“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.
All preparations are over. No more distractions. You gotta get the plan underway. The main objective is to drag the head of the mafia (Gianluigi Youhao) out of his own little bunker. Thrust him into the spotlight his men are creating, and let the law enforcers do their job. This is the only way he’s going to face justice before he moves to a safer place. No other window of time. No other opportunities.
The first part of the mission is to go through the hidden passages in the sewers that lead directly to the Youhao Clan Headquarters. Celia knows the way through these catacombs, and the base like the back of her hand.
“Hey, hey, who died and made you queen? You’re not coming with us, are you?” Celia slips out of Lydie’s friendly arms. The eccentric fan club leader ended the last thread holding you both.
“Haven’t you noticed?! We’re divided into two teams. We need our beautiful flame wielder!” Lydie points at you and Rora. “Our intrepid yet sneaky thief!” Lydie points at Crossbill and Celia. “And the wildcard with exceptional athleticism!” Lydie points at herself and Matilda. “You know, the essentials!”
“So, we are, like, me, Crossy, and Mat?” Aurora is doing the math. You can tell she’s serious since she’s using her fingers.
“Count me in.” Matilda is so ready to kick some butts.
“Sounds arbitrary, but eh, there’s no idea I can’t make work. Welcome to the best trio, Mat.” Crossbill sees no issue.
“Your trio has nothing on us.” You get competitive with your bestie. “Tell ‘em, Celia.”
“Huh, yeah, yeah. Sure.” Celia gets into a fighting stance.
“W-When did we agree on this…?” Liu missed this bit!
“Never! You should know by now that she’s making stuff up!” Vera grumbles. “Now sit your clown ass down. We don’t need a wildcard.” Vera starts dragging Lydie back into Beanie Hedgehog.
“M-My dear Veranica, did it slip my mind?! You’re the navigator of our beautiful and flexible team, welcome!” Lydie is trying to gain favor.
“Welcome to the best quartet, Liu.” Crossbill winks.
“I-I’ll do my best!” Liu will fight hard!
“Wait, then I’m with Johnny?” Vera stops dragging. “That’s great. You’re still not going.” Vera continues dragging.
“T-This is utterly unfair! My thick legs are meant to run faster than the wind, not sit comfortably at the bottom of a perplexing totem tower...!” Lydie wants to be part of the operation, and not be one with a hedgehog.
Nine years ago King Aiden Perenolde betrayed the Alliance and sided with the Horde of Orgrim Doomhammer. Nine years ago Prince Alric Perenolde, the second heir of Alterac was sent into exile for his own protection. This exile turned permanent and Captain Normand Garside, your guardian for the past nine years made sure that you were safe and learned the useful skills that would help you in the future.
Now you are ready to carry the responsibility and unite the scattered Alteraci people and reclaim the lands that were once the Kingdom of Alterac.
Politely saying everything had gone to shit. King Varian in his melancholy and delusion had arrested Prince Alric for what he saw in Alric's part in Lady Katrana Prestor's attempt to wrestle the control of the Kingdom of Stormwind to herself. In reality Alric had been the voice of reason and tried to negotiate a peaceful solution to all this.
What had followed was a swift counter-coup and Malevus found herself being chased by a bunch of thugs wearing the King's tabards. Danger, intrigue and diplomacy filled her days as she was steadfast in her mission to rescue Alric.
And now she is on her way to the Stormwind Keep, into the Lion's Den to rescue the man she loves so much.
In a dark place, a <span class="mu-b">made-man</span> struggles against his bonds. Before him, several tools glimmer and sway gently along the wall, the strange bald druggist who knocked him out playing with them. The room is barely illuminated from the streetlights, passing cars, and electric billboards of Level 4. True darkness and silence is not common here.
“...It's always women, prostitutes. Transient kids. People who won't be missed. That's no fun. I think doing it to men is much more fun; but not because you're a boy. More because it's not somebody you'd expect. It could be <span class="mu-i">anybody</span>.”
<span class="mu-b">”You want money? I got money. Pacelli connections.”</span>
“You will be next great creation. Worth far more then any amount of dirty criminal money.”
<span class="mu-b">“Who da fuck... wait, you're from Level 2?”</span>
The man doesn't say anything, instead the stranger brandishes a razor, testing its sharpness against a finger, turning to the mobster. He looks over his captive, eyes looking for the juciest piece to cut first. The mafioso tries to pull out from the rope, the chair squeaking. He sweats. Bribes will certainly not work.
<span class="mu-b">“You'd be smart to let me go, psycho. I'm a dangerous man, and I know dangerous people!”</span>
That's what the social worker assigned to you keeps repeating. It is to help with the 'rehabilitation' process or some such bullshit. They shoved you into a group home, tell you to study hard to finish your education and force you to socialize with girls your age.
That woman has to know it's useless. You are going to age out of the system and get tossed within the year. What is the point? Everything has no meaning, no duty, no chivalry...
This is all the fault of the Pretty Star Warrior bitches and those Arkadian Kingdom bastards!
Those supernatural assholes destroyed the Sumi gang with their war over humanity and magic. It's hard to know which one did more damage. Was it the Arkadian Kingdom taking over and tainting every gangsters' heart crystal? Or was it the Pretty Star Warriors handing over all the dirty secrets of the gang to the cops after purifying everyone?
Every allied yakuza in the Greater Tokyo association was furious. They issued the zetsuenjo permanent expulsion, a literal death warrant for the Sumi gang. The godfather had to willingly offer up his life and disband the gang to let his underlings off the hook.
You remember digging his grave on that remote mountain. You remember the coldness of the soil, how hard it was to dig with the shovel. Hands bled and blood trickled down the handle, but you didn't stop. The grave had to be deep; it had to be proper for a righteous man.
"Azami..."
You remember how calm the godfather was when he arrived. How he and you exchanged cups and oaths beside that open grave. How he needed help after cutting off his fourth finger joint and still needed to cut two more off as 'penance'. How he jumped in and waited for the bullet without a complaint. How the 'older brothers' cried and cried as everyone piled the cold earth on his body. How it started from the feet up. How no one at the end could bring themselves to shovel the earth over the godfather's face but instead sprinkled it over him.
One cold handful at a time for a true man of honor.
"Hey Azami, listen. You're thinking about the past, I can tell from the look on your face," the soft voice of the girl to your right interrupts the anger boiling within. You snap out of it and remember you're with several teenage girls sitting in hard uncomfortable plastic chairs arranged in a circle.
Ah, that's right. You forgot where you are and got sucked into the spiral of your memories. This is the group therapy session for 'victims of unknown circumstances'.
Harsh but true. You, Kyle Mercer age 23, are a monster.
Take it from me. Real recognizes real. Sure, it's not entirely your fault. You didn't <span class="mu-i">used</span> to be this way, but let's be honest with ourselves here: the difference between you now and the Old You is that the New You just doesn't care anymore. Peel away the skin, strip away the gossamer thin wrappings of civilization and society, and what do we have underneath?
A creature of instinct. Hunger and hate. You. A monster.
We are back! Only a year after the first thread. I’m like that, sorrynotsorry.
You are Alyssa NicNivara, High Elven lady archmage of the seventh order, stuck in this strange backwards land called ‘Westeros’ with your sister Anya, a cleric of the Dawnfather, your druidess colleague Eva, and four mortal partymembers you scarcely know.
Where we left off, you and your party were demonstrating what duels of the mighty look like to these folk who do not know power; your duel with Anya involved you turning into a Sea Dragon and accidentally frightening many spectators, and then polymorphing into a 20-foot-tall-Sun Giant - which is when Lord Stark happened to walk in, at just the right moment to witness you beating your sister over the head with her own summoned Leskylor.
Lord Stark stares up with the face of a man at a loss. Here you stand before him a Sun Giant, tall and stately as the immortal redwood, in the fullness of your might. Every instinct instilled by noble upbringing and many years among mortals shouts that you have made a grave blunder. This place is ignorant of real power, to say nothing of its stricter mores. But then, this is you, and the truth of an archmage; there should be no pretence of anything else among your guests. They will live.
“Sorry,” you reply with a shrug, using one of the few words of Westerosi you’ve so far picked up.
Anya looks up at you as she heals her injuries. “Do you have the spells for another bout?”
“Not too many. I think I’ll hold the rest in reserve.” You glance around the yard, at the many faces, the divots your dragon form dug in the muddy ground… as well as the section of roof where you stood moments ago and from which you took flight as a dragon. Well, what used to be the roof; two tons of sea dragon taking off from it mostly left behind a collection of loose tiles and timbers, thankfully without catching any spectators underneath in the process. “Perhaps we ought to take this outside the castle in the future.”
“Agreed.”
When after the next bout (another victory, this time using the dragon form while managing to suppress its Frightening Presence), you return to your normal form, the lord is gone. You’ll have to find him on the morrow; freshly-returned, he’s yet to hear of his foster-father Jon Arryn’s passing, and you have no way to communicate at the moment anyhow. Lord Stark’s children are also elsewhere.
Humanity has spread out into a massive sprawling empire throughout the galaxy. The edges of the sprawl remain poorly guarded and sparsely settled after all humanity throughout a thousand stars has always been alone save for their own creations which once waged war against them. This is no longer true now an unknown force has begun to attack sector 63 and other sectors and it is up to poorly supplied and desperate sailors to hold them back.
You are the Admiral of the naval fleet of sector 63 one of nearly a 100 rimward sectors on the edge of settled human space. The war has finally turned in humanity's favor the once unending horde of bird ships, who you now know are called the Argono have finally ebbed away. The war is not yet over for yourself; a large enemy fleet has formed and seems intent on finally ending your harassing attacks by striking your home port of Carth. In the last few weeks you've been striking the main body of the enemy fleet in an attempt to weaken the blow that will fall on your home.
Your fleet soon arrives at Cartha having finished your last ambush you should have at the current rate of enemy advance roughly a week before they arrive here. A significant minefield greets you at the jump point exit hundreds of the dangerous weapons scattered in a circle around the point. A signal from the fort which is visible from the jump point is the next thing to greet you, a friendly greeting from Colonel Roose who is legally in command while your gone. It also includes a request for a meeting at some point.
The defense of Cartha can be broken up into three distinct types: static defenses like the fort and mines, naval in the form of ships and torpedo boats operating out of the fort and finally the army which currently mans the fort and holds several positions on the planet. Which to visit first?
The toast, accompanied by sound of glass striking against glass, has been echoed by a diverse array of voices.
You were not paying much mind to your own, but you've gotten quite appreciative of those of your crew:
The calm barytone of Tufferson Kris, your krogan friend and colleague.
The enthusiastic lilt veiled by synthetic buzz of envirosuit electronics belonging to Lea'Fari, a quarian pilgrim.
Deceptively natural voice that Eve, your synthetic comrade, had chosen as her default one.
And then there was a chorus of voices that you were only recently beginning to familiarize yourself with: those of the O'Riley family and their closest friends, with whom you were currently sharing a celebration in a homely little tavern at the edge of the freshly cleared green zone of the gradually reconstructed city of Klondike.
"...and to memory of those, whose souls may now rest free." One of those voices, an older, more subdued, continued, sobering the mood of the gathering somewhat as the cheer gave way to a moment of reverent silence.
You observed the moment of quiet as the family took this time to reminisce over the loss that had cast a blanket of bitterness over jubilant mood they had shared with rest of the sapient people of the galaxy following defeat of the Reapers. And while the gathered clan members contemplated on their personal memories, your own thoughts drifted towards your own recent hectic past.
