<span class="mu-b">ANTON PEAS:</span> that’s your name, don’t wear it out! Originally a mild-mannered grilljockey, a botched demonic summoning brought you to <span class="mu-b">ZORAL:</span> a fantasy world shrouded in perpetual darkness!
You get used to it!
The memory loss and everyone trying to kill you? That’s the tricky part. See, your unexpected trip landed you in one Hell of a mess: not only did you lose a huge chunk of your memories, but you also forfeit your soul to <span class="mu-r">RED</span>--you don’t know the specifics, but essentially your summoning granted you some <span class="mu-r">DEMONIC POWERS</span>, so it’s not all bad!
What <span class="mu-i">IS</span> bad is what you’re up to now: your hellish helper can restore your memories, but he won’t do it for free! The price: delivering the heads of <span class="mu-r">THE FOUR LORDS OF ZORAL:</span> tyrants and titans that rule the darklands with iron fists, claws, and… you dunno, tentacles, maybe? There’s a reason they’ve ruled for so long, however, and despite your platoon of pals and plentiful powers you can’t help but feel a little apprehensive about the whole thing!
Exhibit A: <span class="mu-r">ARCHMAGE TRIER.</span> Arriving in <span class="mu-b">UMBERAL:</span> Zoral’s very own city of tomorrow, you were swiftly introduced to the <span class="mu-r">TEKSOULS:</span> menacing magitek that follow every whim Trier can think up… and you met the guy–he thinks a <span class="mu-i">LOT!</span>
Not to be outdone, you also ran into <span class="mu-r">THE SPICE CARTEL</span>--not only is Umberal their home turf, they’re also running some kind of deal with the Archmage… as for what it is, well, you shudder to think!
Your search for leverage over the Archmage took you to <span class="mu-b">TRIMBAULT ACADEMY:</span> Zoral’s most prestigious magical academy, and whole you managed to snag some goodies and teach a surprisingly-decent class (don’t ask), you didn’t manage to find notes other mages took on their Archmage adversary! Even worse, all signs point to The Cartel snatching them up for their own perfidious plots!
Luckily you had an in: <span class="mu-b">TZAH-TZIE</span>, skilled songstress and your current beau, has an axe to grind with her musical rival <span class="mu-b">LUTZA</span>. Having saved the starlet from a kidnapping on the Umberal Skyrail, you earned your way into holding a concert in Umberal, and some of the biggest names in The Cartel just happen to be huge fans!
You were just about to plot out the details at the glitzy <span class="mu-b">CRYSTALMELT HOT SPRINGS LODGE</span> when you ran smack-dab into The Cartel’s higher-ups… and the big cheese himself, <span class="mu-r">VHALE NESSURMOS</span>.
Did we mention he’s also your girlfriend’s husband? And that she freezes up like a clam on Pluto at the mere mention of his name?
Cornered by the Cartel, THIS is where your tale continues…
You are <span class="mu-s">Lorinda de Lindan</span>, Princess, Inquisitor, and soon-to-be Tournament Champion! Well, not really, for you see the Inquisition is sending you into the <span class="mu-s">Grand Tournament of Bloodgrave’s Fall</span> as an agent to see if any otherworldly <span class="mu-s">Strangers</span> from the wicked and barbarous dimension of Earth sneak in to gain lands and glory right from under your father’s nose. Regretfully, the Inquisition has <span class="mu-s">banned</span> you from seeking victory as once your analysis of the competition is complete, it will be time to make a dramatic exit fitting of your desire to be the tournament’s <span class="mu-s">underdog hero</span>. Currently, there is a mere <span class="mu-s">14 days</span> before the preliminary rounds begin for the <span class="mu-s">duels</span> where you shall compete. Now if only you knew the best way to prepare…
>You are a human Fighter >Your age, sex, name and appearance are up to you
>Str 14 >Dex 14 >Con 14 >Int 14 >Wis 14 >Cha 14
>Choose a fighting style, Archetype, background, two extra proficiencies (four in total) and a feat from this site: https://dnd5e.wikidot.com/fighter
>increase one ability score by 1
>You have 2500 experience, and are level 3.
You stand in the cold outside the Shalemoor dungeon, it's entrance is a lightless arch with darkness behind, diving deep into the stony hillside behind it. You stand in a small valley between three hills, one of which holds the dungeon entrance. The cold breeze from the moors is broken slightly by the thick pines growing in this depression. You are alone (save for any retainers a background may grant you), and you see a small pile of ash nearby, fifty feet from the entrance, and a pair of torches in sconces, one on each side of the door.
You came here under order of the King, his Highness King Garriot offered Knighthood to any who can slay the ten worst monsters said to dwell in this pit, and return with evidence, the monsters are:
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…
