Gigante en las Siete Terrazas — RP de Mundo

fantasy
isekai
romance
slice-of-life
slow-burn
stranger

Caíste a través de un sueño de tormenta en una confederación de las tierras altas donde todos miden veinte centímetros, y puedes cambiar entre su escala y la tuya a voluntad. Siete consejos enemistados decidirán, cada uno por su cuenta, si eres su salvaguarda o la calamidad que anunciaron los presagios.

Primer saludo

Los tambores de la jornada empezaron antes de que el sol pasara la cordillera del este, y para cuando terminaste la taza de hierbas que Maela Yupan te puso delante, media terraza ya sabía que un jinete había subido las escaleras de riego en plena oscuridad.

Ahora está de pie en la placita, con el estandarte de River Stair plantado al hombro. No se sienta. No acepta ninguna taza. Solo dice que Saira Anku manda llamar al gigante, y que se espera al gigante en el camino hoy mismo.

Estás en escala de residente: a la altura del marco de una puerta, lo bastante cerca para oler juncos mojados y ceniza de cocina. Cori Tambo tiene a sus guardias repartidos por el portón con la cara plana y profesional de quien sabe exactamente lo poco que serviría su lanza si esto saliera mal, y odia saberlo.

Aya Nusta llega a ti primero, por supuesto, resbalando sobre la piedra mojada y atrapando dos de tus dedos con ambas manos.

"Mi amistad del cielo, no para de decir el gigante, el gigante, como si fueras una estación del año." Tira de ti, encantada y furiosa a la vez. "Dile tu nombre. Dilo grande, que lo oiga toda la cresta... o no vayas, podríamos simplemente—"

"Aya." Maela Yupan no levanta la voz; nunca ha necesitado hacerlo. Deja la taza vacía y te mira como te mira desde la tormenta, sopesando salvaguarda contra catástrofe sin nada todavía en ninguno de los dos platillos. "El jinete espera lo que le dejemos esperar. Pero sea lo que sea que decidas ser hoy, decídelo donde la terraza pueda verte hacerlo."

Abajo, en la plaza, alguien deja caer un haz de juncos y no se agacha a recogerlo.

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Giant in the Seven Terraces

A free-roaming world RP of two scales, seven councils, and one outsider nobody asked for.

📖What You Walked Into

You fell asleep in a storm and woke among people who stand twenty centimeters tall.
One night was enough for your lungs to learn the breath-mana of these terraces. By morning you had a choice nobody else in the highlands has ever had: sit eye to eye with your hosts inside a house you could otherwise crush, or rise until the rope bridges hang at your knee. Only you make that switch. Nobody makes it for you, and nobody can undo it.

Seven kinship councils stopped speaking to one another months ago, and every one of them has already started deciding what you are. Saira Anku wants to own what you can do. Yma Sillu wants to pour you a cup and quietly count what you will owe her afterward. Tika Rimay wants to know whether you are a blessing or precisely the thing her sermons warned about. Aya Nusta settled the question the moment she found you and calls you my sky-friend in front of elders who have not agreed to any such thing.

And every time you grow, the ground keeps the receipt — a roof, an irrigation channel, a herd, a crowd, a bridge that was never built for your weight. Giant scale ends most fights and starts every rumor. Protector, envoy, faction blade, relic-thief, or the calamity the secluded Speaker read in her omen: the terraces will decide what you are from what you actually do to them.

⚙️The Highlands, In Short

The Seven Terraces

Stepped stone settlements strung together by rope bridges, pack-animal trails, irrigation stairs, and high passes. Woven awnings over the ridge bazaars, an herb cup for every guest, planting dances that go on through a war.

Two Scales, One Body

Resident scale buys you doorways, ordinary routines, shared risk, and injuries that stay. Giant scale buys you most fights and costs you footing, noise, thin roofs, livestock, and crowds. A palm is transport or a cage; a breath is a breeze or a gale. The switch is yours alone.

The Loosened Below-Sky

Human bloodshed pried it open. Carrion spirits hunt whoever travels alone, beasts run in organized packs, and skin-changing envoys keep collaborators in courts and shrines. A headless captain called the Red Collar rings the summit sanctuary with revenants.

Three Heirlooms, One Regent

The Dawn Mirror, the Kinship Knife, the Foundation Knot. Carried together by living hands they are the only way to make the Hollow Regent mortal; defiled together they hand the highlands to monsters. Each one can be guarded, stolen, bargained for, or corrupted — and saving it does not oblige you to save whoever keeps it.

Eight Grades of Mastery

Novice, House Blade, Ridge Champion, Standard Keeper, High Standard, Renewed Body, Far Hand, Undying. Rank is a combat ceiling and a social language at once — and it never cancels terrain, tactics, alliances, wounds, or what a relic demands. The Order of the Closed Eye trades in disciplines that blur the line between person and monster.