- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- Anime-esque, sci-fantasy, adventure, cyberpunk, high-fantasy, Victorian fantasy. comedic slice of life
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THE SITUATION:
In 1589, the lowly tekiya Toshiuji came across a strange pot, given to him by a man with dark complexion, who spoke little and revealed even less. Despite Toshiuji's suspicion, a gift was a gift, and the mystery surrounding the pot promised a good margin. However, even after a year, Toshiuji could not sell the pot. The distrust towards his kind aside, people feared the sheer presence of the pot, whose outside was adorned by a vacuous grin, its eyes squeezed and bulbuous, and the pot's gaze seemed to repel even the most daring of men. Toshiuji died as most tekiya did at the time; poor and forgotten. The pot changed ownership quite frequently after, until it eventually ended in the possession of the powerful daimyō Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who would soon see his power decline after its acquisition. One of his subordinates formed a small delegation. They were discreetly moved out of Japan, hidden from the public eye, and survived a journey across the world, setting foot onto the new world.
There, the delegation would bury the pot, deep into the red sand of what would eventually become the Mexican desert, hoping to bury its terrible powers with it. And while the Japanese delegation returned home, their acts would have disastrous effects on not just the now unified Japan, but the world at large. Just two years later, towards the end of the 17th century, the pot was found by a small gang of outlaws, who recklessly smashed it. Lavender haze emerged from the shattered remains, and swept across the land, endless and thick.
The unruly Americas would soon find themselves invaded by hordes emerging from the dark, smoked-filled corners of the world. Monsters from Eastern folklore ran amok across the already unstable region. Witch doctors and their occult circles, long striving for their mysticism to bear fruits, were reinvigorated by the demons crawling from within the mining shafts and darkened outbacks, and soon succeeded in summoning unholy, horned and multi-limbed beings that hid inside the ominous swamps and deserts, terrorizing the region.
The world, now in fear of what slumbered in the dark, changed.
…
Today, the wild west is very much alive, but… rogue. Saloons are sprawling with dubious patrons, some of which sport horns or extra eyes. Lesser Yokai and Other have made the American Frontier as well as the Mexican desert their home, while their monstrous brethrens come crawling out of the swamplands, terrorizing merchants and outlaws alike. Violence and death is everpresent, and so is the business that promises to protect from these threats, be it officially appointed or for-hire.
Many aspects of human development has been shaped by the supernatural, with technology, architecture, and, to an extent, culture itself, stagnating in various ways. Loud, stuttery vehicles, reminiscent of fictional steam societies, roam about just as frequently as mechanically-enhanced horses (and whatever unholy creatures could be tamed into mounts). Outlaws, lawbringers, and mercenaries alike have had the same weaponry at their disposal for the past three centuries: blades, guns, and weaponized magic. Scrap metal-fixed huts and lavish saloons are everywhere. The rich folk built mansions in the tuscany-like green outside the hustle and bustle of the cities.
Admittedly, many aspects have experienced change befitting of many hundreds of years, such as clothing, language, travel and society in general, but regardless, the world is stuck in a gun-slinging, occult-ridden loop of hell, and there seems nothing to rid our plane of it all. The world has been permeated by the mythical eastern spirits, and the subsequently unshackled apparitions of the west, and has stabilized itself into predictable patterns in only the last few decades.
THE SITUATION:
In 1589, the lowly tekiya Toshiuji came across a strange pot, given to him by a man with dark complexion, who spoke little and revealed even less. Despite Toshiuji's suspicion, a gift was a gift, and the mystery surrounding the pot promised a good margin. However, even after a year, Toshiuji could not sell the pot. The distrust towards his kind aside, people feared the sheer presence of the pot, whose outside was adorned by a vacuous grin, its eyes squeezed and bulbuous, and the pot's gaze seemed to repel even the most daring of men. Toshiuji died as most tekiya did at the time; poor and forgotten. The pot changed ownership quite frequently after, until it eventually ended in the possession of the powerful daimyō Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who would soon see his power decline after its acquisition. One of his subordinates formed a small delegation. They were discreetly moved out of Japan, hidden from the public eye, and survived a journey across the world, setting foot onto the new world.
There, the delegation would bury the pot, deep into the red sand of what would eventually become the Mexican desert, hoping to bury its terrible powers with it. And while the Japanese delegation returned home, their acts would have disastrous effects on not just the now unified Japan, but the world at large. Just two years later, towards the end of the 17th century, the pot was found by a small gang of outlaws, who recklessly smashed it. Lavender haze emerged from the shattered remains, and swept across the land, endless and thick.
The unruly Americas would soon find themselves invaded by hordes emerging from the dark, smoked-filled corners of the world. Monsters from Eastern folklore ran amok across the already unstable region. Witch doctors and their occult circles, long striving for their mysticism to bear fruits, were reinvigorated by the demons crawling from within the mining shafts and darkened outbacks, and soon succeeded in summoning unholy, horned and multi-limbed beings that hid inside the ominous swamps and deserts, terrorizing the region.
The world, now in fear of what slumbered in the dark, changed.
…
Today, the wild west is very much alive, but… rogue. Saloons are sprawling with dubious patrons, some of which sport horns or extra eyes. Lesser Yokai and Other have made the American Frontier as well as the Mexican desert their home, while their monstrous brethrens come crawling out of the swamplands, terrorizing merchants and outlaws alike. Violence and death is everpresent, and so is the business that promises to protect from these threats, be it officially appointed or for-hire.
Many aspects of human development has been shaped by the supernatural, with technology, architecture, and, to an extent, culture itself, stagnating in various ways. Loud, stuttery vehicles, reminiscent of fictional steam societies, roam about just as frequently as mechanically-enhanced horses (and whatever unholy creatures could be tamed into mounts). Outlaws, lawbringers, and mercenaries alike have had the same weaponry at their disposal for the past three centuries: blades, guns, and weaponized magic. Scrap metal-fixed huts and lavish saloons are everywhere. The rich folk built mansions in the tuscany-like green outside the hustle and bustle of the cities.
Admittedly, many aspects have experienced change befitting of many hundreds of years, such as clothing, language, travel and society in general, but regardless, the world is stuck in a gun-slinging, occult-ridden loop of hell, and there seems nothing to rid our plane of it all. The world has been permeated by the mythical eastern spirits, and the subsequently unshackled apparitions of the west, and has stabilized itself into predictable patterns in only the last few decades.
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