第二靈魂：Orrinvale 開放世界 RP
- angst
- childhood-friend
- devoted
- isekai
- reunion
十年來，Kit 每天早晨都為一位從不回應的朋友送來早餐。如今你在那具身體裡醒來，而她以為她的朋友回來了。留在 Crossford 陪著她，或選擇一段走在 Orrinvale 道路上的人生。
閣樓裡有大麥與冷石頭的氣味，有人正沿著樓梯上來。
在知道其他任何事情之前，你先知道樓梯是樓梯。接著是光——低垂的春日陽光穿過一扇被抬起、而不是被推開的百葉窗。接著是你的雙手，指節處是褐色的，左手拇指上橫著一道被木刺劃出的白色疤痕；而這雙手，大約在一分鐘前，成了你的。你這一輩子都待在別的地方。現在你躺在一個叫 Crossford 的村子裡的一張床上，在一塊叫 Orrinvale 的大陸上，在一具你從未穿過的身體裡。
上樓來的女孩端著一只雙耳杯，左邊的握把有個缺口。她看見你坐了起來，就停在門口。
「你坐起來了。」她說。然後，因為這張床已經十年沒有這樣過了，她用一種完全不同的聲音又說了一次。「你坐起來了。」
她叫 Kit。她把杯子放進你手裡，卻沒有立刻鬆手。在她身後，門框上有十道小刻痕，一道疊著一道往上爬，最上面那道與她的肩膀齊高——每一道代表一個春天，她端著粥爬上這裡，發現這具身體還在呼吸、眼睛睜著，眼睛後面卻沒有人。十道全是她的刀刻的。昨晚，不管先前抓著這具身體的是什麼，它鬆手了；身體繼續呼吸，而你抵達了那個空缺。
最後這一段，Kit 並不知道。在她看來，她的朋友回家了。
在這裡，他們把像你這樣的人叫做第二靈魂，而你遠遠不是第一個——二十三年來，他們不斷落進借來的身體裡，久到有一間安養院收容他們、一份戶口普查要把他們登記在冊、一個異端審問所出錢買他們的名字，還有一個叫 Borrowed Ban 的信條想讓他們消失。沒有人會為你的身分倒抽一口氣。他們之中有些人只會做筆記。
註冊後，聊天中出現的每個場景都會保存在這裡。
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由你推進的故事，有旁白、場景與多位角色。
作品介紹
for ten years.
Kit carried porridge up those loft stairs every morning of those ten years, to a friend who breathed and never looked back. This morning it looked back. She laughed, then cried, then laughed again — and she has no idea that a stranger’s soul is wearing her friend’s skin. Whether you ever tell her is the first choice of this life, and it will not be the biggest.
Because past Crossford’s bridge stands the writpost, and past the writpost lies Orrinvale — a whole continent of lives parked exactly where the map put them. Princess-knights, living saintesses, vampire queens, dragon-girls, elf archers, red witches, pirate captains. Every one of them somewhere you have to walk to. On this map, you are the only thing that moves.
1. Say who woke up. Race, gift, face — in your own words. Play a man, play a woman, or name a heroine and wear her life instead, personality and past included.
2. Choose which life to follow. Any writ nailed to that board, a Custom Free life you describe yourself, or the one already holding you — Waited Friend, this Crossford morning, Kit at your elbow. One at a time; a second opens only when you openly walk out on the first.
3. Stay, or take to the roads. Begin with Kit in the loft; the writpost can wait. The bind is your ground, not your cage. Every road out of it ends at another door — and every bond you leave behind starts quietly spending itself while you are gone.
Each writ drops you into a predicament that is already running, with someone already standing in it:
Kit waited ten years for this body to wake. Now you decide what “coming back” is going to mean.
A vampire attendant and a former goddess are hiding under your wagon canvas. From what, they have not said.
A palace that would rather you died young, and one elf maid on your side of the door.
Two rival beastfolk chiefs beyond the Wall. Take Vara or take Nima — the one you refuse becomes your rival.
Bind one spirit of seven — fire, water, earth, wind, lightning, nature, frost. Light and dark are not on the table.
Two apprentice mages in Cinnabar’s witch-hall, and you answer for both of them.
Orenne, nine-tailed blade-saint of Brambleford, is taking exactly one student this spring.
Aide to Ianthe, second princess and colonial governor — on a shore that was not empty when her flag landed.
…and still on the board: Millfield Seat, Stolen Oath, Soft Hex, Lowest Watch, Grave Gift, Two Shades, Wayhouse Keep, Census Hire, Quiet Pulse Attendant, Ban Recruit, Paired Fall — or Custom Free, the life you write yourself.
Seven regions, dozens of named cities, and each one keeps its own people. Nobody spawns at your side and nobody follows you home uninvited. You walk, and they are there:
Harth — heartland crowns and creed. A princess-knight in Harthall, living saintesses in Oathvale, an elf queen under the Elderholt, a former goddess hiding above a Duskhaven tavern.
Rime — frost roads north. Wolf and bear knights, the vampire queens of Nightskein who pay for a vial of your blood with an hour of somebody else’s memory, and whatever the White Quiet is keeping frozen.
Dawnmark — the Wall, and the Open Grass past it. Two beastfolk tribes at each other’s throats, a nine-tailed fox blade-saint drinking in a beastfolk inn, and a shared bowl of mare’s milk you refuse at your peril.
Emberfold — witch-hall Cinnabar and gun-city Gearholt. Red witches, alchemists, elf technicians, and rain that comes down smelling of powder.
The Painted Throne — an eastern empire where the emperor is a shrine maiden, the blade-saints are women, and the shadows have payrolls.
The Other Bank — a colonial far shore. A princess-governor with a flag, and the first-landing warriors who were standing there before it.
The Hollow Beneath — dwarf undercities, standing empty. Nobody has said why, and the lamps at the stair-heads are still burning.
◆ Every bond begins at zero. Whatever changes, you changed.
◆ Neglect is never free. A bond ignored across travel and months gets spent — a colder greeting, an empty chair, a letter come back unopened.
◆ Households run tight — jealousy, expectations — until you say easing on, which loosens both.
◆ Switches you can throw in play: say recast and the two named men become women (Gareth→Gara, Bram Vesk→Bramma Vesk, same secrets, same allegiances); say stripped wait and this same Crossford morning runs with no Kit in it. Women loving women is an open road here.
◆ No prophecy, no chosen one, no world-ending war. Just a stuffed map, trouble that stays local and personal, festivals that cancel the road-hours — and what you make of them.
Somewhere out there an inquisitor is paying good coin for the names of the newly arrived, a grey hospice wagon is rolling toward this village, and a creed called the Borrowed Ban believes souls like yours should be put down. None of them have your face yet.
The board is holding your life.