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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Lucas’ eyes widened in shock. He didn’t wish to speak to them? Wherever would they have gotten that idea? ”My dear,” he said. ”I’d be happy to help any child in need.”
The very idea! He was still a priest, wasn’t he? It was his duty to give aid to any who sought it. No matter how dangerous, ill-mannered, or generally unpleasant they might have been.
Outlanders! Why was it always them who found a way to his doorstep?
”Well, if you’d like to learn our history then I’d recommend we find a place to sit. In a study, perhaps? Yes, yes. That will do nicely.” He started down the hall, gesturing for them to follow but not waiting to see if they did. Of course they’d come, he thought, and if they didn’t…
Ah, blissful silence!
He came across a small office most often used for archival and study. It had a kind of dusty smell, and he breathed it gratefully before settling behind a desk set with stacks of books that were perfectly aligned. Behind him were scrolls all kept in their place inside leather canisters of safe keeping. Clutter made chaos, he always said.
”Now, if you’re all settled.” Lucas opened a desk drawer and fished out his reading glasses, setting them at the tip of his nose. ”Do you have any specific interests? I could start at the beginning, but then we’d be sitting here all day.” He gave a little chuckle at his own joke. Wouldn’t that be absurd?
”I’ve studied the old texts of the World Sight and conferred with the monks of Metaia. A shame what happened there. Ah yes, a real shame.” He shook his head solemnly. He had his suspicions as to the cause of that most recent anomaly, but he chose not to share. His guests might take offense, after all. ”If you have any questions, you need only ask. Except about your current predicament. For the last time, I know nothing about it, and violence won’t loosen my tongue.” He gave a short Harumph! before clearing his throat and looking at them both above the rim of his glasses.
Father Lucas was no stranger to strangers. In fact, he made it his business to make himself known to nearly every one of them with both a smile and a watchful eye, and yet he'd had doubts on such a philosophy as of late. It had seemed to land him too many baffling circumstances to count.
Once he'd been nearly killed by a strange man wrapped in shadow. Another, he'd been held at swordpoint by a woman with murder in their eyes. Both had come seeking answers he couldn't give, and had gone about asking in a way that he could only assume came from a complete lack of experience in polite society. He had never liked these newcomers, not from the start, and as a young man caught his attention with a nervous, "Hey! he could already smell trouble.
He was young, maybe seventeen, with gelled hair and an outfit that he wouldn't find out of place in Sonora. He wore thick black gloves, stiff leather boots, and a jacket cut high on his shoulders. The father's eyes landed on the black tattoo criss-crossing across the boy's face. It was a dreadful thing, that tattoo.
"Sorry, my name is Zell. And this is Quistis." The boy gestured to the young woman behind him. "We're... not from this place. I mean. We came from somewhere far away from here, ya know? I've got no memories of it, but there's others like me out here. Do you know what's going on?"
Lucas felt his heart sink. Another of these. He'd be damned if this wasn't the end of him one day.
"Yes. I know all about your kind." He tried to be gentle, but the words 'your kind' slipped out with a kind of sheltered disdain. He supposed it couldn't be helped. "I've seen others pass by before. Always searching for answers. Most often at the tip of a sword." He looked them over, squinting. He didn't see any weapons, but one could never be too certain. These newcomers had all kinds of hidden tricks. The kind of tricks that could break a man in half.
"I can tell you what I know, but what I know is only so much." He gave a sharp wave towards the arches. "I know matters of gods and myth and history. And I know that hired swords and madmen have started roaming the countryside letting loose dragons tearing apart city blocks. But if I can help..." He smiled, bringing the warmth back into his eyes. "As a man of our gods, I will gladly do so."
For Ashe, there is only silence. It is as though she stands in a black void without sight, without touch, and without time. The darkness pulses through her in chilling currents, and with each -- whispers not from without but from within.
She will have her power. Not now, but soon. That which she desires shall be hers. There are other crystals and other times. They shall lead her home.
Arc casts his spell. For a moment, the magic doesn’t quite focus but as it finally finds its mark, he finds that she has gained a new weakness. Light. While the shadows no longer linger, her affinity for darkness remains.
The crystal’s voice does not bother with Ashe. It does not seem to notice her. Instead, she speaks only with Cissnei.
’The Wraith is weakened,’ the crystal’s voice whispers. ’It sought to break that which binds it to its prison. With the crystal intact, it shall not escape. The fight against it is not yours to undertake.’
Slowly, Ashe regains consciousness. Her many injuries hit her in waves -- the sharp crack of her head against the stone, her scrapes, the cut of wind against her skin. Deep within her a nearly imperceivable sense remains. It is as though a new power lurks there. A new magic that waits at her disposal.
The crystal continues. ’You carry a light within you and with it the favor of forces far beyond yourselves. That light will protect you and see you from this place, but the world has not yet been brought from trepidation. Two fiends still remain along with the crystals which bind them. Those crystals will doubtlessly weaken, and should they fall, the hopes of this world fall with them.’
’Please. Carriers of the light, you must find others such as yourselves. Travelers from another world with the power to alter fate. Journey to the other crystals. Drive away their corruption and protect them from those who would do them harm. For this, I beseech you.’
A sparkling light envelopes them each in turn. Cissnei, Arc, Ashe. All are drowned in amber fairy lights, and with their last glimpses of the altar, they hear the echo of the crystal once more.
’Our hopes lie with you.’
Their vision flashes white. A gentle warmth cradles them, and then they find themselves outside the city walls. The tremors have ceased, but the city has not changed. The smell of rot rolls within it. The streets are empty but for the shambling dead. This place will take time to heal if it can ever heal at all. Still, a new light shines upon them. A light and a promise to be kept.
Far beyond these weathered hills, the sun inches over the horizon. The night has passed.
Ashe’s sword strikes Arc with a blunted clink of metal against magic. Still, the blow thrusts him backwards as he readies his spell. Aeroga. Gale winds erupt from Ashe’s feet, blowing her aside in a dizzying cyclone. She feels it within her dreams -- magic forming at the shadow’s fingertips then forces tossing her first one way and then the next. It dizzies her as she casts spells of her own. Ice cracks in Arc’s face, chilling and disorienting though it does little else against his defenses. The telltale shadows of a Blind spell shroud Ashe’s eyes, but they do not affect her mind's eye as she starts into a disoriented run towards the crystal -- still unbalanced by the wind.
The same frosted spell strikes Cissnei as she dashes forward. With less of an elemental defense as her mage ally, this stuns her just long enough for Ashe to gain ground. Disoriented and numb, they both reach the crystal at the same time.
Darkness shoots through Ashe’s veins like an electric current. It burns hard and sharp cold through her blood and she is rooted in place as the darkness overtakes her in a thickening cloud. The evil magic is palpable. It cracks around her like black lightning threatening to shoot into the sky.
The amulet burns hotter in Cissnei’s hand, but a different magic courses through her. A warmth dwells in her heart and expands out like a protective salve that feels neither the heat nor the darkness. Instead, there is only light, and as she holds the amulet against the crystal, it burns that darkness away.
The shadows whip out in pain, lashing wildly and with no direction. A terrible whine cuts the air as the corruption flees from Cissnei’s touch and gathers at Ashe’s. It courses around her thicker and thicker until she’s lost to the violet-black corruption. As the last of it is seared from the crystal’s surface, the crystal bursts with light that sends both women flying backwards.
Ashe lands hard and does not open her eyes -- still blackened by the blindness cast upon her. The foreboding tension flees the air, leaving an aura of peace behind. The crystal gleams a glorious amber that casts its shrine in warming hues. Above them, the stone is still. The trembling has ceased.
’Thank you.’ A woman’s voice echoes from the crystal. A sigh of relief overtakes them like a spring breeze. ’The evil within this place holds power over me no longer. These lands will heal.’
The shadowed figures don’t resist as the drives her blade into them. In fact, they disperse as the once populated city bursts into clouds of smoke. Left behind there is only a rocky outcropping, dimly lit in the glow of the crystal. It remains in place with its own air of peace. The figures, however, do not. One by one, they dissipate and flee into the shadows -- all except for two.
The one she drove her blade towards shirks away but does not shatter. Farther from her, the second flickers as it moves, flitting one way and then the other as though rolling across the ground. The shadows at her feet rise into a thick black fog that grasps at her ankles. It gathers at the remaining two figures and threatens to burst.
The corruption flares around Cissnei, gathering around as though to engulf her. Still, it is no match for her holy fire. Between the divine light and that of the flames, it shatters before her. The light itself rips it apart and casts back into a dull mist along the floor. Still, it grasps at Cissnei like a thousand hands seeking to restrain and tear apart. They slink after her as she escapes their prison, gathering enough of itself to form one thin tendril that seizes her ankle in a hard grasp.
Ashe wavers at the sleep spell, but doesn’t fall. The shadows do not shrink at Arc’s magic. The amulet flares in its holy light as it skitters across the ground. Where it lands, the shadows burn away and do not fill in the space left behind. It blares like a beacon in the darkness.
Ashe slows to a stop, eyes closed. After a moment, she raises her blade and dashes towards Arc instead, swinging hard without hesitation.
The crystal gleams its golden light. The shadowed figures watch in silent vigil. Their answer comes in echoed whispers. ’We doubt. We doubt. We doubt.’ A cold wind strikes the streets carrying both sand and engine must alike. Above, the airships sputter their eternal hum. ”Will you take it? Will you destroy that which we oppose?” The wind shudders as the airships drop closer. The streets whistle with the gales.
”Prove your will.”
The dark tendrils split into two, three, four pieces that lash out like tentacles around them. They move to strike Cissnei down, but as they sweep towards her, her shuriken is overcome with brilliant light. It cuts through the tendrils before they can seize her, and the shadows recoil back to the crystal. A familiar peaceful aura charges through Cissnei’s blood, but now it carries a new spark. Pride. After so long seeking the Warrior’s aid, her spirit has finally connected and granted Cissnei her full power. Her blessing against the monk above surges with a new vigor and her chakrums gleam like holy beacons.
While the two damaged tendrils reform at the crystal’s core, the others close around her on either side. They slam against the ground, shooting up geysers of dark energy wherever they strike. In moments, Cissnei is nearly surrounded by the corrupted magic. There is nowhere to go but through or behind.
Arc’s Libra magic glazes over the entity ahead. It is unknowable and far more powerful than the spell can contain. However, he is struck with the strong indication that it is weak to holy magic. He gleans little else.
Ashe lies unresponsive as Arc approaches. However, she hums as the curative magic envelopes her. As the magic dissipates, she sits up but does not look at Arc. Her eyes are only on the crystal.
She rises and takes her blade in hand. She approaches carefully. Cautiously. The amulet in Arc’s possession grows hot as an ember and scorches with white light.
’Will you take it? Will you destroy that which we oppose?’ The whispers echo from nowhere or everywhere or perhaps from the crystal itself. ’Prove your will.’
Ashe’s touch is sealed against the crystal. A great power rushes into her like the burn of electricity flooding her veins. Darkness sparks around her fingers, her blood sears with magic, and then her vision goes black.
For what feels like seconds or an eternity, Ashe sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing. It is as though she floats within a dark void waiting for release. What might be a voice or merely a gust of wind echoes as though on the whisper of a breath growing louder. When it finally reaches her, the words are clear. ’Why do you fight?’
First comes the heat and the glare of sunlight. Her boots ground on smooth stone. The whispers drown in the idle chatter of a city and then the vision spreads from her feet.
Street vendors call from their carts laden with silks and spices. It weighs on the air until it’s nearly intoxicating. The people do not notice her. Instead, they consider the offerings of the bazaar, pushing past her with hardly a glance. The sun beats a heavy rhythm until, of course, it doesn’t.
The sky throbs with the hum of clanking gears and engines. Above, a fleet of airships block a graying sky. They hover above the city as though lying in wait. The people continue their business as though oblivious of the fates that await them. Behind her, a voice.
”You seek power.” A shadowed form stands vigil behind her. Its eyes burn from a featureless shroud, watching unblinkingly. ”Strength. Revenge. That which is yours by right.”
A soft rustle of wind. A shadow appears beside her then another then another until they surround her, closing in. Whispers echo from within them, staggered and formless. ’We can grant it. We can grant it. We can grant it.’
Before her, the shadows part to reveal the street beyond. The people have gone, leaving in their place abandoned carts and doors and windows, and at the end, a golden gleam. The crystal. It hovers in place, shining as though lit by the sun.
A weight falls into her hand. The treaty blade. The shadows whisper their echoed call.
’Take it. Take it. Take it.
Outside her mind, Ashe’s body stiffens and jerks at the crystal’s power. For a moment, she seems held in place as though electrified, and then she is thrown back ten feet from the altar’s steps. Her head cracks against the ground, and she lays there lifeless, eyes closed and twitching faintly. The crystal’s shadows swirl as though agitated by some great power. They gather at the top and leak into the air like a miasma.
The darkness forms into a nearly human shape -- featureless , translucent, and black. It swirls above the crystal like a shadow before lashing at the remaining two with magic striking like a whip. The crystal's light is dulled with gray, and the cave's candles flicker their chilled power. From the shadows echo the same words from Ashe’s mind.
’Power. Strength. We can grant it. Take it. Take it. Take it.’
The cave gives one final crack and the whole of it collapses in a rush of stone and debris. The nearby tunnel is unaffected. Golden runes line the walls, pulsing a weak glow. The room behind them crumbles into a pile of heavy debris, clouding the two of them in ashen dust. The tunnel falls to utter darkness. The lines of runes are all that show the way.
The runes shine brighter the deeper they travel, and as the tunnel descends, magic rises to greet them like a shimmering mist. With it comes a familiar sense of calm and the warrior’s watching eyes. The magic is tinged with something urgent now. Though the presence cannot yet speak, it urges them forward wordlessly.
The tunnel opens into a wide cavern. Their footsteps echo into its space followed by a rush of flame. Lanterns light before them, lining the path down an ancient stone staircase. At the room’s center, a crystal hovers above its alter. It lights the room in an ethereal golden light.
For the first time in centuries, the Chamber of Earth has opened.
Two statues of the Warrior stand vigil at the altar’s base. Each holds a relic of the monk’s life. On one side lies a silken sash imbued with magic. Any who wear it find themselves quick on their feet and not easily tired. On the other side rests a pair of silver knuckles. When worn, it guides the user in unarmed combat as though channeled by the spirit of the monk itself.
Steps ascend towards the altar’s center. The crystal hovers above it, quite and waiting. Lines of black cloud its surface in deathly spirals. All is calm. The spirits wait.
The bridge sways as though in a light breeze as Cissnei takes to it, floating inches above the ground. The rope handholds on either side are frayed and unstable, and the entire bridge tilts with every grasp, but it seems more or less stable.
It creaks as Ashe falls in behind her. The boards are weak and unpredictable. Some bend below her. Others hold steady. The ropes that bind the bridge show their age with thinning fibers that threaten to snap given the right provocation. It pitches slightly with every step. Between the two of them, it writhes.
The cave gives another shudder and a stone looses itself from the ceiling, crashing down into the bridge before them. The bridge gives a violent jerk as the stone rips a hole through the rotten wood. Several of the bridge’s panels are taken with it. Behind them the path collapses, rushing towards them in rapid succession. The room itself trembles and threatens to give way over the turbulent black waters below. There is little time, and hesitation will only lead to death.
At the end of the bucking bridge, sturdy ground awaits them. The walls here tremble, but they have not yet given way. A tunnel lined with faded sigils awaits them at the bridge’s end. Inside it, no dust showers the ground. The earth warrior’s magic still provides protection in this place for any who can reach it.
The muffled silence is shattered as the boy crashed into the water. A dim orange light meets him from below emanating magic like heat. The crystals in the wall gleam an eerie signature. Beyond, the two women gaze into the darkness of ancient tunnels. Amalia’s torch casts the tunnel in flickering shadow.
The tunnel is winding and unstable. The walls are held up with clay bricks that have already cracked through to the earth beyond it. Magical sigils line these halls, but only a few remain active and their power is waning. The tunnel branches off at several points into separate winding paths, but nearly all of them have collapsed since their construction. There are no monsters in this sacred place, but the sound of running water echoes louder by the minute.
In time, the tunnel breaks into a sheer cliff drop. The path before them appears to have once been an earthen bridge, but it has long crumbled away. In its place is a deep fall into inky blackness and the roar of rushing rapids beneath. The water does not appear hospitable.
A thin ledge is all that remains of the earthen path. It clings to the edge of the right wall with stubborn resilience. The width of this ledge is rough and varying, spanning from six inches of width to three as it winds its way into the darkness. Since the path’s collapse, someone has roped together a wooden bridge tied to stakes driven into the ground. The rope and wood look ancient and unstable, and the bridge trembles, threatening to give way with every shake of the surrounding tunnel of which there are many.
To the left, another path winds from the main tunnel though it caved in close to its entrance. Air whistles between gaps in the fallen stone. The blockade does not appear any thicker than a few irregular layers of fallen debris.
The tunnel roars and gives a sharp shake that nearly topples them. The trembling continues in a low rumble, showering them in loose dust and dirt. Behind them, the ceiling snaps. The tunnel collapses down the hall, spreading a cracks above them like spider webs. The ceiling gives way in rough pieces that fall unexpectedly around them.
Two paths wait before them -- one of danger and the other of force. The tunnel will soon collapse in a crushing blow. The temple awaits their answer.
