Welcome to Adventu, your final fantasy rp haven. adventu focuses on both canon and original characters from different worlds and timelines that have all been pulled to the world of zephon: a familiar final fantasy-styled land where all adventurers will fight, explore, and make new personal connections.
at adventu, we believe that colorful story and plots far outweigh the need for a battle system. rp should be about the writing, the fun, and the creativity. you will see that the only system on our site is the encouragement to create amazing adventures with other members. welcome to adventu... how will you arrive?
year 5, quarter 3
Welcome one and all to our beautiful new skin! This marks the visual era of Adventu 4.0, our 4th and by far best design we've had. 3.0 suited our needs for a very long time, but as things are evolving around the site (and all for the better thanks to all of you), it was time for a new, sleek change. The Resource Site celebrity Pharaoh Leep was the amazing mastermind behind this with minor collaborations from your resident moogle. It's one-of-a-kind and suited specifically for Adventu. Click the image for a super easy new skin guide for a visual tour!
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As the dead close in, Cissnei barely slides into the tomb’s entrance as it shudders to a close. Fingernails scratch at the stone above mixed with a series of half-animal noises, but the door does not waver. The darkened tunnel greets her with an aura of equal parts mystery and dread.
As Cissnei perches atop the pedestal, a warm magic slowly envelopes her helping to ease her mind. The cycle of life settled deep within her. She can almost see it -- a seed falling to the earth, taking root, sprouting, blossoming, and shriveling with age. That which is cannot always be. There is no reversing time or returning that which is lost, and cursed be that which tries.
The same revelation touches at the edges of Ashe’s mind though it comes more as an intrusive presence than not. It pushed through her defenses but can’t quite penetrate. The understanding touches her wordlessly, There is no returning that which is lost. Arc’s amulet takes renewed life, gleaming in the darkness, and as Cissnei reaches her purest moment of understanding, as the floor clicks beneath them.
It happens suddenly. One moment, the pedestals and its occupants rest in muffled silence, and the next, the floor beneath them has split open as though on hinges. They fall. The passage beneath them is pitch black and vertical. Its walls are soft and made of earth with viney roots sticking out the side. It goes on for what feels like dangerously long before a deep orange light seeps from the bottom.
The drop opens to a deep well of water that hits any who enter with a cold shock. They’ve fallen into a high-ceilinged cavern far older than the tomb above. The walls are made of worn clay bricks decorated with worn murals barely visible in the gentle amber glow. They depict the same warriors as above though in far more antiquated style and edged in the writings of a dead language. The room is lit by small crystal shards that seem to grow out of the walls and at the depths of the water like subterranean flowers. The submerged crystals grow brighter and they both exude a sense of magic to any sensitive to it.
These shards can easily be broken with a sharp crack of force. Though their purpose is uncertain, the magical aura from each bears a slightly different hue and magical signatures. If held, an understanding floods the bearer that it can be used at will but the consequences of its use are unclear to all but the most expert of mages without further study.
A single dark passageway opens from the shores of the pool. It is rimmed with a rough archway with two ancient metal torches framing each side. They do not have fuel and from the tarnishing appear to have been long forgotten by the ages. The passageway whistles with a distant wind and the sound of running water. It walls and ceiling look unstable, and earthen debris shudders from the tunnel as the ground trembles again.
The tomb is silent, and while the ground trembles with another quake, its full force doesn’t rock this sacred room. The air is hushed with nothing but the sound of their footsteps and muffled voices to reach them. The amulet continues its steady white glow as its placed near the sarcophagus and statue, however, its shine strengthens by an almost imperceptible degree when the boy steps away from them. His magic overtakes the sarcophagus. It is strengthened by earth, and some mysterious presence appears to linger within. It is weak to light.
The dagger clinks against the stone pedestal and glimmers beneath the flickering green flames. For a moment, the trembling ceases before it overtakes them more violently. The protections around the room has weakened if only faintly. A creeping feeling of disapproval touches at Ashe and lingers there in a chilling aura.
The woman stands alone against a rising horde of shambling abominations. Still, she stands stalwart and unmoved. Her shurken blazes with magic, and at her prayer, she feels an envigorating aura overtake her. Though its origins are unknown, it is a strengthening presence that imbues itself within her weapon. In this way at least, she is not without allies.
A crimson light overtakes the jester. Though he is only faintly conscious, a booming voice wracks his mind. ’I have further use for you.’ Though the voice is beyond the woman’s reach, the violent aura that overtakes him is not. The light mixes with shadow, rising from him in snaking tendrils, before they shroud him completely. When they fade, the jester has disappeared with them.
”Protect it?” The faux ally tilts its twists its head too far to the side. A ghastly grin widens on its thinned lips. ”It’s set to break as we speak.”
The earth gives a violent shake that cracks the stone beneath their feet. The pillars topple at her command, but break at irregular intervals. Two topple together and crash in a cloud of dust, crushing nearly a half a dozen corpses and blocking the others as they stack together. Three others crash before their entrances, crushing at least a dozen more in total and impeding the progress of the others. However, two entrances still remain on either side of her. They struggle to climb over the fallen pillars and funnel through these two archways.
Her shuriken arcs around the barrier, lighting white fire to every body that its edges rip through. The undead scream as their sloughing flesh is set ablaze. In their muted panic, they stagger together, spreading the fire among them. The smell of burning flesh in mass is unbearable, but ventilates through the open air. The light in unison is blinding and the long-dead monk raises a hand against it, hissing curses. It doesn’t see the blow coming and her fist connects dead on.
The curative magic overtakes it as it staggers back, screeching. The spell corrodes into its face, blackening it and spreading by the moment. Its hollow eyes blade with hatred even as its rotten flesh flakes off into dried dust. ”There’s nothing you can do,” it croaks. ”The Lich comes.” With that, the its knees give out and it collapses, degrading more by the second. Still, the horde comes. They scrabble over the fallen pillars. They funnel through the archways, arms grasping and claws sharp. Her shuriken returns still lit ablaze as the walls of putrid corpses closes in from all sides.
The tomb’s entrance continues its shuddering journey to a close. The remaining gap could only fit the most lithe of forms and it shrinks by the second. The horde surrounds her in a growing wall of bodies. The statue looks on with impassive eyes.
The magic hits the jester like a burning tidal wave, knocking him back in a painful recoil. As he staggers and curses, the others pay him no mind, collecting the amulet and looking forward. He doesn’t even have time to try to claim the relic for himself before the fierce woman has handed it to the child. As the woman shoots him a cold look, he can only stare at her, a flicker of fear shooting through him without his magic before he finally manages to yell something unpleasant after her as she begins her descent.
The stairs are cracked, worn, and unsteady. They extend for nearly three floors before evening out into a tunnel. This entry hall is framed in crumbling columns and worn murals of four adventurers on both sides.The light from above has quickly faded, and the end of the tunnel is quickly lost in absolute darkness. The distant echo of water reverberates off the walls. Occasionally the tunnels shakes, loosening gravel and threatening to bury them alive. Magic is thick in the air.
Beyond the inky blackness, the tunnel continues for some ten minutes before a wide double door blocks the hall. The door is framed in gold with no visible handle. Though quite heavy, it screeches forward if pushed with the right strength, opening into an altar room thick with dust and silence. As soon as they step foot in this room, torches along the eaves light with a flickering green flame in quick succession, casting a shrine in deep shadow. The same statue from above looms over a silver-lined sarcophagus that refuses to budge if pushed. An uneasy aura emanates from it. There are no further exits.
Below, the floor is split again by a purposeful crack that runs from the base of the sarcophagus to a cloister of stone pedestals that face it. These wide pedestals are raised barely an inch from the ground and match that which the statue rests on in a meditative pose. The amulet glows with a dull white light as it approaches the sarcophagus. An inscription has been etched into the sarcophagus: ’Find your peace, and may the gods judge you worthy.
Outside the tunnel, the stumbling footsteps echo louder as the woman and boy disappear down the stairs. The monk stares at the two remaining, the color draining from his face. ”You don’t have time for me!” he sputters before his eyebrows furrow. ”This is about the Crystal!” Should the two remain unmoved, he raises his voice. ”Just go!”
By the time that the others have reached the bottom of the tunnel and moved on, the shadows of the undead have already lurched into view. The monk goes quiet. As the first of the zombies round the corner, a dark aura seizes the air. The dark tendrils of magic that had creeps over the temple’s walls thicken to trail above it like smoke. The same tendrils surround the monk. His lips draw into a smile.
”You should have gone,” he says. He raises his head, and his eyes hollows out to reveal nothing but empty sockets filled with dark magic. His form flickers and then falls to reveal ghastly pale skin lined with purple veins. He has been dead for days at least.
”We’ve corrupted the Crystal.” Its voice comes raspy on a dried throat. The other undead breach the courtyard’s edge in a swarm of over a doze. More approach behind them. ”The earth will die unless its purified, but none of you have the peace of mind to manage it. And if it’s touched by impure hands…”
The opening to the tunnel shudders and begins to slide closed with the slow screech of grinding stone. ”She is the last seal against us. If that seal is broken, then we will rise. We. Him. I.” The monk’s lips widen into an perverse smile. ”The Lich.”
The air softens as wind touches hard stone. It whistles through the courtyard -- sharp and quiet -- rustling through hair and cloth and the leaves of the ivy. The oppressive chill shudders against it and lightens as though siphoned by the unnatural whirlwind. A new magic joins it in motes of fairy lights spiraling around the statue in a dance of sparkling streams and fluttering leaves until finally the chill breaks entirely. A new air engulfs the courtyard. It carries with it a warm gaze, a sense of calm, and the dusky scent of wildflowers.
The amulet blares a gleaming white from the statue’s center. A wave of power pulses from it and engulfs all who stand in its way. To the child, it feels almost like a mother’s touch. It embraces him and whispers, ’I place my trust in you, young one. But take heed of what lurks behind.’ To the harsh woman, it comes like a summer breeze. It carries with it the familiar warmth of sun across desert sands. ’You are a fierce warrior,’ a woman’s voice whispers, ’But one must know peace to cleanse the darkness.’
To the professional woman, it feels like nothing more than a gust of sweet-smelling wind. Still, it stirs something within her like the smile of an old friend. Words come to her -- ’Take care...Trust not...Mission.’ -- but they’re faint and drowned by the whistling winds. Perhaps there were never words at all. It’s impossible to say.
To the jester, the winds come hot and rough. The gust slams against him, and with it, a hissing voice. ’Come no further, destroyer! My power is not yours to take!’ Though the words pound against his ears, no others hear them. The heat dies as quickly as it came. The courtyard is still once more.
The amulet’s chain snaps. It falls to the statue’s feet and glints with its own white light. As though at its call, the pristine circle of runic symbols separates at the center and slides open revealing a set of crumbling stairs leading into a dark passage. Stale air wafts from its center mixed with cobwebs and dust. The bottom cannot be seen through the darkness.
”That’s-! How did you-?” The monk gapes at them in stunned awe. ”The statue! Her amulet!” He gathers himself until he’s straight-backed and serious. He addresses them with an almost somber resolve. ”Take it. It might be the temple’s relic, but it belongs with you. Please, purify the temple’s power. Calm its guardian. You can take whatever else you find as long as it’s done.”
From far away comes a pounding noise and the splintering of wood. The monk jumps and braces himself as shambling footsteps approach. ”Go!” He bites his tongue. ”It's too important! I'd only slow you down!”
If you'd like to know a reaction to your actions or magic ahead of time, just ask!
I rest steady as earth cleansed at light's touch
The monk looks taken aback as the professional woman turned to question him. He winces at her harsh tone. ”The temple’s been watched over,” he corrects her. ”The warrior herself, she’s more of a legend now. I found records of this place in old archives. I don’t know why this wing was sealed off, but once I realized where this spike in magic was coming from, I searched desperately for a way to reach it. We monitor-” The scholarly boy suggests that they could sense the magic separately, and the monk looks relieved, nodding. ”That’s right. This whole temple is a source of great magic. We study it at all times.”
”As for the sigils…” The monk turns to face them, frowning. ”I can’t say. They’re from the Time of the Heroes. We have experts in the old magic, but they all fled or…” The monk bites his tongue. ”I’m one of the only ones left.”
He watches the mercenaries in hopeful interest as they begin their efforts. The statue gives no visible response when the Libra spell is cast, but the boy’s mind is struck with knowledge. The statue is sealed with a nearly overpowering magic. Protective magic. It rejects earth and darkness. It is vulnerable to air and light. Riding the stream of this knowledge comes the flicker of a separate presence and the sensation of being watched. It carries with it a subtle sense of panic and anxiety. A woman’s voice touches the boy’s mind in hardly a whisper.
’Soul of light, save that which I protect. I have waited long for the worthy.’
The connection breaks like the passing of wind. The chilling presence remains.
The statue responds to the curative magic though the seal does not break. With every casting, the amulet glows weakly with a pure white light. The statue’s power stills at the jester’s approach and then thickens into a hostile buzz. Every touch of the stone seeps through the jester with a quiet warning, and the amulet does not budge as he grabs it. However, after a short moment the magic thickens. The amulet flashes a blaring red and holy magic surges through the jester’s body as he’s thrown away from it with a sharp crack. The surge sends him flying until he collides straight on with one of the pillars. It wobbles dangerously.
The monk jumps, looking between the statue and the jester in wonder. ”I didn’t realize...That power…” A look of awe dawns over him. ”I never read anything like it in our records.”
The monk jumps as the professional woman clasps his shoulder, but nods, gathering himself up the best he can. Even as the undead swarm the group, he tries to look resolute though he fiddles often with the handle of his staff. Despite his efforts, he winces with the sound of explosions, and then again when his staff is snatched away from his grasp.
”H-hey! That’s-!” he starts before stumbling away from the undead that had closed in on them both. He forgets about his staff quickly, choosing instead to dodge behind the others. With the first wave dead, he blinks the fear from his eyes and nod to the woman with the sword. ”This way. Stay close.”
Without his staff, he had nothing with which to ground himself as the earth rumbles once again. He stabilizes his stands, thrusting out his arms for balance, before starting ahead. He guides them into the entrance hall -- musty and shadowed -- and leads them down a side path around the temple rather than through it. The dead still stumble through these halls though not in mass, and he allows his escorts to deal with them whenever they arise.
In time, he comes across a weathered door and jiggles the lock as he thrusts in a key. He smiles sheepishly. ”This wing’s been closed off for about a century,” he says. ”It might be a little dusty.” The door creeks open and a stale air meets them. The monk sniffles at the heavy musk of moldering tapestries and aged scrolls, but he starts forward with a bolder step. No one -- dead or otherwise -- has walked these halls in his lifetime.
The path opens to a crumbling courtyard that might have once been beautiful but has long been overrun by moss and ivy. The courtyard is framed by nine columns that have cracked and tilted with age. Wildflowers shoot through dense bushes that obscure scattered idols, discarded pens, and an old dagger that still gleams with tarnished pearls. A statue of a woman oversees her abandoned shrine with a somber eye. She wears the garb of a martial artist mixed with the ritual beads and amulets of a priestess. At the statue’s base, a circle of mystical sigils is set into gleaming stone. Though the path around it has cracked with wild grasses, the circle remains immaculately preserved.
The monk offers the statue a quick nod of respect before scurrying to its side. ”Something awoke here weeks ago. By the time I realized where this new magic was coming from, the temple had already been overtaken. I haven’t had the chance to study-!” At his approach, the statue pulses with power and the woman’s amulet gleams with an amber light that fades as quickly as it came. The monk is frozen, staring at it, before jolting towards it.
”That’s it! It is here! But how do I-?” He cycles through several incantations and gestures in rapid succession, but the statue does not awaken again. After a moment, he sighs. ”Are any of you experts in magic?”
Under the light of a shrouded sun, the courtyard is as dismal as the world outside. However, in this hazy light, an inscription at the base of the statue’s feet peeks through winding ivy.
’I REST STEADY AS EARTH CLEANSED AT LIGHT'S TOUCH.’
The man’s eyes flick over the black-clad woman before him, visibly relaxing once it becomes apparent that she’s fully alive. ”Cissnei,” he repeats before nodding emphatically. ”I put out a call. I wasn’t sure anyone would come, but-” He cuts himself off and takes a gulp of air to steady himself. ”There’s something that must be done -- something no one here can. If you could fight your way this far…”
He jumps as another woman follows the first, glancing between the two of them nervously. Amalia’s hard gaze does nothing for his nerves, and he grips the staff tighter. ”Two of you,” he says. ”Yes, yes. This is good. I didn’t expect so many…”
He trails off as a splotch of color reveals itself behind her. His mouth falls open as he stares, eyes incredulous, at the garish thing that’s approached them. ”Who are you?” His voices comes weak with disbelief. For a moment, the monk can look at nothing else.
Once that moment passes, he steadies himself and glances between each of them -- the black-clad professional, the woman with the hard eyes, a wad of clashing colors in the shape of a man, and…
Someone else stands far behind them. A child. The boy watches them nervously, and the monk returned the look before turning his attention back to the adults.
”Right. Well, you’re here. Good, good. This is good. I called you here because of a power that’s long been sealed under this temple. Long before this temple was what it’s become today, it was the birthplace of a great warrior -- a monk devoted to the values of discipline and balance. She was gifted with divine power and set forth to seal away the world’s evil. Her tomb lies at the temple’s heart, and with it, her power…”
The monk hesitates, glancing cautiously towards Amalia and the garish man before shaking his head. ”Oh, I don’t have time for discretion! For centuries, the legend’s been just that. A legend. But those in the inner sanctum know that her spirit still guards something valuable. The crystal of earth gifted by the god Titan himself.” He looks between them and then back towards the temple. The ground shifts below them, grumbling as though in disapproval, and the monk grimaces, shoving his staff into the ground for balance.
”The earth’s dying,” he says. ”The crystal's been corrupted. Whatever evil’s found its way into this temple must have seeped into her tomb. I need you to delve inside and cleanse it. It’s our only hope.”
The earth shudders again so hard that the monk nearly loses his balance. Above them, stone jars loose from the upper floors and hurtles down, crashing between them. The noise echoes into the temple’s hall followed by an uneasy silence. Then shuffling feet and renewed moans, coming closer. Through the doorway, figures lurch in the shadows. The monk’s eyes widen as he stumbles back into the group he’s assembled.
”They’re coming!” he gasps. ”We need to reach the courtyard! I can show you the way, but we'll have to go through them first!”
Days have passed since the dead first awoke, and now the streets lie empty and wasted. Where there had once been gleaming libraries there now lay piles of dust and stone. Where scholars and mages had once walked, now only the dead remained. Their moans echo behind broken walls and old, ruined fencing. The earth trembles with dangerous aftershocks that threaten to tear the town asunder. Once a hub of ancient knowledge, now the town is nothing more than an open graveyard.
The temple is no less dangerous in the daylight, but the fiend’s dark grip is more visible at least. A strange magic permeates the wall and wraps around the temple’s spires like ivy. The stairway to the temple is shattered into rocky pieces, and at the entrance above it, indistinct figures slump into the shadows, moaning softly. The smell of the dead is thick here -- sour, wet, and rotting. The ground grumbles its disapproval and threatens to give way again.
A lone monk awaits you at the gates. He stands nervously, clutching his staff with white knuckles. On the night the Lich resurfaced, he sent word for four “bright souls” willing to delve into the darkness to purify the temple’s magic. He promised anything he could give -- the temple’s deepest riches, the gods’ support, and an opportunity to uncover secrets long buried below the earth. Now he stands waiting on the promised day of arrival, praying that the souls will come and that they’ll find him before the monsters do.
He jumps at the sound of approaching footsteps, spinning his staff until it’s aimed towards the source. He stands tense and waiting with narrowed eyes. A bead of sweat drips down his ashen forehead. ”Who’s there?”
As Ace stands aside preparing himself for a fight, three hands claim the crystal at once. As soon as they touch its glittering form, the crystal erupts with both light and darkness alike. The effect is blinding -- overwhelming -- and yet the three cannot wrench themselves away. The power surges through them like electric volts searing their veins. As the power overtakes them, the light changes forms to crimson red beside a cool and sacred blue.
"You've done it!" The harsh voice resounds through the minds of both Ardyn and Mateus so strongly that it can be heard resonating from them in gasps of rough and triumphant laugh. "Lend me your power!"
Yeul is bathed in a calming light that envelopes her completely from her helm to her hair which flows like water in the wind. "Hold on. Please, hold on!" A desperate voice pleads through her thoughts and outside of it. "We mustn't let them succeed!"
The wind strengthens to a deadly cyclone that rips at the altar's foundations and tears off the marble overhanging in rough crumbles. The three remain unaffected by the gale, rooted in place by the crystal's magic as above them the sky darkens and the winds take shape. Obscured by debris, two hazy forms come into focus, silhouetted by red and blue respectively. Above Yeul stands the delicate outline of a woman. Above Mateus and Ardyn, the hulking form of a horned beast. The winds scream, howling as they pick up speed faster and faster until...
A woman screams. There's a terrible crack as the crystal shatters. The red light quickly overtakes the blue, and in one final flash, the goddess' power overtakes both Yeul and Ace. The wind slows, quieting until it falls completely silent -- the once windswept tower utterly still. When the light fades, only Ardyn and Mateus remain. Yeul and Ace have disappeared.
On the altar remains only two shattered fragments of the crystal that were too embedded in the altar's base to scatter. Above it, a draconic shadow hovers -- watching them.
"The first seal has been broken." Its voice comes cold and slithering, no longer echoing with its previous duality. "The master of the dead shall awaken once more. Take the seal's remaining power and find him to the South. Soon, this world shall be reformed as it was always meant to be. Only then will the portal open..."
The voice dies down to a mere whisper as the spirit fades away. The top of the tower is empty and ruined. The winds have broken the pillars and swept away the statues and engravings. Now there remains only a few simple shards and a tomb that has lost its guardian. The air is still.
Outside of the tower's walls, Yeul and Ace fall into desolate snow. Above them, a soothing blue light pulses its despair. "Chaos has won," a woman's voice whispers. "My power wasn't enough. Soon, evil shall rise from the shadows. A foul Fiend of legend." The light emboldens itself, flashing brighter. "You must gather forces to stop it or all shall be lost! Please. I beg of you..." The voice fades with the light it embodied. When there's nothing left but a vague glow, it leaves with a final echo. "Please...My warriors..."
The hills of the World Sight are quiet and still. The wind has ceased and will be forever silent.
As the argument continues, a strange tension fills the air. The draconic spirit continues its silent vigil, but it feels as though new eyes are watching the scene before it. The skies darken with a renewed wind, and in the distance, the clouds flash with lightning. The longer the conversation goes on, the heavier this feeling in the air as though some invisible force is watching from above, behind, even through them. Anyone with magical experience would recognize a powerful and foreign force gathering around them as though in anticipation.
As the wind rages on, a voice whispers to them. 'Protect this world,' it pleads of Yeul. 'Take what's yours,' it asks of Mateus and Ardyn. Ace hears nothing but wind and an odd muttering that could be anything.
