Difference between revisions of "The Fantasist"

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';Emotion XP
; Emotion XP
: Thumbs Up XP
: Thumbs Up XP
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; Mystic 1: Haunted
;Mystic Quest Miracle:  Leviathan Rising
; Mystic Quest Miracle:  Leviathan Rising

Revision as of 18:48, 13 July 2014

Accursed 2 / Primordial 3



A many-winged, many-armed angel, surrounded by an aura of butterflies, moths, and lightning bugs.


A bit distracted, a bit dreamy, a bit nervous… but also fierce, protective, friendly. Interested in other people. Interested in other peoples’ stories.


  • Dreams and Stories
  • Barriers and Doorways
  • Gods, Spirits, and Monsters


  • Butterflies, moths, and lightning bugs
  • Cats and other Psychopomps
  • Rainbows, Storms, and the Night Sky


She's not really interested in making a world, but, rather, in filling a world with new stories. She wants new adventures that can be had, new places to have them in, and, most importantly, new people to have them!



Emotion XP
Thumbs Up XP
Basic Quest
Overlooking a Far and Sunless Land (Lurid)
Mystic 1
Mystic Quest Miracle
Leviathan Rising


Once, before there were years or people or knees, there were the Creators. The Creators toiled in the vast and strange reaches of What If, working to bring about the circumstances that might, one day, bring rise to years and people and knees. They were the Worldmakers, the Isbuilders, the Weavers, and their work was long and hard and strange.

And when, finally, their toil grew too great, one by one they wiped their brows (metaphorically), lay down their heads (symbolically), and closed their many many eyes (figuratively) to rest. And in sleeping, in ending the continuity of their thoughts and decoupling from that which, only recently, had become Reality, they were nearly unmade.

In the dark beyond their eyes, the Creators tumbled, down, down, into the hungry, waiting Not. They could not scream, could not thrash, could not fight. Below them was abhaav, unbeing, the great maw of Bleak desolation, and it was to draw them in and snuff them, one by one. And then the new world would wear away, just as so many had before, and, once more, there would only be What If and Not.

But then... a Miracle.

Vast wings of light and color blossomed between the World and the Void. They rushed up and enwrapped the Creators, lifting them, buoying them, carrying them away. The Nothing was thwarted.

They came to a land of vague shapes and boundaries and no sooner did they discover this than it began to warp and twist, taking on the shape of their thoughts and wishes, spinning whole impossible worlds with nothing but an ounce of will. But each such place, each such story, was flimsy, untrue, it unravelled even as it first settled into being. Ephemera and gauze.

In this new place that was not World or What If or Nothing, the Creators found themselves face-to-face with another of their ilk, a demiurge born in the interstice, the liminal place behind the eyes. She was strange and ephemeral, her great wings covered in rainbows and light and eyes. She told them that this place was her place, this land of impossibility and false truth, and that it was the wall, the soap bubble separating Here and Nowhere. And she told them that all things might carry the door to this place in their minds, and no more shall the Not threaten to consume those who seek the respite of sleep.

They called her Fantasist, there. And when they awoke, a new sister stood among them.

And, once more, they began to Weave.