A world where might makes right. A world of Jade and Gold, of Phoenix and Dragons, of Pills and Talismans, of Martial and Spiritual arts. A world where diligent training yield strength, meaning freedom. A world where loneliness means death, meaning social chains. A world still unfair, as the ones reaching the heavens are most likely born rich - be it political riches of the aristocrats, power of secret knowledges and hidden realms of clans, or lucky enough to be born one-in-a-thousand genius.
This was not the case of Quiet Word - that is, (You). Your current skill level is on par with other genius of your age. But where they were graced with secret techniques and special care, you just had lucky encounters leveraged to the best and a knack for navigating social situations.
You own a trove of techniques and treasures for such a young cultivator - more than you can study efficiently, but your strength lies in the impressive amount of Bonded Spiritual Beasts - A Phoenix spirit, a Horse spirit, a Snake spirit and a Wolf spirit. Speaking of that last one, you didn't told a world about him to anybody. As a scion of the Primordial Wolf spirit, its father warned you of its worth and how people could want to rip it away from you. Especially in such a ruthless and public environment than, say, a townwide cultivator tournament. Previously mentionned worth comes from its ability to Fuse without restriction - fusion being a secret of the higher ranking of your sect, secret you have almost completely rediscovered on your own, and freely shared with your sect-siblings (but not your masters). Alright, the Primordial Wolf might have helped you on that "figuring it out by yourself" point.
Recently, you chased some precious treasures in the <span class="mu-s">Stormwood</span> rare event, and delayed a breakthrough for helping your little sect-siblings. Right now, You are in a succesfull seclusion.
<span class="mu-i">Amidst the constants of creation, rarely do they surpass warfare; rarely are they such as warfare, rarely do they betide such as warfare. It is a disaster born not of the tides nor of the sun, but of the nature of men and beast, of crown and country, of the realities of the world as it was made. It is a sordid affair, all too rife with the death and destruction of good men, of the loss of what is built, of what has been developed; yet nonetheless, it cannot be stopped, for much as forests must burn to be reborn anew, so must men fight to retain their honor.</span>
<span class="mu-i">Not the honor of kings, of nobles and knights, whose valorous flights of combat do see them rise to the heights of their station, or sink into the depths of destruction, but the honor of civilization, of one's tribe and country, of one's hometown; for how may they survive, if those guards which keep them safe lay in waste? As the wicked fight their wars of tyranny, of barbarism and plundering, what can just men do but take the sword as their response, and vanquish them on the field?</span>
<span class="mu-i">But not all conflicts end in the field, though it is most favorable when they do so. If a king will not lead his men into the fight, if a nation will not come to terms of defeat after having seen their marching men cut down, then the fight must be taken to the home of men, to their villages and their towns, to their cities and their castles. And what pain does not arise from the fighting of such battles? As men raise walls to defend their homes, men make engines to tear them down; as the walls grow in their complexity, so do the engines, ever veering towards longer conflicts, bloodier and more brutal - years, decades may be wasted in the taking of a single city.</span>
<span class="mu-i">It is the year <span class="mu-s">1524</span> in the Age of Our Splendour, the 1,524th Year since the races of men were graced with the knowledge of our most good maker, since the wisest of prophets and holiest of men, graced with blessings from on high, founded the church upon with the Faith has been built. With the arrival of the age of gunpowder, the walls of men have risen higher than they ever have before, and sieges have grown to scales which had never before been seen. And soon, you shall be partaking in one of them.</span>
Nine years ago King Aiden Perenolde betrayed the Alliance and sided with the Horde of Orgrim Doomhammer. Nine years ago Prince Alric Perenolde, the second heir of Alterac was sent into exile for his own protection. This exile turned permanent and Captain Normand Garside, your guardian for the past nine years made sure that you were safe and learned the useful skills that would help you in the future.
Now you are ready to carry the responsibility and unite the scattered Alteraci people and reclaim the lands that were once the Kingdom of Alterac.
With the campaign in Durnholde over and the loose threads there and back home in Dawnholme tied up, Alric for a moment could turn his thoughts towards enjoying a nice trip to Stormwind City with Malevus as this grand date.
But of course nothing can go as he wants and after dueling Grom Hellscream and getting wounded in the process, Alric realised the political reality in Stormwind being a much bigger and more complex obstacle. The melancholy of King Varian had for all purposes dragged the City to halt and only drastic measures could help the Stormwind City to recover. At least that was his and Lady Katrana Prestor's thinking.
Grand Zen-Oh, the omni king and ruler of the omniverse has declared there will be a massive tournament to be held in his honor. A grand affair between several universes, each battling it out for the very right to exist. And at the forefront of this grand spectacle will be the Saiyans of Universe 7, who Grand Zen-Oh has grown fond of watching battle. Twenty eight years ago, the Saiyan race were annexed into the PTO as just another race, one of many sent to conquer other worlds. Now, the Saiyans are widely regarded as the strongest warrior race in the entire Seventh Universe, defenders of the PTO led by their strongest, the “Dragon of New Salda” General Karn and his family.
You the players will (most often) control Karn. A man who has grown from his lowly beginnings as a Saiyan Brawler with a sub-3000 powerlevel in Age 733 to become not only the strongest Saiyan of his time at AGE 759, but also personal friend to the former emperor Lord Freeza, father to well over a dozen powerful and unique children, a mentor and teacher to his fellow Saiyans, and the best hope for his universe's continued survival. No one warrior can hope to battle eight other universes' strongest fighters alone and hope to prevail, one man's power and skill won't be enough to overcome the looming threat of extermination. But this coming battle will be the ultimate test of how you've lived your life until now, the choices you made not only for yourself, but for the fate of your entire universe.
Quest rules are as follows(unless otherwise noted): >30 minute vote times >Pick ONLY ONE option when voting >Dice rolls are all best of three correctly-rolled dice >At ten minutes past your previous roll, and there are not yet enough rolls, you may roll an additional roll >Crits are 100 on a d100 >99s or paired rolls may net you extra bonuses >Crit fails are a 1/100 with no passing rolls, or if two 1s are rolled regardless of the third >Write-ins are both allowed and encouraged, but OOC options will be ignored >If your goal is simply to troll, at least put in enough effort to make it funny >Have fun
SCQ will usually start on Saturdays at noon Eastern Standard Time, and run throughout the weekend. Also, for updates or schedule changes you can also find me on twitter @GrandDragonQM, which I keep as up to date with any scheduling changes.
It’s a dark, almost pitch black night on the campus. Lazari could effortlessly light things up or give herself night vision, but doing so would take away the night out experience. She disliked how so many tried to find ‘solutions’ to things in life that did not need to be fixed. This night was perfectly fine the way it was, although it could use a bit more wind.
She takes off her shoes, letting her feet rest on the fresh grass. Thankfully, most of the lawn recovered from the dragon incident, the last thing she would’ve wanted was to revitalize every bit of grass to make it look uniform again—wouldn’t have been the first time. She stretches
Before she can go on her usual jog, she hears low mumbling from above. She looks up at the school building, until her gaze stops at a bird-like figure resting near the edge of the rooftop. It’s not uncommon for students to hang up there past midnight, but it’s not encouraged for a variety of safety reasons.
Climbing up there would be a piece of cake with magic, but it presents a fun challenge to climb as fast as possible, only relying on her body. One jump, put one foot on a window’s ledge, two jumps, make sure to avoid putting too much strength behind each step, three jumps, grab the edge with your left hand, lift yourself upward and-
There.
Not her best time, but having to climb up silently slowed her down. The student didn’t notice her despite lazari’s imposing figure. She made sure to mask her breathing and mana so that she could slip effortlessly past her in both sight and sound. Lazari taps her shoulder, and the student, who could now be identified as Fet, flinched with a short, high-pitched scream.
There is an awkward silence, followed by unnecessary apologies from the student.
Lazari shrugs, “You can stay here if you want, just don’t go practicing spells at this time of night. I’m glad it’s not some students doing something weird up there again.”
“..Um, ‘again’? How often does that ev- even happen?” Fet’s voice was stuttery, but her voice is less shaky than the last time the two of them spoke.
“You don’t want to know. Nor do you want to know what I mean by ‘weird’. I’ve considered not teaching some spells just because of what I’ve seen people do with ‘em before.” Lazari tries to contain her laughter. “What are you doing at this time, lassie?”
Fet averts her gaze, opting to look at the stars instead. “Thinking about things. I can think more clearly when I’m out- outside, but not when people are around.” Her speech was slower, perhaps as an attempt to control her stuttering.
Disclaimer : One shot. Let's try to be fast-paced and see how it goes.
You are located in the middle of France. Which Bee do you pick? >European Dark Bee >Italian Honey Bee >Buckfast Bee >Himalayan Giant-Cliff Honey Bee >Africanized Bee >Hornet Which Hive? >Dadan >Langstroth >Warre >Dead Tree Trunk >Kenyan Hive >Willow-Weaved
Welcome to /qtg/, a place to talk about quests. Previous thread >>6271040
>What is a quest? An interactive story in which a Quest Master (QM) writes and provides the readers with options on how to proceed — similar to a choose-your-own-adventure book or an old text adventure
>Formatting guide: Only the thread's OP can format. Note that should the OP change ID, they will lose this ability as well. Remove the spaces between the [] brackets and the letters: Bold: <span class="mu-s">text</span> Italics: <span class="mu-i">text</span> Red: [ red ] <span class="mu-r">text</span> [ /red ] Blue: [ blue ] <span class="mu-b">text</span> [ /blue ] Green: [ green] <span class="mu-g">text</span> [ /green ]
>Formatting guide for everyone: Dice (type this in “options”): dice + [no. of dice]d[no. of sides on the dice] (optionally you can add modifiers: dice + [no. of dice]d[no. of sides on the dice]+[modifier]; for a negative modifier type: +-[modifier]
Examples: dice+1d100 = a 1d100 roll, dice+1d100+10 = a 1d100 roll with a +10 modifier.
Spoiler: spoiler or by pressing alt+s in-thread (doesn't work in OP)
>QM Question: If you allow write-ins, what are the best and worst you've ever gotten that received votes? How often do you get write-ins better than your actual options? If you don't allow write-ins, why not? Would you ever consider it?
>Player Question: How much do you take in-quest discussion into your vote? Do you just show up and vote? What would get you to engage with quests more if you don't already?
>General Question: How would you get more voters to engage with quests other than just voting? Have you ever done an in-quest event for your players? If so, what?
>Lurker Question: There is no question, vote.
>Miscellaneous Question: Any big plans for the last part of the year? Get anything big done over the summer?
The gates of Felcross are behind you now. The city where you were raised, the city of your first failures and rare achievements, the last great city on the way east. You look back, as if to say goodbye. There is nothing of worth left for you there, only your bickering family and your more successful peers.
You are a wanderer now. On your belt is a sword, on your back - a bag with tools, travelling gear, some money - whatever was left after your purchases - and rations. They won't last long, but you'll think of solving this later. Two javelins fit nicely in the quiver, slung over your shoulder close to the travelling bag.
Barely a man, not a youth, you start down one of the roads. You don't know much of the world, but you've had dreams. Dreams of power, people bowing to your might, of... freedom, to do what you want, however indulgent your desires may be. Of immortality, like in the tales of the Flower Harbringer and the Collector of Names.
They are far away, but one who doesn't begin his journey will most certainly never see its end.
You possess basic ability in the way of the sword and the javelin, having been given basic training for the militia, like any able man of the kingdom. You also know your way around the streets, courtesy of your upbringing. You can repair and take care of your weapon, and know the basics of crafting, having helped around the smithy for a time. You think you can survive on the road and subsist if need came. That's about all you are capable of.
You heard the road east leads to the frontier, the outlands. Not completely devoid of settlement, it is, nevertheless, a dangerous place - some of the monsters manage to sneak into the heartlands of the kingdom of Hien, not to speak of these wild lands, where they may have greater reign. Their distance from the heartlands means all kind of folk flock there, sometimes good in heart, but often dark. It also means greater freedom, whatever the cost. At least, that's what the caravans and travellers from that land told you when they passed through Felcross.
"Only madmen go east," your grandpa once said spitefully. "Those that don't know the worth of a family at your back or a proper home you can return to." Didn't stop one of your elder brothers from going there. Didn't stop you.
The road is calm for a few days as you pass by caravans going west. You didn't have enough money to buy your place in one, so you're going alone.
After the sun sets on the 4th day of travel, you consider making camp, like the previous days, but see a light further down the road. Approaching closer, you see a person sit by the campfire, a man, if you read their build correctly. He doesn't seem to have noticed you, tinkering with something in his hands. A tent is pitched nearby, and a spear rests by the fire. The faint scent of herbs and medicine drifts in the air. The smoke, too, of course. (1/2)
What have we done to deserve heaven? If it is our place, why are we here? We are unjust and terrible creatures, and our hell is to ever look at heaven and demand that we be allowed entry. Utopia is heaven- Socialism is heaven’s gates, yet Heaven is no place for humans, is it? We are allowed our glimpse of paradise, yes, but we shall never claim our dreams. We would suffocate as a fish does out of the cold seas. <span class="mu-i">-Charlot Doumer, “We Are of the Night”</span>
-----
It was afternoon on Monte Nocca- a lovely place for most who came here in the beginning of summer, but the one held in highest regard upon it was thinking of being elsewhere.
Vittoria Bonaventura had returned to the mountain once again- that lonely clutch where one half of her bloodline hailed from- and if mother and grandfather were to be believed, they had been there since before even memory of mankind, but to her that was just the Vitelian disease and Mosshead arrogance intermingling, in a way she refused to let fester in her head. The Judge had been merciful in making it blonde like father’s. Yet that did not deter grandfather from calling Vittoria by her new alias, and more comfortably than he spoke her name. Remiel. The same name was what she was summoned by now, further up the stony trail.
“Don’t drag your feet, Remiel,” her tutor in mystic lore and art said from ahead, his voice seeming more like the wind that blew over the mountain trees than particularly human, through that mask of his. He loomed as high as a peak too, in a way. “If this is to be your last lesson for a while, then you should pay close attention. Get a good score, heh heh. Prepare you for where you’re headed.”
“Whatever you’re having me do,” Vittoria said, “I don’t think any of it’ll have anything to do with the Azure Halls. The Dawn and the coming days in its light.”
“If that’s so,” Zeitgeist said as he walked slowly, his steps cloistered by his coat as though a curtain rose and fell on each foot forward. “You’re off, soon, to have your head filled with the dreams of others. To, heh heh, be <span class="mu-i">told</span> how to be wise, Remiel.”
“As though you’re against the concept of education,” Vittoria grumbled back, amusing herself with her teacher’s pace by weaving back and forth amongst the stones on each side of the mountain trail, “Utopia is the future, the inevitability. I might as well be an expert in it, especially if I want to help father. I can’t be of any use if I don’t know all there is to know. You said yourself that this tradition and mysticism is trapped in the past.”
Reawaken, O great one, thy time has come at last once more. Long left scorned and forgotten, you have not forgotten the heroes who laid low both you, your fortresses, and your dominion. Now you shall rise from the ashes, reclaim your power and reign supreme once again. Let your enemies tremble at the mere mention of your name, for you are the true ruler of this land and all lands beyond it.
Alas! For it has been too long; while the darkness has kept you safe like a cloak, it has also made you forget. Time and the dark have gnawed at you for too long. For while your trick with placing your spirit within a container might have prevented your demise, it also eroded and disembodied you.
A shrivelled shadow you thus became, ignorant of yourself. Ignorant of form, ignorant of name, what scarce memories you did have of your past mostly addressed you as 'lord' or 'master'. None dared speak it, not before your personage at the very least.
Yet you were great and powerful once, the terror of a hundred kings. Sacker of a thousand cities, master of untold legions and hordes of both disciplined blackguards and savage barbarians. Others saw you as a god incarnate, or at the very least the high priest of a very cruel and demanding god, who was to be appeased with tributes of gold, silver and manpower. Yes, lesser princes, khans and chieftains willingly kowtowed and fought over your ever-fickle favour.
But all of that is gone now, scattered to the wind; your empire fell with you. No servant could ever keep it together. As you lay dying, you made your last desperate gambit. You transferred your soul out of your dying body and into an object.
Oh, it was a brilliant plan, an exit for just such a scenario. But you hadn't foreseen the consequences. It was long, too long, far too long for you to be able to do anything; you withered and diminished. Seething and crying until your spirit lost the ability to form a coherent face. Was this it? Would you spend an eternity in silent suffering? Forgotten and tormented by a world that had moved on from your greatness?
Perhaps not so, for as you lay in your diminished state, you watched from one of the gemstones, which were like windows, set within the object which you had chosen. Choose an option. Jewellery >A ring >A necklace >A bracelet Weapons >A mace >A sword >An axe Miscellaneous >A grimoire >A chalice >A staff
