|
|
Post by joatmoniac on Dec 4, 2017 0:33:31 GMT
|
|
dmdemon
Commoner
Your Friendly Neighborhood Demon
Posts: 19 
|
Post by dmdemon on Dec 4, 2017 17:31:07 GMT
I'ma take 5...
I don't really know much about Dayeimbe yet as I've only recently started listening to DM Nastics, but in the last game I ran, I had a people known across the world as the Fire Islanders.
The Fire Islanders lived on a cluster of volcanic islands and basically worshiped a red dragon by the name of Akarresh. Everything about them revolved around fire and water. They were extremely passionate, adaptable, and widespread. They were some of the finest ship builders in the world and traded with everyone.
When I see this image of a funeral ship lit aflame and men pushing it out to sea, I feel as if a fire islander had died. The Pyre is a given. All fire islanders are cremated, but for some so far away from home, they should be set to the sea and burned so the spirit may sail home where they belong...
The crowd gathered. Admiral Raz Dravin's body was laid out on her Funeral Skiff. Her first mate placed a small piece of volcanic glass on her chest. "May this guide you home swiftly." He said quietly. She looked peaceful now. Her dark skin washed clean of caked layers of sea salt. He orange and red outfit pressed and wrinkle free. The way an admiral should return home. The first mate stepped down from the skiff and nodded. Lanterns were lit and placed in the kindling. The sail was set full. Six men pushed the skiff out past the wave break.
"From the master we all come, and to the master we all return."
A glow in the night among the waves. The funeral pyre of Admiral Raz Dravin.
|
|
|
|
Post by dmsavage on Dec 5, 2017 1:46:20 GMT
I don't know anything about Dayeimbe either as I'm catching up on all the episodes, but I'll take number 10. It seems like there are smoke stacks in the background and these people are living in a steampunk/industry world. So here is the funeral speech,
"My cogs and cogites! It is known, that we are all just teeth on the Great Wheel that turns our world. In life we sweat, we weep, and we put our souls into keeping these machines breathing...pumping...working. These machines that keeps our world from falling into darkness! So in life, our souls, our sweat, our bodies are the fuel that drive these machines. But alas! What can we do in death? My children...my cogs...and cogites....we can commit our bodies to the eternal furnace and once again, become fuel for the machines! What we did in life we can do so once more in death!"
"We commit this man to the great furnace of Factory Number Ten, where he worked tirelessly, making sure warmth and comfort was spread to our people. May he find his place upon the Great Wheel, and may he keep the world ever turning. Heat to Steam. Steam to Pressure. Pressure to Power!"
|
|
|
|
Post by meribson on Dec 5, 2017 4:45:32 GMT
Calling dibs on 4, I'll scratch this part out once I have the speech written and translated.4.  So, grab a picture and tell the tale of the funeral behind it, and the people behind that! Can't wait to see what people come up with! I have traveled Dayeimbe searching for impressions of history left on the land. One that haunts me to my bones was the funeral of a barbarian horse-lord in what today is the (*forest*) but once was a grassy plain. I did not know who the barbarians were. I only saw them in the echoes of ancient dreams that the land remembered. They road over the hills as the sun set, chasing the chariot that carried the body of their fallen king. I know not how he died, what he was named, or anything else about him. Only the lingering emotions told me that he was a king. The torches spurred the horses on, pulling the chariot further and faster. With the thundering of more than four hundred hooves, the procession raced from their home to the tomb in the mountains. As the warriors rode, a dirge, haunting in its melody and chilling in its sound, was sung by all. Gar dorzul rogok-mi,
motirn zk hunik,
zk zrokul-mi,
da uzduma zk zunik.
Dialog is a variation of an excerpt from the Ango-Saxon poem 'The Wanderer' and translates to: So spoke the king, mindful of threats, of fierce betrayal (from brothers), and the downfall of clan/kin. When I get a chance I think I might look into completely translating the poem. Either way I'm going to do a recording of the snipit above (*once I get over this bug killing my throat*). |
|
|
|
Post by dmcaleb on Dec 5, 2017 16:03:08 GMT
I’ll take #3.
The arch of veils.
This ancient arch was once guarded by the fairies of the veil. This unique location has strange properties that effect the living and the dead. If two willing individuals travel under the bridge with a deceased third, the bridge will transfer the life energy of the two to the one.
Since then the fairies have left, the land flooded (inspiring someone to make the arch a bridge), and a city rose up around the bridge. All current funerals still use the bridge due to the legends surrounding it, but they travel over the bridge not under.
However, a few individuals well versed in the histories of the land may figure out how to harness the magic of the arch. What being would they be willing to bring back to the land of the living? A hero? A villain? A loved one?
|
|
|
|
Post by lasersniper on Dec 5, 2017 23:03:38 GMT
9)
Given the lifespan of elves, I imagine dying of old age is not a common occurrence. If one manages to get that far along just imagine the amount of people they would ave interacted with and spoken to. The generations of people they would have ties with in some way. If someone like that just passes away, even if they were a simple woodsman, I imagine it would draw quite a crowd of people.
And what better way to remember this seemingly timeless person then for a tree burial. Where a sapling is planted atop your grave so you can nourish it in death. A tree, which can live on for thousands of more years.
There are many things that could bring an elve's long life to an end. We are not immune to the claws of beasts or the toxic touch of sickness. However, there is an end that many of our people do suffer from, the weight of time. Our lives are longer then most, but we are still mortal and wither with age. They have touched countless generations with their influence and experienced life to its fullest. We commit them now to the soil and plant this sapling as a living memorial and testament to their life. May you nourish its life, and its sight bring back your memory to us all.
- Traditional Burial Rites
|
|
|
|
Post by boostoverkill on Dec 15, 2017 1:17:16 GMT
i'll take #6.... ![]() Okay, my first shot at some DMnastics! I've been looking forward to this! I know very little of Dayeimbe, so this idea is for the the 5E forgotten realms setting, and the ominous orange light in the sky makes me think of...... Backstory:Just as the prophets of "The Order of the Reaper" had long since predicted, the eruption of Mt. Hotenow had come about to devastate the lands. Recently, there has been much debate among the order, a cult devoted to the worship of Myrkul, the god of death. The High Priest of the cult, Illvarus Meerum, had sworn that Myrkul himself had spoke to him in a dream, and assured him that his followers would be spared from the destruction. On the contrary, the prophets had consulted an oracle, which told them that Myrkul had demanded the sacrifice of Illvarus Meerum, as he had grown soft and sought only to protect himself. Myrkul wanted the vigor of young blood to fuel his followers into a new age, and he has proclaimed that Ishara Meerum, Ilvarus' only child, must take charge of the order. From the Image:"it is a with a sad heart that i utter this prayer in my father's name..." Ishara whispers over her shoulder to Kelvanna, High Cleric and leader of the cults defenses. Kelvanna just nods and looks forward, knowing the task at hand, trying to ignore the kicks and screams from the coffin.
"...Know me and fear me. My embrace is for all and is patient but sure. The dead can always find you. My hand is everywhere - there is no door I cannot pass, nor guardian who can withstand me." Ishara prayed, as she prepared to lower her father into his grave. "Myrkul comes for us all Father, I pray he comes for you sooner than later." Little did Ishara know, the oracle had not received her prophecy from Myrkul, but instead from Bhaal, the god of murder. Her followers would in fact be spared from the destruction, just as her father said. |
|
|
|
Post by phos on Dec 18, 2017 6:14:21 GMT
#2 When I was a child there was still enough of us to cling to the hope that we, as a species would survive. By the time you were born that hope for a future had died. I'm so sorry. Instead of being received as a miracle, as a harbinger of our future, you were born with the knowledge that you might be the last of our kind. We were selfish. So selfish. But it'd been so long since a child had been born. Watching you grow was my greatest joy. All of our greatest joy. Our only joy.
It used to be said that no parent ever wants to outlive their child, but it is a small mercy to have to eulogize you, rather then die knowing that you would have to one day eulogize an entire civilization. That there would be no one to mourn you. That you would be alone. In the past we marked our graves with stones and monuments, for the greatest of us they built temples. But those days are long gone. Every living member of our kind is gathered here say good by you. Soon there will be no one left to remember, no one left to read the words "Here lies..." So instead, I leave you unmarked, in the prebiotic soup of this nameless planet, buried with the very thing that pushed us to extinction. It is the hope of our people that this is the greatest monument to your life we can leave. That the power contained within this weapon will catalyze your remains, that we leave not a corpse, but a seed. This our purpose now, our entire lives are one long funeral procession. Our every word the last rights of a civilization. We leave our loved ones scattered across the stars, so that our greatest foley might one day give rise to worlds teeming with life. Perhaps my child, millions of years from now, a young species with eyes like yours, will look up at the stars and wonder if any one is looking back. And some where, some one with eyes like your mothers will be. ![]()
|
|
|
|
Post by rorrik on Dec 18, 2017 23:40:14 GMT
 After how hard it was to find funeral images, I decided to make my own for my favorite lightning twins: Ren and Yak. When a worshiper of Ren and Yak dies, it is customary for his fellows to gather, building up a crude tower on which to present his body to the storm. The ceremony almost always involves using magics to call lightning down on the fallen, but for very special followers, the mourning period will be extended until such a time as a powerful storm arrives naturally. During this time, followers of Ren and Yak can gather to mourn the fall of their brother. When the storm finally does come, they will revel in its power, using their magics to strengthen it and ensure that dozens of lightning strikes do not fail to carry their fallen comrade to Ren and Yak's abode, to ever fight beside them. |
|
|
|
Post by DM Lord Neptune on Jan 9, 2018 17:55:50 GMT
7.  First off, FFVII funeral, very nice. But applying it to a general fantasy funeral, here's my take. In this world, certain bodies of water are sacred because they are what allow the souls of the dead to depart their bodies. Specifically, all ponds within forests hold this property, but it is unknown as to why this is the case. Some believe it is because the Goddess of Nature and the Goddess of Death are actually the same deity. Religion scholars have been studying the phenomena for ages and still have not come to a comfortable conclusion quite yet. However, one thing is certain: if a deceased individual is not brought to one of these ponds to release their soul, then they are fair game for the likes of re-animation, vampirism, or worse. Unfortunately, these happenings are more than a reality for there were countless centuries where the dead were simply buried and not released. Skeletons, zombies, vampires, liches, etc all came from past generations that simply didn't know any better. Since the discovery over three hundred years prior, the population of undead have slowly started to dwindle. It's been a difficult journey, since they only way to truly destroy them is to bring them to one of these ponds and submerge them, which releases their souls and allows their bodies to become one with the earth finally. During these ceremonies, the body is generally just submersed and then brought back out to be buried normally. Once submersed, the spark of their soul releases and joins the other sparks floating around the area. This is important, as these sparks are fragments of the individual that was lost. Resurrection magic gets a little complex in this regards, then. Before submersion, it is possible to resurrect an individual wherever they are in the world. Post immersion, the body must be brought back to the same pond its soul was released in before the spell will be effective. For this reason, the location of the specific pond is generally inscribed upon the individual's tombstone just in case this were needed. |
|
|
|
Post by finallyfoundahobby on Feb 10, 2018 3:54:43 GMT
 The Everfire- Funeral rights from the dwarves of Krallenholde "You were your mother's miracle child, did you know that?" The last words of his uncle Dalin echoed in Talwund's mind as he road the slow, giant elevetor down into the depths below Krallenholde. The platform was crowded but silent but for the chanting of the priests. In the middle sat the bier bearing the body of his uncle whose death had come mere minutes ago. The ways of the dwarves of Krallenholde demand immediate internment of those who pass. Citazens who wish to attend the rites must begin their journey down to the bottom of the city in advance, if not immediate kin. Some had begun their journey more than a tenday ago to ensure they would not miss their chance to honor Dalin Storm. The elevator halted and Talwund immediately felt the heat and saw the orange light coming from the chamber of the Everfire and the Hall of the Forefathers beyond. Hundreds of others were there to greet them who had made the journey down. The procession made its way into the chamber of the great and ancient forge, powered by the wild river of molten rock flowing through it. Talwund followed the priests up to the forge set with a great door of glassy black rock, made hard by the fires. The doors opened to reveal the raging flames within. Talwund looked upon the face of his uncle one final time and then slid his body into the flames. The priests did their chanting and sang their hymns, and then it was time to cool the flames and recover the ashes. The slab was slid out from under the forge grate and Talwund began to methodically sweep the ashes together with his hands, treating each infitesimal piece as a memory of his uncle, some word of advice he must try to hold fast in his mind forever. The priests brought him an oblong container of the same hard black rock as the furnace, and he swept the ashes inside. Then the chain and adamantine seal was brought. Talwund took the liquid metal and poured it over the opening of the container to seal it and also fasten the chain to the top in preparation for his uncle's journey down into the fire. Talwund carried the glassy black container to the edge of the gaping scar carved through the cavern by the raging flow of the Everfire below. He said the final prayers, held his uncle's words in his mind once more, and then lowered the container down, down, until it just touched the surface of the fire. There his uncle would rest for one full year. In a year he would be back here to complete the rites, to pull his unlce back out of hte fire, break the container, and revel the gem forged of the ashes. Then he would carry the gem to the Hall of The Forefathers and set it with all the others of his kin from a time before memory. No, not before memory. For the hall is filled with the gems of all those who have come before. It is said that if you listen you can hear them speak their wisdoms. "I will see you again in a year, uncle, and you can whisper your wisdoms to me again." |
|
dmk
Commoner
Posts: 8
Favorite D&D Class: Fighter
Favorite D&D Race: Human
Gender: Male
|
Post by dmk on Feb 20, 2018 20:11:35 GMT
10.  The Lictors of Riiv (Rive) are responsible for burying the corpses of those that should never be brought back. Their sole charge is to keep notable villains, usurped leaders, and rogue magi locked securely in the realm of death. If they cannot be assured that a great lich, dragon, or other creature will rest peacefully, they will send a strike team to secure the corpse and bring it to the lair of Riiv, the dragon of death. The lictors resurrect the most dangerous of their charges over and over again to train against them and to recondition them to serve as Lictors of Riiv, using repeated wish spells from Riiv himself to slowly transform them into productive, neutral people. What you see here is an awakening. A funeral for the past misdeeds of the once evil Lich who holds the incense. He will experience his final death at the fangs of Riiv after nearly millennia of faithful service. His reward, oblivion. No punishment for his misdeeds, no angry gods torturing his soul. He will be placed beyond wrath's reach by the merciful fangs of Riiv and the guiding hands of his fellow lictors. |
|
|
|
Post by wrinklewroes on Feb 21, 2018 17:07:35 GMT
8.
Being a cleric for the Laurissen nobles is a thankless job at the best of times. Given their predilection for breeding and battle, there are more nobles than commoners amongst them by a factor of around 7:1. The incessant desire for fighting though means this ratio is in a constant state of change. Thankfully, probably for those around them, they’ve only ever cared for their small ancestral patch of land.
The Laurissen nobility worship a relatively unknown deity, Shawvin the Tortured, whose commoner clerics, rather than finding their calling in this chaotic neutral goddess’s path are forced into the role. To begin, in their history Shawvin was the warrior queen of the Laurissen people and a truly fearsome sight to behold on the battlefield.
After years of earning her reputation on blood-soaked battlefields, her mere presence at a fight of any magnitude was enough to cause the opposing side to either immediately surrender or turn and run. Surprisingly, Shawvin detested the terrifying figure she had become. She recognised pure dread in the faces of her foes and realised she had never felt even an ounce of fear.
She sought out warrior gods and faced down every one until they too trembled at the idea of coming face to face with her. Finally, a trickster god, Osi the Wish Granter presented her with an interesting proposition: become a god, herself. And not just any god either, become a god who eats terror and feasts on fear. If she were to do that she would be able to feel those terrible emotions as they course through her body.
Without hesitation she accepted and Osi made it happen. Osi turned her into a goddess that could only sate her hunger with fear and it unfortunately did not take long until she lost her mind. She now spends her endless days swinging between the pain of tremendous hunger and intense psychological trauma caused by the fear she consumes.
Laurissen warriors who worship and pray to her are merciless yet unnervingly calm on the battlefield. Because of this they rarely fall in combat due to fact their senses are not muddied by the fear Shawvin has just taken from them. However, when they do fall in battle, it’s never good to be a cleric of Shawvin.
The Laurissen nobility is of the opinion that the only reasons their warriors fall is due to a lack of fear that Shawvin has at any point in time. To restore the fear, they take the slain warrior and place them on a small ship. Joining them on this ship are family members of the last cleric who blessed the warrior, all alive but completely restrained.
That cleric then has one of his or her limbs removed and the bones worked into arrows. All that’s left is a prayer to Shawvin, and the arrows set ablaze then fired into the ship. Being a cleric for the Laurissen nobles is a thankless job at the best of times.
|
|
|
|
Post by letterlost on Feb 2, 2021 3:32:47 GMT
all the pictures have been done, so I'll add one I found.  “You know Moor, now that I look back on my years in these woods, I think our time herding spiders was the best I’ve had.” Eldar says, they are his final words. Patting the wolf on the head Eldar took a final deep breath, closed his eyes, and his life left him. Moor looks up, watching as Eldars soul floats out of him. The glowing soul floats in front of its former body, then slowly falls until it rests beside its friend who rests beside it in turn as they wait. They hear the wings before they see the crow. She flies down before them and bows. It is Miro, she knew Eldar well and is honored to take his soul to the forest lord for reincarnation. Eldar always wanted to be a fawn, so he could have a fling with a dryad. Moor wants him to be a phase spider, they drove him crazy in life and thinks he would enjoy a turn. In one year, he will be reborn as Moor’s cub. She will like that; animals notice that sort of thing. Bonus: |
|
