Ok, so I'm posting an awesome game Idea, I had planned to put the Spoiler box with my Intro to the game at the top, and let you read before reading the rest of the info, but upon reflection, I think it will be
easier to understand things some if you read what info I've detailed out, before you take the dive. But
at least read the prompt even if you decide your not interested by the other info, you can toss me a PM and tell me what you think! Otherwise if you are interested after reading it all, please PM! This will not be first come first serve, I need someone who will fit me good for this game.
Little bit of game background to help understand my intro, and what I'm going for:
Further information will be added as I, and my partner come up with it.
The stones beneath of him felt old with the lingering power in them, the stones had seen more years, age, and magic then most creatures or places could likely attest too. He knew where he was, despite the fact that he had been brought there bound, gagged, and blindfolded, not by ordinary means of course, but by magic. That, in part, was what told him exactly where he was, the Council of the Covenant Chambers. For countless centuries the strength of magic had been brought to bear by humans in this place, the ruling council of the mage's dealing out mandates and justice in this dark shrouded chamber. The entire room felt heavy with the enormity of it, as if it were a giant weight pressing down on his shoulders, a responsibility that was not his own even. And yet, the gravity of the situation, and the chamber itself was not entirely lost on him, because he knew why he was there.
Suddenly, the blindness was gone, as if the blindfold that had not been there was pulled away, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the glare of the light filling the room. The blue-greenish glow did not spout for flames or bulbs, but weir lights, sealed glass vases, containting worked magic emitting the familiar, yet eerie light against the stones and the room. As his eyes finally adjusted they cleared so that he could see what was before him, from his position on his knees in the midst of the floor. It was a long semicircular dais, forming a crescent around him upon which he was the centre point, raised stone from the plateau upon which he knelt, it worked up to make which it represented even that much more imposing. Desks adorned this dais, ranging from its far western point, to its far eastern point, in the number of nine, three times thrice, and behind these desks sat cloaked figures, hooded disguising identity, but lending little anonymity. This was the Council of the Covenant.
These nine were arranged partially, to their particular allegiance in a way, despite the hoods, each hood was marked with the house upon which they represented. One for each of the nine great houses. From the west he could read them now that his eyes had cleared; Aednet the burning ones, Daireann the fruitful, Lugh those of the lucid, and Muireann of the sea. The four great houses of white, governing goodness, the pinnacle of power and righteousness, or so they claimed to be.
Letting his eyes dart to the side, the only part of his body he had any control over at the moment, he recounted the next from the eastern point in. Etaine wrought in jealousy, Dorcha of the darkness, Todd the foxes, and Vance of the mistlands. The counterbalance, the weight upon the scale of darkness, the houses which held over the dim and dark, the battle warriors, the twisted ones. These spoke nigh the truth of whom they were, of no such need to portray themselves otherwise as those of the white. And yet, as like their opposing force, they too held those whom made exception of themselves.
Finally, his eyes settled on the figure in the middle, the only of the nine to not wear robes as black as the chamber in darkness would be. No, the ropes cloaking the identity of this face were the grey of their office, the weight, the house of justice, of neutrality, Liadan house of the grey poets. It was upon this cloaked figure his gaze remained, knowing that of any house to speak it would be the Grey Poet, head of the Council.
"Connor Bloodsong, you have been brought before us, upon guilt of breaking a Prime Mandate of the Covenant." The words, were not a voice, they were a cacophony of sounds, birds chirping, trickling waters, crackling flames, hushed cloak whisper across the floor. Woven just so that the words spoke still, and yet the voice was impossible to discern, further protecting the identity of the Grey Poet, of each Council member, known only to those whom elected them amongst their own houses, not even to their fellow council members. "You kneel before us accused of theft of another's magic through blood, furthermore, the practice of casting life's blood magic."
The first was enough to earn him a hole in a dark cell for the rest of his life, magically muted, and deafened to the world, allowed only to live to serve a single solitary purpose of donating his magical blood to the Covenant. A wretched fate, close to death, and some thought was worse then death, but he knew better then that, he knew that there was a fate worse then a cell for the rest of his life. Because it was the second, that would earn him that, the first offence horrible, and unacceptable, but the second, unspeakable.
Part of him screamed, raged, fought with every ounce of his strength to shout out, to deny, to fight it. But to any eye he would not move, not a single muscles except for that of his eyes, bulging and looking wild in their desperation. He could not utter a word, could not move a muscle, his body was covered in a cloak too, though his face was bared, white as snow, it was marked with dozens of black lines, each one laid with precision and care to lay the spell upon him, immobilizing him just how they wanted him, allowing only what they wished. Each black line shone faintly, to his eyes, the faint gold runework flowing like stars upon an inky highway, they moved and their magic held him imprisoned.
They held him like so, with no voice even, because this was not a trial, this was a sentencing, there was no trial for the crimes he stood accused of, none would speak such an accusation without certainty, and there was no room for doubt, for question, for the crimes that he knelt before them. He heard now, because they wished him to, and he saw, to witness that this was the wish of the Council, not that any could believe that some would be bold enough to claim be imposter's to them.
"As the Council has deemed, the punishment for these crimes is death, by the Letting. May your soul know peace of it's agony."The last words, he knew were ritual only, for the Grey Poet, cared not one way or another if he suffered. And even that thought, was his minds pitiful attempt to ward off the blow that had come with the sentencing he knew he would already receive, the Letting. To be strapped down, and have every ounce of magical blood let from his body, slowly, and carefully, but extremely painfully, to have the Covenant take every drop, down to his life's blood, and further, till there was nothing, till he died, completely, without a drop of magical substance in him. It was a fate worse then any other death to a mage, to be stripped of their magic, and their life.
His eyes opened in a snap, and every muscle in his body tensed to spring to move, to lunge immediately, only to find that nothing moved, nothing shifted, nothing sprung, and his muscles only screamed in protest at their agony. He had been in the same position as then, for what felt like days now, awaiting his sentence. Closing his eyes again he breathed sharply through his nose trying to calm the slamming pace of his heart as the nightmare, no memory, cleared itself from his mind. It had already happened, passed, he was waiting for the end now, and while acceptance was not exactly what had come over him, a morbid finality had settled on his shoulders, he simply wanted in to be over.
Like the chambers he had been sentenced in, these were stone, and he only knew their description from horrified whispers, and the small window he could observe with what movement they had allowed of his eyes. It was rounded, like a tower, and he supposed it very well could be, the stones curving around him. There was no mattress, no privy pot, no food, and only a single door, he assumed because he could not see it from where they had placed him. Staring at the stones in front of him, he had counted them a dozen times, there were one hundred and eighty-two bricks within the limited scope of his vision. The waiting cells of the sentenced, they were reserved for those whom would die soon, a punishment as well as a last farewell to the world, for they were not sealed deep in the depths of the earth, but rather the towers where the sky was open above. If he could move his neck, he knew that he would be able to look up to see the sky, not that he knew if it would be filled with the moon, stars, clouds, it was too dark, he knew only when it was night or day.
It was a last taunting bid of hope too, he knew, the cell being open to the sky. But he knew too that the opening did not come for near thirty feet, and only 10 feet from the floor which he knelt, did the stone smooth and become featureless, the bricks honed down with magic to a glassy sheen of perfection. Runes would dance in the reflection of the stone, wardings, magic to stop any hand from grasping, climbing, escaping, no it took magic to leave this cell, something being bound as he was, he had no way of reaching.
Again his mind reflected over his sentencing, wandering as a slightly starved, dehydrated mind did tend to, trying to figure it out, the question. Who had done it to him? Who had set him up for this....For what he had been screaming in his head throughout the whole sentencing, was that he had not, that he was set up. Not that it was completely true, he knew that there was guilt on his shoulders, that night....
The rain had soaked the streets, and sent many people back inside of their homes, not him, not Halior either, they had been drinking, celebrating another triumph. They had turned over a new spell, forging a new weapon with their magic, with their minds, they had refined it over months, and that night they had finally laid the finishing touches on the spell, sealing it away for safe keeping, and till they could find someone to buy it, they had gone out to drink. It was only when they had been tossed out of the tavern, and sent striding home through the alleys drunken had it happened.
They had come down on them without a sound, surely using magic to hide themselves for the ambush they had moved to quick. He remembered being struck, across the head and sent sprawling, the liqour dulling the pain but also his wits as the assailants fell on them. Hailor fought harder, but the ambush was well planned, neither of them had a chance, and it was only moments before he was slammed up against the wall of the alleyway, held up, yelling defiantly till he was struck again, sending his vision spinning. When it settled again he could see them holding Hailor, their forms cloaked in black, hidden in the night, and the rain. They had him up on his feet, one holding his arms behind him, another standing in front of him talking, saying something...
A wave of blackness had come then, but cleared, he thought it had been moments, but the rain had stopped, had it been longer? He couldn't tell, but he could see Hailor still, slumped, but his chest heaved, blood slicked down his cheek dripping off his chin. "What do you want?!" His own voice sounded strange in the alley, half muffled, slurred from the drinks he'd had. It was then the one between them turned, the dark cloak closed, but the eyes, a soft blue almost glowed beneath the cowl. "We already have that.." The voice, not one he recognized, or perhaps his drunken head just couldn't place it. The man, for it had been a male voice, lifted his arm and in his hand was a dagger, but it was not just any dagger, it was his dagger!
"Hailor Noo!" It was futile, even as he jerked and tried to fight the men holding his arms trying to lunge forward, he watched as the cowled assailant lifted that dagger, and struck, plunging it into Hailor's chest with an almost audible thud. It was immediate the change, as if the world has pulsed suddenly and brightened. He could smell the damp earth, the rain that was clinging to the pavement and the buildings, the scent of sweat on in the men holding him, the smell of alcohol on Hailor's breath as his dying breath escaped his lungs. He was bound to the dagger, and the second it touched Hailors blood, the surge of energy, of magic sent his nerves screaming, electrified, energized, it made his head whirl with the cascading rush of colors and sensory overload. But what came with the knife coming home to Hailor's breast, was nothing, in comparison to the force of energy that came as the last breath left Hailors body, as he slumped in death and his life's wick extinguished on that dagger bound to him.
The world ignited, there was no other word for it, everything amplified a thousandfold, and he heaved his arms, throwing the men who had been holding them into the wall opposite the alley. "HAILOR!" His own voice was foreign again, but this time not in a drunken haze, any hint of intoxication had left him in the second Hailor's life's blood had touched that blade, the second his magic had rushed into him. But what came was a high, much worse then any drink could give him, a rush, a dangerous attack on his senses as he screamed out his rage as his bestfriends death, screamed in fury, the magic received welling in him unbidden, unspelled. He used no runes, no words of power, no gestures to direct it, the magic simply welled from him and burst in his emotional instability.
The next thing that he could recall, was waking. Easing up onto his hands and knees, smoldering ruins of buildings around him, even the cobblestones he rested on looked warped from heat, no magic. There was no life near him, nothing but ruins, he could hear just barely, surely an after effect of the magic still linger, there were shouts further away, screams, and worse, hounds, they were coming for him, he had used life's blood magic, and they were coming...
Opening his eyes again he breathed out, the rest was boring, he had been captured, of course he had not had the strength to fight that even, barely able to move. And then came the sentencing. They did not ask what happened, they had not cared, but he did, he cared that someone had set him up, forced him to use another's magic, but guilt still held in him, guilt that he knew he had used Hailors life's blood..
Something hit him, not hard, a drop, a drop hit his head, splatting against his tousled hair. It was raining? Could it get any worse? Another hit him, but strangely, in the same place, and then another. He could feel the wetness creeping down his scalp, and across his forehead, dripping down his nose,and across his upper lip, and over his bottom lip, before further dripping down onto the cloaked that shrouded him. But in it's pause, creeping against his lip, it brushed his tongue, and he tasted, not water, ink, bitter, black ink. But being who, what, he was, he could taste beneath that ink, could taste the hint of magic in it, and hope welled in him suddenly.
Eyes darting down he watched as the ink dripped off of him, and onto the cloak, marring down the carefully structured lines of spell work, ink that should never have reached the cell where he was. It marred, and then ruined the weaving, the runes pacing in those inky lines fading until suddenly his body gave, limp falling back his head smacking against the stones as his muscles, long tensed to the point of muscle exhaustion and only held by magic, could not support him in the least.
The impact ripped a gasp from his chest sharp and deep, but his mouth opened and he groaned, he could move, once his muscles could relax, release, and be useful again. His eyes searched immediately, staring up into the long tunnel up to open sky, at first he couldn't see anything, then it shifted and he could. A line, a razor wire thin line hung down through the tunnel lowered to him, and from the end of it, dripped the black ink, immediately his eyes sought up the tunnel again but already the line as moving. He only caught a glimpse of dark hands before they were gone. But he knew, someone, someone had saved him.....