<span class="mu-i">"I took my first breaths long before there was rain."</span>
-Unknown source, possibly an Astropath attached to the <span class="mu-i">Xi-40 Explorator Fleet</span>

This shouldn't be working. It's impossible for it to be working.

---

Read the previous threads at: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=False%20Woman

You possess an amount of Strain equal to your Conditioning score. When attempting actions beyond your current capacity, you gain a point of Strain. Attempting to Strain while at maximum Strain will result in a Strain Check. During a Strain Check, roll 1d10 for every point of the relevant Parameter. Results that are 6 or above count as one success. Results of 10 count as two successes. Three successes must be rolled to avert a critical failure. Fail or pass, after a Strain Check, you cannot Strain again until you restore your Strain by seeking shelter.

<span class="mu-s">This quest allows you to designate a second-choice vote on decisions with three or more options before Write-Ins.</span> When votes are totaled, the option with the least votes for it will be removed, with votes for that option instead being changed to the second-choice of those voters. Second-choice votes are also used to break ties. This helps increase the accuracy of votes, but is not mandatory. Please specifically mark your second-choice as such if you do so.

Vote stay open for a minimum of six hours, but will usually take longer.

A note: My writing style is pretty dry, but don't mistake that for it being serious.

You awake to the comforting warmth of a curvaceous red haired woman in your arms, the softness of the blanket you share, and the feeling of your bed creaking briefly as your thief gets up. By the time you glance over your shoulder the window is already open, and she's gone. The town is bustling with early morning business outside. The inn is waking up, and it's time for you to go about your day.

You and your party are experienced adventurers, using this town to stage excursions into dungeons and mountains. You're building a good reputation. You've been in other parties before, but this is the longest period yet, almost a year.

You sit up in bed, the blanket falling off your muscled body as you look around your room in the inn, you see your weapons on their rack, and your plate armor on its stand. The fire is ashes, and there's a breeze coming through the open window. Furea mutters in her sleep, shivering and curling up slightly. The tall, leggy redhead was a gladiator before you bought her freedom, she declared herself yours and she's been loyal in bed and battle ever since. Her eyes are blue, her legs long, her midriff toned, her breasts indecently full and her long hair lies free and messy after last night. She has a body on par with the beautiful thief who warmed the other side of your bed last night, Arianne is pale, dark haired, her eyes a similar blue to her redhead co-concubine, her body equally lush. She attempted to assassinate you, only to met with a fateful of your body as you left a bath. After you bedded her she told you of the thief gang she worked for, you brought them to justice, she was granted a pardon, and she swore her service to you in gratitude. She's an excellent scout, thief and support, though she tries to avoid melee combat, snarking constantly about it whenever she has to.

You smile. She's worth it.

Your room is large, with room for a double bed, fireplace, your weapons and armor, a table, chairs, dressers for the girls clothes. You tie your belt, just as the door opens and one of your servants enters. As a wealthy adventurer, you have a small group of retainers, including a quartet of maids whose duties include cleaning your armor and weapons.

Despite their horns you aren't positive they're tieflings, they don't seem to have the booming voice and smell of sulphur you hear is normal. Also you don't think they're raging homosexuals.

"Good morning master." Lara says softly, careful not to wake the woman she [rightfully] assumes is asleep behind you. As the third oldest she's a bit less flighty than the older two, and more demure than the youngest.

"Shall I bring tea or will you be taking it downstairs this morning?"

"I'm heading downstairs Lara, but please bring tea for Furea and Arianne."

She bobs a curtsy. "Of course sir."

You pat her head as you walk past her, pulling a shirt on and heading for the common room, thinking about your past as a-

[Cont.]

Humanity has always been famed to continue pushing the limits of the known. So when a rift in reality appeared in a nearby island, the senate quickly mounted an expedition to investigate it. You took your ships and your men and started to go through the rift. Your mages began to understand its mechanism.

However, during the transfer of a large stockpile of supplies, the rift mysteriously closed! You became stranded in this weird land.

You are Septimus, the General. You have at your disposal about half of a Legion. (some 2,000 men or so).

There are, however, no women.

The exact place were you got stranded was:

> Mana Crystal Wasteland - a vast wasteland full of many crystals, but where no plants grow. Weird monsters that feed on mana or sunlight wander the place.
> Blue Fungus Cave - a vast cave system with walls lined with blue fungus. Some exits to the surface have been located, but they are mostly out of reach, either due to height or the strange burrowing creatures that plague the region. The fungus is edible, if a bit bland, and is everywhere.
> Vast Plains - a vast field with what looks like endless amounts of wild wheat. Some of the men thought it was afterlife. Gazelles and strange predators prowl the land, and your scouts have ascertained that they saw either horsemen or centaurs in the distance, though they never approached.
> Write in

[isekai, school, romance, harem]

Your new bedroom is massive, bigger than your entire old apartment. The bed is huge, draped with thick blankets that look like they’ve never been touched. At the foot of the bed, there’s a big chest, perfect for storing your personal items. Heavy, dark curtains block out most of the sunlight, and the air feels stale and musty, as if the room hasn’t been aired in years. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling, glinting faintly in the low light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. You’ve heard about boys who complain about being stuck in the friend zone, but for you, that sounds like paradise. You’ve never even been close to that. Girls just insult you, call you ugly, and laugh when you try to talk.

You hear footsteps behind you, and your stepmother pushes open the door without knocking. She’s wearing a black tailored dress, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. She doesn’t bother to hide the disdain in her eyes as she looks you up and down.

"Still sitting around? Unpacking would be a good start," she says, her tone sharp. "You should be grateful you're even allowed to live here." You nod, not wanting to provoke her. She lingers for a moment longer, clearly about to say something else, then just shakes her head and walks away, muttering something under her breath.

You slump back onto the bed. This mansion is supposed to be a new beginning, but it feels more like a prison. After your father’s sudden death, your stepmother quickly abandoned the small apartment she hated and moved into his family’s mansion, claiming she deserves better. Now you’re stuck here with her and your stepsister in a city you don’t know. Your father had cut ties with his wealthy family years ago, and you grew up poor. Now, trapped in this mansion, surrounded by old money and family secrets, you feel like an intruder.

A faint buzz disrupts your thoughts. You check your phone to find a message from one of your old classmates. "Heard you finally moved out. Good riddance, loser." You don’t respond. You’re used to this by now, the kind of cruelty that never stopped back in school. For now, you unpack your suitcase, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

As my pickaxe strikes the rockface, I can still feel my worn-out elbow bones grinding against each other - like sandpaper against sandpaper, even after upping my dose of Forza. The drug pumped through the filthy tubes jammed up what was left of my nose, thick as engine grease and burning twice as bad. The pain dulled, but never enough. Never enough to forget where I was. Upping my dose might do it, or changing its old tubes, if I could afford it. Just needed to break a bit more rock. Fill a few more carts.

It's darker than a heretic's soul down here, but that's how we like it. Less light means more promethium to pocket. Old tradition since Cheekbones' time. The Deacon hardly ever comes down this deep, and the Servitor assigned to our level is more machine than man now - lost his mind years back along with control of his nethers, like most. Even through my scarred-up nostrils and the tubes, I can still smell the shit and piss caked into his body hair from twenty paces.

"Hey, new blood," I whisper to the fresh meat they've dropped in our section. Poor bastard's shaking so bad he can barely hold his pick. "See how we're working with just half-lamps? That ain't official. We skim the fuel and split it end of shift. Keep your mouth shut about it and you'll get your cut, 'kay?"

A miner tradition since Cheekbones' times.

The new one nods, eyes wide. Most don't last more than a year or two down here. I've survived twenty-one.

Rules are simple: Votes are tallied every hour, with whatever course of action being the most popular being the course of action taken. Write ins are encouraged and non-mutually exclusive votes will be combined if possible.

When a roll is called for, roll however many D100 are specified. 5- is a 'crit fail' and generally means something bad is about to happen. 95+ is a 'crit success' and generally means something good just happened. a 'crit success' trumps a crit fail. User input on both will be taken into consideration.

Inventory, pokemon stats and other links: https://docs.google.com/document/d/15i2N08IpWqitoTJujsUMishe4PLbao1lqT-bCAmvPcE/edit

Discord: Rules are simple: Votes are tallied every hour, with whatever course of action being the most popular being the course of action taken. Write ins are encouraged and non-mutually exclusive votes will be combined if possible.

When a roll is called for, roll however many D100 are specified. 5- is a 'crit fail' and generally means something bad is about to happen. 95+ is a 'crit success' and generally means something good just happened. a 'crit success' trumps a crit fail. User input on both will be taken into consideration.

Inventory, pokemon stats and other links: https://docs.google.com/document/d/15i2N08IpWqitoTJujsUMishe4PLbao1lqT-bCAmvPcE/edit

Discord: https://discord.gg/v8nRWG4p

For a short summary for the new and to recap:

You are Alex. A newly minted trainer and camping enthusiast just starting out on your journey at the age of seventeen after your father lost his job in order to help pay the bills. On the road, you met Fie, the Fire Gym Leader, Gareth a novice Aura Guardian on pilgrimage and Holly, a runaway heiress using a pseudonym. You've also made enemies of Team Green a group of violent, radical activists looking to abolish pokemon training.

Recently, Fie returned to her gym for the time being.

Last thread, you caught a Rotom for the roadhouse nurse, had some lunch, meditated with Gareth, introduced Nika to battling and stopped a guy from bothering Martha by challenging him to a battle.

come here and I will explain why I need you
https://discord.gg/3cGyVxx4TN

Previous Threads: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=The%202nd%20Primarch%20Quest
_

In the depths of the warp, two princes of daemon-kind uplifted and ennobled from human stock, one of the grandfather of plague's teeming brood and the other a prized son of the lord of excess, competed against one another to claim two prizes. A spirit descended from Isha and Kurnous' stock, and the branded head of the wandering dragon, the mist lurker, the truthseeker, Lieren. They flew to confront you, from the citadel they both claimed and held, each racing to beat the other to be the first to cross their blades with you and be the first to draw blood.

But as the corpse flower knight and swan knight both left their shared keep, you knew the departed souls of your friends and companions, the brave souls of heroes of Long-Jia and mankind, slipped through the defenses and walls of their fortress of pitted, rusted iron and mirror polished silver. And as you flew at your two enemies, upon a nimbus of the white wind of the empyrean Hysh, holding within one of your hands the paradox of emotion and rationality forged into a spear and in the other a joyful tear turned to a jade mercy, contained within the protocol taught to you by the long hidden wisdom of the old ones, you considered the most efficient means to distract these anomalously brotherly wicked spirits of two of the six competing discordant courts.

The progeny of Na Gou, lurched up a stairway formed of crawling slime molds and withering rotten spines, donning a heavy armor over their body of bones entangled into creeping vines and roots. The scion of Se Nie, however, flew upon deceptively pristine and fair wings. The Swan knight would reach you first. And that was a obstacle in your plan. They both needed to be near so they both may be caught in a mist of true and honest mercy and innocent joy. Both of which were deadly poison to the black natured spirits of chaos. But that complication was easily resolved.

"Fly, oh cloud of purity" You whisper and urge to the nimbus of light you stand astride upon "Fly and bring me to the shadows who bring gloom and corruption to all they touch"

Upon your command, the white wind beneath your feet sword, shooting through the ever changing skies of the empyrean realm like a bolt of lightning. The swan knight's wing spread and they turned, adjusting their trajectory as you shot past them but out of reach

"See, oh swan of the lakes of debauchery! The panther child seeks their doom by my hand and hammer!" The corpse bloom knight chortles and warbles as you fly closer to them, then with a sudden change of the position of your feet within the nebula of pure light, curved your path over their head and out of reach of their swinging hammer and the groping molds that sprung from its cracks like weeds in a garden
Cont

Autumn wind blows through ugly rags, a rough scraping sound can be heard behind a barefooted figure, it's nighttime. An old man carries a rusty sealed shut iron maiden, his heavy breathing betrays the weight of his load, metallic bottom plows deep into the dirt road that the old man is traversing.

Far behind him is a booger-faced child, just as filthy as the old man, with bare legs and feet covered in lesions, only the small torso is protected by a simple linen cloth. It's head misses hair and eyebrows and the child occasionally blinks rapidly his huge green eyes.

The old man approaches a tavern on the road and sees a single soul outside, a bard tuning his lute. He is tall and handsome, his clothing shines in the dark, his long fingers run easily across the wooden neck of the lute. The bard has been observing the two wretched nightly stragglers. Soon he decides to...

>play a single annoying note over and over again, *brimmm* *brimmm* *brimmm*

>bow down to the old man

>enter the tavern and finally perform the song that required the tuning