Rolled 7, 3, 20, 9, 5, 11, 5, 8, 3, 2, 12, 16 = 101 (12d20)

Some jackass with blinged out shades and an afro just ran you over with his bright red sportscar

Your body got sent flying into the air and crashed into a dumpster, but that wasn't what killed you.

Nor was it the coyote living in the dumpster. Oh, it mauled you real good and made you question the state of society, where dangerous animals like that roamed free in the city streets, but despite everything you <span class="mu-i">were</span> going to make it.

Even getting hit with a splash of corrosive acid - thrown by a fine young gentlemen who was probably aiming for the nearest unaccompanied woman scurrying about in violation of his peoples' religious law - would not be enough to kill you. Scar you and melt some of the flesh off your face? Of course! The pain was agonizing.

Deadly? Nope! As a proud Brit born and raised in London, you of course kept a stiff upper lip and did your best to keep calm and carry on. Even the local urban youth, who put a pause in their beatings of that poor oriental woman to come put a few more bruises could not get you down. For King and Country you would endure, just as your old man endured the bombings of blitz!

At least, until, the worst thing imaginable happened. You said something bad on the Twitter... wait, no, it's the X now that a certain Boer gentleman purchased it from the Yanks. Well, he is a Yank, but still.



"Oi!" five and a half seconds after you posted that, a bobby came up. "You got a loisence for that hate speech?"

"Blimey old chap, didn't mean nothin' by it," you tell the bobby, but he ain't having it. Sure, there's blood where the coyote bit you, and your shoulder's still a bit dislocated, and the bruises from the lads with the bats, but he's got a point. Complaining like that on the internet is just no good. "Just havin' an off day is all. First a bloke with a car near ran me over, then a coyote tore right into me, it did! Where'd that even come from, ain't those from across the pond?"

"Mate, I get your meaning, but still," the bobby claps you on the shoulder, the one partially melted from the acid. "You can't go sayin' that sort of thing on the Twitter... or the X. What have you. Let alone the new Brits who might think ya <span class="mu-i">did</span> mean sommat by it - an' I know you didn't, but the optics mate! - you might hurt the politicians' feelings."

"Oh shite, well now I feel right awful about meself," you apologize to the bobby. "No, wait, that's the acid. Think your clap got it into me bloodstream and now it's melting me heart."

"Right then, my mistake, shoulda just clapped ya in irons and brought you to the Yard," the bobby apologizes back to you. Unfortunately, you can barely hear him, as your consciousness has already begun to fade. "I'll let you off with a warning this time. Steady on!"

Can my posts be deleted from 4Chan?

Can @gratefulgifts1 tweets be deleted from the WaybackMachine?

Can tweets be deleted from the Deep Web?

Thank you

Special Retort Religion or Relationship #audiobooks #craigwinn 17 May 2025
https://youtu.be/9D1yfBV9fcI

You are L2S Trollslayer Fiona Jarnafeldt, and you have so many better things to do with your time. At least, such you thought as you rode down the elevator to the most secretive corner of the Helsinki Stormwatch, a deep underground coven of researchers and inventors known as the Undercroft.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q2nLBExFcPU

You have so many better things you could be spending your time with right now. For example, you were injured in a fight earlier today against a <span class="mu-i">giant living breathing tree</span> that was a rogue member of a seclusive cabal of researchers and exmilitary brandishing a shotgun with an axe bit strapped to it, and you still powered through and chopped its head off. Your mother has just returned from a wild and outrageous journey around the north pole for the last twenty years, and has finally returned. Tomorrow you'll have a mission to rescue some people from cannibals in the stormdrains under Helsinki and you need some sleep. There's a great number of reasons you should be in bed.

But now, that very same day as all of these things occurred, Katriina Jousten, the Stormwatch Director and woman who was shot and savagely mauled by the tree from earlier, has decided it was time to orchestrate some bullshit tests based on whatever tech she has cooked up.

And you can't even complain about it, because with you is your fellow Stormwatch agent L2 Manhunter Saemus Fahy. an Irish guy who has zero concept that you, Katriina, and several others were fighting a rogue government agent that's coincidentally a fucking tree. You can't spill the beans, and neither can she. Talking around the cause of both of your injuries is going to be annoying.

But Katriina should be resting too. She was injured, <span class="mu-i">grievously</span> injured, and she has decided to run some tests late into the evening? What's gotten into her?

Perhaps she is hurt more than just physically.

Pick race and location

We will make a few choices and then we'll begin.

I will only run sessions on weekends, but I might post throughout the week (no guarantees).

Growing up hearing stories about adventurers, you always wanted to become one yourself. Their tales of glory and defeating fearsome monsters to acquire riches have always held a great fascination to you. In your sixteenth birthday, once you became an adult, you decided to go out into the world!

Your great grandfather was once a Flame Knight, the order that protects the Emperor. His old sword is still laying around the house, shiny and sharp as ever - perhaps it is even magical!

Your father would never let you take the family heirloom, so one night you just grab it and run away. It would be yours, one day, so why not now?

Besides your prized sword in its scabbard, you only have a backpack with a week worth of food and a dagger.

Where do you wanna head next?

> To the north lands, to test your steel against the barbarians
> To the west port of Mithrail, where you can travel to distant lands
> To the east towards the capital Flamenherz, to seek your destiny
> To the south towards the elven lands, to find worthy companions
> Write in

Also choose gender and name MC.

Domestic Security Coordination Council Quest... Cancelled
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>Username: ***************
>Password: **************
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Welcome <span class="mu-s">Operator</span>, to <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-b">Task Force Vanguard</span></span>

While the world and our beloved nation is in crisis, we are the ones who handle the greatest threat to our fellow citizens and perhaps the world.

The <span class="mu-s">Containment Box</span> is fully online in a secure facility with two companies of Marines, a platoon of SF qualified personnel, and a nearby National Guard base on standby. Nothing gets into the underground facility and nothing gets out. The landing spots around the <span class="mu-s">C Box</span> are filled with trained killers, ready to pacify or slaughter anything that lands from other timelines or dimensions.

As long as the Box is running, humming along, our goverment is sale from an assassination team popping into existence in the Capitol. As long we do our jobs, spies and saboteurs can't sneak into our world.

Now then? You are using a placeholder sign-in code that is being shared with multiple people. There isn't any proper documentation yet about if you're going to be a small team or some squad leaders or what. Did you even figure out your call signs yet?

><span class="mu-s">Time to pick</span>

1. Make your decisions as a collective. You might be a small team that coordinates missions together.

2. Make your choices alone. This step is harder and more difficult. Instead of the risk of not agreeing to things, you run the risk of losing interest in doing things by yourself, even if you network with others.

><span class="mu-s">Optional Choice</span>

1. Handholding. This limits you to less options and makes it slower for you to progress as a physical/mental entity. It also means that you get promoted slower.

2. No handholding. You have to enter in a general sense of what branch you come from, and in the future you have to think about your choices.

You are Gamma the Lich. The Order of the Sun usually keeps you sealed into a catacomb specially prepared to trap you forever, since they can't figure out a way to get to your phylactery to destroy you, but right now you feel just A-mazinn.

You look around, your awareness of your surroundings starting to become less numb as the many wards the paladins put on you start to fade. You feel a strong tinnitus and can't really hear anything currently, but you see a cultist on top of you babbling something before a sword punctures through his gut. This one will be a close call, it seems. Just the way you're used to.

The paladins love to be flashy so they chained you to the sarcophagus with mithril chains. These chains alone could finance your operations for a decade, let alone the several enfeeblement traps that kept your massive intellect dormant, at below animal level so you can't even cast a spell.

You extend your bony hand as far as manacles allow it, hoping to be able to touch something. The pierced cultist is not quite dead yet, so you manage to touch him and snuff out his lifeforce, consumed in an instant.

With this boost of energy, you negate the enfeeblement traps and your intellect returns, and with it the ability to cast spells, twice as fast as any mortal magician.

So of course you cast Haste, allowing you to cast four spells in the time an ordinary wizard would cast one.

In a split second, you cast your usual suite: Mind Blank, Globe of Invulnerability, Flight and, taking advantage of the spilled stomach acid your dying cultist so graciously provided, you cast a fully maximized corrosion spell on the mithril chain, weakening it enough to bend it and liberate one arm.

The nearest paladin notices your arm is free and hit you with his holy sword. Were you a lesser undead, the merest touch of it would be enough to destroy you. But as you are, it only gives you a mild nuisance.

Confident that you're unkillable, you detach your arm and shoot it away in an arc, pretending the paladin lopped it off.

As the paladins rush to reseal the chamber, your self severed arm explodes, killing and maiming several people, cultists and holy men alike.

You can sense a tiny fragment hitting the invisible wall that keeps you locked there.

You focus your magical power on a fully maximized Breach spell, focuses on a point the size of a pin. With ten thousand tons of magical pressure, you squeeze a needle-like fragment of your exploded limb outside the catacomb. You won.

Pick race and location