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.
Threads 1, 2, 3, 4, 5: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Halo:%20Spartan%202%20War%20Reports Active Spartan Roster: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/12PTTzwcNVbQbIC101lrcrQQZKWhK3myTLWEQ0A1ybj8/edit?gid=0#gid=0 _ Sven-033's Qualities: [Special] Giant, [Special] Spartan-II, Maverick, Officer [Lieutenant], Wunderkind, Inspiring. Sven-033's Advancement Paths: Brawler: Open Hand: 5/10 Bulwark: Unbreakable: 5/10 Grenadier: Plasma Wiz: 5/10 Shotgunner: 1| Diplomat 1/6 Infiltrator 2/6 Scrounger 2/6 Tactician 2 /6| Jotun 1/4 Sub objective Progress: Artificial Artisan 3/?| Blade Breaker 1/? _ UNSC Skidbladnir (Razor Class Prowler) UNSC Skidbladnir Crew Qualities: Eclectic UNSC Skidbladnir Officers: Sensor Operator: Ensign Sonar Kobal, COM Officer: Ensign Kon Kiyomi. Navigator: Lieutenant Junior Grade Marisa Deluna, Weapons Controller: Lieutenant Junior Grade Valerie Faure. Pilots: Warrant Officer Bari Cook & Cadet Bernetta Coste Spartans Aboard: Sven-033, James-005, Jorges-052. Nesta-097, Shika-108, Daisy-023. Naomi-010, Solomon-069, Malcom-059, Anton-044, Illya-077, Cal-141, and Soren-066 (Inactive/ Washout) _ <span class="mu-s"> Current Mission: Mission 5: Operation: HVITSERK....Pending Completion/Result Calculation </span> <span class="mu-s"> Primary Objective 1: Destroy the Einherjar Fleet and prevent any ships/ systems from falling into Covenant Hands...Success </span> <span class="mu-s"> Primary Objective 2: Confirm the termination of or Capture and Secure the Einherjar General Codenamed "Whiteshirt"....Success </span> <span class="mu-s"> Secondary Objective 1: Retrieve UNSC property from Einherjar Hands, if the opportunity presents itself....Success </span> <span class="mu-s"> Optional Sub Objective 1: Win the battle with minimal friendly casualties (Less than 25% of the Squadron/ 5 ships). 3/5 (UNSC Shinigami, UNSC Dogfish, UNSC Uppercut)....Success </span> <span class="mu-s"> Secret Objective 1: [File Decrypted] . Capture Whiteshirt's Halcyon & Experimental Exo-Skeleton Power armor </span> <span class="mu-s"> Secret Objective 2: [File Decrypted] . Reach the Bottom of the [???] Ruins and bring back a souvenir, or several </span> <span class="mu-s"> War Effort & Personal Rewards + advancements to Preferred Candidate Sven-033's Diplomat, Infiltrator and Tactician Advancement paths pending Mission After Action Report </span> __
The smell of dried blood lingered on your upper lip as you laid flat and prone against the medical table, eyes tracking the numerous programs flashing above your eyes as the AI Rita ran what amounted to a diagnostic scan of your head, checking your brain activity and neural patterns for any abnormalities or damage. Checking yourself and Shika in to the medbay was the first thing you did once you'd been shuttled over from the Lawrence of Arabia to your own ship. Cont
It has been millennia since humanity became a star faring race. Enough time for stellar regimes to have risen and fallen, for technologies to be forgotten and relearned and for a diaspora of life; both human and alien to spread across the galaxy.
The Raihan Empire is but one splinter of the human diaspora. At its height the Empire spanned eight star systems but eventually corruption and decay set in. The Empire collapsed, its great works crumbled, its worlds became isolated. For a thousand years it was so…
Until a new warlord arose on Raiha, one that managed to quell the disparate factions fighting over the Throne world. When all his enemies were vanquished he marched upon the palace district where the remnants of the Imperial family cowered. However, instead of seizing the throne for himself Arcturus Garan pledged himself and his army to the service of the remaining Empress and took the title of Lord Commander.
Together the Empress and Lord Commander began the process of rebuilding the Empire, first securing the home system, then bringing each of the wayward colonies back into the fold.
Five out of the original eight colonies have been absorbed back into the resurgent Empire. Only the systems of Noto, Higg and Kornen actively resist annexation. Together they have formed the NKH Defence Pact, or simply the Pact.
Now the Pact must guard its independence against the growing might of the New Raihan Empire. The odds are not in their favour, they are outnumbered and outgunned, but the Imperial Forces have not yet regained their full power and the war is not over yet…
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."
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.
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.
Your name is Harold Eadric, and you’ve just signed up for war.
You don’t quite know what it is about, but at this point, you will take anything to get out of your village. Years you have been longing to become a man of the world, yet your circumstances have never allowed you to venture much farther than your local village with a name you cannot pronounce. At least you have been able to read stories about the world, and they only made you want to get out of this town more.
Sucks then, that your existence up to this point has mostly been concerned with growing wheat. There isn’t much else you can do in this village, really – if you didn’t plough the fields, you’d have a hard time finding anything to eat during winter. So you wasted your childhood away in the drudgery of this eternal routine, just like your father, grandfather and those before him had. All the while, you hoped you’d find a chance to get out. And just as you had recently turned into your eighteenth year, fortune struck.
"The King is looking for brave men to join the Fight against the treacherous Laumey de Galamad! His men have attacked and slaughtered our people! Answer the King's call and join his armies!"
Your family had protested, your mother had cried when you packed your stuff and left the home and fields which had formed the entirety of your existence up until now – it was all in vain. There you were, speaking to the man in his tent; having mentioned your literacy and fitness brought on you by your years in the fields, he now requested… something else? Something else you could do? You already mentioned literacy, didn’t you?
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
“The Southlands.” That’s what the races of the Northwest call them, as if they were one place—a realm unified under a single nation or people. In truth, the Southlands are a molten mosaic of humans, beastmen, and sundry others flowing over and through each other in coexistence and in conflict. The land itself is a tapestry of desert and jungle, of low savannah and high plateau, where even the Race of Man is far from uniform: the hides of the humans here range from a ruddy tan to a deep blue-black that nearly equals the Drow of Wevenore.
Not that you got to see much of it.
<span class="mu-s">You</span> are James Efron, Senior Initiate of the Hawksong Mages’ Tower. At your age—twenty-three—you really ought to be a Mage Apprentice. You should be studying in some stuffy laboratory back home in the big city like Izirina Henzler, or maybe taking a practicum under some smaller adjunct Associate Tower like your old pal Testa. But <span class="mu-i">nooo</span>, you craved a life of action, of adventure! ‘<Fireball> is meant for the field!’ you used to boast of your favourite spell. So you’d taken the field, first as a formal Field Researcher and then later as a freelance adventurer-for-hire.
And that had led you here. To the Southlands. To this dungeon.
It isn’t the cool kind of dungeon, full of monsters to kite and <Chain Lightning> for coin, alas. It’s the kind where Southrons store their prisoners-of-war, for that seems to be the size of your sad situation: a prisoner, at the beginnings of what is shaping up to be a full-scale intercivilizational conflict.
The Men of the South may be myriad, but tensions between their ilk and the fairer folk of the Northwest—your homeland, Hawksong’s aegis—have been a unifying cause as of late, and not only for the human races. Relations have been fraying since before you were born, when a sinister cabal of dark-skinned demon-worshippers staged a terrorist attack on the Mages’ Tower itself, assassinating the Archmage and destroying the much-beloved Eternal Fountain.
Welcome back! Don't worry, you didn't miss a thread, I just completely failed to label the prior one correctly. That aside, last time: Mark worked his assignment at Wayne Manor and set off a domino chain that eventually led to the raid of Scarecrow's most recent Fear Toxin Laboratory, funded by Kal Quincy Late. ==== Previous Threads: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Gotham%20City%20Beat%20Cop%20Quest ====
"I was just checking in." You say, trying to stay casual. "He was one of the first calls I ever took and I promised to look out for him."
"You promised?" Caesar asks, he pauses for a moment before following up. "Did you promise my dad?"
"I did." You reply quietly, like your words could physically break the stillness in the air. "But uh... there is something worth celebrating still. We nabbed Scarecrow today."
"Woah." Caesar marvels.
"Did Batman help?" Isabelle chirps as she gnaws on a plain tortilla.
"Nope, GCPD did it ourselves... with SOME help."
"Who helped?" Caesar asks, he and his sister locked in on your story.
"The Quick Response Team, they're like SWAT basically. But uh... you know how it is. Can't really tell you anymore until the case moves along but, I feel good about it."
"Maybe we'll be out of here in time for me to go back to school." Caesar muses.
"Oh?" His mother laughs gently. "NOW you want to go to school?"
"Yeah..." Caesar grumbles, his eyes fixed on his plate as he shifts food around. "I gotta be like... responsible."
"Oh, mi dulce hijo." She coos.
"Mamá, para." He groans as his face goes a bit red.
"It's good you wanna go back to school, man." You say with a smile. "You interested in college at all?"
"If we could afford it." He shrugs. "Maybe."
"Hijo, that's an issue for me to worry about. Not you."
"There's options for that too." You bring up. "Scholarships, grants, and stuff."
Caesar shrugs again.
"Though I guess it depends on what you wanna do when you're older."
"I saw Caesar looking up stuff about the police." Isabelle happily blabs much to Caesar's chagrin.
"Izzy..." He groans. "It ain't like that, I dunno what I want to do. I just wanna help you out with Izzy." Caesar looks up to his mom who blinks away some misty eyes.
"You're so sweet, hijo. But we'll be okay, you have to focus on yourself too. Maybe you can do something with art? You're always drawing, right?"
"I could also work with Julian at the docks. He said they're always looking for people to help move crates."
"Julian. The same Julian who gave you bags of stolen oranges to sell?" His mother asks with a pointed voice.
