AFAIK energy transforming from one type to another is physics-related.No, it's not
That's not how physics works. Most good magic systems are based off of physics as I have been taught.
All Becomes Grey [SIGNUP AND OOC THREAD] [ROLEPLAY] [POSSIBLE MATURE CONTENT]
- Thread starter LivingAngryCheese
- Start date
-
The FTB Forum is now read-only, and is here as an archive. To participate in our community discussions, please join our Discord! https://ftb.team/discord
In my eyes, magic is simply a type of energy that IRL either doesn't exist or can't be accessed. In fantasy, this power does exist and can be accessed. If the power comes from nowhere then you aren't a wizard, you're a god.
And I guess if a part of the power comes from nowhere, you're a semigod
If anyone is thinking of joining but is struggling for a character, I have two ideas that I decided not to use in favour of an utterly disturbing and fantastically interesting one.
Simmer down there son. A day or two would do it, with some preliminary brainstorming too.
The power comes from the natural recycling of life energy that normally forms a soul. when it isn't able to find an unborn child as a host to make its soul, it has to form an extension of a soul already bound to a living creature. This is why personality is so linked with magic, and why magik was much less common before the war. Fewer people died, so it was easier for the magik to find an unborn host.
I just remembered I forgot to tell you guys the two char concepts.
The first was a natural elementalist, but rather than using the stuff like vines and thorns, it was more about a tough oak tree and slow but strong growth. He'd be a tank that had stackable buffs, basically.
The other is a dodge-tank (very high agility to avoid being hit a lot, effectively a tank but not really) That can manipulate their own body into sand with earth elementalism.
The first was a natural elementalist, but rather than using the stuff like vines and thorns, it was more about a tough oak tree and slow but strong growth. He'd be a tank that had stackable buffs, basically.
The other is a dodge-tank (very high agility to avoid being hit a lot, effectively a tank but not really) That can manipulate their own body into sand with earth elementalism.
Name: Dubhan Naimh (Dubh as in dubbed, an as in hand, Naimh as in name)
Age: 20
Magiks: Dark
Appearance:
Upon each of his hands, there is a sigil carved into the palm.
Personality: Dubhan sees the world in a black-and-white way. He often imposes this
belief by exacting justice on those he sees fit, such as burglars, murderers, and other races, who have butchered and slain humans. The way he sees fit to punish these grave transgressions usually varies little from death, seeing himself as not only judge and jury, but also executioner. He will very rarely have emotions conflicting within him or affecting his judgement, which is why he sees himself as so impartial, and worthy of exacting such justice.
He is correct in his evaluation of his own emotions. They are dead, and show rare signs of existence, only ever surfacing in extreme situations. This makes him poor company, and a worse friend, so very few would ever bother to try and get to know him.
Equipment:
- A heavy cloak with a hood that can keep his face in shadow
Stats:
Health: 5
Armour: 4
Agility: 1
Strength: 1
Accuracy: 5
Magical skill: 6
Magical defense: 3
Magical abilities:
Sigil of draining- Dubhan uses a sigil on his right hand to make a magik attack, gaining one point of health if the attacks hits, including past his normal maximum. Cooldown of two turns
Cursed rend - an attack infused with the power of darkness, giving a debuff of-2 strength or magical skill to the attacked player if it lands for 3 turns. Cooldown of two turns. Rolls off of magical skill.
Blood draw- A sigil on Dubhan's left hand pulls the blood forcefully from an opponent, rolling off of (magical power + damage already been done to opponent). Cooldown of two turns.
Age: 20
Magiks: Dark
Appearance:
Upon each of his hands, there is a sigil carved into the palm.
Personality: Dubhan sees the world in a black-and-white way. He often imposes this
belief by exacting justice on those he sees fit, such as burglars, murderers, and other races, who have butchered and slain humans. The way he sees fit to punish these grave transgressions usually varies little from death, seeing himself as not only judge and jury, but also executioner. He will very rarely have emotions conflicting within him or affecting his judgement, which is why he sees himself as so impartial, and worthy of exacting such justice.
He is correct in his evaluation of his own emotions. They are dead, and show rare signs of existence, only ever surfacing in extreme situations. This makes him poor company, and a worse friend, so very few would ever bother to try and get to know him.
Dubhan's father was a highly pious priest of the all-loving god Arawn. He had never developed holy powers as many priests had, and this infuriated him to no end. He dreamed of becoming a holy mage and spreading the word of Arawn better than ever before, of teaching the masses to love him.
Magiks do not come easily to the aged, though. Their diminished bodies are already running out of life force, and are poor vessels to contain it. Beg his god as he might, no holy magik came to him, though every day he checked and every day he found nothing had changed. He got older, but his unending belief never did falter even once, for he loved Arawn, and he knew the god loved him as he loves us all.
He found his belief validated when upon his doorstep arrived a foundling; a baby boy born out of wedlock, expressly forbidden by those in the village as they were taught by Arawn's words, but though the children might take on the wildness and the sin caused by their parents, the bastard could still be of help to society. His mother would have left him on the steps of the temple and run away. If the villagers did not catch her that is, and they would help her overcome her sin.
He brought the boy up, and named him Duidh, a name implying faith, and in an act of vanity gave him the man's own surname, Namh. he raised him to try and make Duidh as god-fearing as himself, to love Arawn as he did. As he grew though, Duidh became more and more stubborn to his father's teachings, refusing to believe them, pointing out what he saw as holes in the words and the stories of Arawn's love of mankind.
This rebelliousness came to a head as Duidh approached his 16th birthday, and he was put to work as usual in the small vegetable garden behind the temple. It was spring, and a plot needed tilling. He looked at the soil, and saw it move. By instinct, he moved his hand towards it, and it followed his movements. He swept his hand along the row, and it tilled itself, as if an invisible implement had been dragged along its length twice as fast as Duidh could even run.
His father watched this, distraught. He had toiled the boy's entire life to teach him to love Arawn, in the hope that the god would gift the boy divine magic. His toil had been repayed with a spit in his eye. The boy had earth magic, not holy magic.
His faith faltered for but a moment. He realised that Duidh must not truly love Arawn, and his ways had not been strong enough to teach him so. he would have to resort to stronger methods.
The priest found an appropriate cellar beneath the temple, small and dark and dirty and cold and rat-ridden, locking the young boy in there against his will. He would not let him out until he renounced this sinful magic, this affront to his life's dream and his life's work, this magic of clods of earth and pitiful dust. It was improper for the son of a priest, and until he confessed his sin and love for Arawn, he would stay there, being fed minimally, and given little water, bitten by rats and fleas alike, languishing in the filth. He had only just discovered his earth magic, he could not move the stone though he tried.
There was a reason that he was found by life force of earth. He had a stubborn spirit, almost unbreakable. Almost.
Duidh withered away, becoming too weak to even speak, his father taking his silence for defiance as he left him in that cellar in the pitch black. He would have gladly confessed and returned to the surface, if only to eat well again, to leave this putrid place. It smelt of decay. His own decay. No wonder the rats bit him so often, he was a festering body, no longer human, no longer truly alive.
In the darkness, his soul weakened. It was wrenched and torn, struggling to survive, barely a faint flicker to the roaring flame it once had been. He could never have moved the stone with his earth magic, but now it slowly drained out of him as did the rest of his life force. He had no hope, not that he had entertained any, until he felt something, deep within his chest, stirring. Something strange. Something dark. Life force of a nature almost as tortured and twisted as he was. Dark magic.
Crawling to the door, his black soul guided him in his instinct to scratch at the wood. It took hours and hours, and by soon his hands were splintered, his nails chipped, some hanging off, fingers bleeding slowly and thickly, yellow slithers of pus around the countless scratches as they were infected, his body bruised from being slammed away from the door whenever the man he did not know entered to feed him. He always crawled back. Days passed, he continued his grim work, until it was done. It was infused with blood already, lending it power, the sigil glowing with a faint purple light, barely enough even to make out the grain of the wood around it.
His father finally opened the door once more, a bowl of gruel and a ladle in his arms, but they were thrown from his arms as his body spasmed in pain, his body decaying as had the boy's, the energy and vitality stolen from him, feeding into the sigil, and then Duidh. He slowly gained strength, and stood up, carefully and awkwardly - it had been long since he had last tried, he'd almost forgotten. Walking around the corpse in the doorway, steadying himself on the frame, he fell as he let go, and he reached out for the bowl of gruel. Like a swine he inhaled it inhumanly fast, finishing the bowl, throwing it away and licking up that which was splattered on the floor.
He stood, strong again, no longer needing to steady himself. He renamed himself, Dubhan, the name of the nemesis of Arwan according to the teachings he had learned, the source of all darkness and evil and sin.
The temple was stone, but the pews, doors, carpets, and the altar, all would catch fire easily enough. Dubhan smashed the lanterns across the floor, and the whole place was soon ablaze.
Villagers ran to the inferno, some screaming of desecration of their god, others declaring it to be done by Arwan himself to punish them for their sin.
Dubhan alone knew the truth, and he alone walked free of the village, no longer a caged and depraved animal but a man. A heretic of Arwan. A dark mage.
Dubhan survived in the woods near the village for a few months, using the same sigil of draining as he had on his father to capture animals, and not even need to eat them. He could not live forever like this though. His time in the cell had accustomed him to being crushingly alone, but he still needed more. Some kind of closure perhaps, either way he returned to the village to see what had become of the temple.
Stealing through the place at night, he crept quietly up to the temple, and found it standing strong, but the windows and the insides were all black with soot.
Stepping inside, he returned down the stairs, and neared his cell. The fire hadn't spread to here, so the door was untouched... as well as the decayed body of his father, the life drained from it.
Dubhan moved closer to the body, and saw that at its hip was a scabbard. Yes, his father had always carried a ritual knife with him. He undid the buckle and slid it from the corpse, put it around himself, then revealed the dagger. Its blade was polished to a mirror sheen, with a keen edge and a pure white hilt. Drawing it over his palm, he made several cuts on the hand, then did the same to the other one. Each one now held a sigil dripping with blood, so he wiped them on the flat of the blade and the hilt. Using one sigil to control the blood, he forced it to taint the surface of the metal and seep into the leather, staining them red, but soon becoming black over a few days.
Walking through the town, Dubhan drew his sigils on the wood of every door, quietly and carefully, using his own blood. Come morning, from the temple he watched as the first one came out of their house, immediately screaming in agony, withering and desiccating in but a few seconds. He felt their energy become his, and some others rushed out to investigate, only to cause a chain reaction of screams, every villager being slowly picked off one by one, until all that were left were a few families who had worked out that the doors were doing something to whoever stepped out, and carefully went through windows, discovering the sigils on the doors. One or two got too close and fell to the same fate, confirming what had happened. Dubhan relished the energy of the now dead, like an exquisite meal, like nothing he had ever tasted, or could remember tasting, though he would never be full or sick of this energy, this life force. It felt good.
But not all of them would be so easy to trap. He walked to them, and as he drew nearer, one or two recognised him. They saw the priest's boy, with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and a bald head, and realised what had happened when they saw his dead expression, the lines in one palm, and the dagger in one hand, drawn and rippling with a dark power.
Some ran. Some froze. Some begged. They had all known where he was, but turned a blind eye, let it happen for the love of their god, and the reverence of their priest. They would suffer for this.
"Arawn save us!" one pleaded, hands together, kneeling to the ground, tears falling to the dirt from his face.
"There is no Arawn. There is only justice, for you." He replied, monotonous, as he swung the dagger down.
Finally, Dubhan was done, and the village was left peaceful, silent. Its residents lay still, and none would come upon it until the next trader happened upon them. They would never know what had happened, none would, save for Dubhan. He would take it to his grave.
He did not need to eat for months afterwards. He roved through counties, saw countless villages just like his own... but these ones he let be. He decided that he would only bring down his power upon those who deserved it.
For a few years, Dubhan wandered the safer parts of the country, until he began to draw closer to the edge of the border, where battles were fought more and more frequently as weeks went by. There, he found Pert, a village regularly beset upon by violent marauders of other races, and regularly was he finding himself defending the village until soon enough he had settled down. It seemed like every time he attempted to leave, he would find another death to deal to a goblin, orc or bloodsucker, until he gave up trying and stayed.
Magiks do not come easily to the aged, though. Their diminished bodies are already running out of life force, and are poor vessels to contain it. Beg his god as he might, no holy magik came to him, though every day he checked and every day he found nothing had changed. He got older, but his unending belief never did falter even once, for he loved Arawn, and he knew the god loved him as he loves us all.
He found his belief validated when upon his doorstep arrived a foundling; a baby boy born out of wedlock, expressly forbidden by those in the village as they were taught by Arawn's words, but though the children might take on the wildness and the sin caused by their parents, the bastard could still be of help to society. His mother would have left him on the steps of the temple and run away. If the villagers did not catch her that is, and they would help her overcome her sin.
He brought the boy up, and named him Duidh, a name implying faith, and in an act of vanity gave him the man's own surname, Namh. he raised him to try and make Duidh as god-fearing as himself, to love Arawn as he did. As he grew though, Duidh became more and more stubborn to his father's teachings, refusing to believe them, pointing out what he saw as holes in the words and the stories of Arawn's love of mankind.
This rebelliousness came to a head as Duidh approached his 16th birthday, and he was put to work as usual in the small vegetable garden behind the temple. It was spring, and a plot needed tilling. He looked at the soil, and saw it move. By instinct, he moved his hand towards it, and it followed his movements. He swept his hand along the row, and it tilled itself, as if an invisible implement had been dragged along its length twice as fast as Duidh could even run.
His father watched this, distraught. He had toiled the boy's entire life to teach him to love Arawn, in the hope that the god would gift the boy divine magic. His toil had been repayed with a spit in his eye. The boy had earth magic, not holy magic.
His faith faltered for but a moment. He realised that Duidh must not truly love Arawn, and his ways had not been strong enough to teach him so. he would have to resort to stronger methods.
The priest found an appropriate cellar beneath the temple, small and dark and dirty and cold and rat-ridden, locking the young boy in there against his will. He would not let him out until he renounced this sinful magic, this affront to his life's dream and his life's work, this magic of clods of earth and pitiful dust. It was improper for the son of a priest, and until he confessed his sin and love for Arawn, he would stay there, being fed minimally, and given little water, bitten by rats and fleas alike, languishing in the filth. He had only just discovered his earth magic, he could not move the stone though he tried.
There was a reason that he was found by life force of earth. He had a stubborn spirit, almost unbreakable. Almost.
Duidh withered away, becoming too weak to even speak, his father taking his silence for defiance as he left him in that cellar in the pitch black. He would have gladly confessed and returned to the surface, if only to eat well again, to leave this putrid place. It smelt of decay. His own decay. No wonder the rats bit him so often, he was a festering body, no longer human, no longer truly alive.
In the darkness, his soul weakened. It was wrenched and torn, struggling to survive, barely a faint flicker to the roaring flame it once had been. He could never have moved the stone with his earth magic, but now it slowly drained out of him as did the rest of his life force. He had no hope, not that he had entertained any, until he felt something, deep within his chest, stirring. Something strange. Something dark. Life force of a nature almost as tortured and twisted as he was. Dark magic.
Crawling to the door, his black soul guided him in his instinct to scratch at the wood. It took hours and hours, and by soon his hands were splintered, his nails chipped, some hanging off, fingers bleeding slowly and thickly, yellow slithers of pus around the countless scratches as they were infected, his body bruised from being slammed away from the door whenever the man he did not know entered to feed him. He always crawled back. Days passed, he continued his grim work, until it was done. It was infused with blood already, lending it power, the sigil glowing with a faint purple light, barely enough even to make out the grain of the wood around it.
His father finally opened the door once more, a bowl of gruel and a ladle in his arms, but they were thrown from his arms as his body spasmed in pain, his body decaying as had the boy's, the energy and vitality stolen from him, feeding into the sigil, and then Duidh. He slowly gained strength, and stood up, carefully and awkwardly - it had been long since he had last tried, he'd almost forgotten. Walking around the corpse in the doorway, steadying himself on the frame, he fell as he let go, and he reached out for the bowl of gruel. Like a swine he inhaled it inhumanly fast, finishing the bowl, throwing it away and licking up that which was splattered on the floor.
He stood, strong again, no longer needing to steady himself. He renamed himself, Dubhan, the name of the nemesis of Arwan according to the teachings he had learned, the source of all darkness and evil and sin.
The temple was stone, but the pews, doors, carpets, and the altar, all would catch fire easily enough. Dubhan smashed the lanterns across the floor, and the whole place was soon ablaze.
Villagers ran to the inferno, some screaming of desecration of their god, others declaring it to be done by Arwan himself to punish them for their sin.
Dubhan alone knew the truth, and he alone walked free of the village, no longer a caged and depraved animal but a man. A heretic of Arwan. A dark mage.
Dubhan survived in the woods near the village for a few months, using the same sigil of draining as he had on his father to capture animals, and not even need to eat them. He could not live forever like this though. His time in the cell had accustomed him to being crushingly alone, but he still needed more. Some kind of closure perhaps, either way he returned to the village to see what had become of the temple.
Stealing through the place at night, he crept quietly up to the temple, and found it standing strong, but the windows and the insides were all black with soot.
Stepping inside, he returned down the stairs, and neared his cell. The fire hadn't spread to here, so the door was untouched... as well as the decayed body of his father, the life drained from it.
Dubhan moved closer to the body, and saw that at its hip was a scabbard. Yes, his father had always carried a ritual knife with him. He undid the buckle and slid it from the corpse, put it around himself, then revealed the dagger. Its blade was polished to a mirror sheen, with a keen edge and a pure white hilt. Drawing it over his palm, he made several cuts on the hand, then did the same to the other one. Each one now held a sigil dripping with blood, so he wiped them on the flat of the blade and the hilt. Using one sigil to control the blood, he forced it to taint the surface of the metal and seep into the leather, staining them red, but soon becoming black over a few days.
Walking through the town, Dubhan drew his sigils on the wood of every door, quietly and carefully, using his own blood. Come morning, from the temple he watched as the first one came out of their house, immediately screaming in agony, withering and desiccating in but a few seconds. He felt their energy become his, and some others rushed out to investigate, only to cause a chain reaction of screams, every villager being slowly picked off one by one, until all that were left were a few families who had worked out that the doors were doing something to whoever stepped out, and carefully went through windows, discovering the sigils on the doors. One or two got too close and fell to the same fate, confirming what had happened. Dubhan relished the energy of the now dead, like an exquisite meal, like nothing he had ever tasted, or could remember tasting, though he would never be full or sick of this energy, this life force. It felt good.
But not all of them would be so easy to trap. He walked to them, and as he drew nearer, one or two recognised him. They saw the priest's boy, with sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and a bald head, and realised what had happened when they saw his dead expression, the lines in one palm, and the dagger in one hand, drawn and rippling with a dark power.
Some ran. Some froze. Some begged. They had all known where he was, but turned a blind eye, let it happen for the love of their god, and the reverence of their priest. They would suffer for this.
"Arawn save us!" one pleaded, hands together, kneeling to the ground, tears falling to the dirt from his face.
"There is no Arawn. There is only justice, for you." He replied, monotonous, as he swung the dagger down.
Finally, Dubhan was done, and the village was left peaceful, silent. Its residents lay still, and none would come upon it until the next trader happened upon them. They would never know what had happened, none would, save for Dubhan. He would take it to his grave.
He did not need to eat for months afterwards. He roved through counties, saw countless villages just like his own... but these ones he let be. He decided that he would only bring down his power upon those who deserved it.
For a few years, Dubhan wandered the safer parts of the country, until he began to draw closer to the edge of the border, where battles were fought more and more frequently as weeks went by. There, he found Pert, a village regularly beset upon by violent marauders of other races, and regularly was he finding himself defending the village until soon enough he had settled down. It seemed like every time he attempted to leave, he would find another death to deal to a goblin, orc or bloodsucker, until he gave up trying and stayed.
Equipment:
Stats:
Health: 5
Armour: 4
Agility: 1
Strength: 1
Accuracy: 5
Magical skill: 6
Magical defense: 3
Magical abilities:
Sigil of draining- Dubhan uses a sigil on his right hand to make a magik attack, gaining one point of health if the attacks hits, including past his normal maximum. Cooldown of two turns
Cursed rend - an attack infused with the power of darkness, giving a debuff of-2 strength or magical skill to the attacked player if it lands for 3 turns. Cooldown of two turns. Rolls off of magical skill.
Blood draw- A sigil on Dubhan's left hand pulls the blood forcefully from an opponent, rolling off of (magical power + damage already been done to opponent). Cooldown of two turns.
Last edited:
With regard to what Luma said, thank a guy called Asuras over on Iwakuroleplay because I stole it from him 
I'll have a look at making a character, but I have another one that I am currently working on for another RP, so I may take a while.
I'll have a look at making a character, but I have another one that I am currently working on for another RP, so I may take a while.
Can you explain it as one of these?
Human:
Shadow
Light
Holy
Dark
Natural
Fire
Water
Earth
Wind
Lightning
Ice
Quick question to spark the creative juices: have there ever been any instances of offspring being produced between humans and other races? Obviously there'd be a huge amount of stigma attached to that, but if so, would it be possible to play as a half human half something else?
I will find a way or make one
I just find the magic options for humans to be a little bit meh. I like the idea of sound magic - conducting sound force through armour to deal devastating blows and using high pitched sounds to weaken and disorient enemies.
I have a couple of ideas for if it's a no go, but I like the concepts of too many of the magic types that are denied to humans to not ask the question.
I just find the magic options for humans to be a little bit meh. I like the idea of sound magic - conducting sound force through armour to deal devastating blows and using high pitched sounds to weaken and disorient enemies.
I have a couple of ideas for if it's a no go, but I like the concepts of too many of the magic types that are denied to humans to not ask the question.
Explaining it is more like harnessing raw elemental magic; transmuting one element to another. In this system, I have the added option of holy and dark elements as well.
My spells at this early point would be only to transmute one element into a subelement (earth to mud, water to steam, simple things and one or two infusions that act as blessings based on element. I was thinking of Mercury that gives speed for the next turn, and Quintessence that gives raw life force to only stabilize and remove conditions (so it's not a healing spell, nor does it give life to the lifeless.)
I can submit a larger list for completeness' sake, but those would be what I'd aim for.
Sent from my Puzzle Box of Yogg-Saron using Tapatalk 2
My spells at this early point would be only to transmute one element into a subelement (earth to mud, water to steam, simple things
and one or two infusions that act as blessings based on element. I was thinking of Mercury that gives speed for the next turn, and Quintessence that gives raw life force to only stabilize and remove conditions (so it's not a healing spell, nor does it give life to the lifeless.)I can submit a larger list for completeness' sake, but those would be what I'd aim for.
Sent from my Puzzle Box of Yogg-Saron using Tapatalk 2
Yeah I know, I was just explaining my biew because there was a discussion on what magic is and I felt it relevant. I wasn't saying that this game's magic isn't proper magic, it absolutely is, I was just saying that a magic system without a proper power source isn't magic.
I mean, my point is, humans only use those magiks, so it doesn't really seem to fit. However if you could explain it as earth magic, say, you could have it.Explaining it is more like harnessing raw elemental magic; transmuting one element to another. In this system, I have the added option of holy and dark elements as well.
My spells at this early point would be only to transmute one element into a subelement (earth to mud, water to steam, simple things
I can submit a larger list for completeness' sake, but those would be what I'd aim for.
Sent from my Puzzle Box of Yogg-Saron using Tapatalk 2