OH SHIT NIGGA. You are lady Firemane. Of the (formerly) noble house of Fireborn! You were once the greatest wagon racer this side of the kingdom. Sadly due to shenanigans, you lost everything and went into debt with the Adventurer's Guild in order to survive. But then you found the Inexperienced Hero, Ezekiel "Kid" Rutebega ! You took him under your wing to mold him into the hero he's always meant to be: your devoted apprentice (probably)

Unfortunately your party has run afoul of Ezekiel's evil older brother. Who wrecked his hometown and beat your ass. As evil brothers to the hero tend to do. Currently you're recovering from the ass beating you've received, amidst the ruins of Ezekiel's hometown.

What kind of life did you live so far? Uneventful. Boring. Ordinary. To push yourself for a dedication, occupation or hobby you don't really know how its like. You just are.

All that doesn't matter in the forever it took for now to pass. Like deer in headlights, your life passed by as you're caught out on the street towards collision.

SMACK. You splay out on the hood of the car. You look up at the windshield. There was no driver. As if on realization, the car screeches to a stop, sending you off further onto the street.

You take a deep breath. Nothing seems to be wrong. A few more to be sure. You're... Uninjured? Arising, you note that the car's front seemed to have shown more damage than you are. Getting close to the driver's side, you see no sign that anyone was ever there. No brick on the pedals or even a key in the ignition. Almost overlooking an obvious requirement, the car doesn't even have license plates.

There is a note on the driver's seat. The window was rolled down, making access easy.

>"Sorry, it's not your fault. There's a girl, monochromatic, save for her piercing amber eyes. If you see her, turn around and run."

That was all there was to read. All this to tell you that. Further investigation of the car yielded nothing. Trunk is empty, and no way to entertain the idea of taking this for yourself without any way to start it.

Uneasiness creeps in, no thanks to the contents of the note. What's easier to take in? That fact that you might now be a victim of the supernatural, or that you're currently walking off a car accident? The way back home was peaceful, and you soon find yourself back in the safety of home. Sleeping in, you wake up late in the afternoon, as if recent events was just a distant dream. The note crumpled up around your desk is proof otherwise, having took it with you.

>Maybe I should go and get checked out. Walk in the hospital for a check up.
>Go outside and bum about like I always do. Something nice might finally happen.
>Stay home and indulge in the pleasures of NEETdom. There's a load of nothing to be done.

You are Mouse, the ogre. Although raised by humans you found yourself in service of the dark elven queen - and with her blessing you have embarked on a quest to purge the corruption plaguing the very world you live in.

And currently, you are alone in the darkness.

No, that's not strictly true. In fact it's about as close to the exact opposite of truth you could go without discarding the concept entirely - something, that in fairness would not perhaps go that far against your monstrous nature.

But you found yourself holding to something better than that.

You are not alone. Even though most of your companions are out of your direct line of sight, you can feel the echoes of their struggles, and chorus of their hopes, close by, through a combination of your own heart, senses for the supernatural interaction between light and darkness, and the soothing, comforting presence of the goddess Laurentia that has been your companion on this daring venture.

You were, however, most assuredly, as close as you could get in this physical realm to the focal point of all the darkness in the world as you knew it.

And you were watching its principal servant in this world, the mercenary general Vult, locked in a duel with a woman you hope you've learned to know well enough to call your friend. You were watching the duel, for now, as little more than a spectator, held back by a mixture of faith in her conviction and unwillingness to disrupt something you were unsure you had any right to.

The deadly dance before you had a rhythm and a beauty of it, in a manner of speaking. After initial onslaught that the mercenary princess Maia had skillfully negotiated with one of her blades, the leader of the Black Dogs settled into a somewhat more conservative fighting tactic of switching between defensive maneuvering and rapid, savage attacks, with a measure of periodicity you were sure was specifically meant to lull and entrap his opponent.

However, Maia knew better than to be so easily baited, and so when Vult broke his pattern for a particularly vicious lunge, she was ready to deflect and evade.

"You have grown in skill and power." Vult comments. "You've spent your time well, I'll give you that."

The tomboy princess looks back defiantly, her chest heaving with exertion.

"The most important lesson I've learned is, that no less than <span class="mu-i">how</span> you swing your sword-"

She deftly propels herself towards the corrupt leader, with rapid adjustments to her momentum that save her from a nasty cut as Vult hurriedly shifts his defensive posture, and before the man can recover, scores a shallow cut on his arm.

"-is <span class="mu-i">why</span>."

If you can fall in love with the wrong guy or a girl with bad morals, you can even lose your entire family in this Kremlin casino or end up in the parliament den where the trace of many betrayals begins and dies, or even in a breakup when they remotely take away the sun, fuck on the rope or get stuck in a crowd of triggered events like fat Santa Claus in a heating plant, a chimney where the toxic power of traitors to the nation has been flowing from apartments and departments for decades, just as corruption and espionage have many names, perfect crimes go hand in hand with assassinations like electricity on a third rail, laundering money, annexation of minds as before the war in Crimea liquidation of divisions, purchase of sovereignty with the destruction of independence served in the Soviet mess and canteen
sabotage of the highest state institutions with a guarantee of gangster blackmail in this sphere of economic influence machine like a sociopathic socialist cabin.

It's the 747th year of the Empress' Calendar. The months of Ascending Fire fill the air with heat and humidity. Even on the Blessed Isle, which typically enjoys moderate temperatures all year, the citizens suffer as the night fails to bring them sweet relief.

But few are in so much pain as one of the scions of House Mnemon. This woman of unusually pure blood, for one born outside The Realm at least, married into the house just a decade ago. Her husband, grandson and direct descendant of Mnemon herself, paces back and forth outside her room. He stops only when a howl is heard from inside. His hand lays on the hilt of his sword, though it is of little use now. Powerless, he turns his attention inwards and does the one thing he hasn't done since he was but a child, and prays to the Elemental Dragons for fortune.

Inside his wife fights what is, undoubtedly, the most important battle of her entire life. She must bring the newest Prince of the Earth to Creation, it is her duty. But she does not fight alone. By her side are four midwives, two dozen servants, two astrologers waiting for the miracle to happen, and even a sorcerer, one of her husbands relatives here to assist if needed. It is a long, drawn out battle that rages for hours on end, but finally, after much pain the first cries of the newborn prince much of the tension vanishes from the room. Already the astrologers frantically scurry to record the exact second and date of the child's birth, so they may create a horoscope for it and divine its future.

"The birth happened at night, when the sky was clear. Most auspicious. And look: a shooting star, good omen. Ah, and it was born under the sign of The Banner in its ascending aspect! The child is assured to have a most grand destiny indeed!"

"M-Master? If one shooting star is auspicious, what does two mean?"

"What? By the dragons! That means-"

The lady of the house almost immediately began screaming once more. Another baby was on its way. Twins they are. This second one however came out much quicker. The midwives joked about how it must be missing its sibling. But some of the servants were worried. The Scarlet Dynasty always welcomed multiple births, as it means more dragons. But some more superstitious, some would say "heretical", people think it a bad sign. Some folk tales speak of the favor of Heaven being divided between the two, or one receiving nothing but good fortune while the other only ill. The Dynasts pay little attention for such nonsense.

"How… are they?"
The lady dynast asked, exhausted beyond words.

"They are fine, mistress."

>One of them was a boy, the other a girl (Male MC)
>Both were girls (Female MC

<span class="mu-i"> "You sure your guy can pull it off? This is not your average Silky or Jack Frost meat here."

"You are welcome to go out there in his place, Ogata. Let's see how far can you go before you get torn to shreds. I can taking the safest option here and you should be grateful for it."

"Fair. Alright, Mitu, Carve him up."

<span class="mu-r"> "mYy PlEaSuree ahahHhahaAaeeeëëëë" </span>

<span class="mu-s"> WHIRRRRRRRR

CRACK CRUNCH </span>
</span>


.

O
.


Heat, unbearable and unnatural like a thousand needle piercing you through and through. It was slowly sizzling your mostly naked skin. You woke up in a hellish landscape where nothing made sense.. the skies were bleeding gold and ivory, impossible shapes manifesting and vanishing at random intervals , multiple suns and moons vying for the same spot constantly interchanging. Madness.

<span class="mu-s"> Rrriinggg </span>

'Hey, can you hear me?' A feminine voice echoed inside your mind. You asked for the identity of whoever this person was.

'You can call me Sayora. Look, I know you may have a lot of questions but you <span class="mu-s"> seriously </span> need to move on. It is not safe and I-we need you to reach your destination relatively unscathed.'

' She is right.' Another voice spoke inside your head 'This is Cadaver Captain Ogata, we ... fused some <span class="mu-s"> precious demon flesh with yours </span>, you have to deliver it to a special place, got it?'

'Listen dipshit, you are our meat mule now.' Your protest was short lived after a third person had butted in the conversation ' Get moving or I will personally tear you limb from limb. I like my meat raw anyways, hehe~'

'I saw Tobika feast on a bicorn once, It was not pretty.'

'Quit it you two! Look, choose a navigator. It will make your journey to <span class="mu-s"> Kathbalab </span> a bit easier.'

>Pick Sayora [Easier Negotiation with Law-aligned demons]
>Pick Ogata [More Macca earned from Netural-aligned demons]
>Pick Tobika [More Demon Flesh earned from Chaos-aligned demons]
>Pick none [???]

The saga continues. Warlords, rich and fat from plunder, leaders of great hosts of chaos, as usual squabble as they march forwards.
////////////////////////////
Welcome to a bit of a filler thread. Here, I'll finish off Ivan's raid, however it goes, and let the following interactions and scheming of the warlords.

You are William and still in one piece after a disastrous encounter with a drug dealer turning what was supposed to be a shakedown of information into a short chase turned ambush. Getting torn apart and crippled for a few days before deciding to join their resistance group to avoid losing all your equipment. Learning some bits of the world and Black Arbiters before moving on to the main threat of a meeting.

You are Charlotte Fawkins, dashing heroine, detectivess, adventuress, heiress, sorceress, etcetera. Three years ago, you drowned yourself in a quest to find a long-lost family heirloom; nowadays, you're just nobly c̶a̶u̶s̶i̶n̶g solving problems with the help of trusty retainer Gil, and MIA snake/father Richard. Inexplicably, many people tend to "dislike" you, though you've never done anything wrong in your life.

Right now, you have determined that the best way to descend to the lower level of sinister corporation Headspace is to jump out of a window. So far you have yet to be proven wrong. Not by Gil, whose yelling has subsided to unintelligible muttering, and who is valiantly failing to break your fall. Not by gravity, which is off its game: you haven't hit the ground yet. You can't tell if there is a ground to hit. You've jumped straight into the terrarium-mist, the one they probably need all those window cleaners for, and it's thicker than it looked from the outside. Warmer, too. You'd hardly know you were falling if not for the terrible mounting pressure in your ears.

You seem to remember something about that, the pressure change between manse layers. The interim eases you into it, or something. Falling straight through doesn't. Boring Richard stuff. Well... it's fine! It's not like you're going to explode. Even if Richard were here, he'd tell you you're not going to explode. Even if your ears have knives in them. Even if there's a scalding hot-poker feeling right at your collarbone. You're not going to explode, because you're not stupid Rudy Doheny, and you are not Headspace Corporation. You are Charlotte Fawkins! And you and your 400 beetles are hurtling toward glory, not to mention the imminent void. The actually imminent void. The mist clears, your ears scream, the string around your neck dangles empty, and you fall from darkness into <span class="mu-i">blackness.</span>

>[-2 ID: 8/14]

The interim is supposed to be white stairs and white doors, but you guess Management deemed those passé: they're gone, ripped out, replaced with fat, twisting tubes. This is good, in that you're less likely to smack face-first into a sharp-edged object. This is bad, in that you're not able to change your trajectory, and a tube gapes open under you. You yelp as you thump into its lip, bounce off, and begin a ricocheting slide downward. Gil, dislodged by the impact, says something intelligent like "Fuck!". You maintain a determined silence— your ears haven't gotten worse, but they're no better— and attempt to hang onto your dignity. Once again, thank God Virginia dressed sensibly. This is not an occasion for skirts.

(1/2)

Your name is RONALD "MAC" MCDONALD. You and your two friends, DENNIS REYNOLDS and CHARLES "CHARLIE" KELLY own 46 percent of PADDY'S PUB, a bar the three of you bought way back when. You think you live a pretty SWEET LIFE bartending at Paddy's while sharing an apartment with Dennis. You've had your UPS (banging some choice puss) and your DOWNS (your friends discovering said puss belonged to a transgender woman who still had her penis), but your LIFE remains pretty SWEET.

WEBSITE
https://baneofjustin.quest

SUPTG
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=baneqm