You are Huanliuxue (欢流血, Happy Bloodshed/ Happy to Shed Blood), She who touched and dyed the moon red, the rightful ruler of and most impressive amongst all beasts, the heir to the primordial throne of true primordial nobility, an popular amateur writer, the founder and first and current grand master of the palace of natural laws sect (宫殿的野生彝宪, Gōngdiàndīyěshēngyíxiàn) and creator of the cultivation technique following the dao of ghosts and grudges, there heretical art of the Ruler of the Great Wheel's Law(统治者的这重大轮回法律, Tǒngzhìzhědīzhèzhòngdàlúnhuífǎl), and you are also the rightful monarch of the kingdom of the buried army of those who dared oppose the order of the heavens, the aggressors and only victims of the bloodless war, a kingdom of graves, tombs and quiet catacombs filled to brim with vengeful spirits, hungry ghosts and ancient warriors turned phantom calamities.
However, the king who has lost his name and been forgotten by all outside of his cursed followers and soldiers trapped beneath the now split mountain you claimed and marked as your own years ago, still holds most of the lands of one of your rightful domain. And while it is but one of the many kingdoms and titles that are rightfully yours, the forgotten king and his toadies have earned your ire and enmity through all the wrongs they have committed against you and yours. They tried to attack you while you were in deep meditation and refining the ghostly essence saturating the tomb kingdom, and during your student's valiant defense of your cultivation chamber, one of those brute's cursed one of poor Qiang's eyes, forcing her to tear it out herself! And since everyone, men and beast alike, mistake her for your daughter, you may as well pay them back for that injury as if she truly was from a litter of yours! And that isn't to mention the insults the governor of his that you've been using like a caged canary and footstool has spat your way. And still is. Even though Yin Zhao has been your prisoner for quite some time, he hasn't once wept or wailed pathetically with the other loyalists you keep caged to sing you pretty and sorrowful songs while you hold court and appease your subjects by alleviating the agony of their wretched and cursed existence trapped here beneath the earth. Not quite in hell, but certainly not alive.
Subjects who are now braying and barking for "blood" and vengeance, the fury they feel towards their former leader for getting them trapped in this sorry state driving them all into a frenzy, even those who are usually cool headed, composed and mostly sane after the long centuries confined here by the heavens' spite. Cont
Year: UC 0080's After the devastation of the Stardust Incident, trust eroded in the capability of the Earth Federation, and the need for an task force that could operate outside the purview of the law to prevent an similar event from ever happening again. Thus the rise of the Titans was officially declared, an sizable chunk of the Federation budget poured into the coffers of the Titans as they began to develop and test countless mobile suits and variations, all at the behest of their leader, Jamitov Hymen and his right hand man, Bask Om.
But not all were content to simply lie back and let the Titans rise be absolute, their heavy handed policies brought upon them the scorn and distaste for not only the Titans, but also the Earth Federation as well. Still, your father was a federation man, who lost his life in the war. Even so, you left to become a soldier...
[When did you join the Titans?] A. 0083, when it was first established. B. 0085, just before the Bunch 30 Incident C. 0086, Prior to the AEUG performing their Gundamjack operation.
[What type of Newtype are you?] Oldtype, sadly Dormant Newtype Average Newtype Potent Newtype Other?
[Where were you assigned?] Standard Forces Test Corps Newtype Corps Dirty Jobs/Cleaner Detail Other?
My friend is being harassed by a narcissist psychopath, she's told him to kill himself and he tried. And is attempting to manipulate his girlfriend to be friends with her again. She's basically ruined his life
After getting splatted onto the ground from a random teleport, you, aka fred, somehow got the doxx to the guy who made a comment about you being less then human, this indivual is negrofred!!! Now you must go get em and kill em!! What will you, the totally rightous and not ego hurt retard will you do to get revenge! And or get to his house without dying from aids
You are Kai, a newly minted edgerunner trying to scrape by in Night City. Almost two weeks ago your father, an NCPD netrunner, was murdered under suspicious circumstances during a Cyberpsycho attack on Kabuki Marketplace. You’re out looking for answers. Answers and <span class="mu-i">eddies</span>. Eddies to pay for your several ill mother’s medical expenses, eddies for more gear, eddies for information, eddies for allies. Everything in Night City has a price, and everyone has secrets, especially your family. Dad was an Edgrerunner for decades in secret, and your Mom used to be a big corpo scientist for Biotechnica, running a whole genetic enhancement and cloning project you didn’t even know existed - or that you were a part of - until a few days ago. The only person you can fully trust is yourself… and perhaps Alice (Hlin), the ghostly AI that your netrunner father was working with in secret before they both got attacked on New Year’s Eve. The last couple of weeks have been busy with small jobs for the static Aldecaldo fixer Dakota, both solo and with other edgerunners, and right now you’re recovering from nearly getting flatlined trying to infiltrate a Raffen Shiv subnet. Ouch. You’re still one of the freshest faces around Night City's shadows for now, but all it takes to end that is a single bullet - This line of work is a meat grinder, and runners are the meat.
<span class="mu-s">2076.01.012, 07:15 Night City (Kabuki, your apartment)</span>
Sitting on your apartment’s worn old sofa, you munch on a plate of mind bendingly delicious cookies Vicky baked last night. Real chocolate, baked with care, still fresh enough to be almost gooey it is so soft but not crumbling apart… Maybe you <span class="mu-i">did</span> die during that last run, and this is heaven. Vicky is out handling some early morning biz, she just left a few minutes ago with a vest and her Metel, but you weren’t left alone in enjoying these wonderful baked goods.
With every bite you take, Alice savors the flavors and textures as well, a second ghostly sensation radiating throughout your mind as you experience her pleasure at each bite as if it were your own. The cookies are <span class="mu-i">twice</span> as good in this strange gestalt state, and for once you really don’t mind it at all. There are benefits to existing spread between two minds it would seem, when you are acting in accord the intensity of your shared feeling and sensations is… fascinating, if a little worrying still. Your entanglement has deepened after your shared IC induced coma, but you’re determined to find a silver lining to this whole synchronization mess.
You are Argentinian who sees himself as an Italian but speaks only Spanish.
<span class="mu-i">You are just Argentinian, Otto, forget this Italian stuff</span> your best friend says. <span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">My paternal and maternal bloodlines dare to disagree, Poncho. Methodically, patiently, placidly, contentedly, I have successfully traced them back to Tuscany, you rootless mutt!</span></span> you have started disliking him since he came out as gay. <span class="mu-i">Your name is Otto.</span> <span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">Ah, Tuscany! Old country, home...</span></span> <span class="mu-i">Your name is Otto, Otto.</span> <span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">My parents saw themselves as Schleswig-Holsteiners but I refuse to bow down to anything non-Italian!</span></span>
...gay silence...
You are also obsessed with some French hussar that was obsessed with dying at 30. Now you are kind of obsessed with dying at 25, can't let the French win. Your pompousness, swaggering and boastfulness are also your best allies in making that obsession come true. It is the Italian blood in your veins!!!
Currently you are in a gay bar. Not Italian, just an Argentinian gay bar. Poncho, your gay best friend, was adamant of bringing you here. He believes that you are secretly gay too.
<span class="mu-i">It is the Italian blood in your veins</span> he said the other day.
You are staring at the gay wall and want to break the gay silence between you and your gay best friend.
>"Poncho, are you grooming me?" >"Nothing Italian is gay..." you say mysteriously. >the same way Mussolini's royal guard came out with rusty rifles at The Inspection of 1939, my affection for you and your gayness has rusted like a their long rifle barrels [strike a pose, roll dice+1d2 for one that is gay or non-gay] >punch Poncho in the face to make sure that you have that dog in you [and that you are not gay]
The smell of rotting synth-meat and stale kibble forces you conscious. It's dark, and as your hands grope around the pitch blackness, it's wet. You attempt to stand, and a resounding crash happens as you whack your head on metal. The pain forces memories back into your head, the shooting, the car chase, hiding in this very dumpster... and who you are...
1: Corporate Netrunner. Raised in a training facility, the net's a second home to you, and you know your way around it better than meatspace.
2: MedTek Dropout. You used to be trauma team, now you're... whoever pays best. Couldn't keep up with the constantly raising deadlines and demands. Burnt you out.
3: Classic Solo. You were born out on the streets, grew up fighting. You were good enough to make a living out of it.
A little girl with a gun. The thought alone jolts you out of your lingering hangover. "What business does a little girl have, wandering the rain-slicked streets of Tokyo under the cloak of night?" That question haunted you last night, and now, it seems you might stumble upon the answer. "You there, Kurosawa?" the chief's voice blares from the phone, pulling you back to the urgent matter at hand. "Yes, chief, I'm on my way to the station right now," you reply, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of thoughts. As you head out, a rumor you once dismissed flickers through your mind—the one about a sinister government project in a distant country designed to transform young girls into ruthless killers, devoid of emotion and remorse. Could there be a connection? No, it’s better to focus on uncovering the truth rather than weaving conjectures.
Old Maple Hill. That’s what they call it, mostly because that’s what you called it, and even then only because it is centered around... Well, a small hill, with an old maple tree, and you were a child, and you never thought it would be the center of an entire community.
Funny how things change.
Your name is Ezreal Mious Van Houtzmann. ‘Mious’ means ‘wisdom’ in the language of your mother's people, the Sylvan Elves of Dappulyet, whom you may never see or visit again; you can only hope she got your last letter, before you fled your homeland in the pursuit of world peace and personal freedom (it’s a long story). “Van Houztmann” is your human father’s surname... Well, sort of. He was born merely ‘Rudolfo Houtzman’, and seems to have added the ‘van’ and the extra ‘n’ as some form of dramatic flourish. You adopted it much later. It means ‘of the strong men’. Despite all your hereditary strength and wisdom, however, sometimes you feel like a leaf on the wind—a summoned wind, a night-wind, generated by the beating of great wings beating in the unseen dark.
Under your stewardship—and that of Izirina and Costella Fanucci, the women whom you love—Old Maple Hill became first a sort of sanctuary and rehabilitation center for those humans of Hawksong—the world’s preeminent metropolis—who had been afflicted by the chimeric plague better known as ‘the dragon-pox'. As a reward for your good works, your trio was granted the hill itself and the land around it was gifted to you in trust, to preserve and protect in the name of the fairy court upon that eponymous hill. After a year-and-a-half abroad—first in homeland and then upon the sacred moon itself!—you returned with divine knowledge of the holy arcane, to share with those grateful and newly-sorcerous subjects of Hawksong who had decided to remain there. Partly this was out of pride, and out of solidarity with Izzy and Costella, and partly due to a sense of responsibility for what you had wrought.
More and more, though, you wonder if you really had any say at all...
Almost four months ago, you undertook a diplomatic expedition to the Sylvan Realms to rescue the monstrous son of Hawksong’s prince Cosnort—secretly some form of ‘aragonborn antipaladin’ in service to the Gods of Darkness. You hadn’t done this out of any love for those horrid entities, or even the Prince Consort or her majesty Queen Ekaterine, but because you believed it the best way to keep the peace between your peoples.
