Totemists, one of the first lines of defense against the malicious and monstrous, famed slayers of Behemoths which are perhaps the most dangerous examples of such, and bridge to the domains of spirits and magic unseen. The role is not an easy one of course, but it must be done and has been since time before almost all written history.
You are Capran, young man of the Four Peaks mountains, pupil of Oranya Skystrike.
There has been a lot of unrest on the mountain slopes lately, the issue growing further with each day it seems, but with your teacher still guiding you, there will always be a way to deal with it the trouble.
Such as this post mimic, which stands on thin wood-splinter-like legs and angrily spears them into the ground beneath it at the failure of its ambush. You stand nearby your teacher and her friend Heyra, ready and willing to destroy this mimic.
Awful thing. You're rather happy you three are the one who found it rather than some poor patrol guard or villager.
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.
you, yes YOU will determine the fate of Our Hero! your prompts shape his destiny and his actions (almost) all suggestions will be considered! don't be afraid to get creative!
“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.
<span class="mu-s">Monday</span> <span class="mu-s">Grid Sector 11873, Defensive Position "Razorback"</span>
The Bradley 1A5 kept firing with it's auto-cannon at the incoming target. One of it's tracks, the left one, was damaged. The rack of guided missiles had been emptied days ago and there hadn't been the chance to refill them.
Quartermaster "Godmother" was inside the basement of a ruined house, missing it's second floor and portions of the first. The structure of plywood would provide minimal protection or cover, which was why he was underground.
Beside him was Jack Price, the Engineer from MARS Incorporated, now a Lieutenant in what remained of the Armed Forces.
Finally, if he was still alive, was Capt. Harry Grand from the Air Force. - - In the basement was a Javelin guided missile, loaded, but with no available reloads. There was also MARS MPAR, a laser guided upgrade of the FGM-172A SRAW project. That system and a single reload were bundled together. Both would require firing from outside or the precarious top floor.
The other explosive options were the drum fed, six shot 40mm Milkor MGL.... OR three disposable AT-4ERs.
There was closed crates that may or may not have additional supplies, but the three of them didn't know how to operate that many weapons outside the rocket launchers and a basic M16A4.
There was the blowtorch and Quik Patch case, if Jack wanted to try repairing the Bradley.
Jail Quest: a text adventure occasionally illustrated.
A night of drinking and a failed attempt to cheat on cards had landed you the strangest job slash community service sentence you've ever had: ensuring Gongalla Gaol survives the reality storm called Singularity.
Now you travel around with your employer and a handpicked crew to survey the four Reality Anchors. Hey, beats being tarred and feathered, right?
You suddenly jolt wide awake in an unfamiliar room, with no recollection of the past few hours. It even took you a few seconds to remember you are Rosa Montagni, and another few seconds to realize the other person in the room is your crewmate, Valencio. Slowly, hazy recollections piece together a loose narrative of previous events: you've reached Viridis, the first leg of your journey to the East's Reality Anchor, when you receive news that your go-to destination slash transport, the walking city Freeport, had problems with its engine. Then you were sidetracked into a casino, where you played cards and unwittingly aided a truant Hexbourne student against a haughty twin Hexbourne students sent to retrieve him. Then you got entangled in a complex emotional... something with the casino owner, Don Bosco. Something about your mentor, Sierra (no relation to Sierra, the deity of the South anchor) and copious amounts of drinking? That must be why your memory's so hazy.
You are Phlegna, the underworld goddess of plague. The world has just been ravaged by a cataclysm, and although you had nothing to do with it, you got empowered by the ensuing generalized bad health. Most of the old gods were killed or driven away. You escaped your prison while more powerful and far more evil deities made their escape into the outer planes. You thought about escaping as well, but the material plane right underneath your sacred stars was just - rather empty. You don't think there are more than 100,000 souls in the entire world. Most deities think this is too scant a meal to bother, so you're alone - for now. You are now looking for a particularly gifted individual or group that you can empower so as to restart your ancient cult. And who knows - maybe this time around you'll achieve divine supremacy.
Searching far and wide, you find only small scattered groups. There are a few representants of most races, but they are all scattered. There are places where members of the same race are continents apart, with little hope of ever rejoining. You look around for a resilient little group, and you find a race of:
You are L2S Trollslayer Fiona Jarnafeldt, and you have taken a trip across the seedy underbelly of Helsinki.
What you saw down there couldn't be more different than the city up here. Humans and aberrations living together. The ruins of the old city, hidden by the construction of the stormdrains and the new city above, dinky and rustic but far more human than this sterile white alloy jungle. Children, running around. You don't see many children in Helsinki at all. So few people even have the right to have one, you haven't a clue where a school is in Helsinki, but the undercity has so many.
You weren't in your right mind for most of your adventure, having pulled an extreme measure of consuming an entire package of pervitin to avoid a highly dangerous target and seek a new exit. Of course, you lost focus and consciousness, losing control and wandering confused trying to stay undercover and getting into fights.
The drugs and the fighting took a physical and mental toll on you, but you're alive. You had to take a week long break to properly recover, consuming nothing but liquid food for the past few days. Now you have to get ready for the giant mutant man-eating birds that are taxonomically called the Swans of White Death that are migrating from the north.
But you're not thinking about the giant man eating swans or how your drugs made you think your sword was talking to you right now.
Your eyes are wide open staring at this eight foot tall nipponese lady that might just be an aberration.
Lytek was, like most work days, sitting behind his desk. The God of Exalted stroked his white beard after penning a recommendation for a Lunar Exaltation, reviewing his work. Satisfied, the grandfatherly god smiled, and put the letter in his filing cabinet, where a copy would be instantly made and transmitted to Luna.
A knock came on his door, and Lytek looked up. “Come in,” he called, raising his hand to both open the door and ready the chair, all without standing. He moved his piles of papers to the sides of his desk, ready to meet this visitor.
But it was not a visitor, but his assistant and daughter, Lysidore. “Father!” She said, rushing into the room. “We have an emergency! A whole circle of Sidereals were killed!”
Lytek's eyes bulged. He stopped himself from asking details - he could learn them after his work was done. On cue, he heard five thumps in his locked cabinet. The Exaltations had arrived. “Here,” he said to Lysidore, reaching under his desk and offering his cleaning implements to her. “Help me prepare them.”
The graveness of the situation pulled down her excitement. Father had never asked her to help him in his duties. Not like this. She grabbed the tools and pulled a few files from the top of his short stack, labeled “Sidereal Exaltation Candidates.” Lytek unlocked his cabinet and five small will-o'-the-wisps floated above his hand. Amber, cerulean, crimson, emerald, ans violet - one for each of the Castes. Pure Essence, empowered by the Five Maidens of Destiny.
“Quickly,” he said, “there should be some Dragon-Blooded ready to be lifted to the stars.”
In a frenzy, Lysidore spread out and looked down at the files she pulled. All were dynasts of the Scarlet Empire. “The Bronze Faction will have something to say-”
“Not when it's this many at once,” Lytek grinned, his white beard moving with his cheeks. Grudges from the Solar Purge still persisted among the gods, especially he who was held back from his duties. The blades of Sidereals held Lytek in check as the Solars extracted and imprisoned his charges. It was a gamble for Lytek, but potentially denying one Dragon-Blooded for the Bronze Faction to steer was worth it. Even better if this Sidereal-to-be did not join the Bronze. Besides, four more Sidereals would join. It will be noted one was a dynast, but it will not be an outrage.
Lysidore strained to recall the last Sidereal pulled from the Dynasty. It was quite a few centuries ago now… She shook her head. Time to review. She took one of the Exaltations in her hands and began to inspect it, scrubbing away abnormalities that came from beyond Creation. She read the candidate profiles…
This is part 9 of the "side quest" for "Disappearing Hogwarts". An unofficial alternate timeline based on HeadQM´s highly praised quest, Disappearing Hogwarts. Reading the original story is not exactly necessary but heavily encouraged since this quest will contain references to it. Created mostly as a place to wait while HeadQM was away for a while but slowly evolved into his own thing.
Quick recap so far: >Recently graduated Ravenclaw student is hired at Hogwarts as the new Caretaker. >Merlin somehow ended up inside your head. >Harry Potter´s daughter died, letting Salazar Slythering (previously stuck inside her head) free to continue his quest to control The Beast, an all powerful ancient creature accidentally created by Merlin. >You obtained a piece of The Beast >Salazar has now escaped his child body prison. >The Beast is now trying to escape under any circumstance >Both you and Salazar are going through Merlin's trials in order to reach the most powerful source of magic available >You are close on his heels What will happen now? Let's find out!
Thanks to IlvermoryQM for the links! (if anyone can figure out a way to save the ".moe" threads into "thisisnotatrueending" that would be much appreciated)
