The Wound on Qliphoth

Lore24 Post for 1/1/24

Creation had a name once before The Wound erupted, but it is now all but forgotten. It only crosses lips on the whispers of the demented or in the final breaths of the elderly. Qliphoth. What use is it remembering a land that never will be again, lamenting what can never be regained? There is only The Wound and the promise of many worlds that may arise from its hemorrhaging.

History died at the hands and by the voice, of the Virtuoso Hifistus Krull. As the head of the so-called Harmonic Choir, Krull - like all Virtuoso- was said to be without malice or flaw. His music soothed the suffering, bestowed hope to the desperate, and saved the damned. In truth, the Choir had raped the forgotten world for every coin, jewel, and pleasure it could for centuries. Hifistus’ heart was empty, his mind obsessed with nihilistic oblivion. Entrusted with the World Song and the powerful army of zealots he swept across the land under the pretense of purification. In truth, Virtuoso Krull sang the World Song backward at each of the five Primordial Fonts after butchering the nations protecting them. This blasphemy shattered the underpinning of reality, and released the Primordials entombed when the Lost Lord created reality. Krull opened The Wound and 'ended' the world.

What remains is a land in flux, tormented by creatures of chaos and madness. However, there is hope. The released Primordials promise to bring order to the roil, though each of the five has their own conflicting vision of what that order should be. They pit their mortal champions against one another, tempering the Warbands in their service until only the strongest remain. Whoever comes out on top will sing the next World Song and create the next reality.

Servants of rival Primordials are not the only obstacles Warbands face during their tours. Remnants of the Harmonic Choir, now called the Lethe, tirelessly work to silence any who would raise their voices against oblivion. The Torn Sails raid those along its Wound’s shores in an orgy of plunder and excess as they party their way toward the end. The roads are no safer than the coastlines thanks to the gun-toting bandits of the Leaded Rose. Comprised of beasts ruled by the perpetually full moon, the Miscreation Congregation seeks to convert all to their faith by proselytizing if they can, by mauling if they must.

All those assholes don’t really matter though, do they? All it comes down to is a singular question... Are you ready to sell your soul to rock and roll?

Concept: The Player characters are part of a Warband sponsored by one of the five Primordials. They are charged with touring the remains of the world, having bitchin’ adventures, spreading that Primordial’s message and eventually reshaping the world to their patron’s desire.

Comments

Frame Mimic

Rattling from the shadows, a gaggle of rat-gnawed bones march forward eager to slay the living. One of them lags behind, looking a bit more solid than the rest. You know your mace should have broken the leading skeletons to pieces. Yet, it merely cracked bones instead of shattering them. Tentacles lash out from the slower skeleton, adhering to you and pulling you closer to the maw manifesting from its ribcage. This is the frame mimic. The spawn of the ossuary mimic, this monstrosity also feels a kinship to the undead - specifically animated skeletons. It adopts a group of such horrors and its very presence temporarily empowers them. This is why the skeletons keep it around instead of hacking it to pieces as they would any other living thing. On top of that, frame mimics develop a supernatural stubbornness that can only be called boneheaded. So powerful is this force of will, that it mends their wounds as they plough forward against deadly spells. Frame Mimic Medium Monstrosit...

Brocade Mimic

The masked bard in gaudy attire was strumming away when the bar fight started. It kept playing even as chairs broke and mugs flew. Not one strum was missed even when blood was spilled. Then someone grew sick of the racket and stuck a hand ax into the bard's neck...with a wooden thunk. The fancy vest exploded with teeth, tentacles, and eyes. Then there was the color spray... The first brocade mimic lurked in the rafters of a bard college. Instead of eating a future player, it learned alongside them and caught a passion for the arts. Of course, it could have become an instrument but that wasn't quite grand enough. The mimic became a set of fancy clothes and was worn out the front doors. Sometimes it and its spawn become a bard's best friend. sometimes it pilots a dead one around for a bit, and other times it takes over a mannequin to strike out on its own. No matter how, the show must always go on. Brocade Mimic Medium Monstrosity (shapechanger), neutral ...

Yoke Mimic

Something tore apart the bandits you've been tracking, but it's not obvious what chewed and in some cases melted them. Maybe there's a wyrmling in the area? Either way, all that remains alive in the camp is a pair of oxen burdened by their cart. Though, they are quite nonplussed given the violence that must have occurred around them. Surely these simple beasts couldn't be the case of the carnage, could they? As you ponder this, the oxen start plodding away, pulling the cart of goods with them. Trying to stop them was the logical thing to do... their yoke coming undone with twin, yawning mouths not so logical. You know what that means... initiative rolls, please. Relatively benign, for a mimic, the yoke mimic was cultivated by an industrious farmer. They didn't see the point of wasting an animal that came into their care, even a strange monstrosity such as this one. It became a valuable tool not only to get fields plowed, but also kept the animals attached to it d...

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