<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">"It was a simple game, downloaded by children with unrestricted internet access in an era long passed. Trends came and went, websites lived and died, and eventually Tricky Treats Online faded from the eyes of the next generation. The children who roamed the instanced streets of Tricky Treats were now adults, and this game -- frozen in time -- were the remnants of their childhood."</span></span></span> <span class="mu-i">-From the analysis video "The Real Game that Really Killed"</span>
You are Margot Merriweather, a woman of order who - despite being a child at the time - opted to play as a "Grown Up Ghoul" embracing the decoration and design of the in-game "Haunted Houses". After a decade of being away from the game, you decided to make a new character, just to peak in and relive those years for a few moments.
Nostalgia was the only thing that seemed to pause your now busy life, so occasionally after getting suitably tipsy you dip into the past. Perhaps in reliving, you gain a further appreciation for the present moment, thus making the seconds more palpable; Or maybe it's pure delusion, and the reality is you're spending your weekend alone again, desperately trying to be a kid. As judgemental as you might feel towards your own desires, you allow yourself to be under this spell, log in to your old account, and add a new profile.
<span class="mu-b">Halloween is that one time of year where all the children conquer any social misgivings for the sake of mountains of sweets. This year - however - is different, because among the candy being given, there are sure to be some <span class="mu-s">Tricky Treats!</span>
Tricky Inc. threw its hat into the candy business, and their product - Tricky Treats - exploded in popularity. Kids can't get enough, Adults can't get enough, and even the monster under your bed wants that Tricky taste!
So what are you waiting for, get out there and do what it takes to snag a bag full!</span>
Choose your Class! :
>Sugar Gobbler (Ring the doorbell, get the candy, ring the doorbell, get the candy... Wanna trade?)
>Trickster (Cough up the candy, or some toilet paper might go flying..!)
>Grown Up Ghoul (I HATE these Tricky Treaters!!!)
>Rent-a-Cop (Protect and Serve! ... After eating some confiscated confectioneries!)
>Minimum Wager (Working on Halloween? This sucks dude!)
<span class="mu-i">Howdy bros, I'm back. I wanted to continue RimQuest, but the combination of an artist shafting me, Rimworld 1.6 breaking all of my saves, life events, and depression have fucked that into the dirt. So instead here's something new.</span>
<span class="mu-s">These are the dark years of the occupation.</span> Gordon Freeman is still just a story passed between cells, squads, strangers, and couples. In this moment in time there's only you, a lone human working to resist the Combine occupation however you see fit and remain able. There will be an <span class="mu-s">Uprising</span> someday, this you're sure of, but the path there lies on the other side of lakes of blood and considerable effort on the part of unsung warriors like you.
It had felt like days since you last saw the sun back outside the outskirts of <span class="mu-s">City 11.</span> The awful stench of the sewers and cisterns which meandered under the streets of what used to be <span class="mu-s">Berlin</span> forced you to find something to plug your nose with almost immediately upon beginning your infiltration. Deep regret at leaving the accommodations, spartan as they were, of the Resistance base north of the city had massaged your mind, but failed to slow your occasionally-soggy step through the barely-lit darkness. All this had a purpose, you reminded yourself. In the newspeak of the Combine you are an Anticitizen, a <span class="mu-s">Malignant</span>, the malformed cell that starts the cancer, the one that sets the spark which will light the torch of humanity's liberation. Or, in more plain terms, the crazy fucker that volunteers to go back into the Cities in order to bring contraband in, people out, and start up new resistance cells along the way. If there were some omniscient statistician in the sky, he could have given you odds of survival that would have seen you sit your ass back down in Finow when they called for somebody to replace Parks's sector after his presumed loss, but all the same, it needed to get done. The whole goddamned species was at stake, with a biological time limit that edged closer to expiration every year and a planet slowly being strangled of its life. If this generation didn't stop them, there would be no other. Never in human history had there been as existential and desperate a struggle as the one you now trudged through obscure German shit-tunnels to wage.
It had only been half a day since you entered the sewer system when you reached your target. A junction in the tunnels marked by a chalk marker and a lone, white coffee mug. The route into this part of the city was prepared beforehand by a two-man reconnaissance team, people with equipment and experience too valuable for you to know or to be risked with the next, most dangerous part of City infiltration. You were briefed that they left you a red bag full of necessaries to help you along on your mission from here, hidden in a storeroom near the marker.
Lytek was, like most work days, sitting behind his desk. The God of Exalted stroked his white beard after penning a recommendation for a Lunar Exaltation, reviewing his work. Satisfied, the grandfatherly god smiled, and put the letter in his filing cabinet, where a copy would be instantly made and transmitted to Luna.
A knock came on his door, and Lytek looked up. “Come in,” he called, raising his hand to both open the door and ready the chair, all without standing. He moved his piles of papers to the sides of his desk, ready to meet this visitor.
But it was not a visitor, but his assistant and daughter, Lysidore. “Father!” She said, rushing into the room. “We have an emergency! A whole circle of Sidereals were killed!”
Lytek's eyes bulged. He stopped himself from asking details - he could learn them after his work was done. On cue, he heard five thumps in his locked cabinet. The Exaltations had arrived. “Here,” he said to Lysidore, reaching under his desk and offering his cleaning implements to her. “Help me prepare them.”
The graveness of the situation pulled down her excitement. Father had never asked her to help him in his duties. Not like this. She grabbed the tools and pulled a few files from the top of his short stack, labeled “Sidereal Exaltation Candidates.” Lytek unlocked his cabinet and five small will-o'-the-wisps floated above his hand. Amber, cerulean, crimson, emerald, ans violet - one for each of the Castes. Pure Essence, empowered by the Five Maidens of Destiny.
“Quickly,” he said, “there should be some Dragon-Blooded ready to be lifted to the stars.”
In a frenzy, Lysidore spread out and looked down at the files she pulled. All were dynasts of the Scarlet Empire. “The Bronze Faction will have something to say-”
“Not when it's this many at once,” Lytek grinned, his white beard moving with his cheeks. Grudges from the Solar Purge still persisted among the gods, especially he who was held back from his duties. The blades of Sidereals held Lytek in check as the Solars extracted and imprisoned his charges. It was a gamble for Lytek, but potentially denying one Dragon-Blooded for the Bronze Faction to steer was worth it. Even better if this Sidereal-to-be did not join the Bronze. Besides, four more Sidereals would join. It will be noted one was a dynast, but it will not be an outrage.
Lysidore strained to recall the last Sidereal pulled from the Dynasty. It was quite a few centuries ago now… She shook her head. Time to review. She took one of the Exaltations in her hands and began to inspect it, scrubbing away abnormalities that came from beyond Creation. She read the candidate profiles…
Your name is Vincent Cruz. You work in a shady government-backed facility in the middle of the New Mexico desert. By all accounts, you are a complete and total nobody to the Powers That Be.
You've managed to survive the last 7 days at your job. Your job, of course, involves studying and researching dangerous anomalous entities in order to make money for the Abnormality Regulation Coalition (also known as ARC).
In fact, you survived long enough to get promoted from Level 0 to Level 1. You're no longer on the bottom of the totem pole but you're still so, so far away from the top. Five more ranks to go and who's to say you'll survive long enough to reach the top?
If you're going to die here, at least you're going to die at the top. You've climbed dozens upon dozens of corporate ladders, what's one more, after all? It's the only life you've known so you might as well get comfortable with it.
As for a recap of some notable things that happened recently?
You accidently stumbled across Liz getting herself involved in office politics. While you don't care about getting yourself entangled in them, you decided to keep an eye on Liz to make sure she won't do something she'll regret.
You also learnt that one of your coworkers, Ashton, is an aberrant cannibalistic human called a 'Harvester'. For a while you thought her unconditional kindness to you was a mask for something but no, apparently she really see you as a friend. Instead of a meal, thankfully.
A dream you had last night still lingers in the back of your mind. It was the only decision you could've made, it was the only right decision, you had to leave that house.
One of your anomalies, IN LIMBO, has finally kicked the bucket. It decided that the best thing to do would be to move on. All that's left of it now is an ARTIFACT, a remnant of its anomalous power. Rest in peace, Rolle.
And lastly, an old and presumably anomalous phone you bought a while ago has been ringing non-stop during your shift. You're currently trying to negotiate a deal with a mysterious man who's offering you something that 'doesn't cost you money', whatever that means.
Your life is a surreal mess but what can you do about it? The only path you can see for yourself is doing your job to the best of your ability. You're a <span class="mu-s">wageslave</span>, born and raised to torture yourself by doing obtuse and obscene tasks all so a line goes up.
With the Tournament of Power brought to a close, the Seventh Universe has emerged triumphant once more. Led by the Saiyan warriors, the Seventh's victory was secured. And with the wish on the Super Dragon Balls used to restore the other universes that were eliminated and erased, the final hidden trial was passed, and all eight of the universes up for elimination were allowed to remain. Yet, even with this victory, peace doesn't last in the Seventh Universe for long. As old hatreds rise and long-buried grudges resurface, will you have what it takes to keep everything you've worked the last 28 years of your life to build? Or will those who seek your end ultimately triumph? That all depends on you, and your choices.
You the players will (most often) control Karn. A Saiyan man who has grown from his lowly beginnings as a mid-tier 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 over a dozen powerful and unique children, a mentor and teacher to his fellow Saiyans, and the indisputable winner of the Tournament of Power. Wielder of the Berserker Soul, and the powerful Stand Divine Dragon Force, you're fully equipped to handle any threat that comes your way. But what will you do when the threats aren't always physical, when you can't simply punch all your problems away?
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.
you, yes YOU will determine the fate of Our Hero! your prompts shape his destiny and his actions (almost) all suggestions will be considered! don't be afraid to get creative!
Planet Dump25... Widely known as one of the worst planets in the galaxy, but not as bad as Dump26. The sickly glow of a diseased star irradiates this misbegotten place daily, providing a feeble facsimile of sunlight to the two and a half species of MISERABLE FUCK that live there. the ELLY is a photosynthetic creature that uses its big veiny EARS to gather SUNLIGHT the PHANT is a CARNIVORE, it EATS the ELLY the BUTTLEECH is a FREELOADER, it SUCKS poop from the PHANT's butt Perhaps in time, these genetic rejects will give rise to a thriving ecosystem... But probably not
Rules: 1. Find a creature suffering from environmental pressures 2. Copy it into MS Paint (or any other anti-aliased drawing program, if you're fancy like that) 3. Add a feature to the creature that will make it better at not dying 4. Reply to the post that had the old creature with your new, improved creature (and describe how it's different) It's that easy! And they told me you needed a degree to be an evolutionary biologist...
Rain filters in through the ceiling, sliding along the support beams in just such a way it misses the numerous pots, pans, and cups scattered around the delipidated apartment and is readily sucked into the mouldy carpet. Which is then again immediately transferred to a new object: your sock. Your very next steps now all dotted with a wet squelch.
"Argh!" You cry, as you balance on one foot to pull the sock of the other, only for said wet sock to cozy up to the business end of the cigarette you had tucked between two fingers, providing a new, enticing after-taste to the familiar menthol as you unknowingly take a drag. "Huurhg!"
It might've been a week or so since you had washed that sock.
How had it come to this?
Well, the demon king lost against The Seven Braves. A poor title for a bunch of delinquents that jumped a guy seven to one. They murdered their way deep into the demon capital, defeated all the bureaucrats present, and killed the ministers while shouting inane things like "Die Heavenly Generals!"
They hadn't been generals and they certainly hadn't been heavenly.
They were butchered all the same and all branches of government were eradicated over the span of a few days. After performing what amounts to genocide, the "Saintes" had the gall to clasp her still-bloody hands together, bat her eyelashes, and say things like "No, we can't kill them all, that would make us just like them!"
And so the remaining demons, conveniently all of middle-rank and lower, were accepted as refugees into human society. What's that? You want to stay here in the demon lands? I see. Hmm? That demon from earlier? Oh, they fell into the river. Yes, lost all their limbs along the way. Wild, isn't it? Anyway, safety and a bright future awaits you in the human nation of Lightsong!
A few decades have passed since then, demons were by and large limited to awful jobs that made little to no money. The timing of the demons' arrival had been amazingly convenient, just as human society was entering an industrial golden age that required a massive labour force. Truly, the stars aligned for humanity.
The era of sword, shield, and spell has long since passed into history. Few still practice the ancient, magical arts, but demand has somewhat diminished now that you can barely chant out the first seven incantations of a spell before a newly arrived bullet in the brain informs you that you shouldn't bother with final three.
