Your name is (name), you are from a small unknown village, in some forest nobody cares about. Your village has a small church where you and your family visit every weekend, your father is a farmer like most people here, wheat's the largest export in this village and what keeps everyone fed when there isn't a drought.
You have 2 siblings, your older brother and your older sister, you never really connected with them, and you think they may actually dislike you, you are quite a bit younger than them.
Your mother is too weak to farm and so she is the village weaver, she learned how to weave from your late grandmother, your mother has also inherited some books from your grandfather, so you and your siblings are one of the few literate people in the village.
When the taxmen come every half-year some merchants also follow them due to the taxmen's guradforce, you like to borrow and read some books from the nice merchants before they leave, you are too poor to afford to buy books, so you are quite grateful that they let you just borrow and read some books, you think it's a novelty to them to encounter a literate villager. Aside from all of that, you are quite a loner, you never really connected with anybody in the village, not even your parents, but you aren't bothered with that, you prefer being alone with your books.
You always dreamt of leaving your backwater village, you always thought higher of yourself than most of your peers, that could be a contributing factor to your isolation, but nontheless you held that belief your whole life. When you were a child you already hoped for something better, 'how could no one here aspire for something more?' you've asked yourself time and time again, there had to more to life than farming and praying.
You never had the opportunity to leave the village, your father would always shout at you that "It's too dangerous to leave! you'll die out there!", of course you never believed him, but rules are rules, you wouldn't want to incur your father's wrath by going out.
So you waited and waited, you farmed the wheat, prayed at church, and read what little there was until that opportunity came one fateful day.
“HAHAHA, FOOLISH HEROES, KNEEL BEFORE MY GRAND MAGIC!”
Your skeletal body, adorned in robes that have lived longer than any human has breathed, lords over the fallen party of heroes. Your ultimate <span class="mu-s">Origin Magic</span>, though incomplete, has proven more than sufficient to take on the pathetic mortals sent to their knees before its might. Miasma-smoke fills the room, spewed by the necromantic fire left in the wake of your destructive magnum opus. However, to your incredible satisfaction, the Holy Sword itself, the only weapon capable of striking you down, lies corroded beneath the hero’s tattered frame, little more than a sparkly pile of smoldering slag.
Yes, your ultimate victory has been achie–
Pain unlike any you’d ever imagined stabs through your very being, a thin, needle-like blade jutting out from the cluster of mana animating your undead body, destabilizing it, causing your very being to quiver and weaken. Something is wrong— something is very, very wrong. . You collapse to the floor, your head snapping 180 degrees back to see just who had landed the killing blow. If your eyes could widen, they would: the Hero Michael, who you had thought collapsed in front of you, stands proudly behind you with an unknown blade in your back.
“H-how?”
“Lich King Atrebor,” the hero declares, his obnoxious condescension shamelessly leaking into his words as he drives the blade even further through your ribs, “you may have been wary of me, the possessor of the Holy Sword, but you paid far too little attention to my real strength: my friends.”
You turn your eyes back to the party: an illusion, a paltry trick, dissolves from the worthless entourage of the chosen one, revealing a golem in place of his second in command and that same eternal loser, Reinlock, in his place.
“Impossible!” you roar, “I was certain! He– he had the holy sword! He acted just as you would!”
“I’ve been chasing that bastard’s back my whole life, you undead bastard.” Reinlock snickers, blood trickling from his broken lips, “I know him better than the back of my own hand.”
This is infuriating but… it matters not. Your phylactery, the real vessel of your existence, is safe, in an unknown locale far from here. Or at least, <span class="mu-r">that’s how it should be</span>. Golden cracks start to form on you— first on your body’s mana core, then on your bones, then, horror of horrors, on your <span class="mu-i">mana itself</span>. “What trickery is this!” You scream, your rage powerful enough to shake the foundations of your castle.
This is a collab quest that didn't take off on /i/ so I'm moving it here. It started with submissions from other anons but I'm going to turn it into my own drawquest. I was going to make a Medabots one but the anime is too precious for me to ruin it. I also need to test the waters for some matters.
Wait until I finish dumping if you're participating, thanks.
Faces unfamiliar to you pass by, speaking in a tongue of gibberish that is only partially comprehensible. Half of them wear tribal attire of losers larping as tribal warriors, but their cosmetic scars and muscles were way too refined to be just costumes. The sky rolls in a color you've never seen before.
<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 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
It was late in the afternoon, as staff were starting to wrap up testing, check-ups and other activities in the deeper parts of the facility. However, whilst most subjects were being brought back to their containment, this was not the case for Kaenum. In fact, she was currently following Catherine to a place she hadn't visited before. "So, who are you bringing me to?" Kaenum asked calmly, looking around and noticing that there were a few guardsmen around, which made her both curious and concerned. "Her name is Edith Astor. Codename, PW-87. I designed her with Roraima. However, after she refused to do what Roraima demanded of her, he... punished her." Catherine said in a regretful tone, Kaenum giving an understanding nod. "I fortunately managed to take full control of her, ensuring Roraima doesn't hurt her further. Unfortunately, she has been rather scarred by the experience. Which is why I was hoping that you could help her out. Perhaps give her some therapy to help her cope with things."
Whilst Kaenum was saddened that a subject had to suffer so much under Roraima, she was optimistic that she could help out here. After all, she had trained quite a bit when it came to therapy, and knew that she could help anyone out with enough time. "Of course, Catherine. I'd gladly help out." Kaenum responded, Catherine smiling with relief, as the two headed towards the secluded and relatively well-guarded chamber. Until finally, the two would reach the large set of doors leading to the chamber. "Will you be joining me?" Kaenum asked to Catherine, who paused before reluctantly shaking her head. "I want this to be between you and her. I've talked with her a bit, but... I could not get her to talk much. She needs someone else. Another subject..." Kaenum nodded again, taking a deep breath before looking ahead. "Very well then." With that, Catherine would give a nod to the nearby guardsmen, before taking a step back.
Kaenum stepped through the door after it opened, entering the small space which separated the outside world from the containment chamber. Though once the second set of doors opened, Kaenum was met with a rather neat and homely looking room. Clearly, Catherine had tried o decorate the room in such a way that it helped Edith feel more at home. Though, given how things looked eerily untouched, it had not been too effective. Not to mention, the fact that Edith wasn't really doing anything in the room. Kaenum spotted her in the corner, sitting on the floor and facing the wall. "Go away..." Edith mumbled in a worn-down voice, Kaenum remaining calm and quietly entering the room. Kaenum looked over the subject, quickly noticing all the combat features Roraima had clearly given her. Those large and long wings, those clawed hands and her stature all were traits meant to appear intimidating. And yet, Edith appeared more sombre than scary. "Edith, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Kaenum. I am here to talk to you."
<span class="mu-i">Once upon a time, there was a stricken land where there was no such thing as day, nor morning, no sunrise or sunset, but endless dark. It was alone and obscure, on an island surrounded by waters as black as the sky. Yet the wind carried whispers of warmth and light, so the sad peoples of this land, intoxicated by the drink called hope, entreated their king to find the mythical sun and bring it to their lands. The king of the dark vowed to bring the morning to his people, and departed.
After five years, while the king did not return, the morning did come, with all of the light and warmth that could be dreamed of. Yet while the people were happy, the new king’s heir, his granddaughter the crown princess, was skeptical of this new light. So, she ventured over the dark waters towards the light, and finally, she found a great tower atop which burned a sun nothing like had been spoken of, nor what seemed to create the new day.
There she met her grandfather, and demanded of him the truth. Was there a sun, or no? Were they living in a day that was just night under a mask? Her elder, sad and weary, asked the simple question of if she could tell the difference. What distinguished the False Light from the Dawn?
She could not answer, and returned home, keeping the secret to her grave. Yet, friends and followers of Ange, what if the Dawn that comes is false? What if it is so convincing that none of us can tell it true? What if indeed, the facsimile created is the true one after all?</span>
-The Heresy of the False Light, Apocryphal Speech said to be performed by Disgraced Socalist and Disciple of Anton Ange, Aster Du Langue
You see his face. Sharp razor slit eyes etched onto a hulking creature’s giant head, which would give children across the galaxy vivid nightmares, stare into your soul. It produces no feeling of horror or fear, nor any other natural response, because you know him. Those eyes that are locked onto yours are dulled, empty, lifeless. The vacant glare causes your heart to wither in your chest. It was you, you did this, you killed your closest friend. A man who has saved your life, and you killed him. Now his face is slack, muscles relaxed, and his eyes are barren; all that vigour and life that he carried around with him is forever gone, never to return.
It was your choice to kill him. Sith Lord Yvalok presented the options to you. During your months on Lao training as a Sith Acolyte you, Vulfstahn a child of the extinct Sith people, have shown a wild potency with the Force which is unequalled by your supposed peers. This rare talent caught Yvalok’s eyes and has him captivated with your development, wanting nothing more than to see you flourish. The ancient human decided to gift you hate through a choice: slay Urr’tal in a duel or watch as Yira gets gangraped. You gave the withered husk of a Human your answer. With a slash of your sword, you betrayed Urr’tal, ending all the myriad great possibilities he could have achieved in his prodigious lifespan.
The Sith Lord that would be nothing but a frail old man if not for his mastery of the dark side of the Force stands above you as thick red ichor spews from the Whiphid’s severed neck. Forced onto the hard durasteel floor by a burst of lightning, you are enveloped by the growing pool of your friend’s blood. His decapitated head rests in front of you, not able to steal your eyes away from the lifeless face as his matted fur stains from his bleeding. Yvalok monologues and lectures, but you can’t hear him. The unblinking eyes have stolen your world.
