At the height of its splendor it was a modernized beacon within the Frankish Kingdom, said to rival the capital of Luthum. Industrialized and boasting a full electrical grid, it was a marvel to behold, a place of progress. Yet historical sources disagree on its existence, as all recorded information of it simply ceased in 1780. With the impending Frankish Revolution on the horizon, the total vanishing of this city seems to have simply gone overlooked. It is a complete anomaly. 

The city exists within a strange reality,  between the material and immaterial. The power still flows and the smoke still raises, yet with no meaning now as the engine of progress has been halted and broken by the high strangeness of the unknownable. From the oddities of the Grand Verdux zoo, the strange experiments of the Academy of Dupont, the sickly forms of the sick ward, to the strange things that crawl out of the Harbour. The whole of the city is sick with a strange illness that escapes understanding.

The Tower of Incamblosa 

Manifested through a satanic ritual to pierce the thin layer that separates the material and immaterial, causing a bleed event in which these two realities overlap. The ritual to summon a tower requires the mass sacrificing of human lives at five points across an area, the greater the sacrifice the larger the tower and the greater the bleed. Demonic entities spawn from the various levels and holes of the Incamblosa, terrorizing anything that approaches the tower.

Once the master of the hunt for the lord of Castle Nocturna and the Midnight Court of the Doomknights. He, much like his kin, was given the rite of blood from the daughter of Attila-Nos, the first of the Vampires. The Crow would diligently serve his master for centuries, until the time came to embark on a great crusade against the dreaded Gore Knights of the east. He would meet his death in the cold fields of the Ruthenian plains in battle against the enemy. He had seen much and fought for so long, yet he felt incomplete. He lived as a tool, his own life was meaningless in the service of the Doom Lord who had marched on ahead, as he died in the fields alone looking up at the stars in the night sky, the moon in full bloom. All his loyalty, all his service, yet at the end of the road no one was there to mourn him, he felt his blood run warm again, something that he hadn’t felt in centuries. He smiled underneath his mask, despite it all he felt joy in his endless duty, a meaningless cycle finally halted by all things a lance through his broken chest, if only he could go hunting once more for that silver tailed fox it was not meant to be.

Now he finds himself without his master, in a strange existence. Unable to escape the outskirts of the city, he is forced to fight his way to the profane tower of Incamblosa. Every so often he feels a strange feeling, a sense of deja vu, has he been here before.Now within the blood soaked remains of Verdux he once again sets out to hunt, for what more is a hunter to do?

Raison d'être 

The prison complex is located in the outskirts of Verdux, on the top of the gate in bold letters the name Le Trou, the hole. Bodies strung up and impaled around the entranceway, grim effigies set by whoever calls this place home. The Crow had been here before, he remembered fragmented visions of prior nights, he was being hunted and he was hunting. Locked deep with the hole is his spear, a living weapon forged from the body of a deadly beast from the Fleshscape. The messages from the demon Amon have made it clear that in order to escape this cursed reality, he must retrieve his weapon and ascend the tower of Incamblosa. Powerful lights scanned the perimeter of the prison, The Crow knew he had to avoid them as they would alert the wretched beings of the hole to his presence. 

He needed to get into an advantageous position, as some of these wretched souls had access to gunpowder weaponry, one shot wouldn't be enough to kill The Crow, but dozens upon dozens would be able to stop him. His vampirism traits seemly subdued in this reality, no longer could he simply continue tirelessly, fatigue would creep upon him like a mortal. He had cut his finger tip to feel his blood, it was still cold, not warm, and he knew that the other damned still bled warm from prior cycles. He was still in a state of limbo, but now the reality he exists in also reflects that too.

He faded into the dark, moving swiftly into the building. A shambling reprobate moved slowly across the ground, its form broken and held together and coherent by chains and bars through its flesh, The Crow did not hesitate. Driving his sword down on the creature's neck, killing it instantly. He did not bother hiding the body, for it was in good company with all the mangled remains in the hallways and pathways. The Crow moved swiftly, his old instincts kicking in, the blood in the air driving him further down the hole, growing more brazen and blood thirsty as he descended further.

The world became red, as he slashed and cut his way through everything in his way, he didn't notice when it happened, but the concert structure had given way to flesh and bones. Every step he took on this new surface left behind a wet thud, the once chained and bound creatures gave way to things of flesh and cancerous growths. His mask protected him from the undoubtedly vile smell. As he finally carved his way into the heart of the hole, he saw it, his spear. It was unfurled and raw, it was the monstrous creature he had subjugated centuries ago, a Rakshasas. The dinosaur-like creature was towering in size, its head Blinded by the extreme dental growths that had overtaken it, it let out a powerful roar.

Once a crusader from the Frankish Kingdom, he waged war against the heretical Bezierite cult in the name of the Holy See. He would earn a grim reputation for his heavy handed and remorseless approach, killing women, children, anyone, regardless if they renounced their heretical belief. No one was spared his bloodlust. Clad in black armor, he would be conscripted by the Frankish Crown as an enforcer, crushing revolts and uprising. Known more as a murder and killer than a knight by the people of the realm. The individual lives of the wretched peasants held no value to him, damned all to oblivion as far as he was concerned. The years of brutal and bloody warfare had eroded away any pretense of a divine beauty or a righteous creator, the world was empty of any meaning, and The Black hated this. Riches and power meant nothing to him, the only cold hard truth that he felt comfort in was knowing that he took that which was truly valuable from his enemies, their lives.

He would meet his end at the hands of a mob of peasants revolting against the Frankish Crown's taxation, they would cut his body up and parade around the pieces. These peasants would shortly after be massacred by the Frankish Crown.

Un Cœur Noir Comme La Mort 

The gate to the main entrance of the Cathedral ward of the city shook, as the body of a demonic being smashed against. It shattered the bones, iron piercing into its flesh, as it exhaled a sabaton smashed down on its skull crushing it. With each foot step a trail of blood was left, as The Black stood before the stairway up to the Chapel of St.Denise. He had been to many places of prayer in his life, Verdux was no different, adorned and decorated in intricate stone work. It was all a hollow demonstration, built upon the devotion of ignorant and hypocrites of the Holy See. The only truth he knew was truly tangible was the iron he gripped in his hands, a bastard sword ripped from the hands of a demon, now his weapon.

As he walked up the stairs the air around him gained the distinctive smell of burning incense. Every dozen steps another of these flameless lanterns stood, but when he opened the door to the chapel it was pitch black, no strange warm laminations. It felt cold and empty, hollow within this chapel, the strange moon wasn't beating down on it. The Black looked around, he slowly walked forward, a deafening ring from somewhere up above caught him off guard as the candles within the chapel came to life. A large pale form descended from the ceiling, its head adorned with a golden feather halo, no eyes, and a mouth rowed with blood red teeth. 

“Maudit sois-tu, back to oblivion with you.” The Black raised his sword as the demon rose up and let out a violent liquid roar. The demon leapt forwards and was met by The Black's sword, the arm ripped from its socket in a brutal arching motion. The blade didn't cut, it was rotted and blunted, it tore the limb through sheer force. The creature crashed against the doors, as the Black turned around. It tried to get up, only to be met by the blunted tip of the sword piercing through its chest as it had been thrown with such sheer force killing the demon instantly.

The Black walked up slowly and pulled out the sword, he didn't bother cleaning it, it was pointless to do so. The iron was rotten already, if it broke he would simply kill these things with his hands. He had to continue his journey, the Sigil of the demon Amon had pointed him to the main Cathedral, and he had no better lead to follow. As he walked to the exit he saw a depiction, a statue of the blessed Virgin Mary, some of the demon's blood had splashed on it. Perfection could not exist in this world, as all of humanity was nothing more than savage animals, wretched reprobates. He reached out to the statue and cleaned the blood, he continued his journey up the ward.

Born to the throne of the Constantinian Empire, The Blind assumed the throne at an extremely young age, yet he was emperor in name only. He was the puppet to his regents, his mother and his uncle. As he grew older he would take up the sword and practice it everyday with his instructor. Through this noble man he would learn of the plot that had killed his late father, a scheme orchestrated by his mother and uncle. Before he could attempt to right their wrong he would be dragged away by the palace guards, his eyes removed. All this done by orders of his mother, who had grown wary of her own son. She would assume control of the throne and he would be sent away to monastery to live out the rest of his life, posing no threat to her.

Although initially shaken, he would quickly acclimate to his new life in the monastery, truly learning about the teachings of the faith and the wisdom of God. His life was fulfilling, and with time he grew to forget and forgive his mother and uncle for their actions. Something unexpected was bestowed upon him, the gift of the second sight, he could see the souls of those around him, a divine expression of his devotion. With time he would master this ability, seeing the world through new eyes. 

Dark clouds loomed over the horizon, as the Ophidian Caliphate made moves against the Constantinian Empire. The war would eventually reach his home, the monastery was attacked by the Ophidian. The Blind would do something he never thought he would, he would clad himself in armor and take up a sword and fight the raiders. Killing them to the last, yet he was unable to save the monastery from the flames, he would collapse, as he realized that he had been mortally wounded. The surviving members of the monastery would take his body to the outskirts of the capital, to be buried in the cemetery of emperors.

The Marble Emperor

Glory to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The Blind knelt next to a dying creature, its form twisted by the blood of the demon Marbas, yet as its strange hand rested in the palm of The Blind, all he saw was the flickers of its soul. It faded away shortly after and as such he stood up, his sword was a tool of absolution now. Around him he could see the weaving currents of electricity, they offered him guidance through this strange city he found himself in, yet whenever he would look towards the tower things closer to it would appear more tangible and visible to him, it was a strangely beautiful horizon.

The Blind was following footsteps left on the pathway, they appeared clearly and led to symbols that he recognized as the sigil of the demon Amon. As much as he loathed the idea, he knew that he had to follow the steps laid before him, perhaps this devil had the insight that he needed to understand his current situation. When he awoke he felt around, he was still clad in his armor, the distinctive breast plate was unmistakable, besides him his sword, still crackling with energy. Even now as he walked this path he could see the lightning flow through it. 

He saw them before he heard them. Streaks of withering souls approaching him from all directions like a pack of wolves closing in on their prey. Their rapid footsteps splashed the small puddles of what he could only assume was water, the air around him grew heavier with the added presence of these withered souls. “I understand you will not hear reason, I am truly sorry for your suffering, I will make this as quick as I can, misbegotten brothers.”

From his left a rush of air came, he swung his sword, lightning crackling in the air. He cut his attacker down swiftly, he rose a single hand up towards the other three withering souls. They stood still for a moment, only to quickly lurch forwards at him. From his hand a bolt of lightning fired out, electrocuting them instantly. He looked around him, the rest of them fell back and fled far away from him. He offered them a prayer and continued on his journey. 

Daughter to the brother of the Prince of the Paderborn House, a Principality of the Holy Catharin Empire. She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, always getting her way in life, nothing was out of her reach. She was gifted with the power to manipulate fire, a clear sign of her Warwitch heritage, due to her noble birth she would be spared the fate of being sent to the sisterhood to be trained, stripping her of her noble ties. She would grow into being a beautiful woman, one with many potential suitors. She would be married off to the Duke of Ansbach, who would die of an unknown illness shortly after. She would marry once more to the Prince of Mindelheim shortly after the death of her first husband. She would start a secret relationship with the Prince of the Rhine, the heir apparent to the throne of the Emperor. A letter would arrive to the Rhine telling of the abuse she was suffering from at the hands of the Prince of Mindelheim, starting a short and decisive war between the two Principalities. 

The Prince of Mindelheim would be killed in the battlefield, his health ever worsening. The Duchess would have succeeded in her plans, if not for a stroke of bad luck. A stray arrow struck her through the chest as she surveyed the battlefield, killing her instantly.

Die Leidenschaft Bringt Leiden 

The moonlight bathed the larger and sprawling campus of the Dupont Academy, the electric lamps flickered on and off periodically in sync with a strange green glow emitting from the dome of the central building. The Duchess slowly walked across the main pathway, the statue of the founder of the academy stood tall, Professor Dupont, underneath inscribed “ His torch lights the way”, she scoffed. How pretentious, his kind were nothing more than pawns for her ilk, the patronage from the princes and the church was the only thing that could keep these men alive. Now they built a statue to one, how lowly.

She moved further in, opening the sturdy wooden doors of the academy. She was greeted by a banner, “the world of tomorrow and the wonders of electro-animation”, rows of strange contraptions and metal men lined the huge hall, unlike the streets of Verdux there was no sign of violence. The common sight of blood and gore, replaced with clean floors and displays. She continued on, a horseless carriage, akin to the strange on rail cart she had used to get here, a personal transport like that could be useful.

The Duchess's eye was drawn to a symbol on the wall, it was strange and out of place. As she approached it and touched it, a voice spoke to her. “Down the left handed path, refuge.” She stepped back shaking her head, the symbol was gone and she was left with a slight headache that faded quickly. She walked away, deeper into the great hall, a strange display stopped her in her tracks; it was a black box, topped with several coils. 

She touched the screen, a flicker of electricity shocked her. The coils came to life, crackling with green lightning, the box was illuminated and the air was left with a faint smell of burnt ozone. Within the box a human head opened its eyes and looked at her, it opened its mouth but no noise came out. She stepped back, was this some form of vile necromancy? 

“Death is not inevitable, through our advancements in scientific learning and knowledge, we have made great breakthroughs in overcoming this once cemented conclusion.” The Duchess spinned around to look at who was speaking, but there was no one there, the voice was coming from a horn up in the ceiling. She looked around again, something was different now, something electric in the air. She cautiously moved forward towards the end of the hall, a second pair of large doors were there. 

She could have sworn something moved, she looked around. Something had darted in her peripheral vision, she drew her sword and lit it with fire. Her eyes scanned around her, there it was. She raised her sword and shot a blast of flame at a display, igniting it. The mechanical skittering became more prominent, as did a heavy thump. To her left a large mutilated and stitched back together creature moved quickly at her, she dodged out of the way. To her right a disembodied head on mechanical spider-like legs stood up, its form odd and unnatural.

Born to a family of commoners in the Englican Kingdom, The Wall worked hard toiling the fields, never once complaining or lamenting his station in life. Come rain or shine he would always be there working. When the call for able bodied men came to his village, he did not hesitate to join the cause of his king. The rightful claimant to the pretender on the Frankish throne, this war would be fought far away from his humble home, across the waters that divide the Europan mainland from the kingdom of Englica. 

He would become a bastion for his fellow soldiers, raising up a towering shield to defend against the Franks. As the war went on he would keep marching following his king, his service would be rewarded, with a set of iron armor. Heavy was his armor, as was his burden, as the standard bearer for the King of the Englicans. He would meet his end defending his King's retreat, he knew he was not going to survive, he knew that he would die fighting. It is said that when the battle was over The Wall was still standing, he had died standing.

Breaking upon the rocks 

It was not his shield or spear, but they would have to do for now. The Wall opened the door of the small shop he found himself in, around him were tall poles with lanterns illuminating the pier, far off what appeared to be a shining beacon, a lighthouse perhaps? That might be where he ought to go, the strange voice spoke cryptically to him, his tower shield was somewhere here. As he walked the pier he looked out to the water, it was still, far to still. This city was unnatural, it made Londres appear sane and reasonable in comparison. He did not like it, he didn't like the idea of deep bodies of water at all, he knew how to swim, but still he would rather not be in that position. 

When he joined the King's army, they sailed across the channel, he remembered praying at night to make it to the other side safely. A strange device caught his attention, it appeared to be a pair of telescopes, he peeked through them and saw across the water it was dark. What a dreadful place, not a place he would want to live in. His village had it all, what more could a man want than to work the land and tend the soil that his forefathers had fought and bled for. Now he finds himself in a city full of strange lights and traveling around in a on rail cart powered by steam.

None of this made sense, yet as he continued to cycle through these thoughts, a wet thud caught his attention. He turned around and saw a fish flailing around, followed by another and another. A long scaly arm grasped on to the pier, pulling its body out of the still water. Its eyes on each side of its head, mouth like a lamprey, and clearly covered in a mucus coating. The Wall didn't hesitate, his spear stabbed through the creature's head, it began to twitch, limbs striking out in random directions. They hit The Wall, but they thudded off ineffectively, he moved the spear and tossed the creature away to the left. Another arm clasped around his foot and tried to jank him down into the water, he slammed the edge of the shield down on it, severing it. 

“I'm not going down you fiend!” He shouted, and stepped back away from the edge. As he looked out to the still water he could see many shining dots across it, they were emerging on to the pier. He braced his shield and rested his spear in position, he would rather die standing on land over drowning in water.

Born a bastard of war, his mother died shortly after his birth, he was taken in by a ruthless band of Englican Mercenaries. He would grow up in a culture of brutality, in which the strong took from the weak whatever they wanted. He from a young age partook in this, taught to kill by his adoptive family, he would become an expert with the long bow. As the war between the Frankish and Englican kingdoms finally ground to a halt, his band of mercenaries were out of a job. They take up the role of brigands, stealing and killing across the Frankish countryside. For everything in life could be taken by him, he was not the prey, but the hunter out to fulfill his wants.

Yet with time the band would be picked off, it was only a matter of time before he would be swung from a noose too. That day would come as he stalked a carriage through the woods, he and his remaining men would butcher the passengers and defenders, only to be met with an ambush from the men of the local lord. The Hunter would be the only one of his men not to die in the skirmish, he would be captured alive and taken to the public square. He would be beaten and lashed for days, until his captors would drag him off to a chamber far away from the town. He would be flayed alive, he would scream and curse at them with his final spit in the eye of his executioner before finally succumbing after being fully degloved.

Law of the jungle 

“I don't deserve this shit.” The Hunter grumbled as he kicked in a door leading out of the house he had been skulking in, it was time to move forwards. He had out ran and managed to lose a werewolf, he had no interest in heading back. As he walked down the street he encountered several dregs, these lowly things posed little threat to him individually, but in number they could be dangerous. As such he pulled out a dagger and started puncturing their skulls one by one. 

“Nasty business innit? But someone has to do it.” Some of these dregs still had their old clothes, personal belongings and all that. He would reach into their pockets and yank anything interesting, if he made it out why not have some treasures to sell? A sign caught his eye, it was bright and shining, he couldn't read what it said, but he did recognize the animals. Painted depictions of monkeys, lions, elephants, and other animals he couldn't recognize.

“Why not, why shouldn't I go have a look at the monkeys?” The Hunter briskly followed the path, swiftly dealing with any dregs in his way. It was a bright beacon, the Grand Verdux Zoo, lights and fancy decor everywhere. The front gate was torn down and plenty of death was littered around, but where in the city was that not the case. The Hunter was out of his element in the city, but at least here with the animals he was more comfortable or at least that was what he thought. As he wandered around he failed to find any of the animals. 

The further he ventured in, the more things seemed amiss, the dregs didn't tend to make effigies, no they didn't make them at all. They didn't hand flayed bodies up either, The Hunter crouched down and drew his bow, he crept slowly and cautiously, his ears sensitive to any strange noises. He couldn't shake the feeling, something was looking at him, something was hunting him. A crude spear flew past his head, he quickly turned and let loose an arrow at the direction where it came from. An inhuman screech erupted as a large body fell from the tree in a nearby enclosure. As The Hunter got a better look at his would be killer, it was a monkey man? 

More shouts and screeches filled the air, as the sound of drums followed. There were more of these monkey men. “Fuck.”

A Lesser devil, Yezreal is the faithful servant of Amon the Fabulist. She has been tasked with aiding the many damned souls in Verdux in their endless quest to reach the top of the Tower of Incamblosa.

The Tragedy of Tomorrow (RAW)

Yezreal: Bet, fine this trinket will do fine enough. You wish to learn of the world outside of Verdux of the bright future ahead. I guess I would be curious too if I was dead for, what? 300 years or more for some of you lot.

The Duchess: Speak up Imp, tell me what becomes of the Holy Catharin Empire? What became of me? Do people still remember me by name?

Yezreal: Of course they do, but firstly the HCE, it lingered on, but to be honest with you it's days are most likely numbered. Last I heard some Frankish would be Emperor was aiming to crush it and rebuild it to more enlightened standards.

The Duchess: The Franks, why am I not surprised it would be through them. That aside, what about me!

Holy Devils

A plague upon the holy ward of the city of Verdux, these wretched creatures the strange manifestation of bloated and decadent faith practiced by the cosmopolitan residents of Verdux. Regardless of the splendor and riches they attempt to cover themselves in, the truth is apparent to anyone, these are still fallen angels. 

The Trumpeter

A herald of the greater devils and a mocking mimicry of the holy trumpets used by the divine host of the Lord. These wretched creatures are associated with madness and sickness of the mind, and the spread of cowardice among strong men. It is said that its call can burst the craniums of any being exposed to it for too long. 

The bloody prize for killing a Trumpeter is something that makes the challenge worth enduring, as one can acquire the vocal organ from the creature and use it to mimic the trumpets of the end of days.

In the Black Forests of the Alemani, once lived a devoted father and hunter. He had made his name with a new tool of the age, the needle rifle. His services were called to hunt down and clear out the plague of wolves that stalked the farmlands near the forest; these beasts would raid the livestock and flee back into the thick woods before they could be killed. Many other men had journeyed out to slay these wolves, all of them died. Seeking to finally put a stop to this violence the hunter set out to kill the wolves. 

Although he would succeed in killing the pack, one wolf would survive, becoming a spiteful entity, more than just an animal. It would stalk the hunter all the way back to his home, it would wait for the right time. Once the hunter left to collect his pay, the wolf would slaughter his family, his pack. 

The hunter would arrive to find the slaughtered remains of his kin, only to be ambushed by the wolf, both would be locked in a mortal struggle. Both pleaded to something dark, something demonic for the power to overcome the other. The Devil Barbatos had found a fitting form, a new body.

Barbatos now stalks the streets of the city of Verdux, on an eternal hunt that will end only with his death. Seeking the damned and fiends out a like.

Angelica a knight from the City State of Ravenna, born with the blessed blood of the Angels and of high distinction, she could have taken the easy path in life. Yet she dedicated herself to the cleansing of the aberrant from the world. Training from her youth to wield the sword and understand her golden blood, renouncing her wealth and states as the daughter of the doge of Ravenna. She is what contemporary knowledge would call a War Witch or perhaps what the Holy See refers to her as the first of the Sword Saints.

A burning lance and the breaking of the night.

Angelica, a holy knight, slayed the Devil Vassago, taking his head as a trophy and tool capable of revealing secrets and hidden markings that only the aberrant can witness. This has allowed her to see through the lies of Amon the supposed benefactor of the damned within Verdux, yet despite knowing the truth of his hand in the situation they all find themselves in, she can not act against him yet. As the cycle must be broken first and foremost, Amon will be dealt with afterwards. 

A Verminkin trader from the under empire in the lands of Francia. How a Verminkin ended up in Verdux is a mystery, as per his people, Rouch seeks only to trade in trinkets and make a living for himself, the Verminkin are not known for a war like nature like mankind is above. Rouch can be found across the city, selling items and oddities he managed to find and pack, all for a fair trade. 

Armor crafted in a forgotten age by a cult that worshipped the Sulphur Sun. It was at one point used to inflict great pain to the enemies of the cult, yet it did not manage to save them from their eventual distraction at the hands of their rivals. Ultimately it would be lost for millennia as the world was consumed by the great bleeding of the Noosphere. It was excavated by the archeologicists of the Academy of Dupont and displayed in the Museum of Frankish History coined the Rust Ox for its size and weathered appearance. During the Incamblosa event, a young woman named Lys would seek shelter within the armor. It would work, but she would be consumed by it and is now permanently fused to it.

Lys 

The daughter of the late professor of Archeology and Anthropology, she would be spared the horrors of the Incamblosa by being placed within an ancient suit of rusted armor. Her father knew that it would change her, but he also knew that the plans of the Duke of Verdux would lead to her death, so he chose to give her a chance to survive. Now infested with strange fungus, Lys is neither alive nor dead, she is something else completely. She within the Rust Ox Armor wanders the halls of the Museum in the never ending night of Verdux.