"JESUS FUCK." A bit of spit leaves the girl's mouth with the utterance of the expletive. The thin blonde man shoots an annoyed look at his coworker as he leans on his broom, watching her wipe the spit from her chin.
"Hey, management said we couldn't curse. Get that side for me." The brunette gives him an indifferent glance, grabs a dustpan, and starts sweeping in various things: rose petals, scrapped, <span class="mu-s">badly framed photos</span>, a dust of cocaine that had slipped from some celebrity's torn pocket. She scoffs at the discovery of a used condom leaking all over the concrete.
"Just saying. You'd think that at a big event like this, people would be a bit more dignified." She turns to look at the big black block letters that burned boldly on the arena sign.
<span class="mu-s">MILLER V HAWKE</span> <span class="mu-s">FATHER V SON</span> <span class="mu-s">TONIGHT</span>
"We should keep moving and catch up to the NPC. My transformation only lasts a minute and we should make the most of it." You say motioning to the next cave entrance. Ryuji nods and tears his glaive free from the zombie just as Irene finishes her trance. The three of you regroup and begin to run through the cave system once more, all pretense of stealth lost. Not helping was the fact that Ryuji was constantly gushing and asking questions about your abilities.
"What else can you do? How long is the cooldown? What buffs do you get? Did the coat come with the costume?" He asks, eagerness overtaking any sense of restraint on his curiosity. "I don't know anyone who's ever gotten this far!" He concludes. You suppress a small sigh building up. You had expected him to explode with excitement given his love of the game but you hadn't really expected to see him get this excited. Still, you couldn't help but share a bit of his enthusiasm. How long had it been since you had eagerly spoken about the game with someone just as passionate instead of trying to avoid the conversation with non-answers? You pull back your helm, allowing it to fold back behind your head and somehow vanish causing Ryuji to let out a noise that sounded like a mix between a squeal and roar of excitement.
"It folds back..." He manages to eek out.
"It's on a 5 minute cooldown. So it's really more of a boss fight kind of ability though right now I don't think we have the luxury to hold back big CDs. While I'm in this form, these are considered two handed weapons." You say raising your fists. Ryuji's jaw drops.
"Waitwaitwait. You're dealing two hander damage with your fists alone? I've seen how fast you can swing those things and you're telling me they can hit as hard as a warhammer?" He asks.
"Yup. Only while transformed though. Untransformed I have the Brawler's [Powerful Fist] skill but it seems to scale better because I can't really wield anything else." You continue. "Also, I'm considered to be wearing light armored outside of my transformation and medium while transformed. Stacks with the bit of damage reduction my class gives. Class seems to give me a handful of abilities from other classes to pick from on level up but it seems to lean towards fighter and brawler skills." You pause for a moment. "But I get this feeling that there's more to it. Almost like the game is keeping note of what I do and adjusting for it. I got a weird quest regarding another player on the tutorial island and now I'm expected to grow under strife, whatever that means. For the moment it seems my class progression is locked until I meet some kind of requirement. Nothing about this class is straight forward and the power seems to compensate for it." You say, drawing your helmet back on. "If I'm honest...that's the fun part."
Your nap is a fitful, restless thing, filled with nightmares and feverish dreams that you lose memory of quickly even though they trouble you greatly and prevent you from waking up energized and bright eyed. When you do wake up, your elder sister is sitting over you with a warm smile on her ghostly, frost flecked fur. And for a moment you wonder how much of your recent memories were a dream, before sensing withing yourself the power and technique that proves that most of them were in fact real.
"Did the spiders enjoy my bouquet of bone and meat?" You ask tiredly, fluttering your eyes as you sit up and lazily lick the back of your paw as you sister, who isn't shy about showing her distaste for your method of bribery and payment clicks her teeth and whines irritatedly
"Oh they were overjoyed by the delicacy of your flesh sister, and after I managed to convince them to try your...fruit, they found it most pleasing to their monstrous palate. In fact, they found it so tasty and spiritually rich and potent, they nearly abstained from eating your guts and limbs entirely" She told you, grimacing as she looked away "Did..did you have to slice of your breasts along with your thighs"
"Fatty meat is the most succulent and delectable" You answered with a sneer "Besides, both grew back as readily as any other part of me I cut off. It was the arms and legs that took the most energy and effort to sprout again"
"I really hope you aren't becoming like that mushroom girl or her family. You're a cat, not a rose bush" Xuebai hissed and you laughed
"I am Huanliuxue and I can be whatever I choose or aspire to be!" You declare loudly "But I'm glad the spider demons accepted my payment and..."
"They've given you an extra visits worth of protection, they were so pleased. Though, the way they devoured the fruits to their pits, makes me worry they might try and plant you in their garden as a permanent guest" She cuts you off, eyes sharp and icy
"Well, at least they're right minded enough to know to properly admired and nurture one as magnificent and beautiful as I" You brush off that actually somewhat disturbing thought of being potted like an orchid flower "And what generosity to extend the warranty of this red string wrapped tightly around my finger"
"They're making cat meat preserved in bloody wine in that manor over the refuse pit they live in"
"Must be a lovely vintage, always wondered how I'd taste pickled" You snicker, delighting in the sickened and nauseas look that crosses over your sisters face "Oh lighten up, I'd pay them in kind and eat them if I had the chance"
Reawaken, O great one, thy time has come at last once more. Long left scorned and forgotten, you have not forgotten the heroes who laid low both you, your fortresses, and your dominion. Now you shall rise from the ashes, reclaim your power and reign supreme once again. Let your enemies tremble at the mere mention of your name, for you are the true ruler of this land and all lands beyond it.
Alas! For it has been too long; while the darkness has kept you safe like a cloak, it has also made you forget. Time and the dark have gnawed at you for too long. For while your trick with placing your spirit within a container might have prevented your demise, it also eroded and disembodied you.
A shrivelled shadow you thus became, ignorant of yourself. Ignorant of form, ignorant of name, what scarce memories you did have of your past mostly addressed you as 'lord' or 'master'. None dared speak it, not before your personage at the very least.
Yet you were great and powerful once, the terror of a hundred kings. Sacker of a thousand cities, master of untold legions and hordes of both disciplined blackguards and savage barbarians. Others saw you as a god incarnate, or at the very least the high priest of a very cruel and demanding god, who was to be appeased with tributes of gold, silver and manpower. Yes, lesser princes, khans and chieftains willingly kowtowed and fought over your ever-fickle favour.
But all of that is gone now, scattered to the wind; your empire fell with you. No servant could ever keep it together. As you lay dying, you made your last desperate gambit. You transferred your soul out of your dying body and into an object.
Oh, it was a brilliant plan, an exit for just such a scenario. But you hadn't foreseen the consequences. It was long, too long, far too long for you to be able to do anything; you withered and diminished. Seething and crying until your spirit lost the ability to form a coherent face. Was this it? Would you spend an eternity in silent suffering? Forgotten and tormented by a world that had moved on from your greatness?
Perhaps not so, for as you lay in your diminished state, you watched from one of the gemstones, which were like windows, set within the object which you had chosen. Choose an option. Jewellery >A ring >A necklace >A bracelet Weapons >A mace >A sword >An axe Miscellaneous >A grimoire >A chalice >A staff
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.
>Fed job takes you to a fairy tale. >There is a robot in the fairy tale. >Get cursed with a ghost. >Met some of your co-workers. >Broke ghost curse, sort of. >Fed job takes you to fairy lands to find a missing person. >Now, it's time to split up, team!
The loss of one's memory is a terrible thing. You're not in the strictest sense dead, but you may as well be for anything and everything you could call yourself is gone. And, you are left like a needle on a record player listlessly following a groove with no music. Yet, still the record turns and so does your meaningless experience continue second by second.
You're alone in a padded cell. You're bound in a straight jacket. A gag fills your mouth and is locked behind your head. It takes a great deal of effort to even stand because you're arms aren't free. You can think, feel, and express yourself clearly. Define the things you experience as if you've always known them. But, you have no memory of who you are, how you got here, or even where you're at. All you know is that you're restrained.
Something shuffles outside your cell's door. It sounds like somebody walking and brushing against the wall at the same time. A strange clicking noise accompanies the odd stride, like teeth chattering in the cold.
>Try to call out to them and get their attention
>Hold your breath, remain silent, and stay perfectly still
War War Never Changes. They finally fucking did it. The bombs fell not long ago. The world is over. No more people. Just shambling radioactive corpses. No more nations just glowing craters, dust, and shadows of people that once were. No more seasons just nuclear winter. Shopping? no such thing. Have fun struggling to find a drop of water or a crumb of food that won't kill you. The rads oh god the fucking RADS, inescapable and everpresent. Truly the end of the world. Rapture maybe happened and whatever is left...well most people are quickly giving up on God. Kinda hard to keep believing when the world ended and you were left behind. Except for the zealots anyway but those guys are crazy as the cannibalistic raiders.
That isn't even getting into all the weird shit that keeps happening and becoming. Makes you wish it was 'just' a nuclear winter. Walking corpses. Mutants. Inexplicable anomalies. Unnatural terrain. Strange whispers that you aren't the only one hearing. Honestly it just keeps getting worse...especially with everything you have to do just to 'survive'. Living...living is just a luxury that only the pre war world got to enjoy. You meanwhile are just another poor sucker caught up in this clusterfuck trying to survive.
(This quest will be ripping heavily from games like Fallout, Metro, Stalker, and Bioshock basically anything that fits within the setting just to keep things interesting)
>Character Creation The younger you are, the more bonus SPECIAL points you will start with. However the older you are, the more bonus skill points you will start with. You may choose any trait from any game OR include a custom option that may be vetoed by me IF its too unbalanced. Custom traits MUST include both positive and negative effects otherwise it's an automatic veto.
The first character will be a male because this is about a dynasty over the generations. So long as you have a living family member the game will not end however, your characters can and WILL die over time. A male starter character will provide insurance. So if you are an elderly grandpa, the minimum is 21 SPECIAL points. Just keep in mind old age is a real bitch, especially in such a hazardous environment(debuffs for age are a thing).
“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.
