TolyK, Villager
Your name is Matthew Fulk "TolyK" Fitzwarren, a visiting merchant stopping by for the night, on the way to sell your large cargo of coffee beans from Arabia.
You are the sole member of the latest generation of Fitzwarrens, a noble lineage that stretches back for generations. Dispossessed of both your title and wealth, you have spent the majority of your life working toward rebuilding that same wealth. You have, so far, only been moderately successful, but you're sure that this large cargo of coffee beans will more than cover your recent losses, if executed correctly.
There's a lot of money in that cargo. That's why you hired those guards, of course, but you're still uneasy about parting from your goods. If they were stolen, you would lose a lot of that progress - years' worth, probably. It'd take far too long for you to regain it.
You couldn't ever have guessed what would happen when you entered this region - the witch legend had grown at an incredible rate, helped by the papal bull issued by the Church. Entire villages are eradicated through witch hunts organised by the Inquisition, then blamed on the Witches so that the hunts spread.
You've been trying to avoid the afflicted villages, of course. Keep to the major roads, stop by in larger towns and better hostels. Don't talk to strangers, don't accept any invitations.
This was too tempting to ignore, though. This less-travelled road could potentially save you an entire week of travel, and there's only one village along the way. You're sure it'll be safe.
And thus, you stopped by at the village for the night, too tired to look around any closer. Leaving the goods and guard by the stables, you went to rest at the inn - with its surprisingly clean beds - and rented a room, settling into the bed.
You still haven't managed to sleep.
But it's fine, right? It's not like the place'll burn down with you in it.
Shifting a little deeper into the mattress, you close your eyes and try to get some sleep again.
* * * * *
Vector, Villager
You are Edith “Vector” Jendring, one of three cobblers running the shoe store in the middle of town.
Apprenticed at a young age by a father for whom no child was exempt from work, most of the money went toward the apprenticeships - "Your futures," he called them, "that will allow you to live beholden to none". Determined to make good use of it, he'd ask you every time what you had learnt that day after you came back from the shoemaker's.
It's one of those jobs that people never seem to pay much attention to but always need - there were always some shoes to be fixed for the working farmer or made for a wealthy individual. People'd come in with their children and ask if you could "find him a pair, doesn't have to be too fancy", or if it was a special occasion, they'd come in and try to venture some requests or ask for "something that'll last".
Reliable, sure, but not likely to go anywhere exciting. It keeps you fed, at least.
There are, sadly, few career options for someone like you - and you’ve never much liked embroidery.
Most of your disposable income was spent on books; you'd save the money up under your bed for your next visit to one of the larger towns (often during errands for the store). If you were to stay for a longer while in the town, you'd try to visit the library.
You often get the news this way, though it also trickles in sometimes from the storefront door - even if it tends to be a bit jumbled from the journey. The witch craze has been going out of control - dozens of people've been lynched, it seems, for witchecraft. Mostly unimportant people.
It worries you, of course. Why wouldn't it? You don't like dying as much as the next person, and you have a job that most people don't pay attention to - even though they always need you in the end.
For now, you will try to sleep and rest. Such thoughts will be saved for tomorrow.
* * * * *
Ottofar, Miller
You are Gregory "Ottofar" Mead, farmer and amateur brewer.
Most of your crop tends to be wheat and rye, and that's most of what you offer up for sale too. You'd never admit it yourself, but you have an affinity for brewery; you always try to reserve a portion of your crops for experimentation, and you're good friends with the apothecary, who provides you with the various hops, herbs and other ingredients necessary to initiate the process. You aren't that good at it yet, but you hope to improve, and at least you won't have to worry about spending too much money at the pub.
If all goes well, you'll find a winning recipe in a while, and it might be a good idea to sell what you can't drink, if it proves to be popular too. The innkeep might be a tad upset, but it's all good business, no?
Having placed your farm a little further away from the town than others, it seems you weren't affected - or at least not affected noticeably - by whatever plagued the other farmers. Good news for you, you guess, but it's a little fishy how you were the only one not affected. You've even visited the other farms recently, and there's no reason the crops should fail like that.
Similar things have happened before - even if the rest don't remember - so you don't worry about it too much.
Probably bad growing weather.
The harvest is done, and you've planning on bringing your crops out to market tomorrow, bringing back some more hops and firewood for the coming winter. It was a little difficult getting the farmhands to work hard with all this witch business, but you don't hold stock in such superstitions. The rumours'll probably fade off in a few months or so, just like everything else.
You still keep a shovel by your bed, though, just in case.
* * * * *
Darvi, Miller
Your name is Francis "Max White" Aldebourne, one of the more well-read members of the village.
You've lived here for most of your retired life, having bought a moderately-sized house slightly further off from the village centre. Most of your days have been spent reading the books you never got around to and refining your skills at wood carving.
And thanks to a series of highly fortunate investements (who knew that coffee would become that popular?), it looked like you'd have been able to afford that lifestyle until the end of your days. You lived frugally, buying most of your food from mechants, but eating a simple diet. Expenses would amount to mostly books.
Sadly, these habits are not ones that people around you seem to be fond of. As the witch craze grows to its full height, you become the target of glances, stares, cold words. Sometimes, at the pub, when people think you're around, they'd gossip about your "totems".
Your reclusive nature only served to further alienate your peers. Though you fear the witches, you may find yourself fearing your fellows just as much.
* * * * *
Simple, Miller
You are Anthony "Simple" Engleford, landlord and innkeep at the Flaming Hen, the best (and only) hostel in the town.
Though the town's placement at a relatively minor trade route removed most of your chances at a grander establishment and a hearty income, the steady stream of patrons from the town made the tavern side of the business profitable enough to live on. Your rooms would go out to tired drunkards and the occasional merchant.
After hours, you would get the tables and chairs organised, the mugs and glasses individually washed and polished, plates and cutlery rinsed off, clothes cleaned, bartop scrubbed and the rooms reasonably tidy. When needed, you'd be there to maintain the paintwork, unclog the taps, restock the storeroom with drinks and edibles and chase down the occasional vermin. At the end of the week, you'd allow yourself to have a cup from the special bottle.
Your life was mostly routine, and that to you was the best part of making business here. There was no funny business, riots or extortionists. You'd see the same people come in and out every day. After living here for some years, you know most of them on a first name basis.
Then everything happened. Crops died, the weather turned sour and rumours of the supernatural spread. These witches, if they exist, need to go - you won't have anyone disturb the peace here, and you certainly won't have anyone die while you're around.
* * * * *
BDthemag, Miller (Note: Had Anti-Lurk System, requiring at least 1 post/day)
You are Ralph "BDthemag" Cooke, farmer.
You're damn proud of farming all your land yourself. Sure, it's time-consuming and limits your size, but it's good work, you save money and it leaves you satified every day.
Sadly, the recent crop deaths left you with little to farm. It's the witches, you're sure of it - it happened at roughly the same time the rumours cropped up, too - and you're furious at them for taking away your livelihood. An honest farmer like you, too, instead of some of those "noble" pricks.
The biggest problem, though, is that you haven't managed to grow enough to last throughout the winter. You're going to have to dig into your saving to survive - and only just barely, at that. Once spring arrives, you're going tto have to pray to God that you get a plentiful harvest, or at least gnerous neighbours. Otherwise, you'll have nothing to eat, and no money to get it - a recipe for certain death.
Of course you'd be angry. When a person finds out that they might die because of someone, who wouldn't be?
Curse the witches. If they ever come for you, at least you'll be able to spit in their faces for letting you suffer like this.
* * * * *
Flandre, Vigilante Lover
Your name is Thomas “Flandre” Killigrew, eldest son of the Killigrew family.
Your mostly-absent father is a lumberjack, spending the majority of his time alone in the forest. What meagre amounts of money he can procure are now spent in the tavern, which is where he spends the remainder of his time. The rest of the family has to earn bread through other means; both you and your mother work as farmhands, planting seeds, tilling soil and harvesting crops. It's tiring work for little pay, but it's enough to keep everyone from starving if both of you put your minds to it.
You've managed to survive like this for a few years, but now, it feels like everything's falling apart. Your mother is bedridden from a fever after working too long in the fields, and with this year's poor harvest, you will likely be paid a fair amount less than before. Your father has returned to spend yet more of your money on booze and to sell his poached timber, and on top of all that, news has been going around that murderous witches - witches that can possess anyone - are behind the crop failures, and are now after the farmers too.
In such dark times, it’s easy to lose hope. Easy to just let it all fall apart on top of you.
And it was in such times when you met Nathaniel in the woods, a starry-eyed boy but a year your senior, and fell in love. He was a free spirit, wandering the woods free from care. He presumably had a family to turn to, but he never mentioned them and you couldn’t bring yourself to ask.
You’d meet each night, by the great white tree in the clearing. There were no meetings in daylight, not a mention to others – sodomy was a sin, they told you. The Lord would punish those who would commit it.
And so, when you heard the news, you knew you were in danger.
They’ll probably have a lynching.
A trial, if it comes to that. Something to try and make them feel better, someone to blame.
If they find out about what you did, they’ll surely come after you – after all, sodomy is a sin, and they punish those who would commit it.
You're ready, though, even if your father isn't. You'll do whatever it takes for your family - and Nathaniel - to make it through this.
And just in case, of course, his axe is next to the closet.
* * * * *
Toaster, Inquisitor
You are Christopher "Toaster" Daubernon, High Inquisitor.
As a member of the Inquisition, a less known secular branch of the Church, you perform all the dirty deeds that the clergy themselves wouldn't do for fear of losing their good reputation. Technically, you have no affiliation with the Church itself, and should you be captured, the Church will make to attempt to rescue you. Thus, you are able to perform many necessary things - assassination, murder, dispossession, special tax collection - in return, of course, for a generous salary. It isn't always comfortable, but your service to the Church goes above your comfort or luxury.
Nicknamed thus for the novel method with which you burn heretics, you are among several dozen other Inquisitors deployed in the country to hunt and destroy all traces of witchcraft, as ordered by the Papal Bull. This town is your fifth stop - six more, and you are slated to return to the capital to confer with the clergy and report your findings.
Part of a team of two, your task is to infiltrate this group of sinners and root out witches - who, with the help of your partner Anthony, you will kill. It is imperative for you to maintain your disguise as a merchant in order to gain their trust and investigate effectively. In fact, if you ever happen to be picked for the lynch, your partner will have no choice but to comply.
Each night, you will do your best to try and piece together the conspiracies that suffuse the community - and by daylight, you will use this information to covertly direct the lynch toward your target. This method, developed in conjunction by you and your partner, has proven to be the most efficient yet.
One man to attract the sheep, another to herd them from behind. Works every time.
Renting a room at the local inn, you cursorily glance at the furnishings - good timber, would last long - before bringing up a chair next to a window. You will sleep very little during the hunt, but you are strong enough to remain sharp for as long as it takes.
* * * * *
Think0028, Witch Crone
You are a Witch.
As the Crone, you are the oldest of the three. The title is often given to witches nearing death; as such, you are intimately familiar with it.
Having to watch peple pass on - and sometimes linger - is not altogether the most pleasant of tasks, but there are none more suitable than you. You, unlike others, know how to deal with them. You can guide them on, show them the path that they must take.
You've hiked quite far to come to this town. There's something important that needs to be done, or observed, here. Perhaps something will come out of what you do here and now, as is often the way of things.
You can't be surer than that, and it irritates you a little. It grates a little on the others too, but try as you might, the best answer you could come up with was "I'll tell you later". You're sure that coming into this village has something to do with it, though.
The bracelet shakes a little as you go through the forest. It must be getting close to its home, you think - you found it on your travels a few years back. Made of gold and inset silver, you could sense a magical presence immediately - and upon touching it, you could feel it yearning for its original home, its creator. The magic felt... structured, researched - unlike your own supernatural world.
You should have known better, but you took it anyway. It turned out to be a rather useful compass of sorts in your travels. You've been meaning to find the owner, but you were always too busy with something else.
You leave the forest and enter a wheat field. Here, you sit down with the rest, black hats sticking out of the rows like mountains, blurring at the edges against the dark night sky.
"So, uh, what are we going to do?" the Maiden tentatively asks. She's the newest among you, and it is your duty to teach her what you know about the world. She's eager, but often clumsy. It'll take a while.
"We're going to enter the town for a few days and observe. First off, you're going to pick a person and possess them. Got it?" you say.
"What? Possess them? But won't that hurt them?"
"No. Once we leave, they won't know what even happened to them. Just do so quickly, and remember - you're going to be very weak during the possession. We'll still be able to communicate with one another, but don't expect much more than that."
You decide to visit the body of Nicholas Baker for a while. A man in his late fourties, he is dedicated to his trade. That trade is, rather fittingly, bakery. Possession's exhausting, though, and you wonder how long you'll be able to keep this up.
* * * * *
Urist_McArathos, Witch Mother
You are a Witch.
As the Mother - that is, the middle one - you role has traditionally been to witness birth, and the creation of life. You were, in a past life, a midwife, and had five children. You still do, of course, but they're old enough not to need your help. A generally cheery sort, but you can be serious when you want to be.
You've hiked quite far to come to this town, so you assume it's on some important mystical mission. To save the world, or invoke some ancient rite, maybe.
Frankly, you've little idea why you're here. The others haven't told you, and you've got a sneaking suspicion that they don't know either - but for now, you're pretty content to just go along with it. Maybe you'll find out later. You usually do.
Passing through the forest, you notice two men - one burly and naked, the other scrawny and in robes - running down a slope. The others all seem to be spotting something interesting here, so you feel rather left out when all you have to look at are two naughty people. Shrugging, you move on.
You leave the forest and enter a wheat field. Here, you sit down with the rest, black hats sticking out of the rows like mountains, blurring at the edges against the dark night sky.
"So, uh, what are we going to do?" the Maiden asks tentatively. She 's the newest of the three, and it is your job to help her experience the world in all its glory. The world is big, so it'll take a while.
"We're going to enter the town for a few days and observe. First off, you're going to pick a person and possess them. Got it?" whispers the Crone - a worn, but firm woman. You never much liked her, but she commanded your respect nonetheless.
"What? Possess them? But won't that hurt them?"
"No. Once we leave, they won't know what even happened to them. Just do so quickly, and remember - you're going to be very weak during the possession. We'll still be able to communicate with one another, but don't expect much more than that."
Seeing the others begin leaving their bodies already, you hurriedly take over the body of the other boy that you saw - partly to get closer to him, you suppose.
You become Edmund "Arathos" Gage, a well-travelled merchant resting at the local inn. He seems to enjoy his drink, and the both of you sleep soundly through the night.
* * * * *
Jim Groovester, Witch Maiden Lover
You are a Witch.
Being a Maiden - the youngest of the three - you still retain much of the human world's peculiarities. You fuss over your black dress, you don't like the dark places in the forest, and you hate your heavy iron boots.
Not typical witch material, many would say, and they'd be right - you'd never have been picked if it weren't for your prodigal psychic powers. Heck, you could sense magic and other witches - though you only had a vague idea that something was strange before your initiation - from a hundred miles off.
You've hiked quite far to come to this town, so you assume it's on some important mystical mission. To save the world, or invoke some ancient rite, maybe.
Frankly, you've little idea why you're here. The others haven't told you, and you've got a sneaking suspicion that they don't know either - but for now, you're too tired to argue with them about it. Maybe you'll find out later, or they might tell you eventually - they've always got a reason for doing this.
Going through the forest, you catch a glimpse of two boys embracing each other, softly lit by moonlight. You would have paid no mind to this minor curiosity if you didn't catch the eye of one one them - and fallen in love. This was one of the boys from the town you were about to enter, but according to the crone, you were only going to stay for a short while, completely hidden. It made your heart ache.
You leave the forest and enter a wheat field. Here, you sit down with the rest, black hats sticking out of the rows like mountains, blurring at the edges against the dark night sky.
"So, uh, what are we going to do?" you ask tentatively.
"We're going to enter the town for a few days and observe. First off, you're going to pick a person and possess them. Got it?" whispers the Crone - a worn, but firm woman. You never much liked her, but she commanded your respect nonetheless.
"What? Possess them? But won't that hurt them?"
"No. Once we leave, they won't know what even happened to them. Just do so quickly, and remember - you're going to be very weak during the possession. We'll still be able to communicate with one another, but don't expect much more than that."
Seeing the others begin leaving their bodies already, you hurriedly take over the body of the other boy that you saw - partly to get closer to him, you suppose.
You become Nathaniel Methuselah "Jim Groovester" Throckmorton, the landlord's son. As it turns out, your possessee and Matthew - the boy you saw - had been meeting in private for a number of days. It seems he feels some love for you too.
* * * * *
Pandarsenic, Lyncher
You are Levi "Pandarsenic" Norton, and you have a score to settle.
You were once a simple farmer with rented land. Once you earned enough money to buy it off your landlord, you quickly did so - and and when tilling the soil immediately afterward, you came upon a stash, full of jewels and ancient artefacts, buried in the earth.
Naturally, such wealth would be of little use to you as-is. You went looking for an antiques dealer or jeweller that could value the treasures for you, and trade it for a fair price. You found an establishment in a larger town that looked safe enough, and deposited it with them for inspection.
It took weeks. You were initially told that because of the size and obscurity of the contents, they had difficulty setting a good reward. That, of course, turned out to be a flimsy excuse as more time went on and no news was heard of.
Worried, you went back to town, and the shop was no longer there. It was replaced by a bare stone wall, as if it had never existed, and your treasure was gone just as mysteriously.
Defeated, you headed back home. You couldn't alert the authorities, because they'd hardly believe you and they might try to take it themselves, and none of your fellow had seen it either - mainly because you never told them about its existence.
Years pass, and suddenly everything comes back. This "TolyK" person, Fulk Fitzwarren, has your jewels in his cargo - you saw it with your own eyes! Of course, nobody would believe you.
No, you must take it into your own hands, and this witch business will be the perfect cover. You'll have him lynched, and he must have some documents on his person - make a fake will, and claim the jewels.
* * * * *
Dariush, Wizard
You are Philip “Dariush” Langston, a reclusive wizard-inventor.
You made your home deep within the confines of an obscure forest, where you could experiment and study to your heart’s content away from prying eyes. You could indulge yourself in the creation of whatever new idea struck you, without having to niggle over minor and irritating issues such as the law and “the sanctity of life” that the plebeians always got so worked up about.
So what if some people were abducted and had their minds experimented upon? Any pain, brain damage or deaths that occur during the process is a perfectly acceptable price to pay for progress. Hell, it’s not as if they were doing anything useful anyway.
Your latest invention, a prototype soul-powered golem for aiding in mundane household work, has unfortunately turned out to be rather more than you can handle. The construct rampaged as soon as it woke, destroying large parts of your house and the entirety of your collection of magical artifacts before escaping somewhere into the forest.
Chasing the golem into the forest at night proves to be a difficult task, but you manage to follow it into a small village at the forest’s outskirts. You sneak in, but having lost all sign of the golem and tired after your trek through the wilderness, you decide to camp out in the fields to search out the golem during the day as a travelling merchant.
There’s no telling what this golem will do, however, with so many human souls powering it. It may be a mindless wretch now, but once the initial waves of pain subside, it will in all likelihood regain control of its mental faculties.
And so, you decide to set out to repair this golem - however, your rituals are both dangerous and magically noisy. Due to your faithful replication of the human form with your golem, it will be hard to discern it from others - and a human subjected to your rituals will most likely die a painful death. Not only that, but the ritual will render you into a giant magical beacon for most of the countryside; if there are any magical entities nearby - witches, fairies, goblins, elves, you name it - they will surely be aware of your presence, and their intents may not be friendly.
The ritual is also experimental. If you're careful, though, you'll probably be able to make your own death less likely.
You've heard rumours of witches nearby, actually. Once you enter the town, it'll probably be a good idea to look for the artifact a coven of them stole from you some months ago, before they get lynched. One them will probably be carrying it.
* * * * *
IronyOwl, Golem
You are the Golem, made mad by an incompetent wizard from the woods.
Imbued with experimental magic and the screaming voices of dozens of souls, your body is a veritable battleground for various minds fighting to take control. And as a result, you reside in a constant state of agony as they try to pull you apart and the magic struggles to keep you alive.
In this dreamscape of incoherent madness you have but one goal, born from seas of seething hatred: Kill all those you find, and all those who are responsible for your wretched existence. You will make your revenge until you fall into Death's embrace, where you belong.
You are smart enough to realise, however, that simply going into a killing rampage would quickly end in your demise. Fleeing into a nearby town at night, you decide to hide in the town's barn until sunrise, then take on the guise of a merchant - Hugh "IronyOwl" Hughes, that's what you'll be called - instead of letting loose. You're hesitant, but the voices promise Good Things from it, so you relent.
At least this way, the wizard won't find you immediately. He'll have to search around, talk to people.
The game begins today. You quiver with excitement.
* * * * *
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Topic: Witches' Coven: Through the Fog and Filthy Air [Pyrrhic Victory: 1/14] (Read 77307 times)