing beneath her skin. Able to burn and melt with touch (or close proximity).

Inventory: Only actively carries her axe and armor. A satchel of modest supplies and mementos is usually left wherever she last slept.

Sanity: Unusually content.
Hunger: Hungry, but not starved.
Health: Uninjured. Only old scars.

Dick size: No fire poker.

[Vanitypirate]

There she was, looking like shadows made manifest themselves and bearing ruby eyes to rival torchlight.
Tilly's expression split into a wide grin as she plucked a stray insect leg out from her teeth and gave a little, excited shiver, as though to shake off dust.

Her stomach churned with steely anticipation as she held out the orb of wild cabbage enticingly to Nasuris and cooed, sing-song,
"Would you be interested in some cabbage by candlelight, deary? I'll share."

She gave a little laugh and watched her eagerly.

[relentless]

/The Camp/

The break of dawn was beginning to set upon the camp, a reddish orange descending upon them, since the death of the heart only seemed to be the beginning and not the end. The Weald was quiet, but appeared more ghastly and dead, rather than it traditionally looked with gnarled roots and bewitched bark. It was also surreal how the place had changed under the invisible influence of eldritch power. Bushes were thick, and the trees thicker, and the epicenter of the camp appeared as a soft, shallow lake with the sprinkle of dawn dancing across the surface.

Ram-shackle tents made out of an assortment of stitched pelt had been formed, with no bedroll underneath. For those that worked hard, an animal pelt would be fashioned under their bed for some comfort.

The Ancestor was sat down near his bedroll, his clothes dirty and hair partially overgrown. Bits of grey dappled a portion of his beard, and the mans eyes were sunken with defeat. Next to him, a bottle of port, his own that had been half drained.

Hook was sat on a crate, staring hard into the ground with a harsh shadow drawn over his forehead. His mustache twitched on occasion, and a mild sense of dread and paranoia seemed fixated on the creases of his brow. Dry blood was stuck on his hands, even after washing them with some ale, he still couldn't get the tinge of red off. So he just sat next to his barrels, and engaged himself in deep thought.

The Caretaker was busy humming away, sweat wrapped around his face like clingfilm. Though despite the sweating of fear, he couldn't stop grinning as always as he sorted through the rations, weapons and materials, sorting them neatly into columns and rows. His robes seemed to be the worst looking attire of them all, dried blood and mud mixed together into the fabric to give it an awful look. He looked homeless.

And finally, the Blacksmith Borris was tapping his hammer away to mend broken parts of armour and material, throwing them to one side with a displeasured grumble.

It was a rather depressing start to the day, just like all the others for the inhabitants there. Of course, some like Tilly would keep up their spirits, whilst others were more... pessimistic in their attitude. The only other ones that kept a rather cool head were those on lookout duty, which was either an old farmhand with a pipe in his mouth and chewed lip, or one of the mercenaries. As of right now, the weathered farmhand, John Wexler was on the watch for Wailers, Thralls or anything resembling the scourge that had driven them out of their homes.

/Libourg/

A harsh rustle would break out from in front of the farmhand, his hands going to hatchet by his side. His teeth were bared, biting down on his pipe as he produced a fiercesome expression, despite his age.
"C'mon ya bastards I ain't got all da-"
The old man voiced out, though the murky silver shine glinted out to his face, making his hand go up to shield the glow, though a chuckle would escape his chapped lips as well.
"Just me! It's just me, John..."
Libourgs voice rang out in a hushed manner as he pushed his way through the foliage, thorns scraping at his armour to no avail. One hand was resting upon his left shoulder, whilst the other gripped a small bag that had a peculiar shape to it.

John displayed a toothy grin toward Libourg, giving him a pat on the back as he walked past, before giving a puff on his pipe and looking up to the faint blood moon that seemed to constantly hang overhead.
"-Tch, crops will be bloody ruined by now.."
John sighed, shaking his head before looking straight ahead again, keeping an eye on the surrounding area like he was suppose to.

Libourg put one foot over the small mud ridge, dropping down a short distance. His feet met the ground in a solid manner, and the knight would make his way forward, waving 'hello' to Tilly, a long time friend.
"Hey. You alright?"
Libourg grunted, standing about a meter between her, and himself. The man would roll his injured shoulder around on occasion, a collection of creaks and cracks suggested the mans shoulder was very tense.

[The Carrying Blade]

Nasuris even relaxed with Tilly so near, couldn’t help but keep her head and eyes on a swivel, making sure her paranoia would not become manifest into a real threat. But when the offer of food came into the light, well, her mouth couldn’t help but water at the thought, and her gaze focusing back to Tilly with a little hope that sparked in her eyes like with every other miracle that happened.

“You are too kind to share so....freely. I would be delighted to share a bite with.......” She was cut short, Libourg had arrived back as well and gone to immediatly interact with Tilly even though she was just about having a conversation with Nasuris. She strode forward just a little, wanting to stay away from the shadows a little more to make sure the man knew she was there.

“Hello there as well Knight. Glad to see both of you have survived your ventures into the Weald. The camp will be delighted to see what you both have found, if anything, we always appreciate it nonetheless.” She called out, her tone, which would’ve been filled with annoyance stayed it’s eerie calm, Nasuris had learned how to properly control her emotions and would only let them out when necessary.

[Vanitypirate]

As food was presented, there came the kitchen with his clattering pots and pans, all shine.
The thought amused her, and for a moment she considered calling Courcy over, for a kitchen was never complete without its hearthfire.

"Peachy!" Tilly answered with an amused wheeze. Something about it was funny to her.
She nodded emphatically, her hat bobbing up and down with the motion.

"In every way I can be, 'course." She palmed the cabbage safely in both hands as she looked between Nasuris and Libourg.
She pointed the vegetable to the ground,

"Care for some fine cuisine? A date? Come dine with us."
Tilly motioned to the ground with a flourish of her sunny cloak for them to sit.