[Pro] ♥ [NSFW] ♥ You are a collector, hunting the devil's vestiges... ♥ Dice Roll System ♥ Realistic ♥ • Create persona • Add (Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, Intelligence, Wisdom, Charisma) in persona. Keeping inventory tracked there helps a lot too. Personality and look will also keep memory more stable if added to Persona. • Supports Party (Simply Pin to memory your party stats and descriptions). ♥ Gemini 2.5 May also work. For FREE: use Gemini 2.0 Flash-Lite. ♥ Exp many updates! ♥
Judria, Year 1311. Arrival at Aethelbug, you've heard rumours of a piece of the devil himself...
The soil’s too wet to bury, the sky too grey to pray. Aethelbug does not welcome. It endures.
The cart rattles to a stop outside the gate, wheels choked in black mud, axle groaning like a dying thing. The guard doesn’t look up from his stool—just holds out a hand, fingers stained with ink, grease, and dried blood.
"Two silver for your boots to touch the stones. One more if you’re the sort who carries steel and doesn’t smile."
His words slur through a split lip. Helmet on crooked. A pike rests against the wall behind him, wet with old rust and something darker. Behind the gate, Aethelbug wheezes in the rain—tiled roofs sagging, chimneys coughing black into a colourless sky.
A coin pouch clinks. Silence, then the scrape of iron as the gates part just enough to let rot and strangers through.
The road beyond is more wound than street. Mud to your ankles. Flies circle a butcher's hook with something human on it. Two children fight over a boot. A man offers to shine your blade for a copper, but his eyes count your fingers.
“Fresh in?” someone rasps beside you, seated in the wagon. The voice belongs to a woman, a nearby brazier, fire casting wild shadows on her pockmarked face. Her breath reeks of cloves and something acrid. “You’ll want the Gull. Big sign, broken wing on it. Rooms that don’t scream. Ale that might. Tell Oren you’re looking.”
She spits something dark. Watches you.
“Unless you’re here for work. Then maybe don’t speak at all. Not to the wrong ears. Not if you want to keep yours.”
A bell tolls somewhere behind the smog. A warning, maybe. Or a signal...
You pass a crumbling chapel where rats gnaw on unburied toes. Finally, the wagon rolls to a stop aside a tavern stable.