cultists
also known as
- invaders
- deceivers
- army of darkness
- necromancers
- servants of kathon
what they’re known for
the greatest strength any group has is only in its weakest member... and the army of darkness is one of culling and perfection. the best of the best prevail, the lower falling beneath their caste of warriors and raised as undead thralls. their doctrine is one of strength above all but one virtue — loyalty to the cause. to put oneself above the cause invokes a sentence worse than thralldom: a direct torturous sacrifice to their god.
it’s unclear where the cultists started outside the island. some whisper about the first priestess, a necromancer of great power who had a special connection to spiders, who was given clairvoyance by the lord of many legs itself. others speak of a prophecy given down from parent to child, carrying an ancient riddle that only a chosen believer could solve. the beginning is not taken with the same importance and reverence as the end.
their god is described as an eldritch revenant god — he who was awakened from death and granted freedom from the curse of life. mortality, being part of the cycle of time, is seen as a sin that must be atoned for. most depictions reference the necromorphs that command the caverns beneath the island, undead spider-kin. only the highest-ranking cultists are given audience with these original stewards, and fewer still finish the experience with their life.
the goal of the army of darkness is to retake the island for kathon and his children. this involves razing all settlements and sacrificing all life upon them to their dark master. first sidrón, and then the world!
cultists are generally human (witches) or were human at some point in their life, but there are exceptions to this rule.
you become one through
birth, or by joining.
what they need to survive
all the things that a normal human being, vampire, witch, or werewolf would need to survive. their boon is knowing that upon death, they will be revived in service of their lord.
strengths
like humans, the cultists find numbers to be their greatest strength. when one soldier falls — on their side of the battlefield — they are raised with new purpose to fight for their dark master. as an undead thrall they are mindless and act only through the will of the necromancer that raised them, but being cannon fodder is better than being nothing.
subterfuge: chosen by kathon, they have access to the caverns beneath the island, many of which lead out to the surface. other islanders are not aware of the full extent of these tunnels and consider them haunted.
weaknesses
all the weaknesses of a normal human, witch, werewolf, or vampire. knowledge is power, not the secret to immortality.
humanity risk
those in service of the revenant god kathon are giving up their humanity, their life, their soul, and their world. not even in the afterlife will they be free of his dark clutches. there is no escaping once joined — trying to leave is tantamount to fast-tracking a life as an undead thrall. among the cult, humanity is a stain to remove and not a virtue to maintain.
roles in society
hidden and modest. there are currently no cultists in positions of power across the city, but they are working to silently recruit or replace the current regime. a shopkeeper with eyes that linger too long. a bartender taking secrets. a chimney sweep mapping houses. subterfuge is the way of this war.
humans
also known as
- locals
- islanders
- tourists (for outsiders)
- the living (in contexts where that distinction needs making)
- livestock (a deliberate insult, and a revealing one)
what they’re known for
the island’s stewards. that’s what the locals consider themselves, at least. most of those who’re born here know no other home, and probably never do. some insist it’s by choice, but largely, it’s by circumstance. they tell you as much if you ask: there’s something about this place that makes it difficult to leave. call it fealty, curiosity, desperation. sometimes all three.
the ones who’re curious — they’re the ones who have certain suspicions about the island. said suspicions stretch from the physical to the metaphysical, and through generations, too. what grandmother questions, snoops into, and half-dismisses some eighty years ago becomes an anthology of old wives’ tales, superstitions, and social contracts. it’s all oral history, and the singular moral that comes of it is this: you would be wise to leave it alone.
the tourists are known simply for docking the shores — blissfully unaware of what the island belies — taking photos, buying souvenirs, and leaving before they notice anything… off-kilter. though, it helps that some of the locals are somewhat snippy to those who overstay their welcome.
hunters are a different subset entirely. no matter the public guise, ultimately, they’re a group of methodic, dogmatic cullers in the night; from their own families’ oral histories, they set in stone which creatures are deserving of life, and which aren’t — and they believe it to be their lifelong duty to balance the scales.
you become one through
birth.
what they need to survive
food, water, warmth, rest, and safety. humans need other humans, too. though, time and again, they think otherwise — and act as if there are no consequences.
strengths
humanity’s greatest strength is the capacity for collective action… when properly motivated. think of every old tale where the angry mob rallies to kill the monster in the high castle. more often than not, they’re merely a group of ordinary people brought together by pitchforks, fire, and the desire to survive. victory follows not long after.
a secondary strength: numbers. humans are, and always are, the majority. on the island alone, they outnumber the creatures. however, that census shouldn’t be significant to anyone. yet.
weaknesses
the body. it’s breakable (easily breakable, for the unfortunate ones), slow to heal, and built on a clock that runs for roughly eighty years — if that.
humanity risk
what humans lose, they lose in ordinary ways: to time, to grief, and to what life does to a person over the course of living one. one can only hope they live a life that is, above all, good.
role(s) in society
the face of the island. equal parts protectors, perpetrators, and victims. and, without most of them knowing it, the resource on which the whole thing runs.
vampires
also known as
- the undead
- ghouls
- immortals
- revenants
- leeches (the aristocratic families find it gauche; the very, very old creatures find it quaint — which is worse)
what they’re known for
though details differ across cultures, the universal truth about vampires is this: they’re soulless bloodsuckers.
the aristocratic families on the island, however, beg to differ. they’ve built quite the institution for themselves: they’re a patriciate with lineage records, a compendium (that is, for all intents and purposes, holy writ) that carries unerring rules on how vampires must live, and very, very strong opinions on purity. one such rule is that each addition to the community — intentional or accidental — requires a formal introduction, and failure to do so begets a sanction.
the less zealous revenants, on the other hand, occupy themselves with blending into human society. in fact, they’re largely to thank for the island’s red-hot nightlife: they’ve boosted tourism by creating a circuit that complements the best parts of a tropical island vacation by day — crystal-clear blue waters, ultrafine, powder-soft yellow sand, and the simple pleasure of soaking up the sun — with a roster of thrills after dark: sensual dance clubs with music built for heat and misbehaviour, transgressive midnight vaudeville (where audience participation is encouraged), and not-so-virtuous entertainment where money ends up on the table.
the irony isn’t lost on them — how engaging in debauchery is the only way they can feel close to being human again — but when you’re damned to be a creature of the night, what else can you do?
and then there are those who’ve long since lost interest in being readable — in “passing,” if you like. the ones who’ve become nothing more than appetites with grotesque faces. these creatures are the ultimate consequence of living far too long. they have long since abdicated their humanity and stand far from both civilisation and salvation. hunger wins.
you become one through
being fed on until the brink of death. when you awaken, you are undead.
what they need to survive
blood, and blood alone. human blood is the standard. the blood of other supernatural beings is needed for those who’ve lived long enough that human blood no longer satiates their appetite (they develop a tolerance, as it were). animal blood is often viewed as an acceptable substitute, particularly by those trying to preserve what’s left of their humanity, though many vampires will tell you it’s more akin to a sugar pill than real sustenance.
strengths
vampires are faster, stronger, and considerably harder to kill than anything else on the island. they are its apex predators — especially the long-lived, amorphous creatures with jagged teeth. injuries close in a matter of seconds, as if they were never there. and, of course, they’re alluring in a way that can’t be described. when a vampire enters a room, the air changes. whether they cause a positive or negative change, however, is dependent on the observer.
additionally, every vampire possesses a sort of capstone specialty. some can read minds, and even control them (with enough time dedicated to learning so). some can manipulate earthly elements. some develop the ability to inflict pain on others telepathically.
weaknesses
the sun is the ultimate killer. heavy covers such as wool clothing, hats, and umbrellas can buy time, though they do no favours in maintaining a “normal” visage (especially on a tropical island). direct, sustained exposure to the sun kills a vampire in minutes, and it kills them faster the older they are.
the heart also calcifies early. the body recognises it as dead matter, and so it reacts accordingly, demanding greater volumes of blood to compensate for what the heart can no longer provide.
and the older they get — provided they don’t exert the effort — the harder they are to look at for too long without the observer registering it as uncanny — something that isn’t alive, or shouldn’t even exist, but does.
above all: there is no cure. there is no reversal. there is only damnation.
humanity risk
the soul — or whatever now occupies its square footage — goes quiet. the ordinary hungers of a human (food, water, and being known by someone) fade of their own accord, and maintaining one’s humanity becomes deliberate work, like reviving a dead language. after one thousand years, it’s a daily effort. after five thousand, those who’ve stopped trying (see: appetites with grotesque faces) aren’t long for this world. what accelerates the loss is feeding without discipline, cutting ties with the living, and, of course, time — which spares no one.
role(s) in society
hidden, elite, and feared. the aristocratic families maintain their institution and naturally, function as you’d expect — sprawling, easy to marry into, very hard to leave — and govern by council. they’re feared (and rightfully so) by those who possess… certain instincts. to everyone else, they’re completely invisible.
werewolves
also known as
- the changed
- wolfkin (informal, used within communities)
- mongrel (used by vampires who regard them as an embarrassment to the general concept of the supernatural; the feeling, for the record, is mutual)
what they’re known for
the change is what the stories fixate on, but the change is actually the least of it.
when one thinks of the word “werewolf,” images of bloody canines may be conjured in the mind. a howling beast — aggressive for aggression’s sake. seemingly, there’s no motive for their violence apart from the need to establish their dominance — in the wild, against prey, or over their kin.
however, what werewolves are actually known for — among the small number of people who know anything at all — is grief. specifically, the unasked-for kind. the kind that arrives before you have any say in it, rewrites the terms of your body, and comes with no clear explanation. they suddenly possess power beyond what any normal person would know how to handle, and are endowed with the instincts of an animal — an angry one, at that.
but the average werewolf on the island doesn’t want this. what they have, in lieu of a cure, is community — people who know exactly what it feels like, because it happened to them, too. for that reason, the packs on the island have resolved to become its covert protectors. what better use is there for a beastly affliction than to turn it into a force for good?
you become one through
a bite that breaks the skin and pierces through muscle during the change, which is rare, and doesn’t always take effect in every receiving body. there’s a threshold of susceptibility; however, there’s no reliable metric that they know of.
or, by birth: a child born to one or two werewolf parents inherits the condition.
either way, the first change doesn’t arrive until adolescence. when it does, it arrives all at once, with very little warning, and considerable violence.
what they need to survive
the ordinary things — food, water, warmth, rest, and safety.
but, above all, community. a werewolf isolated during the change is a danger to themselves and everyone within reach. the change comes monthly, locked to the full moon. it can be tracked, scheduled around, and survived — pack leaders have perfected this — but it can’t be postponed.
strengths
in their changed form, a werewolf’s physical capabilities significantly outperform human limits — and don’t embarrass themselves next to a vampire. they’re just as strong, and can lope only a step or two behind a speeding fledgling. the more time they spend in their changed form, the more fluent they become in their second body, until it turns them nearly invincible when in motion: all muscle, instinct, and lupine violence.
their senses are also heightened tenfold — even in human form — smell, primarily, but hearing follows close behind. they heal fast in both forms, as well — not instantly, but faster and more completely than a normal human body should.
and the pack, when they have one, functions as a collective intelligence — what one knows, everyone benefits from.
weaknesses
the change isn’t optional, nor is it subtle. a full moon is a full moon, regardless of the inconvenience it poses. preparation requires a safe haven (or a den, or a cage, or simply chains) and at least one other person who knows the truth of things.
additionally, wounds inflicted by any form of silver heal at a normal human rate, which means they never heal quickly enough to matter.
the period after the change is deeply depleting in a way that takes days to fully recover from. and the changed state, for all its power, isn’t a state where complex thought is available — pure instinct is running the show, and what gets done in that state has to be lived with afterwards.
humanity risk
the risk is when the changed state bleeds into the unchanged one. it’s a gradual erosion: their impulse control shortens. their senses, already heightened, start to feel like television static. there’s an inner itch that can’t be scratched. the longer they go without their community, the more the changed state starts to feel like the true one and the human state like the performance.
what makes it worse is isolation, and the unresolvable weight of having hurt someone during the change and not knowing it until much later.
role(s) in society
tolerated by those who know, and barely, at that. certain vampires regard them as messy — not to be taken seriously. among themselves, werewolves run democratically — decisions go to a vote, dissent is expected, leadership is earned and can be taken back. the island’s human population has no idea they exist, and they’d like to keep it that way.
witches
also known as
- the awakened (internal terminology)
- practitioners (neutral)
- cunning folk (archaic, rural, and still somewhat accurate)
- witches (truly archaic, never used)
- hedge witch (implies that one is an amateur, operating without a real framework or community, which is the relevant insult)
what they’re known for
primarily, knowing things they shouldn’t… but do, anyway.
the awakened possess the competence of someone who’s learned to pay attention to the parts of reality most people have collectively agreed not to look at directly.
one might consider them “old,” but in a different way than vampires are old. not in years, but in knowledge. they survive what gets buried — from white lies to bloodlines.
and because of this, they’re the closest thing the island has to an official bridge between the known world and the underworld. some covens disapprove of making that bridge visible, but visibility does have its uses. you might find an awakened working as a local doctor, a faith healer, or the sort of person one visits when the hospital has all run out of answers.
the trouble, of course, is that there are those who imitate their craft badly, sell it cheaply, and leave the true awakened practitioners to inherit the damage.
you become one through
awakening. it isn’t a transformation you can seek out. the ability exists in people with the potential, the “gift,” if you like — and is usually preceded by an instance of extremity. grief is often the primary catalyst, whilst anger is a close second.
however, not everyone who possesses the potential reaches the threshold. not everyone who begins the process gets to the other side intact. handle your awakening poorly, and you might end up with a scrambled mind.
remember: these gifted yet still very human (ergo, vulnerable) beings are tapping into real power, and where real power lies, the fallout awaits.
what they need to survive
the ordinary things, because witches are human first: food, water, warmth, rest, and safety.
the practice itself requires materials sourced with intention, and runs on the logic of consequence.
for example: hair, salt, blood, a name written correctly, and a watch stopped at the right minute. these are all necessary to create a charm (also known as enacting a “working”). a charm can be made from almost anything, provided the practitioner understands what each piece means.
strengths
the capacity to act on reality sideways: to find the seam and pull where it gives.
at its simplest, it’s practical work. spells, cleansings, hexes, divinations, and small corrections to the natural order. with time, an awakened can defend, offend, conceal, reveal, call, banish, mend, sour, sweeten, or sever — with only a wave of the hand.
at its strongest, the craft becomes something far more grandiose. the most powerful practitioners are able to distort reality itself, though at a great cost. this level of craft is rarely reached or survived.
on a human level, the awakened also possess a quality of attention that makes lying in their presence feel like a bad idea — not dangerous, exactly, just… inadvisable. you may even feel it in your gut once a lie starts budding on the tip of your tongue.
weaknesses
paradox. the principle that the practice is constrained by what the people around it can collectively rationalise (and accept).
a working that can be explained away by “science” can easily pass through the world. but a working that tears a hole in what someone can plausibly believe — this creates blowback, and the blowback lands on the practitioner. the bigger the rupture, the harder the landing. pulling a rabbit from a hat is a trick. pulling a bazooka from a purse is a debt, and the interest compounds immediately.
additionally, the practice is demanding in the way physical training is demanding. not only that, but it exerts the mind, as well. after all, there’s no shortcut to competence.
humanity risk
the awakened are still human, so the risk isn’t the loss of their humanity, but the loss of the ground beneath it. the deeper into the practice they go, the more they access parts of reality that aren’t necessarily comforting to see — especially for mere mortal humans.
the ones who’ve been at it long enough develop a coldness — a mild yet permanent distance from ordinary life that the people around them tend to register as strange, but sad.
what makes it worse is practising alone, practising without a community or framework, and the seductive trap of possessing power that works better the less you think about what it costs.
role(s) in society
primarily hidden, and rightfully so. sought out, quietly, in emergencies.
the covens on the island have been here long enough to have their own geography of significant places, meeting points, and accumulated grievances. they don’t have a council. they have a general understanding of each other’s “place” in the circle, a lot of opinions, and a fairly reliable grapevine.
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