#dark rpg

[einarbaldvin]

Encounter II. Ink on paper. 33x48 cm.

[venathos]

Fear and hunger memes that have come to my mind

[fearandhungerincorrectquotes]

Cahara: If there is such a thing as true love, I’m sure I’ll never find it. But maybe, if it existed, I could steal it.

Celeste: Oh, don’t worry, pretty face. I’m sure that you’ll find it someday. Maybe you and I can even find it together.

Cahara: If I ever come across love, I'll steal it for you.

Cahara, under his breath: Wait. Holy shit, I think I just found it.

[c0simo9]

Retro RPG style dark fantasy armor

[decandencerpg]

Decadence breathes in the bones of a ruined world while power gathers in the shadows. And the city calls for new rulers.

In the heart of a fractured and post-apocalyptic Sacramento, magic stirs like something waking beneath the earth. Factions rise and fracture. Old alliances rot. New empires bloom in the dark. The Seelie and Unseelie courts circle each other with sharpened intent, each seeking to claim the future. The Enforcers hold the city in a grip of iron and teeth while the Rebels whisper of liberation in hidden tunnels and burned-out sanctuaries. Coven witches barter secrets that can rewrite destiny, yet the Regent’s throne stands empty and waiting.

Here, characters do not stand beside the story, they become the story. Every arrival shifts the balance, and every choice leaves a mark. We invite players who crave narrative gravity, who want their characters to matter, who want to weave their own threads through a living, breathing world of grit and beauty.

The city is in need of a Witch Regent. It hungers for Seelie and Unseelie nobility. It cries out for Enforcers to keep "order" and Rebels to destroy it. It waits for significant roles, power players, and those bold enough to shape the fate of a crumbling kingdom built on magic, blood, and ruin.

[mythveilchronicles]

🕯️ The Bone Island A World of Darkness Chronicle – Ordo Specter Archive, North Sea District

Some places are not on maps. Not because they're lost—because they were erased. Poveglia is such a place.

Just off the coast of Venice, nestled in the lagoon like a wart on porcelain, the island never looks the same twice. Gray even on blue-sky days. Still even when the wind is screaming. Locals don’t mention it. Fishermen reroute without noticing. As if something in their blood knows better.

We were never told who initiated the request. Maybe the Vatican. Maybe a syndicate with sigils in bone rings and glass eyes. All we had was a name, a half-melted videocassette, and a police report made of blank pages. Literally blank. Clean, crisp parchment with an official seal—but no words. It smelled like hospitals and burned feathers. We burned it.

There were five of us. A priest with no collar. A skeptic with tattoos he swore weren’t his. I brought the gear. EMF scanners. Salt. A mirror covered in prayers. None of it mattered.

We landed at dawn.

And the island... breathed. Not like lungs. Like a mass grave.

Fog didn't rise from the sea. It rose from beneath our boots. The earth was too soft, too warm. Marcella was the first to break through—sank waist-deep in loam that clung like breath. When we pulled her free, her skin was covered in welts. Not burns. Not rot.

Impressions. Like something had gripped her with hands that never learned gentleness. Small. Countless.

The hospital ruins still stood. A skeleton of stone and rusted beds, gnawed by vines and time. But inside—there was no dust. The linens were folded. The air still smelled of antiseptic and violets. And the window bars were bent from within.

We heard the bell before the threshold. A single note. Then silence. No birds. No insects. Not even heartbeat.

The patient logs were in Latin. The ink darkened as you read. Names like Valentius, Seraphim, Experimentum 44B. It was never about healing. It was about containment.

We found the sub-level by accident. No stairs, no door. Just a corridor where geometry lied. The descent felt longer than the island allowed. Time stretched. Minds frayed.

There was a room down there. Cut from volcanic stone, ancient and wrong. The floor was layered in fine ash. Beneath it—bones. Fragmented. Too small to name. Too many to count.

In every wall: slits. Narrow as wrists. Deep as memory.

And then it spoke. Not aloud. Inside. Like a memory that didn’t belong to you. Words you had never learned but couldn’t unhear. A litany of wounds disguised as prayer.

One of us began to echo it. His mouth bled. His eyes rolled back. When he fell, the voice kept using his throat.

We ran. Left him there. Or maybe... it kept him.

None of us ever spoke again. Not to each other. Not to anyone. Not truly.

Some things linger behind the words.

Only this needs to be said:

Poveglia is not haunted. It is hollow. And hollowness is not absence. It is appetite.

They gave it names. They tried to classify it, chart its resonance, name its flavor, assign it a Pattern. As if labeling the abyss could ever cage it.

The mages called it a Null Zone. But that’s a lie. There’s no “null” here—only distortion, echo, multiplication. Spells bend backwards. Time curves. Thought coils. The dead feel it like a scream behind the veil. Wraiths vanish, or worse, they change. Werewolves? They don’t step sideways here. They vomit rage and rip their own reflections apart. The Kindred feel their hunger twist. The Beast doesn’t grow—it starves. Then it dreams. Even the angels fall silent. And when they speak again, their voices are not their own.

But these are just masks. Taxonomies to keep our minds from cracking.

You don’t measure this place. You survive it.

What it is… is old. Older than faith. Older than the lie we call the Consensus. It doesn’t haunt. It hollows. And hollowness is not absence. It is appetite.

🧷 If this shook you — good. Because this is how we play. Not with stat blocks. With dread. With silence. With stories that cling like fog to the soul.

Join us. Descend with us. → Listings are on our FB page. We don’t run games. We open doors.

[calamitoushq]

hi hi! this rp looks so cool and just what I've been itching for, but I did have a question! I have a muse who i think would be a good fit, but I typically play him as a ghost, and I'm not sure which species would be the best swap for him? he's very melancholic, depressed optimist type vibes, would never hurt a fly but would sacrifice himself for said fly kind of person, if that helps!

Hello! We are so happy that you find it interesting enough to potentially bring in a character! As for what type of species could fit this character, here are some ideas:

A Vampire who does not want to be what is expected of him. One that does not feed from humans and would rather do everything he can to help humans/others instead of doing harm.

A Naturalist Witch who uses their healing abilities and their magic to help others.

A Light Fae. They have extra abilities that allows them to heal, project and control light and nature, as well as manipulate and grow vegetation.

A Demon who, over the years, has broken apart from what they are supposed to be like. They are not selfish and all consuming and instead use their abilities to help others, as well as make deals where people can benefit from them. They only take as much as they need to in order to survive.

If you'd like some other ideas, just let us know!