Rules are simple: Votes are tallied every hour, with whatever course of action being the most popular being the course of action taken. Write ins are encouraged and non-mutually exclusive votes will be combined if possible.
When a roll is called for, roll however many D100 are specified. 5- is a 'crit fail' and generally means something bad is about to happen. 95+ is a 'crit success' and generally means something good just happened. a 'crit success' trumps a crit fail. User input on both will be taken into consideration.
Once per thread, if three or more people invoke it, a single roll may be re-rolled.
You are Alex. A newly minted trainer and camping enthusiast just starting out on your journey at the age of seventeen after your father lost his job in order to help pay the bills. On the road, you met Fie, the Fire Gym Leader, Gareth a novice Aura Guardian on pilgrimage and Holly, a runaway heiress using a pseudonym. You've also made enemies of Team Green a group of violent, radical activists looking to abolish pokemon training.
For the time being, Fie returned to her gym for the time being.
Last thread, you beat Daniel, the Greenshoot Gym Leader, evolved Coolie into a Hydrapple, trained a whole lot, prepared to head out in the morning, had some friendly battles with Sarah and Tom which you lost and groomed your team...
Recently, I have been consuming works of the highest form of literature, which is to say: isekai light novels. Now, you might ask me: "Yog, how can you consider this low brow weeaboo garbage literature, let alone its highest form?" and aside from all literary works being the ramblings of people half as clever as they think they are, I would answer you this: There is something beautifully self-indulgent how the genre is delightfully unapologetic in serving up what the readers desire.
The readers want a protagonist they can reflect their personalities onto? Well, this guy's personality has been polished away to a mirror sheen.
They want a loving harem of 10/10 beauties with chests that come in all shapes and sizes? A new girl will be produced to specifications with each passing volume.
They want to uplift the ignorant savages into the modern era? Don't you worry, no one has ever conceived of crop rotation, let alone the four fields system pioneered by Charles Townshend in the 18th century.
Every minute detail catered to the whims and fetishes of the readers, with the most popular garbage rising up to the top of trash heap and receiving the honor of an official publication. We do in fact love to see it. We love to see it so much, in fact, that today I have decided to engage in a little bit of isekai nonsense myself.
Just a little, though. Mrs. Yog-Sothoth doesn't like it when I poke too many holes in the fabric of the space time continuum. She says "Yog, my dear, you keep doing that and the whole universe will unravel", and who am I - a humble streamer of the 21st Dimension - to argue?
After all, my dear wife is many things: tallow skinned, silver haired, the sole heiress of some simply huge tracts of land in the state of Massachusetts, a loving sugar-mama with a very generous trust fund (thank you Old Whateley for your wise investments), possessing of an adorable horn growing from her brow, with bags under her eyes from the countless sleepless nights from... let's call it "knowing the unknowable" and move on.
But, most importantly, she's right.
Which is why I'm not going to pluck some poor salaryman from his cushy office job, or open a portal for some everyman college student to walk through on his way to class. No, my dear readers, it is you who will get to be the anime girl in this story. Our protagonist will be created, whole cloth, with no backstory other than your poor decisions.
Now, where do you want to start? >Kick things off right from birth, changeling style. >You got summoned by the King to be his political paw- I mean, the hero, of course. >You got summoned by the Demon King to be his bride, because he has a human woman fetish. >You seemingly came into being in an alley. There are no suspicious circumstances involved here, trust me. >You got "reincarnated" as some sort of monster. Don't worry, you'll get a cute anime girl form later. >Don't like any of those? Write it in.
Something shook the blackened acid-metal surfaces of the cylindrical capsule - the piercing tip breached its way into the fleshy and distinct cavity. Inside of the transverse was a number of crystal tubes, pressurized with yellowy chemical sleep - helpless figures inside. Each was clad in a tight elastomer suit, covering the mid thigh to the shoulder and lower jaw, with a circular cutout from below the ribs to the upper pelvis. The suits dug into the skin, the flesh beneath bloated with chemical sleep - several, in fact, had grotesquely filled the tube in entirety; gurgling and moaning as they suffocated, pressed against the crystal. A few did survive - recent memories crudely wiped, and re-implanted with the nature of their mission: > Primary goal: Destroy the Furnace Record > Secondary goals: Kill Pontainlou, kill Germfather Gustav, destroy the Gas Injection Depot. Any agents that survive to complete the primary goal, will be psychically broadcasted directions on how to be safely extracted. Completion of secondary goals will reward additional pardons and indulgences.
Surviving agents: > Fusil - Grapevine Cult Psychic Description: A grotesque mystic of the apocalyptic Grapevine cult. Believes in the great coincidence and upholds the cult doctrine. Skin is pale grey like all clones, lips are drawn back from drinking tumor wine. His forehead is engorged from his overdeveloped brain. Skills: Knows basic psychic abilities.
> Marmora - Insect Ranch Midwife Description: Buxom farmhand from an insect ranch, where creatures are grown for repurposable biomass. Skin is pale grey like all clones, her hair is wiry and curly. Body is muscular and disproportionate from rearing mammoth grubs. Skills: Immense strength.
> Vittori - Data Clan Spy Description: Petite and unassuming, but more fragile than most clones. Skin is pale grey, hair is short. An additional eye grows in the middle of her forehead, and one arm is lost to degradation. External stomach sac implant hangs off the hip, implanted by their Data Czar. Skills: Espionage and infiltration.
> Linter - Neo-Chauvinist Description: Neo-Chauvinist from the Orangutan Cities, skin dyed olive to emulate womb-made humans. Hair is short and face is covered with stubble. Build is slight but muscular. Fingers are surgically elongated. Skills: Deduction and rhetoric.
> Which agent are you? As you awaken, the failing release valves on the remaining chemsleep tubes give way. The three other surviving passengers aboard the transverse begin to thrash in agony and pound on the inside of the crystal tube. > Which additional agent do you move to rescue?
Welcome to CBF, a game set in the cyberpunk future of Charleston, SC, using the horror/urban fantasy world of Changeling: The Lost (and most of the rest of World of Darkness) as it's larger backdrop.
You will be a <span class="mu-g">Changeling</span>, someone that was taken by the <span class="mu-r">True Fae</span> to an alien realm, <span class="mu-r">Arcadia</span>, across the hedge between reality and dreams. They left a <span class="mu-g">Fetch</span> behind in your place, a simulacrum that took your place among your friends and family, making your disappearance unnoticeable. While in captivity, you were traumatized, and forcibly transformed into a creature, or perhaps a decoration, or tool. You've since escaped, back to the real world, back to Charleston, SC, now, in the year 2198.
You command certain supernatural abilities by making contracts and pacts with the forces of nature and reality, and can also make magically binding bargains with other Changelings and mortals. To non-fae creatures, you are by all appearances a human, maybe quite similar to your original self, but possibly older, younger, scarred, or with certain traits having since been altered - time passes in strange ways within <span class="mu-r">Arcadia</span>, and the marks left by the <span class="mu-r">True Fae</span> vary in their subtlety. Other Changelings, fae creatures, and certain other supernatural beings, however, can see past the <span class="mu-g">Mask</span> of concealing faerie magic, and view your true self - be that a musclebound troll, or an automaton cobbled together from wax and copper in your own former image.
Megacorporations and stranger monsters than yourself pull the strings of society in these neon nights, and you will struggle with maintaining your humanity, and sanity, while navigating the maddening world of the fae, and the soul-crushing dystopia that's been produced by generations of greedy, sociopathic humans. You escaped from the creature that abducted you some ten years ago, and have survived in that time by honing your skills and picking your battles.
You are a <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-b">Wizard</span></span> and it is high time that you build a tower.
What do you mean you look like a witch? Silver hair? Black clothes? Skull motifs? The spooky gothic ruby choker that your old party's paladin never snapped with his ever-victorious pure-white Holy Sword because he was a thick-headed himbo who didn't know how to read the fucking mood and <span class="mu-i">accept your many invitations into your atelier</span>? No that's just your preferred aesthetic. Your tender taught you that human men - especially handsome paladins - wanted big tiddy goth mommies, and as an elf you can do two of those three things.
Your tits? Biggest in your decantation batch. Your aesthetic? Humans consider it goth, <span class="mu-i">especially</span> since your specialized school of study is necromancy. Your ability to bear children and become a "mommy"? Well, you don't have a womb, but nothing's stopping you from growing a child in your atelier with some blood from you and your husband.
<span class="mu-i">If you had one</span>.
You don't. This is a problem. No one wants to marry an elf after her two hundred and fiftieth birthday. Twelve adventuring parties came and went throughout your career as a wizard, and every fucking time the Paladin or Warrior's childhood friend - usually a priestess who stood in the back row, squealed in terror, and cast heal cure spells - won before you could even shoot your shot. So now you're three hundred years old (and have been so for over two centuries), exhausted, single, a virgin who has never even seen a man's sword outside of paintings.
Not for lack of trying. Sun above and moon below you tried. You even went as far as to strip naked and walk into a camp of savage orcs rumored to take human women for their vile pleasures... only for their warchief to throw his cloak over you, take you aside, and explain quite clearly that orcs don't work like that. All male orcs may be, just as elves are always female, their reproduction is tied to battle and so most aren't keen on using their clubs like that.
The "breeding pits" you read about in the Central Library were the perfidious lies of the Holy Church.
How dare they give you <span class="mu-i">hope</span>.
You'll extract your revenge against them and all their wretched, man-stealing priestesses later. Right now, you're making a <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">Tower</span></span> to get your mind off of your perennial loneliness and elfin desire to take a human male who vaguely resembles <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-b">The Creator</span></span> to husband. Not a great spindling thing that pierces the space between dream and truth and anchors the real like the Elfhomes, just an ordinary wizard's tower, insofar as any wizard tower can be ordinary.
Where shall you build it? >In the desert, near to the elfhome of those harem building thots. >In the city, where it might catch some handsome stranger's eye. >In the mountains, where you can bicker with the dwarves. >In the islands, where you can shamelessly flaunt yourself. >In the plains, where many sturdy farmhands can be found. >Write in
Sing, goddess, of thirsty Argos, and of the glory of Hippomedon Aristomachides - sing of the folly of Adrastus, of the savagery of Tydeus and of Oedipal transgressions! Sing, O Muse, of Zeus’ designs, which even now come to fulfillment…
It is nearing a year since you, The Courier, fought and secured independence of the Mojave from domestic and foreign powers. Mr. House was put on ice, the NCR got sent packing and even the mighty Legion tucked tail and fled back East.
Now, the New Vegas Directorate, your new government, faces as many challenges as it does opportunities. Industry is rapidly expanding and agriculture is now firmly established while migrants from around the wasteland flood in looking to change their fortunes.
But the Boomer Blight, an engineered plague from parts unknown, is spreading throughout the Wasteland and little looks uncontainable. You continue to walk the line in courting both the NCR and the Legion, seeking to be a stable power between the two warring giants.
A new player comes into the picture and he brings with him hundreds of Enclave descendants eager to start again. You have agreed to welcome them into the NVD but time will tell if you can hide their influence from the NCR while keeping other factions happy.
With the looming NCR election, the hostile President Kimball seems poised to lose to the unknown Allgood Murphy while Caesar continues to see you as his Augustus, urging greater cooperation between both nations.
The one-year anniversary is rapidly approaching and while a grand celebration is planned, existential threats lurk everywhere and with Mr. House on the loose, you can be sure you’ll see him one last time.
You are Phlegna, the underworld goddess of plague. The world has just been ravaged by a cataclysm, and although you had nothing to do with it, you got empowered by the ensuing generalized bad health. Most of the old gods were killed or driven away. You escaped your prison while more powerful and far more evil deities made their escape into the outer planes. You thought about escaping as well, but the material plane right underneath your sacred stars was just - rather empty. You don't think there are more than 100,000 souls in the entire world. Most deities think this is too scant a meal to bother, so you're alone - for now. You are now looking for a particularly gifted individual or group that you can empower so as to restart your ancient cult. And who knows - maybe this time around you'll achieve divine supremacy.
Searching far and wide, you find only small scattered groups. There are a few representants of most races, but they are all scattered. There are places where members of the same race are continents apart, with little hope of ever rejoining. You look around for a resilient little group, and you find a race of:
<span class="mu-r">This is the end of the world.</span> It's also the birth of a new one, or an old one, depending on who you ask. Maybe it's more like an overdue arranged marriage.
You might not have been fully aware, but the world used to cast a Shadow: a separate realm of spirits, kept away by a barrier that only a certain few were ever meant to cross. Spirits are capricious, rarely logical, and often dangerous beings composed of the essence and energy of all things real; scuttling reflections with their own arcane hierarchies and motivations.
But every wall has its rats, and the barrier between your world and the spirit world was no exception. The Beshilu are a nasty manner of demon - derived from and connected to the spirit world, but fettered to the world of flesh, and gifted with many terrible abilities. They massacre and they multiply, and their only desire has ever been to tear down that wall between worlds... to gnaw at its foundations in greater and greater numbers, until the wolves could no longer keep them at bay.
They succeeded.
Too many tears. Too many crumbling wounds between worlds. The gauntlet was sundered, and when that wall crumbled away, the world of mortals and the world of spirits were merged into one. In those first terrible moments, everyone on Earth could hear a trillion shrill voices screeching out in triumph, and swarms of rats swelled across streets and forests in writhing tides.
The fabric of reality is now like a sieve, the threads wavering apart and stretching in new directions; space and time operate differently. The sun no longer rises, or sets, and light instead seems to meander from one place to the next according to whim. Places seem to stir and shift, reacting to their occupants in sometimes unpredictable fashion. The rules have changed, and will likely change more, but things will never go back to the way they were.
That was three days ago, and it would be a stretch to say the dust has settled, but you are adjusting to the chaos. You're a survivor, and while you may not fully grasp what's going on, you're not unfamiliar with the supernatural. You are determined to knuckle down and make your way in this fucked up new world....
