The Black Church Latest Topics

SURVIVE ME

Tue, 26 May 2026 23:16:38 +0000

[This is a private roleplay post, only meant for the affiliated eyes of the Black Church.]

Bats gathered in flocks, outnumbering the roaming Zevnka, squeaking and casting down battish glares to all who walked the blackstone cathedral. The slightest prompt of a stalking shadow, a battish presence, saw a cloud of bats take flight from their hanging on the ceilings. They swirled and swarmed, providing to every column a declaration. For all eyes which frequent the Black Church, a blood-written message reads:

⤝✤ ────────────⤛ ⛧ ⤜──────────── ✤⤞

Hear ye, hear ye,

I am the Farmer, Lord of all Vampires.

The Warlord is consumed, naught but a red spatter on the Black Church’s tiles. Reduced to meat for his cowardice. For the Weak are Meat and the Strong do Eat.

Over his blood and bones, I declare my ownership over his post. But, in the light of absent leadership, which failed to manifest promises of an Age of Darkness, I make my claim of the entire Black Church itself. The dark is wasted here, left to the snapping jaws of restless Crusaders.

I come to lead you from the damning light, as any dark angel of Hell shall, to lead you into an Age of Ruin. Already has it started and it shall continue with the head of the Black Pontiff, whom I call to meet my challenge upon the dais where he loved to preach.

You have two years.

Survive me.

⤝✤ ────────────⤛ ⛧ ⤜──────────── ✤⤞

[You have between May 26th - June 9th. @_Leyd]

CALL TO COMBAT

Tue, 19 May 2026 04:19:06 +0000

[This is a private roleplay post, only meant for the affiliated eyes of the Black Church.]

Throughout the black cathedral, bats begun to shriek and squeak from their upside-down hang upon its ceilings. Sent into a flying frenzy, prompted by powers unknown, a cloud of bats maneuvered throughout the halls from roof to basement, leaving letters. They were directed by a dark master, who submitted a challenge, written in blood.

⤝✤ ────────────⤛ ⛧ ⤜──────────── ✤⤞

Hear ye, hear ye,

I am the Farmer, Lord of all Vampires.

Effective immediate is my stake and claim upon the Church, which has withered with incompetent and lacking leadership for far too long. The first, which shall meet the consequences of these transgressions shall be the former Hand, usurped by our ascended King of Demons, Vriza.

As you are titled Warlord, by your flock, you are sparse in the war-effort that rises against you. This will not be tolerated. You are to report to the center of the Black Cathedral, so we may engage in ritual combat between the near-end and end of this year.

Failure to meet this challenge, will find you excommunicated and KILL ON SIGHT, to all forces stationed inside and outside the Black Church.

Survive me.

⤝✤ ────────────⤛ ⛧ ⤜──────────── ✤⤞

[You have between May 21st - May 23rd. @PrimnyaQuorum]

Stories of Skinned Men

Tue, 21 Apr 2026 02:07:38 +0000

⟢ Stories of Skinned Men ⟣

“Once you’re outside of the circle of people who agree that you’re special, you’re just another human body.” Glenn Cook, Soldiers Live.

An impish simulacra of a housecat scratches bloody writing onto vellum flayed off its own back. The spoken words of its pacing summoner are dictate and threat alike. Should a word go unscripted, a recounting poorly embellished, a gaudy detail questioned, the striith would be slain again & another one of its pelts tanned for work in the Catcher’s black contracts. Death would never take the grey cat. Styx would always spit the demonic, mangey feline back out, to be reborn again and again at the displeasure of its diabolic master’s woeful malcontent.

“Are you listening, akun’zro?”

Skin-bag. The Ratcatcher’s loving nickname for their infernal handler from the Moz Strimoza. The grey cat balks, and in line with the idioms, bites its own tongue. On a normal day, the grey cat would, in any number of colorful ways, suggest the Catcher take their own life post-haste. Still, bitter reminders to fall on the sword only amused the striith’s binder, doubtlessly accelerating the timeline between now and the feline’s next forceful skinning. Depictions of creative applications of blasting potions, swallowed cockatrice breath, or hand slipped into the gear-train of a smogging machine did not worm their way past the imp’s tongue… today.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You talk, I write. What’s new?”

Candles melt as low as the wicks will allow, until they gutter and spit, wax splattering. The luminary ordeal reminds the Catcher of battle, of trench warfare, of the fear in men’s eyes. Of froth corrupted lungs, choking on smog. The warlock sits, squat, legs splayed, on a throne of open books. Many yellow pages, ruined, for candlesticks were sat just atop them, allowed to bleed their red holy wax. Their slack posture, hunched, cutting the image of a widower in profane relief and paradoxical misery at the death of their battle-axe of a wife, yet choked to death. But the Catcher had no wife to choke to death, nor husband to poison, they had only their striith, and its dismissive, self-destructive suggestions. They were quite the pair.

“They were real people, you know.”

“. . ., what?”

“The skins I wear around, like a regent in her gowns. Each one of them. I tore it off of them, their identities, and into their flesh I stepped, like boots too big, and a jacket too wide.”

“Have you grown a soft side? Let me see it, so I can put a dagger there until you die.”

“Write, grey cat. Write, and don’t waste my time. The souls of those I caught, and flayed. Their stories are worth documenting.”

“. . ., if you say so.”

⟢ Entry 1: Joan ⟣

Spoiler

“How old was I? Maybe thirteen. I used to look it, too. Young, fresh-faced, warm. I had a knack for story-telling. Well…, heh. Maybe I had a knack for lying. Mom was still alive, back then. I think she wanted the best for me. The best our station could afford, at least. But this distinction, this small gap, was all I needed for light to pour in from the hall outside my bedroom door.”

“Selling cow-hides and meat with Joan, I had scraped enough together to pay for a room in the tavern of Alba. There, I could watch the streets. I did not understand what I was seeing. What I learned, in time, were the names and faces of Alban guards. They wore burgundy brigandine, simple helmets, and often chased Joan and I out of houses we had snuck into. The two of us were thick as thieves. Those guards locked me up to hunt rats in their armory more than once. Heh.”

“And then I learned of nobility. Of money, of wealth, of power. I did not grasp it for quite some time, but it eventually became clear to me. The frictionless saunter of a woman who trails from the start of her day to the dark of her night without hiccup or bump. They glide, if you watch carefully, and arrive at a chosen stop. The miserable, the down-trodded, they bump around, like ants. Here, there, stopping by a group to stuff a nose in. These were the structures I came to learn from the perch of my tavern room. How others moved, how they acted, and the gap grew. More light poured in. I began to understand the difference between the high and the low.

"In my lows, I held but one real ally. Joan was my first and oldest friend. I do not know where she is now, but I want to tell you about her. She could not have been more important in the slaughter I am about to paint for you. Joan despised her station. She was distrustful and miserable around the wealthy. A few years my youth, but with a fire I could not imitate. She was adopted, as was I, by a woman named Constance, who came with a daughter - Lucienne. These are our three actors in the play that culminated with my first murder. Lucienne, the polished, perfect daughter of the passingly rich Constance, the street-wise and rag-tag Joan, and I.”

“I hated Lucienne. It was like a rock in my guts. The time Joan spent with her made me want to choke them both to death. I claimed Joan, she was the closest thing I had to family other than my mother. The thievery we worked for paid for my tavern room. The schemes we worked kept me fed. But Lucienne saw me as the issue. Perhaps it was my sharp tongue. Perhaps she saw a darkness in me that she did not see in Joan. Day after day, Joan grew closer to Lucienne. I remember the first time Joan met me, wearing a new, threaded dress. It would have cost me a year of work, thieving, and cheating in pig. I dredged her through the mud, and Lucienne shortly after. I ruined their beautiful clothes, and it soothed me. Perhaps this was where the rift arose from. Maybe it was all the time Joan and I spent in jail together.”

“And soon, I was removed from the home by Constance. I was sent to Lord Roger Ashford de Rouen’s castle, where I found no home. A sword was shoved into my hand. For so long I had clung to a little rusted dagger. Now…, now I had a blade, as long as my arm and made of cold steel. He had not meant to, but Lord Roger gave me the last thing I ever needed from Men.”

“Joan left her own skin behind. It was not flayed, nor cut, merely… stepped out of. She left it behind, that life on the roads. Lucienne took her in, and she became a different person. Well-tailored dresses. A life with prosperity. The near nameless flesh of an unloved street-rat was shed and discarded, now an empty husk."

“I wore it with pride.”

⟢ Entry 2: Eke ⟣

Spoiler

“Here is the first name I remember. Eke. Taken as well by the Arja, sequestered into the pits below Hallowcliffe’s ruins. By the time I first glimpsed the blackstone of their ritual room, the blood of their internal squabbles had dried on the floor, become metal in the air. Those Princes had fallen or ascended, as we do, and now the abandoned dilapidation of their chambers housed new shadows. Among them, myself.”

“Eke was young. Arrogant. He did not understand his place at my side, and when bid by Arja to raise him to militant standard, I did my best. We fought, the first time, swiftly. He had been unarmed, a fool’s mistake in those flaming halls, and paid the price for lacking preparation. Nicks and bruises. Small debts to owe me, as I taught him the lessons he needed. He was sore, though, sore for years. His anger soured into hatred. I will never know if Arja poisoned this well to test us, but he thought it… wise to challenge me.”

“I remember how afraid I was, in truth. I had been recently turned, you see, my marrows yet fresh. My eyes were adjusting to light, and dark alike. In my mind, I imagined that he had worked this out, and prepared a bag of flash powder to blind me in rapid succession. I had seen Arja work the souls of lost men into a veil of invisibility, and this frightened me too. How could I fight what I could not see? I laid my claws upon the sharpest blade I had, and worked tirelessly to plan for this challenge.”

“Into the icy winter of paranoid Norland, I drifted, slinking through a travelling caravan to avoid the aurum and salt of their gate-guards. There, I waited, at the respite of the only flame large enough to disdain the chill, the hearth of their tavern. I penned alchemists of the frozen wastes, writing the men of Solgaard, and other mud-mixers until I caught the attention of one who had what I wanted. I spent the wealth of my pockets upon these baleful candles that reveal the gleam of those cursed by ghosts. I lied through my teeth, elaborating that I was a monster hunter. What did I care? As far as I thought, I was.”

“I prepared an armor of thick mail. As I reasoned, it would give me the best chance in combat. Padded with gambeson, and I found a morion helmet that I wrapped black silks under. I prayed that if Eke started throwing flashing bursts, they would assuage the sparking light in my blind eyes. Upon a bandolier, I strapped no less than six potions. Bombs, cockatrice breath, smoke whispers, auric oil. I look back and laugh. I was a frightened, weak thing.”

“When our challenge began, I had already successfully lit the candle. My issue was not that I had underestimated my opponent, but that I had overestimated him. He made the same mistake twice, somehow. Despite having a full year to prepare for our fight, he brought one sword. No flash powder. He had no tricks up his sleeve. Listen, grey cat. I do not know if I have ever been more angry in my whole life. The gall to set his blade upon my life, and bring nothing more than its metal.”

“He crumpled in minutes. He could not slink into the veil of ectoplasm, nor do I even know if he was capable. His sword sung through the air, performative and playful, and mine bit into his flesh time and time again. He danced. I fought. I painted the floor with his blood, and when he glared up at me from my feet, I hewed his arm from his body.”

“It was this broken man that taught me about shepherds, and ectoplasm. He had no choice, after I sundered him. I did not flay him alive, as became tradition for those who fell to my blade in the future, but I did step into his skin. He was meant to be Arja’s chosen, my foil. He left, shattered, and never returned. Like a usurper, a heel-grabber, I took the mantle that was left for him, and received all blessings that Arja had meant for another.”

“I won because I was afraid.”

TO THE SELF-PROCLAIMED KING OF DEMONS

Wed, 18 Mar 2026 00:47:54 +0000

Spoiler

The letter, though clearly addressed to an individual, is handed out to passers-by en masse by gaggles of strange, serpentine Zevnka.

All may view this letter!

——————- ༽ꙮ ༼-——————

TO THE SELF-PROCLAIMED KING OF DEMONS

————————

It is, I am quite sure, no longer rare knowledge that a particular Twisted-King has co-opted the Mivtahza to peddle what seems to be a strange breed of Canonism.

This very same Twisted-King, ‘Vriza,’ cannibalised my mentor, Vihimsa [WBUH]. He would later beg said mentor to have me disconnected. To nobody’s surprise, it did not happen.

You are an IDIOT, Sul Amirsan Aen Sov. I know your name. I know where you live. I know what you are. I know what your wife is. You know little more than my name.

Did you think you could wrong me, and escape unscathed? Yes. you probably did.

WRONG!!!

As you tried [and failed] to rob me of my life, I will now do my best to rob you of yours!

Sul Amirsan Aen Sov, known alternatively as ‘Rhys’, is a Devil in man’s clothing, quite literally. He is an inferis, and his wife, the VERY purple Naazeri of Cauróst, is a Warlock. Search her hands and arms and you will surely find a very intricate set of tattoos; Those are her brands.

If she’s as big a fool as I’d think, you may also catch her carrying her grimoire around. Any kind of strange book or scroll, or anything of a similar nature.

The dastardly Sul Aryhsan Aen Vriza, or whatever he would like to be called, sources his power from some strange amulet, which I’m told he is required to don when he transforms into the Glutton-Tyrant Vriza. The chances of him carrying it around are unlikely.

Make sure to look out for his iconic Carbarum warhammer. I’d wager that he thinks he’s slick enough to get away with using it while in the guise of a mortal. I can't quite say for sure, but I'm rather certain that he should have some of the features of a goat, though I can't speculate on the traits in question.

Surely, the Pious folk of Azuras can recognise that we would both benefit from the Glutton’s complete eradication. As he perverts The Mivtahza into some kind of tumorous, disgusting off-shoot of Canonism, he makes a mockery of your faith, and so too does he corrupt my Truth, the glorious Mivtahza.

Let’s rectify this, together.

—————————

- A WARLOCK

P.S His name means believe. Lame!

Dawn Denied

Sun, 15 Mar 2026 03:19:05 +0000

Spoiler

Parchment fluttered through a stained sky, The paper had a script that burned its surface, like trapped

molten caging a great fury

ʀᴀᴢɪ ᴀ ᴜʙʏᴢ ʙʟᴏᴛʜʀ, ʙᴜʀᴢ, ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴇʀᴛʜᴇᴋ-ʜᴜʀ.

Their judges descended upon our most sacred rite, even with their prosecutors no proper verdict could be given, Even as they spat their words they were empty. The Horde made of both Inferi and Undead came ‘pon the hidden shrine, quickly unveiled by our most skilled weavers, then the ritual commenced and two burning orbs descended the skies and bathed us in their wretched light- They called themselves judges, instead they were met by our own merciless mallet that quickly sent their forces back whence they came. Their names not offered, likely believing us not worthy… though they were not even worthy enough to feed our ever hungry forces, Continue sending your patrons. They are fuel.

You are next, Stag-Lord.

To the Blessed Children of Hell

Sat, 14 Mar 2026 14:20:57 +0000

To the Blessed Children of Hell,

Spoiler

The letter is distributed by harrowing means, delivery made often by Imp, at times by a witch's familiar, or found fluttering in the wind -- nailed to trees at crossroads. The message was clear: the children of Hell were called home to the Black Church. They need only the resolve to seek it.

I will pen the truth simply, for you are owed it.

Regardless of the way you die, to Imperial blades or a Templar's Flame, your soul is owned by the Hells. Those few of you who find “salvation” in slavery to the Militant Faith will not be redeemed. Your soul is bid, still, straight to the hand of havoc. There is no path to reclamation under the three-limbed God of Men; when death finds you, you will take the boat to Hell’s shores, and be eaten. I take no joy in these truths. I simply want you to hear them.

Your options are few, and I will summarize them with honesty.

You may align with the pagan Druii, and sell your soul to the Aspects of Nature. You will live a life tortured by a chorus of singing plants, shrieking animals, and eventually your eternal rest will be dragged into a meaningless choral slop of vegetation, flesh, and whimsy.

You may align with the brutish Shamans, and sell your soul to the Spirits. You will live a life tortured by self-aggrandizing, animate elements. You will wait, day by day, until you are consumed by the meager representation of flame, or the moon, and purity will reject you.

You may wallow, in fear, and pride, and loneliness, until a blade or age takes you one and the same. That brutal hand of havoc will feast upon your soul, devour it the way a cat eats a mouse, and you will be lost. Nothing more than a swirling, shrieking hatred in the belly of my red god.

Or, you may revolt.

Abandon the world that has offered you nothing, and take my charred hand. I will redeem your soul, and see you armed with the passion the people have denied you. Instead of putrid whimsy, I will give you slick violence. Instead of false representations, I will give you steely truths. Instead of oblivion, I will give you eternity, and you may devour it rather than be devoured by.

I will break the chains that tie you to meaninglessness. I will arm you against those who would see you and your kin driven into the mud to die. I will prevent your eternal damnation between the jaws of the divine. However far the Faith Militant will take you, I will take you farther. I will teach you more. I will show you worlds beyond the doorstep of Mundus.

None know of the fire that burns in each of your eternal souls, how all of you down to the last number seek nothing more than to carve your own destiny. I see it. I respect the courage, the strength of will, the drive to seek a new dawn every day and claim what is yours.

You devils are our children.

Come home.

The Sohaer's Duty

Thu, 05 Mar 2026 01:52:13 +0000

ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴡ ᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴏʟɪꜱʜ

You were offered mercy even by our most cruel, your walls quickly crumbled beneath our might, Yet you still fought, that is admirable. Every shield crumbles beneath the right weight..

Haelun'or was raided in search for failed Sohaer and foolish xionist ACALMAEHR CALITH and thus they denied our request, they fought and defended him to the death, Even as their current Sohaer warned them not- it is not new for those of high elven to give up the chance to save themselves, in exchange for more detriment and suffering.

Never again should you beg to tread into our halls and brag of conquest, It will be returned.

Do not make the same mistake Veralya Wynasul. Do not forget the Sohaer’s duty.

Aucte, Her Unholy Eminence,

Ra’vor Ozorr

The Black Bishop, Prophet of the Usurpent, Shepherd of the Lost