Requiem Roleplay

NOTE: The below are simply examples of characters and ideas that may exist within the requiem universe. This page is intended to provide you with role-play primers for things you may be interested in.

Roleplay Perspective on Casting Magic in Requiem

In Requiem: Act VII, casting magic isn't just a mechanical action—it's a profound, often harrowing experience that weighs on the caster's mind, body, and soul. Since the system revolves around reciting mantras (sequences of Power Words) to channel Principatus (the ancient language of creation), every spell feels like tapping into something vast and unpredictable. The world of Vitateus is low-fantasy, so magic isn't flashy or effortless; it's gritty, risky, and tied to philosophical Arcanas that shape how the caster perceives reality. Here's how it might play out in RP, from the caster’s POV—think mental strain, emotional highs/lows, and long-term tolls. I'll break it down by what happens during casting and what the character might think or feel.

What Happens During Casting

When you recite a mantra, you're not just speaking words—you’re invoking Eden's fundamental language, pulling on threads of creation. The process starts with a buildup: your voice resonates oddly, like echoing in a vast cave, and the air thickens with an invisible pressure. Your morium (a crystal focus) warms or pulses, drawing mana from your body, which feels like a slow drain—your limbs heavy, breath short, as if you're pouring your essence into the void. As the spell forms, physical effects kick in. For a simple cantrip, it’s a tingle in your fingertips or a brief warmth. For a diction (rare spell), it's more intense: your skin crawls, veins throb, and shadows seem to shift. Parlances (epic spells) can be overwhelming—your vision blurs, ears ring with whispers, and you might taste blood or ash. Whispering a mantra feels intimate, like murmuring a secret to the wind, reducing the strain but weakening the result. Yelling it is explosive, your voice booming unnaturally, leaving you hoarse and drained. Morium failure is a nightmare: a sudden snap, like a string breaking inside you, followed by an explosion of pain—mana backlash that leaves burns, headaches, or hallucinations. Critical failures twist your mind, planting doubts or visions of the Thirteenth (the dark Archangel).

What the Caster Might Think/Feel

During the Buildup: “The words feel heavy on my tongue, like they're pulling from deep inside. My mind races—am I saying it right? The morium hums, warm against my skin, and for a moment, I feel connected to something bigger, like the world's listening. But there's that twinge of fear—what if it snaps?”

During the Release: “Power surges, my veins burn like fire, and the world bends—shadows stretch, air shimmers. It's exhilarating, like holding lightning, but exhausting, a pull on my soul. I think, 'This is it, the edge of creation,' but underneath, there's doubt: 'Am I wielding it, or is it wielding me?'”

Aftermath: “The spell fades, leaving me hollow, mana regenerating slowly like a wound healing. My thoughts linger—did I feel the Thirteenth's whisper? Or was it just fatigue? Casting changes you; each mantra leaves a mark, a crack in the mind.”

Long-Term Effects on the Character

Repeated casting erodes the caster’s psyche. Divine Arcanas might bring euphoria, a sense of divine purpose, but overuse leads to fanaticism or burnout. Paganistic feels primal, like channeling nature’s fury, but it can make you feral or disconnected from society. Diabolism is seductive, whispering promises of power, but risks madness or corruption—casters might hallucinate voices or feel their soul darken.

Overall, magic in RP is a double-edged sword: empowering but taxing, making casters introspective or paranoid. They might obsess over mantras, fearing fizzle as a sign of divine disfavor, or see every shadow as a Torment omen. It’s a path of isolation—mages are feared or hunted, so they hide their art, adding to the mental strain.

How They View Themselves

A VIC inquisitor sees themselves as a divine instrument, a chosen warrior of the Venerated Church tasked with purging corruption, heresy, and the Torment’s taint from Vitaveus. They believe their faith in the First Apostles and the Church’s purity grants them moral superiority, viewing their actions as a sacred duty to restore Eden’s order. To them, the Republic’s fracture—exacerbated by the Resolve’s alleged sorcery and the Afflicted husks—is a test of faith, and they are the righteous blade cutting through sin. The all-seeing eye insignia on their chest is not just a symbol but a badge of divine authority, a constant reminder that their gaze pierces deception.

They often frame their identity in terms of sacrifice and martyrdom. Each interrogation, execution, or purge is a personal offering to the Heavens, a step toward salvation for both themselves and the faithful. They might see themselves as shepherds protecting a flock from wolves—heretics, pagans, or even wavering citizens—believing that the ends (a purified Republic) justify the means (brutal enforcement). This self-image is reinforced by the Church’s propaganda, which elevates them as guardians against the Thirteenth’s influence, though it also breeds a subtle arrogance that they are above reproach. Roleplay Approach

Behavior: An inquisitor moves with purpose, their voice carrying the weight of command, often laced with a sanctimonious tone. They might recite prayers or mantras mid-conversation, like “By the Apostles’ grace, the unclean shall fall,” to assert dominance. Their attire—black robes or armor with the all-seeing eye—signals their presence, and they use it to intimidate, standing tall even in Ash Cove’s poorest corners.

Interactions: They interrogate with a mix of cold logic and fiery zeal, demanding confessions with phrases like, “Speak, or the flames will judge you.” They’re suspicious of everyone—VAC healers might hide Resolve ties, Foundry workers could smuggle heretical tech—pushing for loyalty oaths or trials by ordeal. Allies (Templars, Prelacy) are treated with guarded respect, while outsiders are scrutinized.

Moral Stance: They justify violence as divine will, seeing executions (like Mika’s looming fate) as cleansing acts. A failed mission might spur self-flagellation or prayer, believing it’s a test of their devotion.

Impact on Sanity and Mind

The VIC’s sanctimonious worldview takes a toll. Constant exposure to the Torment’s horrors—Afflicted husks, dying villages—can plant seeds of doubt, especially if their purges don’t halt the plague. They might hear the Thirteenth’s whispers in their dreams, interpreting them as temptations to be crushed with prayer. Over time, this breeds paranoia: every shadow hides a heretic, every silence a conspiracy. An inquisitor might obsessively check their insignia, muttering, “The eye sees all,” to ward off madness.

The weight of their actions—executing innocents mistaken for threats—erodes their psyche. They could develop a manic fervor, laughing during interrogations to mask guilt, or a cold detachment, treating deaths as ledger entries. Some might spiral into fanaticism, seeing visions of the Apostles approving their work, while others quietly question if the Church’s purity is a lie. The Great Schism’s holy war amplifies this—Naum’s zeal pushes them to extremes, risking a break if they witness too much suffering they can’t justify.

Sample RP Scenario

In a dimly lit Ash Cove tent, Inquisitor Thalion Vey stands over a trembling craftsman, his black robes swaying as he grips a silvered blade. The all-seeing eye glints on his chest.

Thalion: “Speak, cur! Where did you get that iron—Stolen hands or pagan filth?”

Craftsman stammers, eyes wide.

Thalion: “The Apostles demand truth. By their grace, I’ll purge your sin.” He raises the blade, voice rising in a prayer. “O Holy Sight, guide my hand!” He pauses, eyes narrowing as a shadow shifts—paranoia flickers. Is it a heretic? No, just a rat. He exhales, muttering, “The eye sees all,” and strikes, believing it’s justice.

Later, alone, Thalion kneels, blood on his hands, whispering, “Was she innocent? No—the Church is pure.” His mind wrestles with doubt, but he clings to faith, the line between sanity and zeal blurring.

How They View Themselves

A VAC member sees themselves as a guardian of life, a scholar-warrior wielding science and medicine against the Torment’s relentless tide. They take pride in their role as healers and researchers, believing their work at the forefront of academia—decoding diseases, developing cures—holds the key to the Republic’s survival. To them, the University of Arbitrium’s labs and field camps are sacred ground, where knowledge battles chaos. They might call themselves “stewards of hope,” viewing their gas masks and alchemical tools as badges of their sacrifice, protecting both the body and the soul from the Afflicted’s curse.

This self-image blends dedication with a sense of superiority. They see their methodical approach—standardizing treatments, studying the fifth humor—as a higher calling, often looking down on the crude faith of the VIC or the industrial focus of the Foundry. Yet, there’s an undercurrent of burden; they know the stakes are high, and failure means death for thousands. Some might view themselves as martyrs, their lives offered to the greater good, a belief that steadies them through long, grueling shifts. Roleplay Approach

Behavior: A VAC worker moves with a clinical precision, their gas mask muffling their voice into a distorted hum—“Containment protocol, now.” They carry vials, syringes, and ledgers, their hands steady despite the strain. Their demeanor is calm but authoritative, reflecting years of training, though fatigue often seeps through in a tight grip on their tools.

Interactions: They collaborate with peers on experiments, sharing data with a dry efficiency—“Subject 17 shows 30% recovery with the new serum.” Outsiders get a wary nod unless they prove medical knowledge; ignorance earns a lecture on hygiene. They’re meticulous, documenting every symptom, seeing each patient as a puzzle to solve.

Actions: They focus on research—testing herbs from the Rustwood, dissecting Afflicted samples—or treatment, administering potions in quarantine zones. Their work ethic drives them to push boundaries, even risking unsanctioned experiments, viewing each breakthrough as a step toward salvation.

Impact on Sanity and Mind

The VAC life is a crucible for the mind. Constant exposure to the Torment—dissecting husks, watching patients turn—breeds a haunting familiarity with death. The gas mask, while protective, isolates them, their breath echoing in their ears, fostering a detached calm that can crack under pressure. Paranoia creeps in; every cough might be infection, every shadow a Resolve spy sabotaging their work.

Over time, this erodes sanity. Some grow obsessed with perfection, rechecking data late into the night, muttering, “One misstep, and it’s all lost.” Others face despair, seeing patients die despite their efforts, questioning if their science can prevail. Rituals—like cleaning their mask with a specific cloth or reciting a research mantra—anchor them, but the line between dedication and madness thins. The fifth humor debate adds strain, with dissenters risking ostracism, their minds fracturing under the weight of forbidden theories.

RP Scenario:

In a sterile tent near the University of Arbitrium’s field camp, the air hums with the scent of herbs and antiseptic. Dr. Lysa Harrow, a gaunt researcher with a cracked gas mask, and Apprentice Tobin Krell, a nervous young medic with trembling hands, pore over a table of Torment samples under flickering lantern light.

Lysa: (adjusting her mask, voice muffled) “This husk tissue—see the blackened veins? The fifth humor’s influence is undeniable. We need to adjust the serum ratio—more wyrm’s heart, less bloodmoss. Your notes on Subject 12?”

Tobin: (flipping through a ledger, ink smudging his fingers) “Uh, yes—12 showed 15% decay reversal, but the fever spiked. I think the bloodmoss overloads the system. Maybe a 3:1 mix? I’ve been grinding reagents all night—45% success on the gems, but it’s slow.”

Lysa: (nodding, tracing a vein with a gloved finger) “Good instinct. We can’t afford failure—the camp’s running low on viable subjects. I’ll process another batch tomorrow. Keep the grinder steady; those gems are our edge. The Torment won’t wait.”

Tobin: (hesitating, lowering his voice) “What if we’re wrong, Lysa? What if the fifth humor’s a dead end? I hear… noises at night, like the samples are talking.”

Lysa: (pausing, then firming) “Focus, Tobin. The noises are fatigue—clean your mask, recite the protocol. We’re the last line. Let’s refine this tonight.”

They resume work, the lantern casting long shadows, their shared resolve a fragile shield against the encroaching dark.

How They View Themselves

Dren Holt sees himself as a shield of the Republic, a soldier bound by duty to hold the line against chaos. Raised in the rugged hills of Sulastas, where Legion outposts dotted the landscape, he views his role as a protector of the common folk, even if the Republic’s leaders often fail them. The Legion’s bronze armor and disciplined ranks are his pride, a symbol of order in a world unraveling under the Torment. To him, each patrol or skirmish is a test of honor, a chance to prove his worth against the Afflicted and the Republic’s internal rot.

This self-image carries a mix of loyalty and disillusionment. He believes in the Legion’s mission—maintaining stability—yet grumbles about the bureaucracy that starves their supply lines or sends them into hopeless battles. He might call himself a “last bastion,” seeing his comrades as brothers-in-arms, but there’s a growing sense that they’re pawns in a game played by Prelacy elites. Still, duty anchors him, a belief that without the Legion, Vivateus would collapse entirely.

Roleplay Approach

Behavior: Dren moves with a soldier’s stiffness, his bronze armor clanking as he adjusts his stance. His voice is gruff but steady, often barking orders—“Form up, no stragglers!”—though it softens with comrades. He carries a notched sword and a dented shield, symbols of his service, checking them with a habitual glance.

Interactions: He’s respectful to fellow Legionaries, sharing war stories or ration tips with a nod—“Kept me alive last winter.” Outsiders get a curt salute unless they’re deserters, met with suspicion—“State your business, or march on.” He’s disciplined, maintaining formation even under pressure, viewing chaos as the enemy.

Actions: He focuses on patrols, fortifying outposts, and engaging Afflicted hordes. His work ethic drives him to train recruits or scout terrain, seeing each task as a brick in the Republic’s defense, even if he doubts the cause.

Impact on Sanity and Mind

The Legion life wears on Dren’s sanity. Constant clashes with the Torment—watching comrades turn into husks—plant seeds of dread, each groan in the fog a reminder of mortality. The Republic’s neglect—rations cut, orders delayed—fuels frustration, making him question if they’re fighting for a lost cause. He might mutter, “For what honor?” under his breath, battling the urge to desert.

Over time, this erodes his mind. Some nights, he dreams of Sulastas’ green hills, now ash, triggering guilt over fallen brothers. Paranoia grows; he checks his squad for Torment signs, fearing infection. To cope, he polishes his shield or recites Legion oaths, believing they restore his resolve. The line between duty and despair thins—some snap, others cling to camaraderie, their sanity a fragile shield against the valley’s gloom.

RP Scenario:

In a muddy trench near Rumbling Pass, the clink of armor punctuates the silence as two Legionaries—Dren Holt, a scarred veteran with a weathered shield, and Kael Torm, a lean scout with a chipped spear—hunker down. The air is thick with Torment stench, and a distant Afflicted wail echoes.

Dren: (wiping mud from his shield, voice low) “Another day guarding this hellhole. Saw a husk patrol last night—three of ‘em, shambling toward the pass. Took ‘em down, but my sword’s notched to the hilt. You find anything on your scout, Kael?”

Kael: (leaning on his spear, nodding) “Aye, a supply crate near the ridge—half-rotted grain, Republic stamp still on it. Tor’s lost, but they’re still hoarding. Found tracks too—boot prints, not husks. Might be deserters, or worse, Forlorn scavengers. We holding this line much longer?”

Dren: (grunting, adjusting his helm) “Long as the orders come. But if the Torment breaches, we’re dead men walking. Sharpen that spear—might need it before dawn. Pass me that whetstone; let’s keep our edge.”

Kael: (handing over the stone, grimacing) “Edge won’t save us if the supplies don’t. Still, we’re the wall. Let’s hold it, Dren.”

They work in silence, the whetstone’s rasp a steady rhythm, their shared resolve a thin thread against the valley’s despair.

How He Views Himself

Brother Garrick Thorne sees himself as a divine shield, a vessel for the Apostles' will, sworn to protect the faithful from heresy and the Torment’s blight. Born in the cloistered halls of Athaerun’s monasteries, he believes his Templar oath elevates him as a guardian of Eden’s purity, his steel and faith the Republic’s true strength. To him, each battle is a prayer made flesh, a testament to his devotion, where doubt is sin and mercy weakness. He carries a quiet certainty that his sacrifices secure salvation, viewing his role as a sacred burden, a light against the encroaching dark.

This self-image blends humility with unyielding conviction. He doesn’t seek glory but fulfillment in duty, his scarred armor a chronicle of trials endured for the greater good. Yet, there's an inner flame— a belief that the Templars are the Republic’s moral core, uncorrupted by bureaucracy.

Roleplay Approach

Behavior: Garrick moves with disciplined grace, his white cloak flowing over steel plate, sword always at the ready. His voice is measured, often laced with scriptural quotes—“By the Apostles’ grace, the unclean shall fall”—delivered with a steady gaze that brooks no argument.

Interactions: He offers guidance to the faithful with a paternal nod, sharing rations or prayers. Doubters get a stern lecture, while threats meet swift judgment. He’s vigilant, scanning crowds for signs of corruption, his actions a blend of compassion and resolve.

Actions: He focuses on patrols, purging Afflicted, and aiding the needy—escorting refugees or fortifying villages. His work ethic is tireless, viewing each task as a step toward redemption.

Impact on Sanity and Mind

The Templar life tests Garrick’s sanity with every Afflicted horde or heretic pyre. Constant vigilance breeds paranoia; he questions if the Torment taints his own soul, leading to sleepless nights of prayer. The weight of lost comrades erodes his mind, manifesting as visions of the Thirteenth mocking his faith, or guilt over innocents caught in purges. To cope, he clings to rituals—polishing his shield or reciting oaths—but the line between devotion and fanaticism thins, his resolve a fragile armor against despair.

RP Scenario:

In a quiet chapel corner of Saints Hollow, Brother Garrick Thorne kneels before a cracked altar, the candlelight flickering on his scarred armor. The valley’s distant wails filter through the stone, a reminder of the Torment’s reach. He stares at his reflection in his polished shield, the weight of his oath pressing heavy.

Garrick: (whispering, tracing a scar) “Apostles, am I still worthy? Each husk slain, each heretic judged—does it cleanse or stain? The Torment laughs at our prayers, and the Republic crumbles while we stand guard. Is my blade a shield or a curse? The fire in my chest burns, but what if it's the Thirteenth's flame?” He grips his shield tighter, eyes hardening. “No—doubt is the true enemy. I am the light. I must be.” Rising slowly, he extinguishes the candle, the darkness mirroring his inner turmoil, yet he steps out with renewed resolve.

Roleplaying a Foundry Character

How They View Themselves

A Foundry member sees themselves as the backbone of progress, a craftsman or engineer forging the Republic’s future from raw materials and ingenuity. They take pride in their hands-on skills—shaping iron, steel, and wood into tools, machines, and medical devices—viewing their work as a tangible counter to the chaos of the Torment. To them, the clang of the hammer and the hum of the forge are acts of creation, a defiance against decay. They might call themselves “builders of order,” believing their labor keeps society standing where faith and bureaucracy falter. This self-image carries a mix of pragmatism and stubborn resilience. They see their role as essential, often feeling undervalued by the softer classes—clerics or nobles—who don’t dirty their hands. Yet, there’s a quiet arrogance: they know the machines they craft outlast prayers, and their standardization efforts (like the Redholme University of Medicine and Disease) prove their superiority in practical solutions. Some might view themselves as unsung heroes, toiling in the smog while others reap the benefits, a sentiment that fuels both dedication and bitterness.

Roleplay Approach

Behavior: A Foundry worker moves with a deliberate, mechanical rhythm—hands stained with soot, tools always within reach. Their speech is blunt, often laced with workshop jargon—“That gear’s misaligned, needs a proper smith’s touch”—reflecting a no-nonsense attitude. They might carry a worn ledger to sketch designs or tally resources, a badge of their trade.

Interactions: They bond over craftsmanship, sharing techniques or debating alloy strengths with peers. Outsiders get a gruff respect if they show practical skill, but ignorance of their craft earns a scoff. They’re meticulous, inspecting every rivet or vial, seeing flaws as personal failures to be fixed.

Actions: They focus on production—forging weapons, refining medical tools, or salvaging Rustwood lumber. Their work ethic drives them to innovate, even under pressure, viewing each project as a step toward mastering their craft.

Impact on Sanity and Mind

The Foundry life takes a toll. Long hours in Redholme’s smog-choked factories or the Rustwood’s damp depths wear on the body—coughs rack their lungs, and soot stains their skin permanently. Mentally, the repetitive grind can breed monotony, a sense of being a cog in a machine, which some offset with pride in their output. The Torment’s threat looms, with every cough a reminder of potential infection, sparking paranoia about tainted materials or air.

Over time, this can fracture their mind. Some grow obsessed with perfection, dismantling and rebuilding devices late into the night, muttering, “It must hold.” Others sink into despair, seeing their work undone by the plague’s spread, questioning if their craft matters. Rituals—like polishing a favorite tool or reciting a forge chant—help maintain focus, but the line between dedication and madness thins, especially if a project fails catastrophically.

RP Scenario: Foundry-to-Foundry Interaction

In a cluttered workshop near Redholme’s industrial district, the clang of hammers echoes off soot-stained walls. Two Foundry workers, Torin Slate, a burly smith with a singed beard, and Mara Kelt, a wiry engineer with ink-stained fingers, huddle over a cracked steam engine prototype.

Torin: (wiping sweat from his brow, inspecting a bent gear) “This piston’s shot—too much pressure from that last test. Thought the steel alloy would hold, but it buckled like green wood. You got a fix, Mara, or we scrap it?”

Mara: (scribbling notes in her ledger, peering through cracked spectacles) “Not scrap—recast it. The mold was off; I saw slag in the pour. Mix more iron with the steel, slow the heat—standard ratio’s off with this batch. I’ll sketch a new design tonight. Lost sleep’s worth it if we nail this.”

Torin: (grunting, tapping the engine) “Aye, but if it fails again, the overseer’s on our backs. Last shipment of Rustwood timber was half-rotted—Torment’s eating the supply. We need a stronger frame, or this thing’s a coffin.”

Mara: (smirking faintly, adjusting a valve) “Then we forge it ourselves. I’ve got a trick with coal compression—might buy us time. Pass me that hammer; let’s beat this into shape before the shift bell.”

They work in sync, the hammer’s rhythm a quiet defiance against the workshop’s gloom, their focus a shared lifeline in the grind.

NOTE: The above are simply examples of characters that may exist within the requiem universe. This page is intended to provide you with role-play primers for things you may be interested in.