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  • So, we finally started our new Chronicle!

    After a year-and-some of prep on the side of finishing up our last campaign, my home group and I have finally started our Exalted 3rd Ed Chronicle.

    The Storm This Way Comes ( https://thestormthiswaycomes.obsidianportal.com/ ) is two official sessions in, plus a prelude!

    We're using the Aeon Exalted setting hack - which is pretty well shaped up and due for a posting as soon as I finish up some editing.

    We're using the Momentum Exalted rules hack as well. I even got a handmade battlewheel for my birthday, from one of my players. So far, Momentum is staying fast and only had a few hiccups in actual play, which I'm thrilled about.

    Great timing on the WFHW backer PDF coming out! We've got a Solars storyline and a DB's storyline, set to intertwine.

    Our Solars entered the scene with a bang - they fell from the sky, leaving holes in thunderclouds and craters where they landed. They were clutching at whatever Artifacts they had at hand, and unsure exactly how they got there - fully Iconic. They landed on a beach in the middle of a Lintha invasion, and proceeded to do what Solars do.

    So far so good! I've already used a lot of ideas that people have posted here during our long prep time. I apologize that I didn't note who came up with what, but Baramue, the Shogun of Accursed Inspiration, already had an appearance in our DB's prelude.

    Also, my forum time has gotten pretty limited lately. I'll post when I can!


    Check out Momentum Exalted!

  • #2
    I have become a Fan of your chronicle on Obsidian Portal! Please feel free to become a fan of Sun Forged Oath when you have a spare moment, and enjoy some of the wonderful writeups my players have been doing.


    May you live in interesting times...

    Storyteller of Sun Forged Oath

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    • #3
      We're just wrapping up our session for tonight. We stepped into an Aeon ( a sort of pocket realm ) that was about to fall. Glau, our Zenith, met a ghostly image of her once (and future?) lunar mate. Varsay, our Eclipse, was frustrated trying to rescue some knowledge. Phoenix, our Dawn, stabbed a full Zelator worth of blood-ape kebabs.

      I fanned your Chronicle back, and looking forward to reading up, Keichiokami!


      Check out Momentum Exalted!

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      • #4
        Just for fun, I thought I might post some of the short stories & monologues coming out of our Chronicle.

        We've got two story threads going - one for Solars, who fall from the sky as meteors, with missing memories how they got here, and bearing artifacts that they're not quite sure how they obtained.

        The other is for Dragon-Blooded. They have a very familial organization around them, with a mix of resources to call upon and responsibilities to uphold.



        Here's the introductory monologue for four of our five our Solars.


        A broken mirror sparkles with the light of uncountable reflections.

        Moments of exultant victory and bitter frustration twinkle in the jagged facets. The sounds of celebration and mourning, joy and terror ring in the reverberating noise of shattering. In the shadows of each crack and fault, lurk the ghosts of might-have-been.

        The shards of the mirror tumble, in the timeless neverwhere of the strange vision. All around is dark and still - all light and all sound in the vision seems to come from the uncounted multitudes in the reflections.

        One of the reflections goes dark and silent.

        Then another, and another.

        The fragments of possibility fade - ever more quickly winking from existence - and you begin to become aware of other sensations.

        The clamor of the mirror's shattering noise is replaced by a whine-roar coming from all around.

        The vision of the broken mirror suddenly seems very far away, as if vanishing to an unknowable horizon. The darkness warms, first into a halo all around you; brilliant gold that yet flows through your mind, body, and soul. Then, in but a moment, heating further into a corona of gold, red and white flame.

        The blazing corona merges with the terrible roar beyond your Anima. You begin to become aware of your body once again. Every bone and muscle throbs with pain and power. Your hand reaches to grasp some ledge, or tool, or lost weapon - but finds nothing. Legs try to crouch, or run, or remember how to leap. Arms strain to rise to some defense.

        Somewhere, only an instant ago, you were shouting a terrible war-cry into the pages of myth and history. But now, recollection of all those words, places, and people seem to be just beyond your gasp.

        Before you can command sense to rise from the confusion, you are flattened against some surface in a bone-crunching impact, jarring you out of the vision.

        ---

        [Olivia prompt] The heat of the roaring coronal flame is quenched by a plunge into seawater. Heavy objects sink beside you. Their plummeting draft threatens to drag you down - but your hand finds grip on a large spar of tropical wood. Whatever ship this is, your impact has broken her keel, and you cling to half of it as she heaves and rolls in her death throes. The current reverses, rising into the ship, and you quickly find yourself on your feet in a rapidly-flooding bilge.

        Demonic pirate sailors all around you shout conflicting and confused orders in a bizarre and unholy tongue. Several are dead from your impact, their remains swirling in the rising swell of seawater filling the bilge. Others run by on the intervening two decks, or the top deck. Yet others stare in gawping confusion.

        Though you are in a doomed ship, in the bilge, in a churning storm, you stand in a beam of daylight. The ray of sun shines through a circle-cut gap in the clouds and down through each shattered deck. Your name is Olivia, and your Anima burns iconic with the light of the Unconquered Sun.

        The sorceress stands in the Twilight between night and day, and no god or demon may challenge her will.

        ---

        [Glaukos prompt] After the first impact, your body tucks reflexively, rolling through the subsequent bounces. You've impacted some sort of sandy terrain; your rolling motion flings a tail of damp sand in your wake.

        You come to a stop, rising to a knee. You have a pouch or small satchel in your hand, but do not remember where you got it. Across your back, you have strapped a heavy and lopsided harness of some sort.

        You stand on burned and bloody white sand, and at the edge of a circle of firelight. The light is marred by stinking, oily smoke. In the center of the firelight burns a giant megalodon, impaled upon a ship's mast and hoisted upright upon the sand. It burns with the scent of oils, tars, and incenses, perhaps some degenerate thaumaturgic idol.

        Around the circle, seacolor-skinned chanters jump back in surprise from your appearance. The flaming idol, the chanters, and you, all stand in an island of sunlight, blazing down through the clouds above. Your name is Glaukos and your Anima burns iconic with the wrath of the Unconquered sun.

        The depth of night merely reminds Creation to await the Zenith of the bright day.

        ---

        [Phoenix prompt] Globs of sand and debris rain around you, and you find yourself laying in a deep crater of sand and cooling new glass. Your hands and knees find their way under you, and you lever yourself up to look around. Partly buried in the settling sand and debris, a litter of weapons and armored limbs poke up from the crater.

        Above and around you, you hear the burble-bubble of demonic seatongue. Mutant fishmen struggle to find their legs, most of them rubbing their heads, or trying to clear their ears or eyes after the blast.

        A strong, armored gauntlet hooks under your armpit, hoisting you to your feet. "Stand, Lintha!" the warleader commands. Saved from the blast by his armor of sea-monster shell, he hoists you to full height.

        Half of the Lintha warleader's face is peppered with a spray of molten glass globs. "The weaklings have some siege...." His voice trails off, as he's swiped the sand and muck from his eyes and sees who he's talking to.

        Your name is Phoenix. Your caste mark burns upon your forehead, reflected in the fishlike eyes and in the cooling glass globs of the unluckiest of all Lintha. He blinks a few times, too stunned to be terrified. Your Anima burns iconic, under a tight shaft of sunlight piercing the thunderhead above.

        The Dawn rises, pushing back the darkness. The Sun is Unconquered.

        ---

        [Varsay prompt] The surface beneath you is hard, coarse, hot to the touch, and dun red. Broken bits of the reddish granite pelt down around you, tumbling back down from your impact. You seem to be sliding, with a squeak, face- and head-down the slope of a mountainside.

        You get your hands under you, stopping the slide. One hand clanks on the stone - a comfortingly familiar Artifact confirming that you've escaped the vision of the mirror. Rising to a crouch, you discover yourself to be some quarter mile up the long stony slope.

        Just above you, on a flat ledge, a group of blue-skinned scouts have scattered back from their signal fire. Jars of color powder roll away from the fire, knocked over by their leap to cover. A reflector of beaten brass slides down from their position toward you.

        Below you is a beach, the scene of a landfall of troops. A squadron of warships and transports rests at anchor in the rocking water of a river delta. Nearest you at the bottom of the stone slope is a port town built on stilts.

        The landfall has been disrupted by an impact in the middle of their formation. The largest ship of the squadron has had its keel broken. The town has been sacked and is burning, but the thaumaturgy keeping the rain away has faltered. Each of these places is lit by a beam of sunlight, shot through the opaque cloud cover. And each is also lit by the iconic Anima of the Solar Exalted.

        Your name is Varsay, and you stand in your own beam of sunlight, your Anima burning bright all around you. The Lintha raiders' signal reflector slides all the way down the slope to your feet, casting a brilliant light down in all directions.

        As wisdom is the knowledge of dark and light, the Sun is not extinguished during the Eclipse.






        Our fifth Solar is my character. He's in use as a detailed NPC right now, but ready to go for the rare chances I get to play!

        I wrote his introduction up as a short story, structured in parallel to the main monologue. It also helped me get the facts together.

        [Kalifiir prompt] I feel myself slamming into an unyielding stone surface. I have no chance to tuck and roll, so the impact is sharp and white-hot. I hear myself yelp as I flatten against the stone. I'm

        I am underwater. Sunlight shimmers down to me, through the churning surface and a torrent of bubbles rising around me. The water is clear, fresh, and cold. White sand and pale stones reflect the gold-and-night colors as my Anima shimmers iconic.

        I sink for what seems to be a long moment, trying to reorient. At the bottom of the clear pool, I see the Orichalcum and Irrigo colors of my Fang, just settling into the white sand. I swim down to the bottom to retrieve it. Concealed by the no-self of my Anima, I am wearing a snug jinset and a handy pouch. Only tatters of other ruined equipment remain.

        I kick from the bottom, erupting through the surface. I find that I am at an oasis of sorts, a clear, deep spring pool hidden in a grotto of reddish mountain stone.

        The grotto is filled with fires and camps. Above the grotto, surmounting vertical cliffs, stands an enormous tower, commanding the view.

        My name is Kalifiir Sabra, the Wolf of Shadows. I've interrupted a convocation of beast-masked raiders. They back away from my phantom no-self, remembering their fear of things from the shadows.

        No evil which hides in the shadows can conceal itself from the Night itself.




        Check out Momentum Exalted!

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        • #5
          And here's the introductory monologue for our Dragon-Blooded.

          They'd just survived a troublesome Calibration celebration, during which authentic news of the Scarlet Empress' disappearance arrived.


          The Sun rises, dawn pushing back the dark sky of Calibration. Five dark days come to an end.

          The view is striking, from the top tier of the Golden Pavilion. Newborn light spills across the rooftops of Goldenseal, awakening the squares and streets, sparkling along the winding canals. The Pavilion itself, palace of the ruling Peleps, is decorated with bright pennants and streamers - purples and yellows predominantly. Marble statues line the grounds below the central pagoda, framing walking paths of dressed coral stone.

          The mixing sounds of cheers, songs, and hand cymbals echo up from the streets below. The mortal celebrations are subdued, winding down after five days of clamor. The last of the fireworks and wine welcome the new year. By midday, they will be busy cleaning up. By evening, they will be back to their routine toil.

          The Sunrise Welcome is the last formal event for the Dynasts of Goldenseal and their Calibration guests - including you, the delegation from Stormclaw. The Chosen in attendance are all resplendent in their finest regalia. The flood of sunlight into the ballroom reflects from worn ornaments of gold, silver, jade, and gemstones, crowning the pagoda with sparkling light of every color.

          But it is the Sun itself that draws every eye. Sunrise ending Calibration causes a tangible realignment of Dragon Lines - every Chosen feels the shift of Essence as an emotional tideswell pouring through the soul. Even here, among the jaded elite of the far Southwest, this Sunrise draws whispered prayers of thanks - and of relief. A few of the present luminaries are so struck with awe that they gasp or flick open a fan.

          Hiding in the glory of the Unconquered Sun, the fresh start of this new year carries a pang of nostalgia. Only a few short days ago, the righteous order of Creation was assumed and certain. Calibration brought official news of the Scarlet Empress' disappearance. Certainty vanished in the darkness.

          The Peleps, masters of Goldenseal and hosts of the Sunrise Welcome, offer a cheerful kanpai, the first of many toasts and well wishes. Tastefully understated cheers and polite laughter rumble through the partygoers. No one mentions the news from the Blessed Isle, nor the orders delivered to members of the Great Houses, nor the Dynasts who are missing from the Welcome. This morning is all smiles - the knives can wait, for now.

          For now, cautious eyes glance around the gathering, chasing the shifting tells of alliance and rivalry. For now, careful ears listen for hints about sealed orders and concealed preparations.

          What a blessing it will be to get back home, to Watermaple. You just can't imagine any way this year could get off to a worse start.

          ---

          [Ina prompt] The sunrise itself is silent, but you feel the radiance of celestial fire warming your face. So long has it been since you've seen the Sun with your own eyes, that it's become difficult to imagine. While the simplicity and power of sunrise is a fading memory, the warmth is eternally familiar and comforting.

          Concealed by your silk sash, the vine sutures across your eyes relax slightly in the warming glow. The creep of their shifting is no longer a discomfort. After many years it is just another sensation to note - no more disturbing to you than a weather-ache predicting a storm.

          Alone among the attending Dynasts, you pick out a minor note in the sounds of celebration among the mortals. Like a sigh swimming in a sea of laughter, it hints that news of the Empress' disappearance has spread to the people of the land.

          The waking sounds of birds and insects dance among the clamor as well. Only the beasts of Creation seem to be carefree of their future.

          Your name is Cathak Ina. For these last decades you have seen no sight, but yours is a world of sensation few others will ever notice.

          ---

          [Gavad prompt] The intrigue of Imperial court plays out for you, seeming like an overwrought chapter from one of the Romances of the Sevens. You are the audience outside the action but inside the scene. Forever a stranger.

          The ballroom, filling the top tier of the Golden Pavilion, is as a stage. Actors in fine costumes play out their cunning intrigues with excellent poise. Each acts out their role, written in the ink of caste and title.

          Whispers are shared, hidden behind sleeves or fans. Danger lurks in words, hidden by the pantomime of ritualized propriety. They will prosper, who can discern real danger among all the distractions of the world.

          You are Gavad Sirhpo. Your strange journey has carried you across Creation, to a place you never expected. Every place along your winding path has been a stage for the same drama - the struggle for the phantom treasure of privilege, acted out while real dangers stalk the night.

          Wherever you roam, danger does not stalk unchallenged.

          ---

          [Rithik prompt] Petty lords of lesser families play their politics, aping their betters on the Blessed Isle. The Satrapies of the Southwest are far from the centers of power, and so naturally form a sanctuary. Rather than consolidating in safety, these small Dynasts squabble over scraps.

          Lines drawn in dust always thirst for blood.

          Already, several Dynasts and a dozen or more Patricians are missing. They will never be found. Lives lost that could have been recruited. Nothing remains of them but a polite excuse for missing a preening and useless extravagance.

          Watch how these lessers sharpen their knives and brew their poisons. Watch as they ready themselves, to spill their lives into the sand, dancing among daggerpoints - all for no greater prize than fields of mud and frog ranches. Watch as they play their games and die at the edge of alleged civilization.

          They may yet learn how sharp a knife can become.

          You are Iselsi Rithik, fostern Cathak. For a year, you have been learning the secret Gateway gameplay of your true House, while becastled in a sanctuary among allies. Each Dynast around you is but a piece on the board; none seek to know the hand that moves them.

          --

          [Charlotte prompt] Those who wear the tall collar and epaulets of the Imperial Navy stand apart from the crowd. Down to the small manners, officer lords must be calm and sure, even in the troubled waters of shifting alliances.

          The Peleps lords of Goldenseal count several lord-Captains among their number. Guests for Calibration, you find in them the kinship of command. They share an understanding that yearning for the sea is a call to action.

          Your own cousins, Cathak lords of Goldenseal, are well pleased to showcase you at every chance. While Cathak counts some lord-officers of the Legions as guests, you are the only lord of the Navy among them.

          That prestige does not seem to extend to private audiences. Salon and refreshments at the Cathak mansions have been punctuated with the practiced sneer of superiority. One must wonder if Cathak blood carries some defect of loyalty. Perhaps the same that excuses the exile of two of the House's daughters to the edge of the world.

          No matter. Opposite the Eastern Sunrise, Ranger stands proud at her post in the review line. Her masts are tall and straight. Her pennants are crisp and colorful, streaming in the breeze with a whip-snap. Her crew stands ready for inspection or action.

          Troubled waters await, and no one can know how many of Ranger's sister ships will still sail by next Calibration.

          You are Cathak Charlotte. Command and action are yours by right and by title. With your ship beneath your feet and your Consulate by your side, no horizon is out of reach.





          Check out Momentum Exalted!

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          • #6
            We had an encounter with an Infernal antagonist.

            This was a short story about her going back to report to her queen, Lintha Azora.




            Sitting atop the grimacing Ikon of Burning Ice, Jewel Inverse was lost in deep communion. She kicked her feet, shins swinging childishly off the front of the ship. Her expression was a tight-lipped and toothful grin, cheeks lifted over dimples, like some uncanny grimacing doll. Smears of dried blood framed the white of her teeth and rolled-back eyes. Her caste mark unglowed fulgant, reflecting as wisps of matching unlight orbiting through her Anima.

            She did not hear the scrape of sargasso dragging along the hull of the Blackship, nor the toil or work-song of the surviving crew. Her mind was filled with the soft murmur of voices not her own. Too faint to hear without focus, too loud to ignore without effort, they burbled just at the edge of her awareness, nibbling at the boundaries of her remaining sanity. The voices of Hell were the warm water in which she swam, a comforting blanket of outlandish sin, a dark closet of private terror.

            The stone hull tapped, finally, against something solid, awakening Jewel from her unnatural meditation. She always felt a lurch of sickness and self-conscious anxiety in the moment the voices left her. The wisps withdrew, leaving only the unglow of her caste mark. Her uncanny grin remained, for the moment, as fixed as stone. Only her eyes moved, rolling randomly and independently in their sockets, before settling together to glance in the direction of the sound.

            The bump was that of the ship's igneous hull against the white marble of a baroquely carved pier. They'd reached Anzuss, awaited by an honor guard of Kinsblood Lintha masters.

            Jewel had not readied herself for a formal welcome. She'd let the blood stains on her skin and cute dress remain where they fell, imagining the favor of Lintha Azora, her beloved queen. In the black depths of the Fiend's twisted fantasy, Azora would delight at the return of her blood-splattered princess. Her queen would savor her favorite princess smelling - and tasting - of dragon's blood.

            She bit back a stomach-wrenching pang of self-consciousness. The Kinsblood masters who awaited her didn't conceal their contempt at her appearance. Though they were one-and-all fishmen mutants and demonic hybrids, their sea coats, honor tokens, and grooming were just as perfect and upright as their poise.

            A bilious worm of Essence chewed through her soul, eating the disgust from her sense of self and shitting it out in another place. As the mote passed, she neatly projected her perceived shortcoming on those who stood judging her - If they had a problem, it was their fault for standing in her way.

            Jewel rose to her feet, her body no heavier than her freshly hollowed conscience. Standing on-point in an exaggerated, gleeful pose, she greeted them with a giggle and irreverent wave. Behind the grin and hiding in the giggle, she felt only contempt. She had no choice but to destroy the dignity of her welcome home.

            She skipped down the boarding plank, unbothered to acknowledge her lessers. Marmarik could stand on his own and walk off his ship, or beg to be carried. The masters and their judgmental scowls could await her forever in Hell.

            Opposites in every way, a beautiful girl wrapped in gory spatter pranced past wretched half-demons wrapped in pristine grace.

            Her queen awaited, and hers was the only approval Jewel Inverse would ever need.




            Check out Momentum Exalted!

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