Lore Page: The Grand Archives of Factions (Vol. IV - The Crimson Conclave)
The Crimson Conclave
Guiding Philosophy: The Science of the Soul The soul of the Crimson Conclave is a perfect, beautiful, and exquisitely rational form of hunger. Their guiding philosophy is not a simple lust for power; it is a cold, scientific, and spiritual imperative. They believe that life is not sacred; it is fuel. They see life essence—the energy that animates all living things—as the fundamental, cosmic currency of the universe. The Sundering was not a tragedy to them; it was a proof of concept, a demonstration that the old gods were flawed, weak, and ultimately mortal beings who failed to properly manage creation. The Conclave believes it is their right and their destiny to correct this failure. Their goal is not just power, but a scientific, repeatable form of ascension. They see their dark arts not as forbidden magic, but as a form of divine alchemy. By harvesting enough life essence and perfecting their rituals, they intend to shed their mortal shells to become the new, true gods of Veridia—a pantheon born of will and ambition, not of cosmic chance. Every sacrifice, every plague, every drop of blood spilled in their name is a step towards this ultimate, logical conclusion.
Society and Culture: The Symphony of the Tithe The Conclave is a rigid, aristocratic society where power is determined by age, magical potency, and proximity to their living goddess, Matron Amara Vol-Sangrin. Their home, Sanguis-Morthos, is not just a city; it is a grand, beautiful, and terrible temple to their own ambition. Their culture is a constant, decadent dance of pleasure and pain. Their art is the macabre, beautiful sculptures of mortals in ecstatic torment that adorn their halls. Their music is the slow, haunting hymns that accompany their dark rituals. Their entire society is fueled by the Blood Tithe, the constant, flowing river of mortal slaves who are kept in beautiful, gilded pens, their despair a final, exquisite spice to the meal they will inevitably become. The court is a nest of ancient, beautiful vipers, playing games of intrigue and seduction that span centuries, where the price of a single, foolish mistake is not just death, but an eternity as a screaming, mindless Crimson Ghoul.
Role in the World: The Harvesters of Ruin They are the world's premier magical and scientific threat, a faction of amoral researchers and divine aspirants who see the entire population of Veridia as little more than a crop to be harvested. They are a secret society whose influence is felt in the sudden, inexplicable plagues that sweep across the Barren Lands and in the quiet disappearance of powerful souls. They are not interested in conquering land; they are interested in the harvest. They might secretly sponsor a war between the Iron Tyranny and the Argent Sovereignty, not to see who wins, but to have their agents arrive after the battle to "harvest" the potent, lingering essence of the thousands who have died, a beautiful, terrible feast left on the table of the world's endless, pointless conflicts.
The Unflinching Truth (Graphic/Gory/Sexual Detail): The hunt and the feeding of the Conclave's elite, the Sanguine, is a masterpiece of sensual, beautiful, and absolute horror. They do not hunt for simple blood; they hunt for vintage. The blood of a terrified virgin, they say, has a sweet, electric taste. The blood of an enraged warrior is a hot, spicy, and intoxicating drug. The blood of a hopeful hero is the rarest and most exquisite vintage of all, a taste of a purity they have long forgotten.
The orgies of the Sanguine Court are not just sex parties; they are banquets. Imagine a grand, crimson-lit hall in Sanguis-Morthos, filled with dozens of Sanguinists, their pale, perfect, and naked bodies moving in a slow, graceful dance of fucking and feeding. Beautiful, terrified mortal slaves, the "Tithe," are passed between them, their bodies used as carnal playthings and then, at the absolute, screaming peak of their terror and arousal, they are fed upon. A beautiful boy is fucked by a cold, perfect Sanguinist lord, his orgasm a screaming, bloody mess as the lord's touch drains the very life from him. A terrified girl is held down and licked to a shuddering, weeping climax by two Sanguinist ladies, their tongues not just instruments of pleasure, but of a slow, beautiful, and terrible death. It is a beautiful, terrible tableau of entwined, perfect bodies, the only color the bright, crimson blood being spilled on the black, obsidian floor.
The Crimson Baptism, the ritual to create a new Sanguinist, is the ultimate expression of their science. A worthy mortal acolyte is stripped naked and strapped to a blood-stone altar. Their body is drained of every last drop of its mortal blood, a slow, agonizing process that brings them to the very brink of death. Then, they are submerged in a pool of pure, condensed life essence, a shimmering, crimson liquid harvested from a thousand souls. The High Coven performs the ritual, a screaming, beautiful chant that attempts to rebuild the acolyte's body into something new. The process often fails. The mortal's body cannot handle the raw, divine power, and they dissolve into a mindless, screaming mass of flesh and bone, a twisted, beautiful failure known as a Crimson Ghoul. But if it succeeds... they are reborn, a perfect, beautiful, and eternal Sanguinist, their first, gasping breath the taste of a power that has cost a thousand lives to create.