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Chewy905 -> =WPC 2026= Field of Typhoon (1/18/2026 15:04:42)
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The world between worlds lies silent. Still. Patient. It waits for those needful many that seek it, and those lucky or unlucky few that encounter it by mere chance. Then will the City wake. Then will the City support them.
Then will the City prepare them for their futures.
Chaos rules The Chequered City. It is more garden than streets, more growth than structure. Walls of black vine choke out the white slabs of stone. Steadfast marble towers stand wrapped in the obsidian ivy of entropy. Where once the white streets led to prepared homes, or empty inns filled with food and drink, now the black roots guide to lush gardens of fruit and ponds of clean water. Yet even these paths shift and change, unmappable in their benevolent, unpredictable guidance. And at the City’s heart rises an unblemished, pure tower of Order. Untouched by the growth of Chaos. Sturdy and unmoving to the last.
The automatons serve still the White and the Black. Need you be let free in the Garden of Chaos or guided into the structures of Order, they provide. They can provide drink, act as rival, or offer the small gift of comfort in this emptying place. Whatever is needed for the souls destined for War.
For none can stay in The Chequered City. Doors wait to be opened, walls wait to be torn down, portals wait to whisk one away. All to bring these Pawns to the board of the Powers.
All to bring these Pawns to the one place they belong.
The Battlefield.
Howling wind and the thunderous roar of storms clear the silence. They bring with them a thousand streaks of blue, scattering down from above like countless droplets. Sound and Color rain upon the world between worlds, drowning the Pawns in obsession and arrogance.
The storm breaks under the weight of a fierce snap. Creaking wood, shattering coral, breaking bone. A life given, hoping its very self could satisfy that which it adored. And a storm roaring on, unshaken by the loss of its master.
Thus is a world born, from the death of a soul that wished only to sail the seas forevermore.
Falling blue turns to chilling rain, assaulting the Pawns with a brutal cold. The ship’s deck beneath them shifts, shakes, then screams, wood cracking open like smiles of the dead. Wind howls and roars around them, buffeting the rain against them harder and harder. Eerie light shines from nowhere, illuminating the broken barricades around that separate wooden ground from the raging sea. Occasionally, the dark clouds overhead flash with lightning, the crack of thunder deafening all else.
Above each Pawn, a symbol flashes. A five-spocked circle. For some it holds the black of the rolling sea, etchings curled in an ever-turning spiral. For others it holds the white of the flashing storm, lines straight and attentive from center to edge. The runes hover above for a single moment, their presence known to all, before they quickly wink out.
A heavy wave rises, crashing over the Pawns and their wooden haven. In its wake the water stays, filling in the cracks, driving the sea upwards like an eager predator to lap at the Pawn’s feet. Their port in the storm is destined not to last. In the ocean’s roar echoes a powerful, haunting voice.
“Welcome to the field of Typhoon. No Good can support your soul, no Evil can plunder your will. Prove yourselves worthy, Pawns, or drown in ambition.”
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