[Illusion of a quest AKA ONE SHOT.]

The eternal malice of the sun bothers you from a long and weary sleep.
You open your eyes for the first time.
The world appears boundless and without form.
You open your mouth and let out no vagitus to rend the air.
The horizon is empty and full of opportunities.
You are but a newborn and yet it is not hard to stand.

Let's begin.

You are planning to murder somebody. You are an unassuming person of 28 years of age. You would consider yourself well-educated and quite cunning.
No significant other in your life. You work four days a week in an office for a cookware company in Scholton, a nearby town. You would not describe yourself as particularly empathetic or emotional, and the idea of killing someone strikes you about as unsettling as the idea of shooting a deer in a hunt.

What kind of killer are you?
>Detailed plans and schemes, creative deaths. I have a complexity fetish.
>Impulsive and brutal. I make a mess.
>Sadistic and drawn out. I just want them to hurt for a long, long time.
>Sexual. I’m a slave to my impulses. Aren’t we all?
>Simple and efficient. No frills. No fuss.
>Quick kills but I leave clues and evidence to taunt the police and public. I want a chase. I want to be seen.

> While every world travels slowly towards its end, yours has just begun its journey.
> For this world, the cycle of Gods and Men spins anew, on freshly birthed lands awash with life.
> You are a being of creation, a God, among the first divinities born not long after a world’s genesis. You possess innate knowledge and immense power, with which you may seize dominance and carve out a place for yourself in these savage, untamed wilds.

Welcome to a spinoff installation of Beings of Creation, a long-running tactical civ-style hexcrawl based on your imagination. You are a non-omniscient divine being of great power. You find yourself spontaneously brought into existence in a prehistoric, primeval world, untouched by Gods.
The rules are relatively simple, and may be picked up as you go, but the document below goes into detail. Most players are familiar veterans of the game, so don't be shy and feel free to ask questions.
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1eOyLUfkbgVFHjIPmNmcW9G2wQE7CZenv69m9yQF_aMY
https://discord.gg/yd3KbdCZ

<span class="mu-r">With a few gods already out of the running, feel free to post a god sheet in the thread if you’re interested in joining in.</span>

>Turn 11 begins!

Oito chaves guardam o que o tempo não curou, \\
Oito ecos do "nós" que a lógica apagou. \\
Siga o rastro das cinzas, se tiver coragem de ver, \\
Pois cada verso esconde o que você deixou morrer.\\

Your sprained ankle barely carrying you. The dull throbbing pain in your head at least numbs the pain in your shoulder and forearms. Though it does little to quell the pain in your side from your broken ribs. You glance over to the group of people behind you. Dressed in black school uniforms, roughly a dozen of them.

They are all standing roughly ten-fifteen feet behind you. Looking at you with hate, and some fear in their eyes. They are clumped up together like posing for a group photo, and do not advance on you. Even though they've been kicking the hell out of you a minute ago. Then a long shadow descended from the direction the sun was setting, and covered you all. Forcing them to back off as if something physically pushed them away.

"Go on! Get out of here!" their leader yells, but does not cross the long shadow.
Whatever curses leave your mouth, they are barely a whisper, you cough as you continue. Away from them, away from your home. Following the distant figure that casts that long shadow.

You look down upon yourself, and verify that your strongest asset is still there, surviving the battering.

>Your fist, you always had the meanest right punch
>Your leg, it started with kicking ball and soon it became kicking people
>Your abs, rock hard and keeping your organs mostly protected, helping stamina
>Write-in

The cold, crisp air of the surrounding environment chills you to the core. The city looks so different from above, the streetlights appearing like stars from below as you scale the sleek, ebony, dimly lit skyscraper.

<span class="mu-i">"Reaper, do you read me?</span> A calm and monotone voice buzzes through your earpiece.

You sigh, the effort of scaling the building slowly wearing down even on your trained muscles. Holding the earpiece with a single finger as you hang off the building with your other hand suctioned on you press down on the auditory device.

"I read you, Crow. This important?" You ask, only managing to mask the exhaustion in your tone very slightly.

The voice on the other side tries to stifle a chuckle, <span class="mu-i">"You're nearing the entry point on the 60th floor, systems picking up multiple readings on the floor just above you. Remember.. our client wants this done quietly, you grab the USB from the floor above, get back to the breached entry, get the fuck out, preferably with no unnecessary casualties. You understanding me?"</span> The masculine voice asks.

You look up, spotting the cut window still intact with it's frame you race up the remaining little bit of the building you have left. You press your hand against the window and..

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

The window comes out of the frame, your one suctioned hand sticking to it, stopping it from falling to the ground and alerting someone. You slip inside the building from the breached point and take off your climbing gear, placing everything in your black duffle bag hanging off your side.

<span class="mu-i">"Goddamnit, Reaper! Do you read me? This contracts a lot of money, don't go fucking up the bonus pay for everyone."</span> The previously cool and collected Crow buzzes sternly in your ear.

>"Relax, you remember who you're talking to? I'm a pro."

>"Money's getting to your head, Crow. Do your job, stay focused and keep an eye on my environment."

>Give your annoyed partner the silent treatment

You are a failure.

Your life was an unmitigated disaster. A comedy of errors that would be funny... If it wasn't you.

You USED to be a star. You USED to shine brighter than any other.

You were a prodigy. You used to be... Someone. Everything you ever wanted and needed was within your grasp and you lost it.

Now, though? You're nothing; your purpose has been ripped from you and you can't let it go. Everyday exists for you to daydream about what could have been. A pointless and painful exercise in imagination.

However, you've realized something. If you can't achieve your dreams maybe your children can. It wouldn't be you, but at least your child would embody some of your essence. Their story would start from you- you would be an undeniable puzzle in their greatness.

And that's almost enough.

The question is... What was your passion? What is your regret?

>Sports
>Hero
>Music
>Art
>Academics
>Nobility
>Write-In

It's March 1945, you hear about a job in a kind of ‘secret city.’ You don't know what the hell these people are talking about, but it looks promising, even too good to be true. Still, you don't have much to lose after the Great War, so you take the opportunity.

After going through a lot of paperwork and a few other things, in less than a week you're put on a ship with no name and no clear destination. They just told you, ‘It's in the middle of the sea.’

Less than two weeks ago, you were a poor idiot living on the bare minimum, and now you're still a poor idiot, but now you're on a ship heading for ‘the city of the future’. You'd heard of its founder, Andrew Ryan, a rather unique man who was quite crazy about his ideals, which is nothing new in this world.

A couple of shitty days go by. You weren't used to such long boat trips, but you forced yourself to get used to it. The food on the boat is shit, but at least it's better than whatever you could scavenge from the rubbish.

One cold morning, you've lost track of time, sleeping in rooms the size of mouse holes, crammed in with a few other poor idiots like you, seeking a future in an uncertain city. A bell begins to ring, and the ship's crew start shouting announcements: "<span class="mu-s">We've arrived</span>!’ You look out the window and all you can see is sea as far as the eye can see. You run with the crowd to the upper deck.

The crew continue to shout ‘<span class="mu-s">we have arrived</span>’. This is when you see it: an enormous lighthouse, a huge tower, an effigy in the middle of the gigantic and infinite ocean, a shining golden tower rising above the waves.

A submarine appears out of nowhere from the darkness of the ocean, and the ship's officers make preparations to board the submarine.

You are James Underwood the Younger, and you are about to kill a man. You've never done that before. Not that it would be difficult, said man is pinned to the ground and already dying. Courtesy of James Underwood the Elder, your father. A ninety-four year old man, who calmly had you drive him into Mendig's northern projects to linger in a dark alleyway and wait behind a rancid garbage bin for this man to draw near. At which point he simply got up, strode out into the open, and drove a knife into the man. Once, in the back, then once again into his front after he fell. Puncturing the lungs to prevent him screaming, you figure.

Your father...Dad, was always an imposing figure in your life. A former soldier who never raised his voice and never needed to to get either his son or an entire room of suits to listen. You never got a full picture of what he did for Jefferson, even after the latter's fall, but there was a reason he did not oppose your wish to climb the company's ladder without his influence. Even then, he was trying to shield you. You were in your early twenties, but still a little boy to him. That hasn't changed, especially after Mom died. You sometimes compare yourself to those of his generation, who lived and fought in the war, knew the Rebuilding and golden years that followed. A tougher breed than yours, for sure. Dad never cared. You think he was just happy his only child would not know what he did. And now you are about to step into a war, a deadly game, though hopefully as a player and not an ignorant, unwitting pawn.

Dad is scared. The idea fills you with unease. This man fears not pain nor death, and yet he is afraid now. Scared of what is to come, scared that he is not strong enough to protect you. Of course, how could he, he's a dying old man, the thought still echoes in your head. Well, truly that is where your troubles begin.

A few months ago, Dad discovered something. He didn't tell you how, but he apparently found strange floating stones that no one else could see. They gave him power, unnatural abilities, a small part of his youth back, and the ability to get more. From what he knows, these stones are only found dormant in certain people who have taken another's life. Even fewer still may gain these stones, alongside the ability to use them, when killing the killer. You get the feeling Dad isn't telling you everything. But since he calls them blood stones, he figures that those of his blood may also be like him, able to use them.