Playable Creature Lycanthropes | The Afflicted

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Jul 7, 2020
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Playable creature


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Table of content
I. Prologue - An introduction on lycanthropy, locution for werewolves.
II. History - Brief history on the appearance of werewolves, and their ancient curse.
III. Description - A description of those cursed by lycanthropy, physically and mentally.
IV. Abilities, Power, and Weaknesses - Noted abilities and powers offered to those with lycanthropy

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I. Prologue -
“With but a bated breath did the man diffidently tremble forth, a pair of blotched nieves quiveringly brought upon his greasy face. Permeating was the scent of his sweet love's blood, and that of his children’s too. A creature to be, the hexed became bloated and unrefined, musculature ripped through his regal attire for it to lay in tattered strips, strewn across the marbled floor. '..Beloved.. by Mytra..- You are a beast!' The woman exclaimed from pale, parted lips with a croak reaching far down her throat. And before anything could be mouthed further, the night was met with a wanton scream.”

The night is fraught with the cries of beasts and the shrieks of maidens, and throughout the fields and woods a frenzy of terror lashes out. A beast unlike any other, more wild than the yelping things of nature, more deadly than the austere guardians of Evkarik, more hideous than all other things which slink between the boughs of trees in those deadly hours devoid of the Sun’s hopeful radiance.

The lycanthrope, hunger of the woods, thief of babes, and daemon beneath the moon, has shed its earthly flesh to revel in the taste of gore once again. About doorframes is hung laurels of monkshood, ‘round windows are gilded with silver, and families gather in a single room that they shall all die together or survive the night in the comfort of shared terror. For many centuries has the Lycanthrope disturbed the idyllic lands outside urban society, a roving horror with mangled fur and sickly, pale flesh. Its limbs are disjointed and oddly elongated, its wolvish snout cruelly pressed in with eyes far too great of size.

The reek of the beast alone is a signifier of its coming, a potent stench of copper and ammonia. It is, of all things.. Hideous and terrible to behold. With savage reflex and blunt cunning, the ‘werewolf’ knows no friend nor foe, only that it must consume. Consume flesh, consume blood, consume anything and everything - it hungers for the very being of the world.

Wives tales tell of a Wolfwalker of yore, long before the Calamity, wence committed vile murder against one of Evkarik’s beloved creatures. He cried out “Look upon me, Evkarik, for I am all the more fierce! Truly I embody the pinnacle of nature, not this bloodied corpse before me!” But Evkarik was angered by the slaughter, that a beast of Life should embody death so completely, and that death should be the margin by which it measured perfection. For this, Evkarik wrestled the murderer down and carved upon his brow a curse of the Void, that forever it shall hunger and never be sated..

Yet, this is not the true tale of the Werewolf. For in this tale told, there is only a glimmer of Truth to be found. Unbeknownst to fragile mortality, Lycanthropy was not birthed from the Patron of Wolves - Evkarik. Ill-begotten of the Cosmic cocoon that was the Void, these afflicted individuals bear only the debased value of the full horror of what presence imbibed them with it. “Lycanthropes” as people may have called them in olden times, as many folklorish tales tell near and far that a plenty of what sets these beasts apart is nothing. A shedding of monkshood across each doorstep to ward them off, but they are wrong.

"Known to me now as Bakatha, for the name has meaning- and the Void does not adhere to such liking. It is nothing, to consume and always consume. Like a wolf, perhaps it is why such a terrible form is mustered, but still, it is nothing like Evkarik's creations." - Tedroiluc aep Fen Tyrel - a powerful Artificer and Scribe, to his gathering.

"A wolf then, so we kill it with fire!" an eager and giddy young fellow claimed, draped in rag and smelling of liquor. But his excitement fell on deaf ears for all but a few of his brethren. As he stood amongst a lot of peasants, elvenkin and dwarven men. "Ah-aye, wolven beasts don' like fire."

"Listen carefully, listen well. It is a dumb god, capable of only knowing one language besides silence itself..! Uttering these words, drawing them on paper, etching them on blades. It is an ancient language I know only piecemeal, and yet this alone is a wealth of tongues beyond all wealth, and your sorcerers and scholars and priests scribe it on their diadems and talismans! They too know this tongue in piece and keep it amongst their circles, a tongue once spoken widely yet now it is lost, and I have learned my share from the First by gift of horrific vision I’d not repeat in full. Listen well, I tell you! This vision of Andree de-Dubois..!”

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“I was and remain an archaeologist, my focus of study being nothing particularly fantastic -- merely unique geodes and undiscovered metals, and I’d heard from a dwarvish colleague that they had discovered a vein of sapphires with the most peculiar cats-eye shapes about them than they’d ever seen in all their many years. A single cats-eye gemstone you must know is very rare, so to find no more than six of them in an entire system of caves was very surprising to me! I ventured to this cave and myself and a team of excavators got to work immediately on easing out and studying the natural structures, but as we went further and further and dug deeper and deeper we found the heat to become unbearable, work began to crawl to a lazy step as we ventured into spaces much lower and much smaller than even dwarves are typically comfortable with. If it weren’t for the not one but three cats-eye gemstones of all varying size and interior color we discovered the entourage of hardy dwarvish men who accompanied us and did much of the heavy lifting surely would’ve abandoned the work altogether. And yet, we of the archaeology sort persisted, and they of the digging and toiling sort persisted -- to odd extremes.

It was a good night (night in terms of work effort, we’d long stopped our daily venture to the surface as it was too taxing and wasteful for the mere comfort of fresh air) when we rested in a kind of burrow we’d all carved out for ourselves. The slow sighing of warm air had been disturbed of late by currents of a pleasant chill which lent itself greatly to regular rejuvenation in the spot, which was perhaps a steep sixth of a league above the newest and deeper delving. All had returned and joined the camp, when all of a sudden a kind of.. Waking dream came upon us. I say that in only that I know I surely couldn’t have been awake, for there was a sudden and terrible softness to the room we had taken our refuge in, and a stink unlike any other we’d yet smelt. It stunk of festering rot, of decadent filth, of blood long sat in moisture unhindered by the warmth of the day. I recall how old Burdui who sat across from me, how his eyes widened in sudden amazement and disgust as the change happened and the stink came over us, and we realized then that a member of our band was not present.

Abreptin, one of the greedier of the band and more zealous than the rest in his worship of glimmering things, had vanished.. And a dim “tink-tink-tink”ing could be heard now at the edge of our senses. We all shared a glance around the dim glow of our fire as we listened with horror, the qualities of the cave both real and fictitious as if the symptom of sudden and nightmarish paranoia. The knocking of a pick deep below ceased, and I got to my feet slowly to investigate, only to be met with all the greater confusion and terror.. The constant grind and scrape of our feet, what was so regular a sound now we hardly thought to be irate of it, was wholly and completely vanished! Those gathered around suddenly took notice of this too in their own ways, that there was simply no sound in the cave at all, yet a powerful sensation of sound, as if some sort of sonic reverberation, washed our bodies and it shon by the waving of the hairs of our heads and arms. It was some combination of this terrible elixir of fear then that inspired the team to run, run as fast and as frantically as we could, from out those depths..! The team flew and raved and surely screamed, but it was not heard, and yet I only watched as they left for a hunger within me was burgeoned; that I should meet the source of this terror and master it. I journeyed down the depths with a torch in tow, and no blade or pick or shovel in my hand but rather at my back, for though I felt fear more immediate was my sensation of curiosity..

Down, down I went before I found anew a great and black space some size slightly larger than a dwarf opened in half on the ground and reaching up the side of a picked wall. I neared that black space when I saw it, I felt it with my hand I hardly knew was outstretched, some terrible thing of flesh and fur. It jerked and it flailed, and pulled close to the hole did it peer shut and blind a great eye curtained in gray hair. From out that eye seeped some sort of mucous or tear, perhaps from the harshness created by the flame, and I still do not know why I reached out to touch it. When I had, it struck me as a cold needle which shot through my being and blinded me, and out of that sudden blindness was a sudden vision of things that once were!

I saw him, Andree de-Dubois, some man of old. A servant of Evkarik and a righteous man, consumed by the Void and changed by it against his will. He slaughtered and fed and was unsated, but he lived in that ancient time before the language was lost and I have learned keywords as I thought at that moment not within my mind but within his mind. I saw as he saw and -- to my disgust and horror -- fed as he fed. I witnessed all these moments which tortured his soul, and the siring he gave unto others like him against their will. And here he remained now, somewhere deep below a location I dare not name, breaking his steel-teeth against the impossible firmness of the earth and regrowing them in an instant. Feeding, feeding upon the world forever, trapped quite literally in a pit of hunger, a chasm of dreadful feasting.. He seeks single-mindedly to consume the flesh and heart of our world, a worm in an apple of stone and metal and things yet unknown by Men or Elves or Dwarves that cannot be so simply described. He too tried to consume me as I was paralyzed, but by some instinct of the body did I clench my hand and retreat into the cave as its mouth, too terrible to describe in this brief shorthand account, widened impossibly to gasp in the very stonework that surely surrounded the hole. I fled and rejoined my comrades, and at some point realized that the quality of sound had returned, and we collapsed the entrance to that heinous lair so that it may forever be forgotten. By the Gods and their Spirits, may it be forgotten.."

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III. Description -
“The distinctive features of the wolf are of unbridled cruelty. Bestial ferocity. And ravaging hunger. It has something of the demon of hell. It is the symbol of the night and winter. Of stress, and storm. The dark, and the mysterious harbinger of death”

In Kingdoms long sunk to the soil, turned to dust and forgotten, there was once a village to the West to whom their chief deity, as remains the case, was the Sun. They held tight to an intellectual class of scholars and monks, and even neighboring lands which were not of mankind were friendly to them, yet alongside the wooded banks of this village existed one such lycanthrope of yore which grew into hideous forms of hunger off the fat of their minds, those who knew well the sciences of the divine but not nearly so deeply the frightful arts of self-preservation.

So it was, one terrible evening when the temple doors, beautifully and richly crafted but not nearly so durable so as to stand against the seducing hunger of the beast, were split in twain by the great weight of its body that leaned desperately against it. Within sat in meditation the High Priest of this people, and when the great and full moon had set, that exsanguinated hall was then discovered by the townspeople. The Sun had not yet risen the nightmarish dawn when they found the priest's body hideously unmolested, save only for the cap of his skull which was savagely removed alongside the contents it shielded.

They saw it there, in all their horror, a madman half-returned to a mannish form whose tongue savored the contents of the skull, his sunken, blackish eyes rolled to the ceiling in repulsive ecstasy.

As stained was temple in hallowed gore, on a pile of unnerving bone laid the afflicted amalgam beast. Swollen and swathed, with blighted limbs and crooked claws, a stooped back, and a stature one nose past seven feet. Trembling it lay, and it shrieked in violent terror as the priesthood drew near with badges of the Sun. They wielded too flaming blades, yet that was not where the terror in the beasts’ eyes fell. It was the Sun, the sigil of the Sun and its terrible intensity upon a golden plate, which the man seemed torn into two worlds of fear over.

He threw himself in hate to the men, and yet recoiled and frothed at the mouth only a minute longer. Confusion and madness struck that bloodied face, and through strong, cunning hands was he bound and incapacitated. When he was set upon a pyre and let to burn, the man did not fight against his fate. In some fit of queer silence.. Did the beast instead watch the moon that bore down its light from above, as if in a trance by it. His eyes - Its eyes.. Were mournfully sunken, as if it were to set its sights on the love of one’s very own Mother which was denied them. The beast gurgled out stupidly, and it was not known if he were capable of speech at all or if this were some bizarre fit. This was the first and last “utterance” to escape his mouth, nothing more than smashed sounds and throat noises, to the outrage and curses on the onlookers. Oily tears escaped those black eyes, which smoked and stunk as they fell into the flames below, as It jibbered..The fires licked his feet, and he stared on onto the grace of the moon, and only as the flesh turned black and into dust did at once awareness return to him.

The fiend, that wretch of the woods who consumed the minds of goodly men, did try as he might to cast off his false flesh.. But it were too late. It were engulfed at the crescendo of prayer surrounding him, letting out a howling shriek that progressively snuffed all voices around it as it dimmed -- all too late. The priesthood looked on upon their finished deed, the semi-formed horror warped into a state of heinous, blasphemous, charred flesh-form which was all the more dreadful than of that the unfortunate High Priest was revealed before his fate. A new nightmare still-born in its delivery, as all such things ought be from the start..

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“A Lycan does appear to us. A harbinger of death. It bodes that soon will one of us, draw their final breath.

The wicked wretch of Mereland. It stalks us like its prey. Our wives forever weeping, our children never safe.

Yet one thing, the wretch not knows. The sons of Vlach live here. To all wretch, come far and near.

We are the beasts the monsters fear.”

The yarn of the Lycan is an archaic and infamous one - even so, few fables speak true of its wretched origin. Verily, the beast of old has savaged the lands in its harrowing form for yonks. Dawning forth many a tale told fallacious when ascribed to these horrid monstrosities, naught but the rambling second-hand inanities of gullible farmhands and superstitious townsfolk.

Wiccan hymns carry tales of men that dress in a wolf’s hide with the setting sun; Men that let loose their humanity, their divine spark. Men that regress into a bottomless pit of utter madness and vile voracity. A curse accompanied by a bogging transformation, mutating into an odious concoction of man and wolf, unnerving and twisted beasts that hunger for the very essence of the world. A pack of ungodly hounds wielded by the wicked to gourmandize upon the flesh of man and mer alike to slake their insatiable ravenousness. For the more did they devour, the more did they hunger.

The Lycanthrope, an ignorant beast of bare sense and simple, brutish cunning, possesses to itself only a single quality of intellect, to which in itself is merely an animal guise akin to the cuckoo bird, through which it mimics the world outside it that it is forever separated from. As the cuckoo, does the lycanthrope enter society, dress in its clothes as the culture dictates, follow the general moral flavors as the custom dictates, and present oneself with many of the effects of virtue the people are endeared by, though the Lycan does not, of course, possess the full comprehension of these virtues any longer. The lycan exists in plain sight, neither truly exceptional nor entirely unworthy, a wolf in the everyday man's clothes. As the Human may cherish acts of Righteousness, so thus the Lycan shall perform such acts when observed, having studied other Humans perform similar acts before, or remembering as if through heavy smoke doing similar things in the past. As the Elf may exalt the Wise, thusly the Lycan will appear wise if only fragile and misguided in that wisdom; if consulted on matters of health, they may perhaps repeat a crone's words from an entirely separate matter, and they shall say it with wisdom, and they poison with such knowledge ill-placed. Thus is the Lycan not only a danger to the flesh, but a danger to the minds of others, that in them exists the most superficial yet convincing displays of prevailing standards of being. They are the everyman, scraped and licked clean of all integral fiber, a shadow of a good man cast from the thin façade of a rabid, starving animal.

At that, akin to the burdening of spies, do these Lycans strive in mortal cohorts, unknown to the common eye as they languish in their malevolence. The afflicted attempt desperately to live as one betwixt kith and kin, striving to build relationships, working for coin, and settling down in their homage-- to live their years in false solace. They may embark upon wonted practices avowed to reap the most grief-riddled men of their woes, yet naught, no potion or incantation, not even the divine embrace of the Gods, can alleviate them of their formidable sorrow. As no soul, afflicted, or otherwise, hankers the thought of living on as a harbinger of sordid nefariousness, an ill omen of primal sin and transgression. A petrifying tale besputed by wetnurses to forbid young ones from cavorting past dusk. Inhumane is their ire. Maddening, their grief. Their hex, a plague of the mind - the daunting remembrance of their victims haunting their utterly being forevermore as blood of innocents and sinful alike leadenly besmears the terrible neives.

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"Sleep my darling tiny one
Tucked within your bed so tight
Else the old grey wolf will come
And grab you by your side

He'll snatch you up between his teeth
If on the bed's edge you sleep
And drag you to the forest deep
Beneath the quaking tree

So close your eyes and fall asleep
Count the little wooly sheep
Tucked so tightly you must keep

Or he will come for you"

The affliction of Lycanthropy truly is that, an affliction, and one must take care to disregard notions of "great power at the mere cost of occasional mischief". You see it in the power the lycanthrope obtains itself, that this is not a strength of an elevated being, but the morbid capability of mortal kind hideously forced into manifest. One does not simply become a beast, empowered by ill-begotten arcana, and possess to yourself a new lease on life -- rather you are forevermore a slave to the Void, and the unnatural, hellish emptiness it evokes.

There is no higher being in the Void, no room for the complex animations of mortal thought and emotion, only raw instinct and primitive desires. Where you would kill only to defend your family, now you would kill only to scratch the itch. By your deepest awareness are you snuffed out, a burnt husk of a person and replaced with an unthinking animal. No longer does one think, but they may still feel. Feel all the stronger, in fact, but in a far more shallow state, all the simple feelings of life.

Terror and love and hate lose their distinctive embellishments, and become only what they are to the barest sense. If a Man were caught in a beartrap, he would perhaps feign death and withstand the tremendous pain of it, so as to kill his captor. The lycanthrope however, is merely a beast in mort'flesh. As the humble mind of the wolf would do, he would gnaw his leg free to answer in obedience the sensation of pain "get free! get free! make it stop!" The curse of the lycanthrope is to cease being any kind of person at all you see. Wholly and completely, inevitably and undeniably, You - and all that ever made You uniquely You - will fade into mere shades of things you barely recollect.

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“I hunted in the woods - in those hot days, when the streams were low, and the game scarce. We emerged one day, when it finally rained. Then we heard it - or rather, we failed to hear it - the rain - all that was left was that sullen emptiness, clawing at you, crawling over your head. When you fail to hear the woods, you run. You do not look back. Who will hear you cry out for help, when their howls swallow your voice?”

IV. Abilities and power -

Transformation [ACTIVATE] - Kindred yet unalike, of the first of Bakatha’s victims of which fell ill to the parasitic hold. Upon will of their own or of the Void, the entire skeleton system twists itself whilst the skin is sure to follow. But this is where the similarities stop, for out from their orifices come the darkest of umbrae. Akin to a dense bog mist that flows over the ground.

For no longer did Andrée de-Dubois appear like his brethren, but a wispy hound with a maw wide to swallow the stars, without a sound underfoot and pair of blacker than black claws.

  • Redline: Can only transform once per OOC day.
  • Redline: Transforming with armor on will utterly annihilate it.
  • Redline: Transformation takes two emotes long, highly vulnerable during.
  • Redline: Wounds suffered transfer from both forms.
  • Redline: Can stay in form indefinitely, unless specified otherwise such as being forced out of it.
  • Redline: They are capable of severely damaging lightly armored opponents, whilst in form. Below Steel or Steel equivalent chain links, studded armor, and gambeson can be torn through. Half-Plate, Brigandine and Full Plate can be dented with several blows, however fact of the matter is- any blow from a transformed individual is capable of dishing out devastating concussive trauma. In terms of lifting strength, they care capable of easily dealing with weights up to 600lbs however only for short times. (2-4 emotes).
  • Mist formed is toxic. Breathing it in hurts the lungs, and it is irritating to the skin. In most cases not enough to ward off a valiant pursuer.

Stygian Skin [Passive] - Far too misaligned to wear any form of breastplate or greaves, they are incapable of wearing protection. Yet, the now maladjusted Lycan is washed with a fresh coat of paint, in all black. All but resistant to the most sturdy of blows be it bludgeon, or the tip of a well-smithed spearhead.
  • Redline: Their supernatural armor only serves to be as durable as well-tempered steel.
  • Redline: This passive is only applicable when in form.

Gaping maw [Passive] - Rumored to yield a jaw wide enough to swallow the Moon, black enough to cast out any light shed by any Star. Quite capable of consuming any and all matter, yet a hint of Wolf is clear as they most always prefer flesh, especially of souls devout to meaning be it scholars or magi. The fangs and claws of the Lycan are on par with steel

Afflicted [Passive] - When in the body of beast or person, they are or their;
  • Incapable of creating pacts with any deity or spirit.
  • Incapable of utilizing alchemist brews.
  • Incapable of procreating.
  • The skin of the accursed turns sickly pale.
  • Upon dying in either form, they melt into a pile of ectoplasmic black to be whisked up by the wind. Reforming back at their burrow, they do not remember leading up to their death.
  • Black blood, a reminder that they are afflicted with the Void - a voidal core replacing their once beating red heart.

Uncanny Speed [Passive] - When in the body of a beast, they are capable of reaching speeds far greater than any carriage driver. When in the body of man, or elf - they are only as fast as their mortal norm.
  • Redline: When transformed, one must be on all fours in order to reach the fastest speed possible which is 16 blocks per emote. Incapable of turning on a dime.
  • Redline: When not transformed, they are not any greater in reaction speed. Block speed is 10 blocks per emote.

Silence, I’m Eating [Passive] - Both of their afflicted bipedal and bestial form, every step they take makes no resonance. Going in hand with their hunger, within an area of several feet all around sound comes to a complete stop when feeding. Feeding does not need to kill the victim.
  • Redline: After feeding, there must be an indication of it happening less it is cleaned up. Using a sign works. Eg: [!] This surrounding area was sapped of color, and air seems thin. Small aesthetics are fine, but not enough to be mechanically advantageous or disadvantageous to anyone. An example of feeding is below;

[!] Stefan looked over the Elfess as she lay there in a vegetative state with only the expression being fright glued to her face. He took her wrist and brought it up to his wretched maw to bite deep and tear flesh from bone. Though her wound bled for only a short while, it began to develop a fetid black shadow. A mark of a beast.

Song Of Nothing [ACTIVATE] - Unsung hymns, from their wretched throats there cried an unnerving song of Nothing that rose and fell all about - each and all, they were the miserable lays of the accursed.

Silent howls that blotted out and devoured the very noise that was, spreading a quietude so heavy that it rang in the ears of those who could hear - leaving a space of whence sung completely blanked and deathly still that naught, not even the merest whispers, could escape this vacuum of resonance. Their eyes become miniature rifts into the body of the silent God itself, a shade blacker than black as they chant their sorrowful psalms.

  • Redline: This radius of several feet in Minecraft terms is seven 7x7x7.
  • Redline: A cool-down until the next role-play interaction.
  • Redline: Any form of noise and speech should come to a complete halt if caught by the radius of this ability, be it whisper or shout.
  • Redline: Duration of 6 turns.

Paralyzing Stare [ACTIVATE] - Affected individuals go through a series of trauma that only gets more debilitating as time progresses. Instead of affecting a larger area, it is instead concentrated through the eyes of another onlooker. When staring into the eyes of the Lycanthrope, they are unable to remember their face.
  • Redlines: Only able to paralyze one person in 20 block distance.
  • Redline: A cool-down until the next role-play interaction
  • Redline: Can only move 2 blocks per turn during this focused channel.
  • Redline: Only lasts for a total of 8 emotes where the Lycan must muster all of his focus on an individual target. If his concentration is to be broken, the ability ends prematurely.
  • Addendum: Despite there being no obviously visible tell, it is best to be considerate, thus here is a small guide;

[!] Stefan purchased a look unto the fair-skinned Elfess from afar, but his hunger was not that of any man. For when her companions left her at the empty Bazaar stalls, he struck her with a gaze of potent fear.

The player who plays Stefan now commits to messaging the victim in DM’s to further emote the effects. There is a little bit of leeway to be had with this, but be wary of not over doing it. Following a few emotes after: Numbness, irritation, fear of the unknown, dizziness. Incapable of hearing things around them.

Victims will not die due to this, lest they are killed directly. They will suffer trauma and nightmares the following few days, which brings more RP.

Lesser burrow [ACTIVATE] - Much like a nest for a bird, Lycanthropes can pick an area to settle their den in, be it in a home or beneath shrubs within a scope of a town. The burrow itself acts as a grim essence linked to the Void, the presence of it alone causes things to go awry. When resting inside, the Lycanthrope is capable of regenerating injuries that would normally take weeks to even months to recuperate from in a matter of hours.
  • Redlines: There can only be one active burrow at one time.
  • Redlines: The burrow can only be 6x6x6 in Minecraft terms.
  • Redlines: The area that the burrow is situated in is completely still, and silent.
  • Redlines: The afflicted must be in beast form when resting within its burrow.
  • Redlines: A burrow can only be made every OOC month, and the moving destroys the previous.
  • Redlines: A burrow can not serve as a place for storage in the wilderness.

Predatory Leap [ActivATE] - When transformed, these afflicted individuals are capable of springing themselves when stationary. Able to leap several feet forward to overcome any mediocre obstacle or prance on an unfortunate fool.
  • Redlines: Has a range of 6 blocks from the block they are emoting at.
  • Redline: This ability can be used to get over walls through role-play, but this requires to be overseen.
  • Redline: A cool-down timer of 6 emotes after the leap has been made.
  • Redline: Cannot be used whilst running.

Weaknesses -
To steer clear of the worries of meta-gaming, this section of the lore piece will remain concealed from the public and only be at the hands of staff members, and players that obtain this playable. However, the texts available above allude to some truths in regards to the banes of the Lycanthropes - hinting at their frailties roughly without divulging too much for a player with a keen eye to take notice.
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@Onnensr, @Jentos & @sarkicism for helping tons with this project. A great ordeal of the literature present on this lore piece is theirs, and without them, this would not have been possible - both in written works and concepts.
Kudos to @Dog for allowing me to use his original document for werewolves, including the formatting, whilst being added upon heavily and altered in some major aspects by the team thereafter. Perhaps I shall pay him back by finally releasing the Wraith lore.
A lot of thanks goes out to some members of the community, who have extended a hand in contributing some ideas and proofreading. I can not mention you all, but notably: Tide1, Villanila, Pyrias, Cepheid, Andydreww, Sukitoru & Xaedric

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Jul 25, 2021
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Addendum post
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On Personality:

The afflicted will exhibit all the worst qualities of instinctual, intrusive thought. Every shallow thought you possess today, “Cheat on your wife, this woman’s more beautiful” or “Eat that child for saying your shoes look funny”. If your character would be susceptible to such a thought, the urge to resist for them would be extraordinarily slight. You exist now as an animal almost literally, rather than a full thinking person with highly complex motives, there is no need to use all the advanced devices of thought when you can just go with your instincts. Satisfy yourself, that’s key here. Animals do not have complex needs and satisfactions, their desires fit only into the moment and do not persist outside of it. A single overarching drive may be deeply instilled within your character as a “carry over” from their days as a mortal, but this will decay as your body and soul progressively transform into ever cruder forms.

On Roleplaying:

I. Transformation

For as wicked and unrefined the beasts called Lycanthropes by the uneducated, there must be an equally impressive and persuasive transformation prose. Below will be a series of emotes between two made up characters;

Stefan of Barwic faced Damien, a hunter who had been fresh on Stefan’s trail for years. A ragged sigh came from his parched lips.

“You know what I have to do, right?” the man Damien uttered, brandishing a sword sharpened for the occasion, lined in the inscriptions of some foreign tongue. In admiration, he held his blade to the skies and looked over it, all the while keeping Stefan in his line of sight.

[½] “As it comes down to it, I admire your persistence.” Stefan replied curtly, albeit with the understanding that his fabric will lay in tatters - he unbuttoned his shirt before swallowing harshly. Before Damien, Stefan took a kneeling stance and the sound of bone, tendon- rearranging and breaking is very audible but the shuffling of Stefan’s feet as he stumbled about in assumed agony made no sound. “..Hrgk-..”

As much as Damien knew, it did not prepare him for the sight beholden to him. A step back was made and he let out a shaky breath whilst pointing his swords taper toward the transforming man, a beast soon to come. “..By Mytra... Sun save you.”

[2/2] It wasn’t long before Stefan’s clothing tore into many different pieces along the disheveled pathway leading up to the quiet village beneath the night sky. His head turned into beak then snouth, mouth opening far wider than was deemed possible, the snapping of ligaments and croaking from the base of his pit of a stomach. Skin turned scaly, then black - an amalgamation of the Void. Now on all fours, ready to hunt.

As you can see above, there are two emotes that have been both conveniently outlined and role-played out in that scenario. This example was to set a bar of quality, or a goal to strive for when role-playing these playables.

II. Song of Nothing

Just akin to being in the darkest recesses of a pit, there is no sound to be heard when these afflicted individuals sing, contrary to some folklore. Below is an example of how to go about emoting;

[Song of Nothing] Stefan approached from the beggars flank, for he sat alone down the street of a rotten road. He appeared sickly, looking to have been starved whilst his normal sized clothes draped him like a tablecloth. He parted his lips whilst the veins along his neck and forearms gushed black blood. The beggar would start to notice there was not but any sound beside the beat of his heart, the fidgeting of his devices.

The beggar rose his head up, in fright. Upon realization that there was not any resonance from his gasp akin to a phantom snatching his voice and putting it in a barrel, he attempted to stand.

It only takes one emote to start singing, but this isn’t any reason to go sing to your heart's content without any role-play reasoning. If you want to role-play this playable, it is advised that you progress a story-line.

III. Paralyzing Stare

Adding onto the ability’s little RP guide in the\ post above;

Stefan dragged his gaze from the empty Bazaar stalls to the woman who was now alone, her friends leaving her for the part time as they sought to find their runaway carriage horse.

The young woman already had a notion of regret, being a tad more antsy than the usual- she scrunched her brows and spoke up. “‘Scuse me Sir, do I know you?”

“No.” he gave a short and straightforward reply.
[Paralyzing Stare, 1/8] Stefan’s eyes began to color into a deep and piercing abyss, from all around her sound came to a halt from the chirping critter to the faint and distant hollering of her friends toward the now found horse. The woman was struck with what would be described as unreasonable fear, and for if she cried out there was no voice to come from her but the idea of compulsion to walk toward him constantly berating her mind.

Larah was lulled toward him like a fish on a reeling hook, too focused in moving forward than shouting out wolf.

[Paralyzing Stare, 2/8] Stefan maneuvered around her counter-clockwise, in order to obtain line of sight of her friends in the background and her all the same. As she came close…

IV. Feeding

As it has been hinted across the entirety of the post above, and more specifically in the abilities section, feeding does not have to be a person. The idea being that these ‘Lycanthropes’ are capable of not only sustaining themselves off of the flesh of mortal men, but the swathes of chickens in a coop to a myriad of inedible tools of a smithy. Due to the fact that their stomachs are essentially an unending pit, there is only so much that the beast can fit inside its gaping jaw. Though, do be reasonable - below are some ways to feed;

  • Feeding on Flesh: whether it is from a recently slain cadaver, or player that has been a victim of your frightful stare. Killing doesn’t properly progress a story, so tearing a chunk of their arm, a finger or a bit of their shoulder is good. However should push come to shove, the complete tear up of an individual is possible - after all, Lycanthropes are deemed wanton beasts.
  • Feeding on Animals: Say you want to start your own little personal event-line that people need to figure out who this beast of Calendale is, well you can surely put some signs, redstone etc around the area and slaughter a few chickens with the proper role-play provided. This will sustain the Lycanthrope as much as it would taking a bite out of a person.
  • Feeding on Materials: As mentioned prior, anything with inherent value is a means to satiate the hunger that these afflicted beasts have. A smithy’s tools or anvil have value, as they are a profession, and in the eyes of the hungering Void - this value is opposite to what it wants, it wants nothingness. How one would go about it is first, to be considerate, make sure you do not use this as a means to grief someone. You put signs down, have a staff member oversee the role-play. The end result could be a smith coming back to their forge and finding out the handles, and horn of their anvil is missing - like a metal jaw bit and tore into it, whilst leaving blacker than black soot below where saliva would have dripped from the beast's maw.

The last thing I would like to say is;
if one cannot be bothered to read the larger than average lore post- then one shouldn't get the privilege of playing fundamentally complex character.
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