RPG system: Simpelt terningerul
Genre: Action, Fantasy
Participants: 1 GM, 4 players
This is a world of endless realms, floating suspended in empty void.
Some large enough to house entire mountain-ranges, whole seas, others the size of a small clearing, or the inside of a simple home.
Some are simple constructions, while others maddening creations.
All interconnected with paths and doors that can lead to anywhere and nowhere.
All wrapped in magical shimmering veils to separate them from the void they float in.
These are the worlds of the wizardy magisters, and their constructed servants, the artifices.
This world, tells their tale.
— - — - — - —
His body was assembled of boards from a shipwreck his master found washed onto shore on one of his many travels through the worlds, partly corroded by their time in the waters. Where the ship came from has always been his master a mystery, and a story he have liked sharing. In some ways, now, it has become part of his lore. His arms and legs were made of the very same planks as the rest of the body, with a hardy set of fingers and a stable pair of feet. Wrapped around the planks of his ribs, hung long lines of fishing-wire, three hooks dangling by his side as he walked. His face, carved from the mast, was round and wide-cheeked with inviting features. A moustache of ship-wreck wood hung above a wide smile of white pearls. One eye was a deep blue pearl of great intensity - looking into it was like getting lost in a great sea. The other was a clear pearl with the slightest blue tint. Through it, he could see clearly what most missed in the heat of the moment. His stomach was a salt-water-soaked burlap sack, stiffened with oils and fats. It was hardy and could take most things. Though, in time, he had gotten a taste for the finer things in life - a good prepared fish, or a nice cup of tea. His heart was a broken golden watch. Where it once spent the time ticking away, it now seemed like it had all the time in the world. Bits of its former glory was admittedly still there - in its prime, one would have been proud to own such a watch. But that sense of pride, that hint of great ambitions, was buried deep within him. Only occasionally would the sunlight make it glimmer through the gaps between the planks. His mind was a simple rock, picked from the bottom of the very same lake he fished in every day. It had its charm, it was humble, it knew of depths, and provided him with a grounded perspective.
He was an artifice. No doubt about it. Like many before him, he was created to serve a purpose. That purpose happened to be fishing. And he happened to enjoy fishing quite a lot. He would often find himself out on the small pond beside his home, line in the water, sun on his face, surrounded by blue, pondering about life. This particular day, he happened to be pondering about fish. About how they always seemed to find his hook. They were driven by some urge to eat, he reckoned. In many ways, they were like him. They had a purpose. Theirs happened to be getting caught, while his to catch. He wondered if they one day would come on to this scheme life had laid out for them, and decide not to bite. He might as well stop fishing then. The thought disturbed him. So, he leaned further back, letting the sunlight bathe him, cleansed his mind, line still in the water, and began pondering about other ways of fish and fishing.
He would though, one day stop fishing. In many ways, that is what life is all about. About stopping fishing, and leaving the pond of ponder, onto a road that leads nowhere but where your feet take you. And there, you may find scarier things than clever fish, and places far from calm waters. One day, you may find yourself called not what you were, but what you have become:
He wore deep gashes across his face, one having grazed his left eye, now covered by a black leather patch. Torn lines hung loosely from his side, dangling in the wind. He was covered in several deeper cuts all over his body, the wood around them splintery and sore. Scorn-mark adorned his left shoulder, tracking down his breast. And that was only the scars you could see. Now, fishing was the last thing on his mind.
— - — - — - —
‘Striders’ is a game about a pack of artifices and their master, who finds their peaceful circumstances changed, and themselves becoming striders of the realms. If you want to dive into the curious existence of being an artifice, a construct, into a world of worlds, of western-vibes, fantasy, and endless expanse of infinite variety, onto an adventure that will test your will and threaten your life, to bond and bleed together, to face truths so hard they might kill you, this is the game for you. You may not know what this adventure may entail, but I assure you, it will be worth the ride.
I hope you will join me, in my magical world of wonder and boredom.
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