#cursedtown

Yes honey, I'm sorry but I'm going to have to disappoint you...

I mean, I do have an oc illager, but he belongs in a story with a player. I didn't really want to make an illager. I felt it was too obvious, so I moved to the players' side. I see that they don't really make an effort to make their stories fit, so what I have is a player oc her

They call her a giant and in her hands is the little baby she cares for :>

In short, she is not a very conventional player, just like the inhabitants of the town that she takes care of. In fact, it could be said that the town and her go hand in hand when speaking. of anomalies, since none of its inhabitants are "normal" like her

The inhabitants of the town that she guards are known as the damned and she is known as the faceless player, oh also what they currently call her...

the creature with player skin.............

The traveler came upon the town at dusk, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. He had been on the road for days, weary from his journey and looking for a place to rest. The town, nestled between two hills and surrounded by a forest, seemed like the perfect refuge. A thin mist clung to the cobblestone streets, softening the edges of the world, and the houses were old but well-kept, their windows dark and empty.

He wandered into the heart of the town, expecting the usual hum of activity—a shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk, children laughing, the murmur of conversation. Instead, the town was silent.

The traveler frowned, feeling an unsettling stillness in the air. He saw people—dozens of them—standing in front of their homes or sitting on porches. They watched him with blank, almost expectant expressions, but no one greeted him. No one spoke. There were no footsteps, no whispers, not even the rustle of fabric as they moved. It was as if the town held its breath.

He approached an old woman sitting on a bench, her eyes fixed on him. "Excuse me," he said. "Can you tell me where I might find an inn?"

The woman only stared, her lips pressed into a tight line. The traveler waited, expecting her to speak, but she remained silent. He glanced around, noticing the other townsfolk had turned their heads toward him, all with the same vacant, unmoving expressions. A chill ran down his spine.

Something was wrong.

"Is there an inn?" he asked again, louder this time, hoping someone—anyone—would respond. But the silence was absolute.

His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud as he made his way deeper into the town. He spotted a faded sign swinging gently in the breeze that read, The Weary Traveler. Relieved, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The inn's common room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth barely flickering. A tall man stood behind the counter, his face gaunt, his eyes sunken but alert. The traveler approached.

"I need a room for the night," he said, his voice tentative now.

The innkeeper didn’t speak, merely nodded and handed him a key, his hands trembling slightly. The traveler accepted it, watching the man closely. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, a weariness that seemed deeper than exhaustion.

"What is wrong with this town?" the traveler asked. "Why won't anyone speak?"

The innkeeper flinched, his face paling. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but he quickly shut it, glancing nervously around the room. Without another word, he turned away, retreating into a back room.

The traveler felt a creeping unease. He climbed the stairs to his room, the silence thick around him. When he reached his door, he heard something—a faint whisper, barely audible, coming from behind him. He turned, but the hallway was empty. The sound wasn’t quite human. It was as though the air itself was whispering.

Inside the room, he locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake the growing sense of dread. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps a religious vow or a tradition he didn’t understand.

As he lay in the dark, sleep came slowly, interrupted by uneasy dreams of shadowy figures watching him with hollow eyes, their mouths open in silent screams.

The next morning, the traveler set out to find answers. He wandered through the quiet streets, the townspeople still watching him in silence. He tried to speak to several of them—children, shopkeepers, even a priest standing outside a small chapel—but none of them made a sound.

Finally, he found himself in front of the town’s only church, an old stone building with a tall, weathered bell tower. Something about it drew him in. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.

The interior was dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles. At the far end of the room, a single figure knelt before the altar—an elderly man dressed in a long, tattered robe. He didn’t turn as the traveler approached.

"Are you the priest?" the traveler asked, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Do you know why no one here will speak?"

The man didn’t answer, but he rose slowly to his feet. His movements were stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in years. He turned, revealing a face lined with age and sorrow. His eyes, like the innkeeper’s, held a deep sadness.

"They cannot speak," the priest said at last, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."

The traveler’s heart quickened. "Why?"

The priest’s gaze drifted to the altar, where an ancient, worn book lay open. "A long time ago, this town made a pact. A bargain with something... not of this world. The harvests had failed. The children were sick. People were desperate. A creature came to them in the night, offering salvation."

The traveler felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "What did it ask in return?"

The priest’s voice trembled. "Their voices. Their words. The people would never speak again, but in exchange, the town would prosper. The crops grew rich, the sickness vanished, and the town thrived."

"But at what cost?" the traveler asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"The creature feeds on their silence. It lingers in the shadows, watching, waiting. If anyone breaks the silence—if they utter even a single word—the creature returns. It takes more than just their voice."

The traveler stepped back, horror dawning in his mind. "How do you speak, then?"

"I am the last who remembers," the priest said, his voice fading. "But my time is ending. Soon, I will be silent too."

The traveler turned to leave, but something stopped him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift in the far corner of the room. It was darker than the rest of the room, a shape that didn’t belong, and as he looked at it, the air around him seemed to thicken.

The priest's voice was barely a whisper now. "You must leave. Before it knows you’ve heard."

But it was too late.

The shadow moved, stretching toward him with unnatural speed. The traveler ran, his heart pounding, the silent screams of the town echoing in his mind. He fled the church, down the cobblestone streets, and into the woods, not daring to look back.

The villagers of Oakhaven had long learned to live with the curse that haunted their quiet existence. Every 50 years, on the same night, the entire village would disappear from the map, swallowed by an eerie mist that rolled in without warning. The village would reappear the next morning, untouched, its people unharmed but with memories hazy and fragmented, as if they had slipped into a collective dream. It was a mystery that had defied explanation for centuries. Sandra Drake, an investigative journalist with a reputation for uncovering the darkest secrets, had heard rumors of Oakhaven's strange phenomenon. The stories were dismissed by most as folklore, but Sandra sensed there was truth buried beneath the layers of myth. She decided to visit the village as the fateful night approached, determined to unravel the mystery that had confounded the world for so long.

Oakhaven was nestled deep within the Whispering Woods, a forest so dense and ancient that it seemed to breathe with the weight of forgotten history. The villagers welcomed Sandra cautiously, their eyes betraying a deep-seated fear. They spoke little of the curse, as if discussing it might summon its wrath sooner. But Sandra was relentless. She pressed on, speaking to the elders, combing through the village archives, and piecing together fragments of the past.

As the night of the 50th year drew closer, the atmosphere in Oakhaven grew tense. The villagers began to withdraw, their usual routines disrupted by an unspoken dread. Sandra, however, felt she was close to a breakthrough. She had discovered an old journal, hidden in the attic of the village’s oldest house, belonging to a woman named Eliza Grey. The journal told a tale of love, betrayal, and a curse born from unimaginable grief.

In the late 1700s, Eliza Grey had been the daughter of the village's headman, betrothed to a man named Thomas Hale. The two were deeply in love, but their happiness was not to last. A traveling stranger arrived in Oakhaven, a man of wealth and influence, who became infatuated with Eliza. He sought her hand in marriage, but she refused, her heart already belonging to Thomas. The stranger, consumed by jealousy and rage, cursed the village in a fit of vengeful fury.

"On the night when the mist descends, let this village be lost to time," the stranger had proclaimed, his voice echoing with unnatural power. "And may the soul of she who rejected me be forever bound to the mist, neither alive nor dead, until a love pure as hers sets her free."

That night, Eliza vanished, and the village was swallowed by the mist for the first time. When it reappeared the next morning, Thomas was found dead, his body cold and lifeless in the center of the village square. Eliza’s body was never found. The villagers mourned, but they quickly realized that the curse was real. Every 50 years, they would be taken by the mist, and each time, Eliza's ghostly figure could be seen wandering the village, searching for the love she had lost.

Sandra's heart ached as she read the final entry in Eliza’s journal. The woman had been trapped in the mist for over two centuries, her soul bound to the village, waiting for the curse to be broken.

On the night the mist was due to return, Sandra waited in the village square, determined to confront the specter of Eliza Grey. As midnight approached, the air grew thick, and a dense fog began to swirl around Oakhaven. The villagers retreated to their homes, but Sandra stood firm, her pulse quickening.

The mist enveloped the village, and soon, the world around Sandra faded into a ghostly, silent expanse. From the fog emerged a figure, pale and ethereal, with eyes full of sorrow. It was Eliza, her form barely discernible in the shifting mist.

"Who are you?" Sandra whispered, though she knew the answer.

"I am bound by a curse," Eliza replied, her voice like a breeze through autumn leaves. "My soul cannot rest until the curse is broken."

Sandra felt a deep connection to the tragic figure before her. She reached out, her hand trembling. "How can I help you?"

Eliza’s eyes softened. "Find the one who cursed us. Only by confronting him can the curse be undone."

Sandra nodded, determination hardening her resolve. She had learned from the journal that the stranger had not died but had disappeared after casting the curse, his fate unknown. If he were still out there, perhaps his power lingered in the mist, keeping Eliza trapped in her eternal limbo.

As the night wore on, Sandra wandered through the mist-shrouded village, feeling the weight of the curse pressing down on her. She searched for any sign, any clue, that might lead her to the source of the curse. Hours passed, and just as despair began to settle in, she heard a voice, low and venomous, whispering her name.

Turning, Sandra saw a shadowy figure materialize from the mist. It was the stranger, unchanged by the centuries, his eyes cold and cruel.

"You dare challenge me?" he sneered. "This village is mine, and so is the soul of Eliza Grey."

Sandra's heart pounded, but she stood her ground. "You’ve kept her trapped for centuries. It’s time to let her go."

The stranger laughed, a hollow sound that echoed through the mist. "And what makes you think you can break my curse?"

Sandra clenched her fists, recalling the words of the journal. "Love as pure as hers can set her free," she said, her voice steady. "You cursed her out of spite, but your power is not absolute. It’s tied to the village, to her pain. If I can bring her peace, your curse will end."

The stranger's expression faltered for a moment, but then he sneered again. "You are but a mortal. What can you possibly do?"

Sandra stepped forward, her voice filled with resolve. "I may be mortal, but love transcends even death. I will not let you continue this torment."

As she spoke, the mist began to swirl around her, responding to her determination. The ghostly form of Eliza appeared beside her, a look of hope in her eyes. The stranger, sensing his power waning, snarled and lunged at Sandra, but the mist surged between them, repelling him.

Sandra reached out to Eliza, her hand closing around the ghost’s cold, insubstantial fingers. "Eliza," she whispered, "you are loved, even now. Let go of the pain. Be free."

Eliza’s eyes welled with tears, and she nodded. The mist around them began to glow with a soft, golden light. The stranger let out a furious cry as his form disintegrated, consumed by the very curse he had cast. The mist lifted, the village returning to the world of the living.

As dawn broke, Sandra found herself standing alone in the village square. The mist had vanished, and with it, the curse that had plagued Oakhaven for centuries. The villagers emerged from their homes, blinking in the morning light, their memories clear for the first time in generations.