u/Daemon_Theory

Originally a unique culture of high elves who left Pyreclast, the then-Woodhunters lived relatively humble lives of symbiosis with the natural cycle under the tutelage of an ancient Fae spirit whom they called the "Lady of Lifegiving." She represented birth, renewal, and health. This led to the unique hunting practice of ensuring their quarry would not leave orphaned young upon their demise, or worse, is pregnant when this occurs. Killing a parent beast on the hunt was the ultimate shame an elf in this culture could experience, resulting in long bouts of self-exile and reflection.

For hundreds of years they lived this idyllic simplicity, but such happy existences are inevitably torn down in worlds so cruel as this one. The Woodhunters' home was in the massive Sanctuary Woods. The days began to feel uneasy. Something was on the rise. In the distance, faint chuckling started echoing against the treeline. A tittering fairy, singing trolls, or boisterous giants are not unheard of in the Sanctuary Woods; but every day, the chuckling was longer. Louder. More frequent. Slowly, it was joined by more voices. Then more. Tens. Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands. It grew until no place in the Sanctuary Woods was free of maddening laughter. Day and night, endless, bellowing hysteria.

And so, the Snickerstarve began.

It's unknown how this began. Be it a festival of Fae who got too jovial, or a curse sent by unknowable things from the blackness between the stars, the horrific corruption that erupted from the hearts of beings of Order ended the same way. The hysterics never stopped. They continued in agonizing consistency, each night becoming more hoarse and strained as blood spurt from dry gullets and vocal cords choked their hosts. The hosts attempted to force cries for help, eyes weeping with an anguish clashing against ecstasy. Some flung themselves from cliffs to escape it. Jaws were broken. Necks were snapped. Mouths were clogged to asphyxiation, and yet their souls burned with flaming joviality that never wanted to end. Collapsed lungs, broken spines, and pierced hearts still escaped their intended death, trapped in paralyzed bodies of unending happiness.

They couldn't eat. They starved, but dying from it was a mercy they were not granted. Driven to hungering madness, the Fae consumed each other. Men, women, children, animals; they all sank their teeth into the flesh of their own to try and eat through the misery. At least it brought silence for a moment. The Woodhunters remained isolated, terrified of the sound, yet feeling a dull creeping skitter up their spines and began investigating their brains like a centipede's antennae to a helpless rat. The few animals on their side of the Sanctuary Woods remained green and pleasant for a time. But even the trees started to wilt. The water was drying up. More animals went missing. It wasn't until a village was attacked by a band of chuckling trolls whose rotted teeth shredded the inhabitants to gorge on their meat did the elves retreat into complete isolation.

The Woodhunters sealed themselves in tall citadels carved into the massive trees of their land. Bearing hybrid blood from the elves' ancient heritage as children between humans and Fae, they were more resistant to the cacophony. But their Fae blood started to boil and bubble the longer they sat. The laughing outside grew louder and louder, cacophonous roars of tens of thousands of voices bellowing their lungs into the sky - mania so widespread it could be heard for miles and miles. Their Fae tutor locked herself in the largest of these trees, hoping to keep herself and her students free of this horrific event. Most elves who departed to scavenge and resupply the dwindling food stores were never seen again. Those who came back were overcome by the mania and killed on sight by their former friends, families, and even admirations.

Rations were halved. Then quartered. The fresh wells of life-giving water at the base of the trees started to dry, unsupported by the Lady of Life's renewing powers. The elves boiled leather, then ate leaves, then dirt, then rocks. Foraging was a death sentence. Hunting was a forgotten pastime. Days felt like weeks which felt like months. Their lips began to curl into smiles. Things became a little more droll. Their state of mind fought between overwhelming hopelessness and gallows humor at the absurdity of it all.

As the elves became gaunt, starved, and parched, their great spirit emerged from her isolation. She was struggling to resist. Her once vibrant, colorful form dulled to a pale white. She had ripped her own lips off and gored her body so the pain might just distract her from the horrible sounds outside. The elves looked to her for guidance, desperate for a light in the dark. They asked for food, water, and silence.

"My children," she said in a quiet, pained voice, "I have already given it to you."

Her blood drenched the floor, congealing into thick clumps of sanguine vileness at the feet of the elves. Each step she took squelched and popped the shredded meat on her form, sloughing off in thick slabs that splattered against the ground and drizzled gore onto the desperate onlookers. She sauntered forwards, eyeless, her hip bones and pelvis long removed and transferred onto her face, leaving her crotch a gushing fountain of rancid viscera. No matter how much she bled, how much of her flesh peeled, her body had more to give.

"You have your salvation, my children!" she screeched. As she flung her arms outwards, her blood drenched the onlookers. They touched their faces. Handprints of their misery shone clearly on their brows, cheeks, noses, and lips. The smell of the blood slithered up their noses. Their tongues tasted the wetness they so desperately craved.

They ate. They sipped the blood from the coagulations at their feet. They tore through the piles of gore that spread and spread, fighting and slaughtering each other for more until only the weak were culled - no matter how young, defenseless, or old. With slaked appetites, quenched thirsts, tree-homes soaked to the roots with the fruits of their carnage, and rivers sloshing with unwanted scraps, the elves looked to each other, then to their savior. The feast gave them renewed strength and vigor. They were healthy again. Their great teacher of all these things gifted them the blessing of survival with her own flesh and blood. Even in their darkest hour, her teachings remained the same. They had food this whole time... and she simply hid while they starved? It's a little funny. In fact, it was funny!

Then, they joined the laughter.

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Rentris is a dark sci-fantasy world rife with extraterrestrial horrors, ancient evils, and ever-evolving technology. Magic and tech are one and the same in this world, while true, unbound magic is dangerous, corruptive, and difficult to control. The grand cosmic cycle of Chaos and Order fights an impossibly huge war on a scale so far beyond what mere Corporeals can comprehend. They never will understand its truth, but they have their own world to survive on.

The planet is a backwater, rife with warfare against cultists of Chaos and, on occasion, harbingers of Order. Should vigilance waver against either, a village, city, or empire will fall into ruin and require insurmountable effort to reclaim - if it can ever be in full again. Among the many armies, generals, and politicians of this world, groups known simply as Mercenaries have become instrumental in the stability of Rentris and its many empires. These groups of soldiers-for-hire are given handsome payouts and generous social privileges to hunt and kill the most dangerous foes. Be they governor, daemon, or worse, Mercenaries live for the payment of their craft, and assurance that the candle of hope stays lit for another day.

Hope is dwindling. Wars are more frequent. The powers at play are getting more extreme... But something else stirs amidst the carnage and correction. From both Chaos and Order, new powers are emerging, ones looking to bring about new eras of nascent possibility, where the constant conflict just might change for the better. Mercenaries gather to share what they have witnessed. Something is on the wind, both horrific and marvelous. Chaos bends to a pattern, while Order erupts in unpredictability. Only time will tell what this defining era will do for the future of Rentris.

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Hey r/worldbuilding. This is some stuff I've made for my long-time passion project Rentris, a science-fantasy setting that draws inspiration from Warhammer 40,000, Bloodborne, World of Warcraft, and many other games, paracosms, horror media, and a lot of real-world historical visuals! It started as a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and over the last 5-6 years has evolved into a sprawling place that I'm continuing to add on. It's a setting that can feature stories ranging from witch hunters investigating alien horrors in a small town, to colossal mechs supported on the ground by armored knights. If it's cool? It's probably in Rentris!