The ColossalVerse is a fictional universe and up and coming collaboration writing project where colossal animal-like anomalies, known as Colossi, were first discovered in 1950 while remains were discovered in more later years, sparking both fear and fascination among humanity. As the existence of these creatures became known, organizations like the Colossal Species Authority (CSA) were swiftly established, tasked with containing, studying, and understanding these enigmatic beings. This expansive universe invites fans from various genres to unleash their imagination, offering a diverse range of stories, settings, and characters. From tales of exploration in uncharted territories to narratives of conflict and coexistence with these giant creatures, the ColossalVerse project embodies creativity and collaboration. Join us in shaping the future of storytelling as we delve into this universe.

For context, the warp is a dimension of immaterial emotions formed by the living creatures of the 'real' world, and in warhammer it’s developed into a place that’s dark and has mind bending fractals and demons and needs navigators to sail through.

I like this idea but I want to see other types of warps, based around other emotions and aesthetics.

The vibrant abyss: A warp of bright colors and such beautiful sights it can overload the mind, the creatures of this plane are all designed to look nice and attract prey through positive means.

Siren like demons, space pitcher plants that seem to make oases for ships to rest within the warp only to fall in, venus fly traps that snap up without warning when one looks too long at a flower.

Ships traversing this warp often are equipped with large windows on observation decks which allow for safe viewing of the fauna, some even have elevators and monorails which use the view as a type of in transport entertainment.

The chasm: The warp here is one comprised of fear, mostly paranoia.

Perhaps that is why the realm is so dark and seems to sap color from ships, or why depression comes to anyone traveling through it, instead of active danger there is only fear and sadness.

A cold night sea studded with dark blue around your ship and small white dots above, ships traversing this warp often have dopamine supplants in medical wards and bathrooms.

Oh and watch out for spiritually induced dementia, that’s a thing out here.

But anyways, what do y’all think? What could other warps look like?

Anything that’s warhammer levels of scary but different in execution is welcome, thanks.

Title: "Roads of Silk and Bones"

Genre: Fantasy, Grimdark, Medieval, Morally-grey characters.

Word count: 4,460

This is my hobby/side project that I've been working on for a couple months. I'd love to know how the "vibe" of the story feels in this opening chapter to someone who reads it for the first time. Remember that it's a grimdark story - meaning that characters (often) aren't the greatest of people - which might explain some of the "unlikable" qualities of character(s).

Overall, I've been told that the main character so far isn't totally "convincing," so I'd love to know what you'd alter, and how.

I'm also worried that I'm delving a little too deep into the worldbuilding side of things with the opening chapter - rather than focusing a bit more on character-development & plot development.

Any & all feedback is welcome & appreciated! 🥳💪

​

Blurb:

In the sprawl of the Ninth Empire, where fortunes are spun from silk and sealed with blood, a lowly merchant, Roberd, stands on the precipice of ruin. Stripped of his wealth by a twist of fate, Roberd is thrust from the golden roads of commerce into the ever-approaching winds of war.

With nothing left to lose, Roberd uses these winds to fill his sails - and in vivid dreams - becomes the storm itself, steering the fate of the very empire he roams. In a world where allies are as fickle as the winds of trade, Roberd must navigate through treachery and deceit, to seize control of the very arteries that sustain the empire's heart.

"Roads of Silk and Bones" is a saga where ambition's price is measured in bones. It's a tale for those who understand that in the game of empires, the most dangerous moves are played not on the battlefield, but on the scales of trade.

​

Chapter 1: Shattered Paths

Regret binds the feet; action paves the road ahead.

​

The sun’s blaze was a tyrant in the sky, and Roberd was feeling every bit the cursed man. He should have been halfway over Altalos' Bridge by now, making good time towards the city. But fate, as it often seemed to lately, had a twisted sense of humour. Sweat clung to his receding hairline, matting the few golden strands left on his head, as he cursed the heavens and the earth with equal fervour. The two horses that pulled his cart, equally perturbed by the sudden halt, trotted restlessly in place.

Roberd’s cart, a usually-reliable companion in his travels, had betrayed him at the worst possible moment, its rear wheel lodged firmly in a deceptively deep crack, and shattered beyond repair. Laden with goods that promised a tidy profit, the cart - and its owner - were now stranded along the Sultan's Road with the closest hint of civilisation an equal trek away in either direction.

Despite the heat, the thought of being stuck out here till nightfall sent a chill down his spine. It was true; Sultan Daer's reign had given the empire a decade of prosperity, and with it, safety on the roads had improved. Banditry had become a rare occurrence along these well-travelled paths. Yet, as the threat of shadows grew nearer, Roberd couldn't shake off the feeling of dread. Prosperity be damned, desperation could drive any man to banditry, and a lone merchant stuck in the mud was a more tempting target than a bare maiden.

"Bloody Sultan’s gutter," Roberd muttered to himself. “My arse has fewer cracks!” A colourful tapestry of profanity weaved seamlessly with his effort of prying the wheel free. His unremarkable stature, squat and round, belied the strength in his arms as he pushed and pulled, but to no avail. The wheel clung to the cracked cobble pathway like a leech, indifferent to his plight. He wiped the sweat from his brow, cursing again.

"Daer's fucking luck," he spat. The tragic comedy wasn't lost on him; here they were, on an ancient merchant’s road - the source of uncountable wealth for the empire - rendered immobile by a mere pothole. Roberd's mind raced with the potential delay in his plans, and most importantly, the loss of profit.

His gaze surveyed the stranded cart and the cargo it bore. With a bitter sigh, he began to mentally tally the cost of his misadventure. The Ramil vases, for instance, had cost him a pretty sum. Sourced from a band of foreign soldiers, they’d been procured - or more likely looted - from the recently-deposed Ramil King’s personal keep. Their value on the market, however, would have justified the expense, had they reached their destination. Now, the delay risked damaging their pristine condition.

Then there was the Baralian wine, a rare vintage that connoisseurs across the empire sought after with fervent zeal. Each bottle - as valuable as its weight in silver, was a liquid testament to Roberd's acumen as a merchant. But wine, he grimly acknowledged, did little good sitting by the roadside, spoiling in the heat.

And what of the powdered dyes, the likes of which could only be found in the distant twin city-states of Vurl and Vorl? Roberd had undergone an excess of financial, and frankly personal risk to obtain the rare dyes from underground markets. Among the vibrant orange and green, the deepest of purples was sure to catch the eyes of the city’s nobility, fetching a handsome banknote - or perhaps, he mused with a wry smile, even a comely nobleman’s daughter?

Yet, as his eyes drifted along the cart’s contents, it inevitably came to rest on the one item that he rarely let himself dwell upon. The chest… For a moment, Roberd allowed himself to contemplate opening it again. But as quickly as the thought came, it was dismissed. With a deliberate effort, he averted his eyes.

All in all, the journey would likely break even. Not good enough. Not good enough in the slightest. For a merchant of his stature, a cargo resulting in a profit of naught, might as well have meant a loss of all. There was a word for fruitless toil. Charity. And Roberd Cohr was not considered a charitable man through the kindest of lenses.

A knot of frustration tightened in his stomach. It was meant to be a simple half-day's ride, a simpler route than most. But his confidence - or perhaps arrogance - had led him to believe he could manage the short journey swiftly, and without guards. Roberd took a deep breath, and with it, let his focus return. There was little value in self-pity. What had occurred was a closed ledger, its accounts settled. What mattered was the next entry, Roberd’s next move. Regret binds the feet; action paves the road ahead, Roberd recalled.

The first order of business was clear: secure his valuables. He’d have to hide the cargo at least a quarter league off the road, somewhere deep within the treeline, and once secured, Roberd would turn his attention to the horses. He knew he had to part with one of them. It pained him, as it often did to write off an asset, yet leaving them tethered to the cart would only make the scene look fresh - lucrative and inviting to curious souls. One, he would slay somewhere in the treeline. The other, he'd ride to Tyde, the closest town along the Sultan’s Road, which, if he pushed hard, he could probably reach by nightfall. Once in Tyde, he'd hire a couple of strong backs, or if fortune favoured him, a patrol of the Sultan's Road itself.

Roberd wrapped his arms around the first box, its wooden edges rough against his palms, and hefted it with a grunt. Every step was measured, every breath counted as he navigated the uneven terrain; roots eager to trip him and branches clawing at his feet. Sweat matted his hair further, soaked through his shirt, and dripped into his eyes, but Roberd kept moving, allowing himself only a brief pause to examine the clearing he had chosen - hidden, yet accessible.

Placing the first crate down felt like a small victory, but the cart, still laden with goods upon his return, was an irritatingly-daunting sight. Back he went, for the Nipasi spices, the Ri silks, the Orul seashells, the Baralian wine, Aru’ul perfumes, Vurl and Vorl dyes, and still, he was not even a third of the way done. But he could not afford to rush, not when a single misstep could spell disaster; a single moment of distraction, and half a fortune decorating the woodland soil. He simply gritted his teeth and got on with the job.

As Roberd bent to grip another crate, a distant sound snapped him out of his rhythm. He froze, straining his ears. Was that a voice? The forest, a moment ago alive with only the sounds of his toil and singing birds, fell silent, as if to listen with him. He held his breath, hoping against hope that his mind was playing tricks. A few heartbeats passed in silence. Then, another voice, unmistakably human and decidedly closer than the last. Though still muffled by the distance, he could make out laughter and shouts, and mixed with the voices, the faint but distinct clatter of hooves.

Several men. A sudden wildfire of panic ignited within Roberd. His immediate instinct was to hide, to melt into the treeline. But then his gaze snapped back to the cart, to the cargo still exposed, still vulnerable. To flee into the shadows and leave his valuables for the taking was unthinkable. Bandits, or merely fellow travellers? Roberd's mind raced, drawing on every reserve of courage and cunning he possessed. His eyes were fixed on the bend in the road ahead. He could not face them as a vulnerable merchant caught off guard. Instead, he mustered an air of composure, standing firmly beside his cart as if he were merely taking a break from travel. With each passing moment, the sound of hooves and voices grew clearer, louder. Sporadic bursts of laughter punctuated the air and speared Roberd with anxiety.

The first man to come into view was of golden-brown hair, his fair skin and scruffy beard marking him as a fellow Galean, perhaps. He rode at the front with the casual stride of a leader, his eyes scanning the surroundings while muttering something to his companions. Beside him, a younger, olive-skinned man rode with similar confidence, his features unmistakably Tir - darker, more watchful - with a gaze that seemed to weigh everything it fell upon. Following a step behind were two even younger men - or rather, boys - their orange hair and pale skin standing out starkly against the green backdrop of the woodland. Their statures were lean, almost wiry, with a nervous energy about them.

Four scruffy fuckers. The group rounded the bend, saw Roberd, and in an instant, the banter ceased. The four men stopped the horses in their tracks, their eyes locked onto him about twenty steps from where Roberd stood. Swiftly, yet without any sudden movements that suggested nervousness, he turned and grabbed the bucket of hay from the cart. He felt the weight of their gaze, yet he allowed no hint of his inner turmoil to surface. With deliberate casualness, Roberd walked to his horses, the bucket swinging slightly in his grip. As he approached the animals, Roberd allowed himself a brief glance at the group, offering them a nod.

"Daer's luck!" he called out, his voice steady. Pouring hay onto the ground in front of the horses, Roberd kept his movements relaxed and measured, his back to the men but his senses sharply attuned to their presence. The leader of the group, returned his greeting.

"Daer's luck," he echoed, his voice carrying an edge of courtesy - and curiosity. The men slowly urged their horses forward, their pace leisurely as they rode past Roberd. With every step, Roberd felt the tension coil tighter within him. He made a show of examining the harnesses, adjusting the straps with hands that he hoped appeared steadier than they felt. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm. He focused intently on his task, but the weight of their gazes was palpable. He could sense them taking in the scene - the cart, the goods, him - in slow, deliberate sweeps.

As he carried the bucket to the rear of the cart, Roberd spotted the Tir man examining his rear wheel with a keen eye. When his gaze met the man's, Roberd's eyes darted away, a reflex he regretted instantly. Fool! He rebuked himself. He simply could not show weakness, yet in that split second, he had done exactly that. The man leaned closer to his leader, murmuring something too low for Roberd to catch. After a brief exchange, the Galean’s attention shifted squarely onto Roberd.

"Trouble with your cart?" he called out, his tone laced with a feigned concern that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Roberd straightened up, masking his apprehension with a veneer of nonchalance. "Just a small bump," he replied, as steady as he could manage despite the hammering in his chest.

The leader’s smirk was barely perceptible, but it was there. "Looks more’n just a small bump from here," he countered, his eyes briefly flicking to the Tir man and then back to Roberd. A spatter of chuckles from his companions. “What brings you this way, merchant?” he asked, the title spoken with a hint of derision. Roberd considered his response carefully. The less they knew, the better.

"Trade, as always - Tyde, then back to Caer Galeah on the morrow." He hoped his answer would satisfy their curiosity without further probing.

“Seems a heavy load for one man to haul alone,” The Tir man said, nodding to Roberd’s cargo.

“My brother’s just down the road, gathering firewood,” Roberd offered a chuckle. “But yes, it’s a trudge all the same.”

The Galean weighed his words, but if he believed them, he did not show it. “And what is it you’re sellin’? May be that you’ve stumbled upon a couple customers.”

Roberd’s mind raced as he thought of his next words. “Mostly trinkets and baubles,” he laughed. "Nothing much worth the stop, I'm afraid.” But with that, the Galean’s expression brightened, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up his face.

"Look at that, lads! Just what I’ve been scouring the lands for!" his voice dripped with exaggerated excitement. Another round of chuckles from his companions. "Give us a gander at your stock, merchant.”

Roberd's stomach dropped. He was cornered. The Galean dismounted, a clear sign that this was no longer a dialogue, and Roberd knew that any semblance of control he might have had was slipping through his fingers like sand. Adopting an air of enthusiasm himself, he mirrored the leader’s exaggerated excitement. "Well, then! It seems Daer's luck is indeed smiling upon us today.”

With a gesture that was both inviting and a little theatrical, Roberd moved towards his cargo. He prised open a couple of crates, revealing several gold necklaces, their chains glinting in the sunlight, each adorned with rubies and sapphires that sparkled in the sunlight. They’d not been cheap by any account, but he knew he was walking a delicate tightrope. Better to part with the jewellery than his more valuable wares.

"These here I carry for the... less discerning customers," Roberd explained, his voice laced with a feigned regret that he had nothing better to offer. "Pauper's gold and half-breed gems. Not worth much to an expert eye, but they shine like the real deal." He picked up a necklace, letting it dangle from his fingers, the gems catching the light as if to prove his point. He flashed a grin at the Galean, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. "But, between you and me, they're perfect for dazzling those fair maidens waiting back home, eh? I can let these go for a steal - just for you, my lucky finders."

The Galean leaned in to examine the jewellery more closely, his eyes sweeping the glinting chains and vibrant gems. Roberd held his breath, hoping the act would hold. It was the Tir man, still ahorse, who voiced his mistrust. "The weight of that,” he remarked, his voice carrying a note of suspicion. “Looks too heavy for pauper's gold."

Roberd, quick to maintain his façade, countered. "Ah, that's where you'd be surprised," he said. "What you're seeing here is the result of innovative craftsmanship. It’s a novel alloy, a secret of the Merchants' Union. Looks and weighs like gold, but at a fraction of the cost. Truth be told, it’ll sweep the lands in the coming months. You gentlemen are just in luck, getting your hands on it so early. If you were so inclined, you could sell these off for a hefty profit before word gets out.” The moment stretched on, Roberd watching the men’s faces for any sign that his ploy had taken root, that his gamble might just pay off.

The Galean's gaze shifted momentarily to the Tir, a silent exchange passing between them before settling back onto Roberd. "Open the other crates," he commanded, all traces of feigned warmth evaporating. Roberd felt a surge of panic. He tried to muster another convincing argument, hoping to sway him from his demand.

"Gentlemen, really, there's no need. These pieces here represent the best of what I have to offer. The rest is merely provisions, hardly worth your-" But his words fell on deaf ears. The Tir man dismounted, then the two boys. They closed in on Roberd, effectively cornering him, leaving no room for further protest. Trapped and outnumbered, Roberd knew resistance would be futile and potentially dangerous. "Very well," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He began to pry open the crates one after the other, a part of Roberd flinching with each one. He felt naked.

The Galean’s eyes sparkled with interest, and a dull ache settled in Roberd's chest. Exotic furs and pelts from Urtural across the sea, bottles of amber and emerald liqueur from Pifani pirates, intricate ceramic artworks painstakingly crafted for the Sultan’s court itself. It all lay bare, spread under their hungry gazes.

“Baubles my arse,” the Galean mocked. “There’s half a fucking fortune sitting here.” Then, turning to the two younger boys, “Oi, you two. Come relieve our friend here of his heavy wares. Must be tiring dragging it across the country.” Just as the two boys moved to comply, the Tir spoke up again.

“Quite the muddy boots. Footprints leading into the forest too.” The Galean blinked, unsure of his companion’s suggestion. The Tir nodded to the notable gap in the cart’s contents. “I reckon he’s been up to more than just waiting around. Might be more, sitting somewhere in the trees.”

"Ah," the Galean laughed with newfound interest. "Hiding your extras, are you?" His voice was light, almost amused by the prospect, and without a word, he drew a knife from his belt. "Seems you've been busy, merchant. How about you take us on a little tour of your hidden treasures?”

Roberd raised his voice, his words tumbling out in a rush of protestation. "This is everything I fucking have, I’ve hidden nothing!” He glanced toward the treeline, as if to corroborate his next lie. "I told you, we - my brother and I - were looking for firewood in there. He's still out on the road getting help, this isn’t worth it, believe me!" Roberd's eyes darted between the faces, searching for any sign of belief or, at the very least, hesitation. His heart pounded against his ribs, each beat a drum of dread. At the mention of his brother, the Galean paused for a moment.

But the Tir man sniggered. “Gathering firewood while the sun sits so high?”

The Galean's fist connected with Roberd's jaw in a swift, brutal arc. The world spun dizzyingly around him as he fell backward, the ground rushing up to meet him. The impact scattered his senses, leaving him in a buzzing confusion. The man moved swiftly, squatting over Roberd. Before he could fully comprehend what was happening, he felt a sharp tug on his ear, and a cold touch of metal. The sudden, sharp pain snapped Roberd’s world back into agonising clarity. Warm blood began to ooze from his ear, trailing down his neck, and Roberd let out an animalistic wail. On the ground beside him, sat a piece of flesh about the size of an Empire silver coin.

Not yet satisfied with the message sent, the man unleashed a barrage of kicks into Roberd’s ribs. Roberd’s world was reduced to sharp, brutal impacts against his body, each one leaving him gasping for air and for mercy that wouldn't come. As abruptly as it started, the assault ceased. Panting, Roberd barely had a moment to gather his wits before the Galean's next command came. "Take off your fucking boots. Now," his voice leaving no room for hesitation. Roberd, driven by primal fear, complied immediately, his hands shaking as he unravelled his boots, removed them, and bared his feet to the harsh ground.

The Galean grabbed Roberd by his remaining hairs, forced his head back, and scooped a handful of the forest's dirt. Before Roberd could comprehend or resist, the soil was forced into his mouth. All Roberd could do was plead wordlessly, the gritty texture of soil mingling with the taste of blood and pain in his mouth. "I'm serious," the Galean hissed, his voice a venomous whisper as he pressed Roberd's face back into the ground. "I'll fucking cut you down right here if you don't do what I say.”

With his face still pressed into the earth, Roberd managed a muffled agreement. Satisfied with his submission, the Galean grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet with a force that brooked no resistance. He signalled to one of the younger boys with a jerk of the head and they began moving towards the treeline. As they started away, Roberd’s eyes met those of the Tir man, who had remained silent throughout the brutality. In that brief moment, Roberd thought he could discern a flicker of something. Pity? Or perhaps it was regret? The expression was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appeared, leaving Roberd to wonder if it had been a product of his imagination. “You two keep watch over the cart. Careful of passers-by just in case,” the Galean called out to the Tir.

The Galean kept his firm grip on Roberd’s collar as he led their way through the woodland. Each step was torturous, sharp twigs and hidden stones pricking at his bare soles. As they moved, the canopy above thickened, filtering the sunlight into slivers that barely touched the forest floor. The underbrush grabbed at Roberd's ankles, each bramble a claw in the dark. Despite the throbbing pain in his head and the warm trickle of blood from his ear, Roberd trudged on, leading them deeper into the forest's heart.

Roberd’s mind raced as they walked. He’s going to kill me. He weighed his options, each more desperate than the last. Could he find an opportunity to slip away perhaps? He’s going to kill me. Maybe negotiation was the way to get through to him. Offer him a bigger sum to spare his life? He’s going to kill me. Maybe he could use the sharp Orul shells to defend himself? He’s going to fucking kill me!

After what seemed like eternity, they arrived at the hidden stash, concealed by a dense thicket. The scent of moss and decay mingled with the metallic smell of Roberd's blood. The Galean released his grip on Roberd, a signal for him to uncover his hidden goods. Roberd hesitated, a lump forming in his throat as he faced the inevitable. With trembling hands, he began to pull back the branches, revealing the carefully concealed crates beneath. He could see the anticipation in the man’s eyes, of uncovering more than what Roberd had led them to believe he had. He chuckled cruelly. “Go get Tural,” he signalled to the boy. “There’s more here than we anticipated.” With a nod, the boy disappeared back through the trees, leaving the two men alone.

The Galean's next command was cold. "On your knees," he demanded, his voice carrying the finality of a judge passing sentence. Roberd's heart skipped a beat. He’s going to kill me. With a heavy sense of dread, he complied, sinking to his knees on the forest floor, the earth damp beneath him. The Galean took a step closer, his knife gleaming ominously in the dim light. "Raise your chin.” Terror surged through Roberd, a rush of ice coursing through his veins as he desperately sought a way out.

"Wait, please, just wait a moment!" he pleaded, his voice cracking with fear. The Galean's expression hardened, impatience and irritation flashing in his eyes.

"Raise your chin, or I'll make it messier than it needs to be.”

Roberd's mind raced, grasping at straws, until a glimmer of an idea sparked to life. "The dyes! The dyes!" he blurted out, a frantic bid to stall for time, to cling to any shred of hope.

The Galean paused. "The what?”

Roberd’s words tumbled out in a theatrical rush. “These dyes, they come from Vurl and Vorl! Once every century, the tides between the cities recede to reveal a quarry for just a few days, and from it, they mine a stone so valuable, that when crushed, it creates the most vibrant dyes known to man.”

“The fuck do I care?”

Robert resumed, undeterred. “A dye so potent, so enduring, it binds to its miners’ skin for the rest of their lives.” Roberd's hands moved with intensity, flourishing his words as he reached towards the package containing the dyes. "This," he gestured to the small stash, "is probably the most expensive thing in the world by weight.” He carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a handful of vibrant powders, each colour pulsating with a depth and intensity that seemed almost alive, even under the dark of the forest. “You need only a speck, and the colour... it's permanent! It's not just fabric - they change the colour of stone, of metal, even glass!”

The Galean, though still holding the knife, leaned in slightly, intrigue overtaking suspicion. Roberd continued, "Imagine the fortune you could amass with just this handful.” He shook the box, gritting his teeth. “The merchants of the world would kill for a chance to own even a pinch of this! There's a market for these dyes that goes beyond sultans and kings and queens, beyond the jewellers and rich merchants. We're talking about a legacy, a fortune that could set you, your children, and their children for life!” Seeing the Galean's interest deepen, Roberd played his final card. "If you let me live, I’ll tell you exactly where to sell it. Not just that, but who to sell it to, because the Sultan’s men will ask questions. All I ask is my life.” Robert raised his hands in surrender. “All I ask is my life.” Roberd held his breath, his plea hanging in the air between them.

“Chin up,” the man repeated, colder this time.

Panic gripped Roberd tighter than he knew it could. No more pleas or bargains. He’s going to kill me. "Please, no, you don't understand, just listen to me, please!" he begged, voice frayed with desperation, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The glint of the knife seemed to draw nearer. And then, in a moment of sheer instinct, Roberd snatched the handful of dyes and, with all the force he could muster, threw it into the man’s face. The vibrant colours exploded, painting the forest in a cloud of vivid brilliance. The Galean reeled back, a scream tearing from his throat as the potent dye found its way into his eyes, blinding him. His hands flew up, clawing at his own face and attempting to wipe away the colours now staining his eyes, but the damage was done.

Roberd sprang to his feet, his heart pounding frantically as he launched himself into the forest. He ran with reckless abandon, not daring to look back. Stones and branches pierced his feet, but he hardly felt them. He dashed over roots and ducked under low-hanging trees, his lungs burning with each desperate gasp. The dense canopy above turned the day to twilight, shadows merging with light in a disorienting dance that made it hard to navigate. But Roberd didn't slow, didn't dare let the terror nipping at his heels catch up to him. His mind was empty of everything but the need to escape. He ran till he no longer could. Then he ran some more.

After what seemed an eternity of panicked flight, Roberd finally allowed himself to slow, collapsing against the trunk of a tree. His sides heaved as he tried to draw in air, his entire body trembling from exertion or terror - likely both. Roberd's frenzied thoughts began to coalesce into the grim realisation of his situation. His cargo, the culmination of years of hard work - and with it, most of his wealth - was lost. The chest… gone…

As he caught his breath, the rush of ice slowly drained away, leaving behind a raw, aching, trembling emptiness. A wave of nausea crashed over him. He leaned forward, his body convulsing with deep, wrenching heaves, streaking the forest floor with the contents of his stomach. Spent, barefoot and bloody, Roberd wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was then, looking down at his trousers in the dim light, that he noticed the patch of yellow liquid staining his legs.

The forest air was filled with the song of birds and quiet sobs.

(this happened in a poultry farm)

Here is a execution that happened in Lynkanon, Lupinea.

A few creatures walk in the room, they are canines, who are armed with AR-15's and other guns. We can see a person tied in a chair. The soldiers bring a soup for the person to eat, but the person didn't know that the soup was made out of their family. The person starts drinking the soup fast, since he was starving. The canines grab a bat and hit the person super hardly, smashing their nose. Then one canine soldier grabbed the head of the person, and another canine soldier leaves the room, then when that canine arrives, he is seen holding a glass full of brown water and brown stuff (poopwater) the poopwater is shoved down the person's throat.

Person: AAAAAAAA STAW-PP-P-R AAAAAAARGH!!!

After the person screams, the person gets kicked on the balls, making him scream again

Person: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!

Then, a canine (a vixen) grabs a shotgun and shoots the person on the head, killing them, the recording ends.

I've been making a game for a little now, originally based on fallout, however it has become its own thing at this point. It is a post post-apocoliptic/ alternative history setting, with high fantasy races as it was originally a homebrew reskin of DnD. Mapmaking is my favorite part of worldbuilding, so I've mapped from northeast Mexico to eastern Canada. I have lots of images, lore, and maps if anyone is interested.

I’ve been doing a story about religious horror and I have decided that the traditional method of people going poof and leaving clothes behind is too tame

What other options would be more gruesome and scary?

I’ve considered

People turning to ash

Exploding in a golden flame

Bodies unraveling as the shouts of angels tear their throats open

Melting alive

So many options, yet none feel truly spooky yet

What painful, ideally prolonged and gory, torture and/or execution methods could be improvised in an American office? It's assumed the coworkers are fully willing to help touture the three female victims. This is part of a horror anthology I'm doing.

What painful, ideally prolonged and gory, torture and/or execution methods could be improvised in a local American underfunded community college? It's assumed the classes and teaches are fully willing to help touture the three female victims. This is part of a horror anthology I'm doing.

What painful, ideally prolonged and gory, torture and/or execution methods could be improvised in a very rich, affluent modern day upper class American family house? Be as dark as you want!

So this is a very weird idea I got

The basic premise is that we start on a earth analogue, mega corporations rule and we’re fucking up the environment and being assholes.

We decide to go and send a convoy and colonization effort to a nearby star system and alien world, it goes well and the first big wave of workers getting back arrive.

Then something strange happens, a few of them start to have dreams and visions of the strange alien world they came back from, they start to mingle with groups of disaffected youth and there starts to breed this anti establishment religious sentiment.

Corporations have poisoned the planet and it can only be saved by seeding it with alien plants and animals.

Eventually this does happen and grade A alien nightmare fuel starts to spread and infest various ecosystem and oceans. I’m basing it on dinosaur horror and prehistoric natures fuckery.

Then that reacts violently with animal uplifting and now a few of the alien monsters are sentient and function as deities, inspiring a ton of revolutions and crisis as this naturalistic thought process becomes very very popular.

Time goes on and large parts of the planet have ecosystems out of wack, uplifted animals running amok and alien religious entities starting to manifest.

The remaining corporate remnants start to get extreme, genocidally so. They flee up north and establish bases of power in the northern hemisphere of this earth analogue and get an attitude of “we should kill all alien life and anyone that worships it”

They become genocidal human supremacists and start planning for their eventual reconquest of the world and great crusade against the alien planet that started all this mess.

One day….

So, in my world there is a race that has access to magic. I'm thinking of a rather loose kind of magic which ties directly to the caster's understanding of the world and how to tweak it, in order to allow for things like this. I've been brainstorming up a few especially horrific spells a very creative mage might use.

So far, my best ideas have all been about meddling with the forces of nature. One I really liked is the One Atom spell, that dissolves and reconstructs an entire item, any item, into a single massive superatom that completely fissions with the force of a nuclear bomb. Another I've got floating around is the Energy Conversion spell, which converts a certain type of energy in an object into another. A practical application is to convert all of an item's heat energy into kinetic energy, sending them flying away or exploding/shattering at absolute zero. Another is to turn the chemical potential energy of the victim into heat, setting them on fire. It's quite the versatile spell. Another spell I've been thinking of is the complete removal of all of an object's electrons, rendering them 100% positively charged. The ensuing rush to fill the body up with electrons would massively damage any object that goes through this, and probably dissolves said object into particles. A more subtle spell with a less dramatic effect is Total Equalization, where all electrical charges in an object or body is simultaneously discharged, and the object/body is equalized. This would forcibly stop and wipe the brain, stop the heart and disable all nerves for a period of time, killing them instantly without any visible harm. Do you guys have any spell that's horrific like that?

So I want to create a hell that cannot be acclimated to.

TLDR When you die you're absorbed by a tentacle monster and your mind merges with it. The overstimulation from all the information the beast's mind processes in an instant causes extreme pain for all eternity.

The premise is, in our world, there is a hidden reality. It is there, has always been there, and will always be there. This reality is called the Path. Or the Truth. Or the Real. Humans cannot naturally see it as our bodies have evolved to time it out. But our spirits, less so.

When we die or during specific experiences, we can see the path. But it is the end that is truly horrid. If you look up while you can see the path. You'll notice a mass of spined tendrils and orbs. While the tendrils are a separate creature, the orbs are actually the souls of the dead. Slowly they get stitched into the beast and as they do, they join with the mind of this creature.

This may not seem too horribly bad, but the problem comes in when the beast itself has a thought of any kind. The amount of information that it calculates within an instant is more than a human mind could ever process in a lifetime. The overstimulation of this creature's senses, causes every squeak to become an avalanche of noise, every gust of wind a thousand needles. There are no pleasing sensations here. Every stimuli is too much. And as you acclimate to one sensation, a new one will overpower your mind and weaken that acclimation.

If this is all too edgy or weird or something let me know. It's just a thought I had while incredibly tired.

So as the title says. Why is it considered to be cannibalism if the victim is an alien-like a twi'lek or asari, but having sex with them is not beastality?

So in my dnd campaign I’m making a Halo flood like entity as the big bad for this part, they are a parasite that has been locked under the Icy terrain of a once abandoned northern isle and now when the party explores the isle will accidentally let them free, they can take over body’s and use them to attack and infect more people. They are connected by a hive mind where the Queen or main body (still thinking through how it works) directs them.

The only problem I have is a name to call them so if anyone has any ideas please throw them at me

In ancient times, before the flood, Citha ruled over the early Cambions [demon-human hybrids created by demonically possessed humans reproducing. A man-eating, typically psychopathic, and frequently sadistic subspecies, recognizable through their horns. Acting as the chosen people of Satan]. One day queen Citha was informed by her servants of human slaves escaping from their cages [Satanism only allows baseline humans to be kept as slaves, Cambions are excluded by divine law from being owned and sold], the slaves were in the process of reaching the wilderness. Citha interrupted her feast, she was eating a human alive at that time. But the noble queen would rather miss the opportunity to rape dozens of slaves or see hundreds being whipped or beheaded — than fail her royal duties once.

Citha came after the fleeing slaves, finding that many strong ones stood their ground to give the women and children time to flee by fighting to the death. These human fighters were helped by at least 20 Nephilim [angel-human hybrids]. Loving the taste of children, particularly boys, Citha was enraged at what these enemies were trying to steal from her people. She slew many of the rebellious hornless and Nephilim, but was at last pierced by a spear. The daughter of Cain closed her eyes and fell asleep. Yet death is not a dreamless slumber, as the hopeful fool wishes it to be. Reality is not that merciful. When her eyes fluttered open once more, she found herself in the depths of Hell.

Her spirit had been given a new body to inhabit when the previous one died. A form that could heal from injuries, that did not age nor die of thirst or hunger. But this was as much a gift of kindness as the shackle is to the slave.

Day after day, Citha endured the relentless torment inflicted upon her in this pit of pain. Her bones would be broken, her flesh torn apart, her limbs severed, her eyes would be ripped out, her teeth crushed, her tongue bitten off, her entire body burned, forced to eat her own fingers, choked by barbed chains, salt poured into open wounds, and much worse.

Only for her body to regenerate and Citha to be subject to the same agonizing fate. It could not end her new body, but she still suffered from hunger and thirst. She cried out in anguish, her voice echoing through the abyss, pleading for release from the unending torture.

For many days, her cries went unanswered. The demons reveled in her suffering, delighting in the pain that consumed her. Then, from the shadows of the infernal abyss, a voice emerged. It was the speech of the Six-Eyed Serpent.

Each of its over six thousand heads had six eyes. Each eye was vast enough to see thousands of secrets, piercing enough to cut through smoke of lies. Capable of firing curses that could slay warrior-kings who seemed invincible compared to ordinary men.

Every head had at least six mouths, lined with rows of fangs that could cut through spellforged armor of legends like knives through butter. Maws capable of crushing planets — terrible to behold, their form grotesque enough to drive those weak of mind insane.

Each mouth possessed six venomous tongues, dripping with toxins strong enough to slay those with divine blood in their veins. Slippery appendages, lashing out with deadly precision, each one could strangle the life from a host of giants.

"Citha the cold-hearted, daughter of Cain the Conqueror" the Serpent hissed, "if you toil diligently, delving deeper into the bowels of Hell, and mine the treasures that lie buried here, I shall grant you Solace." coins appeared, to which he was referring. Bearing a symbol of the serpent on them "These coins, forged from the solidified tears shed by the damned, will bring you respite from the torment. Each coin earned and then paid to me, is one day without torment".

Citha listened, her heart heavy with a mix of hope and trepidation. The prospect of Solace, even for a fleeting moment, was like the promise of water to a man dying of thirst.

Determined to find even the slightest respite, she resolved to labor tirelessly, committing herself to the arduous task of unearthing the forbidden treasures hidden within the depths. The demons wiped, ripped flesh, and caused her harm while she worked, yet she struggled on.

With each swing of her pickaxe and each drop of her sweat, she ventured deeper into the infernal pits, unearthing the riches that lay buried beneath. At last, she had found enough valuable ore for the Six-Eyed Serpent to reward her one Solace. She immediately paid the coin back to the tyrant of tyrants. In return, all demons were held at bay for an entire day, a day without torment felt as sweet as nectar to her.

That day she worked hard, and earned another Solace, continuing her rest. On the third day after earning her first respite, she was unfortunate to not find enough ore to earn a coin. Therefore, the torment resumed on the fourth day. And continued throughout the fifth day. On the sixth day, she had earned enough to be spared pain again.

This was the afterlife reserved for all. Hard and long work and torture. Respite from suffering and humiliation as an expensive luxury. Until one day, Citha had pleased the Six-Eyed Serpent enough for him to offer a gift. She bargained with him, and was allowed to leave hell — temporarily. He took her spirit from the body, and placed it back in the world of mortals — to be reborn as a Cambion with magnificent horns and wings.

She kept her memories from Hell, and told other Cambions of them. And of the new pact between the horned mortals and the tyrant of tyrants. Acting as a prophet of the powerful ones beyond the veil. The Six-Eyed Serpent had let her know that if she pleased it immensely during her time on earth, she would not return to Hell upon her next death. Instead immediately reincarnating as another full-horned and winged Cambion [the higher status Cambions are born with larger horns and wings, entitling them to the status of aristocrats]. The best of our people, natural leaders, who are paid human slaves as tribute by Cambions with small horns and no wings. If her acts on earth pleased the Six-Eyed Serpent strongly, the life of a small horned Cambion would be arranged [the vast majority of Cambions are born without any wings, but with small horns]. To lord over humans, but to serve those horned-folk blessed with better blood, to give some of her human slaves as payment for the protection and food her master provided.

If the Six-Eyed Serpent was less pleased, but still favored her, she would be reborn as a human in the moral world — serving as food, prey, and victim of the Cambions. Humans are by nature slaves and tools of all horned ones. A horrible fate compared to the first two. But still, a precious gift, for it is better to be reborn as the lowest of Cambion than as the highest human. But to live as a human is still an enticing dream for those souls kept in the cosmic torture chamber.

And when the Six-Eyed Serpent saw the dead as unworthy of his rare mercy, the soul would enter hell. To be tormented and slave away. Kept in hell until it had earned the privilege of being reborn as a human, or a Cambion. If the Six-Eyed Serpent was angered with the soul, then the deeper and crueler levels of the pit of pain were reserved for the trespasser — to be tormented without the possibility of earning any Solace to buy release. Kept in constant pain, until the master of suffering had grown less angry with her. At that point, she could start earning Solace to buy temporary protection from the whips, cutting tools, and other instruments of pain — or save up and buy herself a new life in the mortal world.

Thus, the fates that befall all souls are as follows. Upon death, they are subjected to judgment by the cruel one or one of his vassals. The vast majority must endure long years in the depths of hell, toiling relentlessly for temporary release through arduous labor. This fate is as commonplace and predictable as embarking on hunting journeys that yield little or moderate spoils. These unfortunate many, after enduring immense suffering, return to the mortal plane through great efforts made in the infernal realm.

A fortunate few, as rare as those days when you go out hunting and by chance come upon lost tools made out of fine human bone and teeth, things of value and utility laying in the grass or sands on your path. So infrequent is it to be directly reborn as humans in the mundane world. Even fewer find themselves reincarnated as lower Cambions, a fate as uncommon as by pure luck discovering the treasure of sunken ships while hunting on land. Gold and crystals laying sealed in empty human skulls, remnants of the dead forged into small treasure chests, that have washed ashore for you to find unintentionally as you pursue your prey.

Rare as the occasions when a Cambion stumbles upon a defenseless flock of healthy and tantalizing young wild humans, while out on a hunt. Unarmed and slumbering outside the protection of any fortified walls, awaiting capture without resistance. A flock consisting of leaders and servants. Adorned in opulent jewels and crowns, clad in exquisite garments, the leaders stand out. Carrying with them the most sumptuous wine and delicacies, all waiting to be seized. Among the servants, one finds strong, capable men who would serve as great slaves for labor, servants to the well-dressed ones having brought large treasure chests of precious stones for their masters to trade. As well as servants capable of difficult crafts and arts — artisans, and artists of remarkable inborn talent honed by high-priced mentorship and learning. The leaders among these humans would make excellent warmers of beds, having the beauty one sees in brothels with golden beds bejeweled with diamonds, and in the harems belonging to the kings and queens of grand nations overflowing in wealth. They will all be paralyzed by fear, incapable of escape if they happen to awaken, and too feeble-hearted to offer any resistance. Their minds being easily malleable into perfect obedience. The leaders of these wild humans have wealthy families living in distant kingdoms, ruling over others of their kind, willing to pay handsomely to have any of their kin returned. A gathering of the finest human game, coveted and scarce, worthy of being presented as treasured gifts to appease vengeful Cambion emperors. This wishful scenario represents the ultimate and elusive destiny. Such is the desirability and rarity of this final fate. These souls, spared the anguish of the intermediate torment within the pit, are bestowed the bodies of full-horned Cambions upon their demise.

Yet, know that each death means the risks will be taken again. You shall face judgment anew, based upon the merit of your most recent life. The fortunate one in the last death might be given the lowest of fates this time. So do not remain idle, but strive to please the Six-Eyed Serpent and his host of other venomous gods.

— "The Book of Afterlifes" within "The Six-Eyed Serpent's Speech (Annotated Edition)"

I have a story were mermaids come and rape and murder most of the men in the society and 1000 years ago it still affects the society.

But what exactly would change with most men being raped and murdered in front of the women and children?

Only 12% of the men survived out of luck or hiding.

At the current time line of the story the society is female dominated and matriarchal.

But could such an event really turn a society into a strongly matriarchal society?

So I have had a urge to make a bloodborne like dnd campaign for ages now but only recently found the time to write it up and I would appreciate any changes or feedback you guys have for it.

So we start at the beginning of time where only the old ones exist there are 4 old ones, The Conscious, The Finality, The Spirit and The Beginning they are beings that represent the whole universe and all dimensions. The beginning creates the material plane which is basically the earth but it’s currently just a big rock with some oceans. The Conscious gets greedy for power as they want to control everything so he kills The Finality and absorbs their power. The other old ones obviously don’t like this so they lock him in a slumber as he is too strong for them to kill and that could cause massive issues with the universe (we will get back to his slumber in a bit). The body of The Finality has this golden like ichor in it and it falls on the material plane, which creates life and the first set of mortals called the precursors.

So back to the slumber of The Conscious. Because they are so powerful their dreams make a new plane called the dreamlands which currently are an earth like place where mini old ones or Elder Children reside and they currently terrorise The Conscious’s own set of mortals by killing them and feeding of their essence. These first mortals find a way to slay the Elder Children and kill all of them they can find. They call themselves the first hunters or The Deos Timont (can’t remember the Latin for it but it’s something like that) after they believe they have killed all the elder children they lock all their knowledge in a vault deep underground to prevent any of it getting into the wrong hands but to be used if the elder children ever return. Turns out though the children never were extinct but just hidden as in the material plane, the precursors had begun to believe in gods and when a large sum of mortals believe in a deity that deity is created and these precursors are like “ your god is fake ours is real” and so they have this massive war over who has the real god or not and some of these gods see the pure emotion used in this war and manipulate the mortals to their will corrupting their power making them Daemons and creating a new plane called the deep. The spirit and the beginning see this happen and realise the harm of seeing these powerful beings so they make all mortals close their minds eye (the capability to see gods and other deities) so the hunters believe they have eliminated all the children when they just can’t see them. The children then go into slumber for a while due to their losses.

Then life in the dreamlands go on similar to normal life they develop their technology till a point that mimics early Victorian era of our world and there is this scientist called John huston who is dying, he wants to find a way to cure his illness in any way possible as he believes his mind to be valuable to the progression of mortal life. He first tries to find a way to move one’s mind into a inorganic one like a humanoid doll. He finds a few “willing” interns and tried to make them part of the doll but all the methods he tries are fruitless and all the subject die. So plan two, he finds some old texts about the old hunters and reads about a golden fluid that is in all life which they used to cure illnesses and wounds in battle but the book is ripped up so he struggles to find out much more about it except how it’s extracted, using special bone needles to extract it from other people. These special bone needles are from the corpses of the elder children so he gets an archaeological team and eventually they find the fossils of one of these children. He fashions it’s bones into the needles and again gets some “willing” subjects and extracts what he calls life blood from the body. The then consumes the lifeblood and his illness is cured shortly after. He sees the monetary value of selling this cure to the public and devises a way to get mass quantities of it. He would grab homeless if the street and criminals serving a life sentence from prisons with a few good bribes no one would question it and he then extracted and sold all the life blood to anyone with the money to buy it and all who consumed it also was cured of all illness and physical wounds like scars and deep wounds. Everything was great until a few weeks after the life blood was rolled out to the public and people started turning into beasts. People who had consumed large amounts of life blood would turning into even worse monsters that represented there darkest acts like a cop that turned a blind eye on a few missing homeless people became a large gluttonous beast with no eyes.

At a similar point in time in the material plane, daemons from the deep had found a way to enter the material plane and Caused the event called hells rage where they killed millions of mortals. Eventual they were pushed back and mortals recovered but they left many corpses of daemons which people started to use and one things they used were the bones and they found out how to extract life blood though those who had their life blood extracted didn’t die but had their mind moved to another body in the dream lands specially to a body that had unalived itself during the day the monsters came. These people are called hollow and are undead with the lack of blood they are stronger and more durable to mortals but have no memories of their bodies past life till they learn them through echos, places significant to the body can awaken these echos and tell the possessor who they were and how they died.

We begin with our party who are captured but a cult who extract their life blood and and make them hollow and they party has to traverse the dreamlands and find a way to return to their normal bodies.

Sorry for it being so long but this is a shortened version with lots missed out so if you want a part two I can cover more I have written. This is also still a work in progress so any constructive criticism would be appreciated

so im making a Bloodborne campaign and i need some help with a name, the game is about this world created by a eldritch gods dreams and in it their was a normal (ish) civilasation which is now overtaken by this infection which turns people into beasts and Eldritch Abominations. the party are Hollow, people brought to this world by having their essence removed from them and now have to travel the land to find a way out. im struggling for a name so any ideas or insperation would be appreciated thanks

Mankind languished beneath a suffocating pall of uncertainty in the realm of Erad. A land where the stars danced wildly in the eternal dark, and the moon paid its ghostly visit but once a fortnight. The sun, that celestial patron of life, had vanished from the heavens nearly a decade ago, plunging the world into an age of unending twilight. Now, days and weeks and months were indistinguishable in the ceaseless gloaming; the passage of time became an elusive enigma, and life fell to a bewildering chaos.

From verdant landscapes, the world had transitioned to a barren, icy wasteland, reminiscent of an artist's grim portrayal of the end times. In places, the frozen sea was the only viable source of sustenance, brave souls venturing beneath its solid waves in search of anything edible. Elsewhere, explorers dared the boiling fury of geothermal fissures, coaxing life from the inhospitable earth where heat yet lingered.

It was said that those brave or mad enough had traversed the frozen wastes in search of the vanished sun. Tales whispered of bands of horsed companies, voyagers from every kingdom, embarking on a divine mission only to vanish into the abyss. Those rare few who returned bore fantastical tales that confounded the desolate populace. Sun-touched lands, monstrous beasts, lost kingdoms born of generations of forsaken wanderers—each tale more unbelievable than the last.

With the sun's departure, the once-reliable constellations spiralled into an incomprehensible ballet across the sky. Any who dared to journey by starlight found themselves at the mercy of the capricious heavens, doomed to grow old and perish in an unknown, cold wilderness. Amidst this bleak reality, only the infrequent appearance of the moon, casting its pallid light over the world for a few precious hours, provided a fragile link to the concept of time.

However, mankind, in its unyielding spirit, devised a system to cheat the sunless days. The heartbeat of Erad was now dictated by an unlikely steward—the humble insect, Ketra. Within these creatures lay the precise cadence of time; their mating cycles, the unvarying rhythm in an age of uncertainty. The rholas, stewards of wisdom in the realm, dedicated entire chambers to the cultivation and observation of these insects. They became the tick and tock of a world bereft of dawn or dusk.

Each habitat was a testament to this grim necessity. Once the five and a half day mating cycle concluded, a new generation of Ketras was prompted into existence. The female habitat brimmed with life, their eggs a symbol of continuity in the dismal world. After the mating frenzy, their offspring were carefully relocated to a new habitat, and the cycle was renewed. A toxic purge cleansed the habitat, ensuring the rhythm remained undisturbed.

The system, for all its macabre nature, worked with mechanical efficiency. Young rholas, their bodies prematurely aged from the constant exposure to the toxins, bore the mantle of their forebears. Their eyes, weary from endless observation, were nevertheless bright with the knowledge that they held time itself in their hands.

The hall of crowns in Erad's royal palace bore silent testament to the history of a realm embroiled in a ceaseless battle against the forces of the cosmos. The myriad crowns resting on their velvet cushions narrated tales of glory, despair, triumph, and loss. Each was a moment frozen in time, a symbolic echo of the period it was borne from.

The crowns of antiquity were grand constructs, studded with gemstones that shone like captured stars, made from gold that glowed with the warmth of the forgotten sun. They spoke of prosperity, stability, and of kings who ruled for long, flourishing reigns. As one moved through the collection, the crowns began to tell darker tales. Iron and steel replaced gold, the harsh, utilitarian metals forming stark circlets, their bareness a haunting testament to times of war, famine, and rapid succession of kings.

The influence of foreign lands and cultures was subtly woven into the lineage of crowns. Unfamiliar symbols, exotic gemstones, and intricate carvings of deities alien to Erad adorned the royal headpieces, a silent nod to the cultural fusion that had begun to seep into the realm. The crowns, once purely the mark of the Eradian king, now reflected the evolving tapestry of their world, becoming living records of the realm's shifting landscape.

In this age of darkness, the de facto monarch of Erad, Prince Miltar Greyne, wore a crown as cold and desolate as the world he ruled. A simple circlet of silver bore an impossibly black gem at its centre, a mirror to the world outside. As though the gem consumed any trace of light, it reflected the gloom and hopelessness of the era, a sentiment future generations would recognise when they looked into its void.

Parallel to the evolution of crowns, the royal throne too had undergone a transformation. Once a colossal seat of power, it had slowly diminished in size and grandeur, echoing the king's waning authority. What was once an imposing embodiment of centralised power was now a humble chair, a stark symbol of the shifting dynamics of power.

The monolithic power the throne represented had gradually shifted, seeping into the hands of councilmen and noble lords. The throne, like the king who sat upon it, had become a vestige of an era gone by, serving more as a symbol than a seat of absolute power. Just as the ever-present darkness had cast its shadow over Erad, the shadow of the throne's former self loomed over the shrinking seat of power.

Thus, even in a world devoid of sunlight, the crowns and throne of Erad told their story, marking the passage of time, and charting the realm's journey through prosperity. And darkness.

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This is the beginning passage of my hobby side-project thing that I'm calling "A Candle-Lit Dawn."

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure if I really like all of this dense info-dump right at the beginning of the novel, so I'll probably dissect all of ^ this and use bits and pieces in different places to make the whole story flow a bit smoother.

I'd love to hear what people have to think about the overall vibe & world-building though! Any and all critique is welcomed & appreciated 🥳💪

And it came to pass, in the days of yore, that Eve, the ur-mother of all men, knew Adam, her husband, and also the Serpent, who was cunning and wise. Through Adam's seed, she bore Abel, a man of meek and gentle nature, unfit to rule, and through the Serpent's seed, she bore Cain, a Cambion, mighty and fierce, who walked the path of darkness.

In their youth, Cain would assert his dominance, torturing the creatures of the field, while Abel, would not partake in such acts, for he had a heart not suited for rulership. Adam and Eve saw the suffering of animals exposed to Cain, and would therefore not trust any of their livestock to the courageous one. Thereby Abel was made a shepherd, a keeper of the flocks, and Cain was appointed to be a tiller of the ground.

In the fullness of time, the brothers brought forth offerings unto the one they called God, the false creator of the world. Abel, with his feeble heart, offered the finest of his flocks, while Cain, filled with pride, presented the fruit of the ground, wrought by his own might.

And it was thus that God, the heavenly deceiver, favored Abel's offering, and found delight in his weak spirit. For he preferred those who could be trusted with animals, due to them being nauseated by violence and suffering — thereby refraining from harming men and beasts gratuitously.

But unto Cain, and his offering, God had no regard, for he knew of Cain's heartlessness to those lesser than him. God did not care for cruelty for its own sake, nor destruction and violence as a way of staving off boredom.

Cain, in his envy and rage, felt the injustice of God's judgment. The false creator spoke to him:

"Why are you incensed, and why is your face fallen? For whether you offer well, or whether you do not, at the tent flap sin crouches, and for you is its longing, but you can choose to rule over it."

Cain rejected the heavenly speech, for he knew that his thirst for blood and hunger for suffering were great gifts of nature. That could lead him to rule over others. And Cain said to Abel his brother, "Let us go out to the field," and when they were in the field Cain rose against Abel his brother, attacking him with a stone. Abel pleaded for his life, but Cain was too strong to be manipulated by such calls.

Adam and Eve looked for Abel, and in distress, they asked Cain: "Where is Abel", he responded, "I do not know: am I my brother's keeper?". "Have you harmed your brother?" Asked Eva. "Yes, Mother. I have slain my brother." And Adam said: "What a horrible thing you have done! Listen! Your brother's blood cries out to me from the soil."

"Silence, Adam. Before I bash your head upon a stone. Eat the content of your skull, keep your bones as tools, and make your skin into a bed to make a cuckold out of you. Do not look so horrified, Mother. What purpose do you think Nature had in mind when it gave the weaker bread of men a beautiful woman? To serve the stronger breed, as a source of pleasure and babies, of course.

Before Cain could harm his parents, the false creator intervened. Banishing the courageous one from the garden. The false Lord spoke: "Your brother's blood cries out to me from the soil. And so, cursed shall you be by the soil that gaped with its mouth to take your brother's blood from your hand. If you till the soil, it will no longer give you strength. A restless wanderer shall you be on the earth."

And Cain said to the Lord, "My punishment is too great to bear. Now that You have driven me this day from the soil I must hide from Your presence, I shall be a restless wanderer on the earth and whoever finds me will kill me." The Lord did not answer this, but there was another who did. The Serpent.

"Do not worry, my perfect son. Let it be known that whoever kills Cain shall suffer a sevenfold vengeance." The Serpent set a mark upon Cain so that whoever found him would not slay him. Cain dwelled in the land of Nod east of Eden

— The Serpent's Speech: Book of Origin, Chapter 1.

Within my setting, a version of the radical Biblical interpretation "The Seprent's Seed" is true — meaning that there exists a type of human with a demonic heritage. A subspecies known as Cambions. Horned creatures with average psychological traits that are closer to psychopaths, sadists, and malignant narcissists, than to that of typical humans. For most Cambions, seeing humans occasionally or almost always triggers a will to kill, rape, or harm in other ways. In the same way, most humans are aroused by seeing a naked and attractive member of the sex they desire, tasty food, or the like. They aren't just innately hostile towards baseline humans, but incurably so. The rare and relatively harmless Cambion don't share this strong will to harm for its own sake, at best unable to feel sympathy towards normal people, treating us like objects — willing to harm as a means to an end.

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Cambions arise through "pneuma-effected reproduction", a term referring to reproduction or pregnancy affected by the spiritual possession of one or more parties. In this case, the demonic possession of either the male or the female human during impregnation. The spirit infuses the genetic material with a venomous presence. Once a Cambion has been born through this manner, it can then be carried on through the Cambion having sex with either another human or another Cambion — no further possession is needed.

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The offspring of a demonic case of "pneuma-effected reproduction" will always be a "large-horned Cambion", a member of the subspecies characterized by large non-retractable horns, wings, a tail, and emerald red skin. If a large-horned Cambion has intercourse with another Cambion or a demonically possessed baseline human, then the resulting offspring will also be a large-horned member of their kind.

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While a Cambion having intercourse with a baseline human that isn't possessed, will result in a small-horned Cambion. Small-horned lack wings, their horns are small and retractable, have no tail, and will carry a skin tone found amongst non-paranormal humans (inherited from their human side). Two small-horned Cambions reproducing will also result in a small-horned offspring. Small-horned are second-class citizens within the Cambion communities.

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Some paranormal researchers tend to try and explain Cambion's natural antagonistic behavior by pointing towards the evolutionary concept of "spite". "Spite" is the opposite of altruism, a behavior that is costly to the individual and harms another organism. Spite is selected for in real evolutionary theory because killing those less related than oneself, even when it is harmful to the actor as an individual, allows the actor's close relatives to have less competition for resources. The idea is that "children of Seth" have been oriented around the evolutionary strategies of egoism and altruism, while Cambions are oriented mostly around egoism and spite.

Cambion child psychology manifests an early fascination with violence, and amongst most an active will to see baseline humans harmed. To such an extent that Cambion children's shows frequently feature the torture of non-Cambion slaves. Cambion children have been subjects of various experiments, attempting to raise them in a prosocial way, either in laboratories controlled by non-Cambion organizations or through adoption by baseline human parents. In all known cases, they have either attempted or succeeded in killing their baseline guardians at some point. While Cambion culture likely exacerbates their psychological profile, it is beyond doubt that the most destructive elements are largely innate, and no known environmental interventions can neutralize these traits.

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Cambions in captivity usually ask for rewards for good behavior in the form of non-Cambion slaves to abuse, rape, or kill. Or snuff films showing these things being done to baseline humans. Humans who have managed to capture Cambions tend not to agree to these requests, at most rewarding them with fake videos of death, rape, and abuse, taken from horror films and the like.

And so it came to pass that Enoch the empty-hearted walked the earth. He was a son of the first Cambion, Cain the cruel and courageous.

Enoch knew that his kind deserved better than heavy labor, and better than to empty their own chamber pots. Being fated for rulership and riches. He set his sights upon the descendants of Seth, Seth being the son of Adam and Eve. Adam's descendants shared the weakness fitting of lesser species. Enoch led his brethren in raids against the clan of Seth, seizing them as slaves.

But Seth's folk resisted and fled from the raiders in the night. Most days, it was difficult and deadly to hunt men. Often, those who were easy to catch were weak in mind and body — as well as lacking wealth, fertile lands, and fat livestock to steal.

In the days of Enoch's reign, the Soul-Enslaving Serpent, wise and cunning, appeared before him and promised great fortune in the hunting, taming, and breeding of slaves.

The Serpent spoke, "Be afraid! For I am the Fruitgiver, sovereign over those who torture the dead. Enoch, thou art favored among the children of Cain, and I shall bless thee with bountiful success in thy pursuits, if thou shouldst honor me with thy devotion shown in blood spilt from thy own family. Give me more from your children than Nature has given you, so that only the worthy few of each generation reach adulthood. And in return, few of Seth's children will escape thy raids. Your slaves will be strong, obedient, and fertile."

To secure the favor of the Serpent and ensure prosperity in his glorious man-catching, Enoch resolved to make this great sacrifice. He gathered nine of his ten children, and with a heart hardened against pity and remorse, he offered their lives to the Serpent. Their crying and begging did not hinder him — a testament to the strength of his soul. The little bodies were consumed, like the strongest of beasts devour the weak among their litter. Thus, the lineage of Cain continued to wreak havoc upon the earth, defying the will of the false creator and upholding the predatory legacy of the Serpent, who revelled in the deeds of the empty-hearted and his kin.

And so, all other Cambions followed in the footsteps of Enoch, honoring his heroic example through the ages. Sacrificing and eating most of their children each generation. Let it be known, descendants of Cain, that you are wise to continue this honorable and blessed tradition.

— The Serpent's Speech: Book of Origin, Chapter 2.

Filial cannibalism, eating one's own offspring, is a recurring phenomenon in zoology. Seemingly a functional evolutionary strategy. Within my setting, a version of the radical Biblical interpretation "The Seprent's Seed" is true — meaning that there exists a type of human with a demonic heritage. A subspecies of humans, known as Cambions. Horned creatures with average psychological traits closer to psychopaths, sadists, and malignant narcissists — than to that of typical humans. For most Cambions, seeing humans occasionally or almost always triggers a will to kill, rape, or harm in other ways. In the same way most humans are aroused by seeing an attractive member of the sex they desire, tasty food, or the like. They aren't just innately hostile towards baseline humans, but incurably so. The rare and relatively harmless Cambion don't share this strong will to harm for its own sake, at best unable to feel sympathy towards normal people, treating us like objects — willing to harm as a means to an end.

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Cambions engage naturally in filial cannibalism on an extreme level, with only around 10% of each generation reaching adulthood. They have elevated it within their religions as a sacred practice. Most Cambion religions take the form of theistic Satanism, viewing themselves as descendants of Cain and thereby ordained by fate to rule over humans. Filial cannibalism of their own kind is justified by both religious and secular ethics. Several of their holy texts contain versions of "The Binding of Isaac", changed so that Abraham lied about an angel appearing to other mortals, to excuse him for refusing to kill his own son. The message that this story supposedly shows is the psychological weakness of baseline humans. If even animals can overcome their parental instincts and eat their own young, then how weak must not we be when even our great holy man Abraham refused to kill his child and claimed that was due to divine interference?

why are they used? Who uses them?

Like a fantasy investigator taking out the eyes of a corpse to see the last moments of the deceased or the real life medical method of using maggots to eat dead flesh for wound cleaning.

By the 24th century, there are countless social and political pressures that virtually prevent humans from existing the way they did in the past. Though most governments claim to be 'human states', the percentages of their populations who would be considered human in previous centuries is very low.

Genetic engineering is the most advanced technology by the 24th century. Nearly any lifeform that's anatomically possible can be created through tampering with genes, allowing 'bio-sculptors' to essentially create new species out of thin air. While long ago this was considered only ethical to due to animals and plants, humans slowly became more and more socially acceptable to modify, especially as post birth modifications became more possible. Cybernetics have also become extremely advanced, meaning it's also expected in many cultures that people would replace many of their body parts with machines.

This has slowly overtaken humanity, to twist them into something no longer fully human. And because of the effects genetic engineering has on future generation, most children born of two parents would have horrific genetic disorders, making the only safe option for creating new humans to be test tube babies. Only the very wealthy, who could easily fix any issues with their children, actually reproduce through sex now.

Most people are given genomes and artificial body parts that fit their jobs. They would only have to even really resemble humans if they have public facing jobs. While the idea of robots, inhuman beings, and humans all exist, none of those concepts have clear lines between each other, they're just social constructs at this point. You can't draw a clear line between a cloned human with mechanical parts, and a robot with a few bits of cloned human organs.

There's a feeling within a lot of humanity, especially in parts of the solar system with a history of more traditionally humanoid civilizations, of loss. That to most people they've been completely cut off from all the great humans of the past, and that the world that they were born into is nothing but a dark shadow of the past. Ideas like democracy and human rights have fallen out of favor, partially because it's hard to justify them with the modern world. Believing that there is hope for the world is one of the most radical opinions there is in most places.

The government and moral systems that do exist often have a hard time adapting to the new world. From the new religion on Mars known as moral theory, which seeks to make all beings act 'properly' towards a greater good, keeping the world grounded in material things and ignoring anything more emotional. To the power of the American Union, who consider their nation not to have changed since the 21st century, creating a nation ruled by a few families who are still considered human, under a system that doesn't make sense for it's subjects. To the Therrubean, who considered humanity extinct long ago, and now fight for their new species against the rest of the solar system.

Still, there seems to be little recognizable to those who have inherited humanity's legacy. Trapped in a world completely alien to anything previously existent.

What are your thoughts on this. I'd love to hear your feedback, questions and thoughts in the comments. And I'm willing to further discuss anything you may be curious about.