The year is 1374 DR. Sixteen years have passed since the Time of Troubles, when the gods were made humble, and forced to wander the Realms as mortals. With the ascension of the mad god Cyric, Prince of Lies, and the recent return of the tyrant god Bane, Lord of Darkness, the future of Faerûn seems increasingly uncertain. It falls to bold individuals who possess an abundance of cunning, might, and determination to shape the future... should they be up to the challenge.
Affixing your weapons to your person, you leave the Hall of the Elders behind, ready for your journey to the Silverwood. There, you intend on informing the Eilistraeans of your most recent triumph and, gods willing, the eventual council vote that will allow them entry into Everlund. That you have gone to such great lengths on the behalf of your people truly astounds you. It is abnormal, or mayhaps even unnatural, for Ilythiiri to help one another for the sake of it.
Does this make you a deviant?
Burying these intrusive thoughts, you commence your journey. A round trip from Everlund to the Silverwood would take a tenday or less, provided you travel at a constant pace. Just as you face the road which leads to the city's southern gate, you recognize that the hexagonal All-Faiths Hall is but a minute away from your current location. True, you've no immediate business with the surfacer gods or their followers, although this does not preclude you from entering regardless.
What will you do? >The sooner I commence my journey, the better. >A detour to visit the All-Faiths Hall could not hurt.
<span class="mu-i">"In the myth, God is Force. In the parable, God is Motion. In the faith, God is the Spark, that which moves all life."</span> -22nd Hymn of the Omnissiah, Collected M34
A change of fortune diverts you from the cliffs, to a place you never expected to be - the heart of the Omnissiah's worship in Odrev. Once you arrive, though, you find it increasingly difficult to focus on what's literally before you.
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.
This quest allows you to designate a second-choice vote on decisions with three or more options before Write-Ins. 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: It's time. Now don't I look silly for thinking we'd get to that stuff last thread.
Your name is David "Gunny" Rockefeller, no relation. A veteran of the united states marine corps, you find yourself in a far-out situation after an all-too-close encounter of the third kind!
In the last thread you unlocked Redbone's psychic potential, made an example out of a federal agent by dumping him outside the ISS and tracked down one of your old friends. However, the government also made contact with you, and made clear they're both aware of and concerned by your presence.
Intending to stay on relatively good terms with them, you offered to clear things up by sharing some basic information and keeping in contact. With your time on earth close to wrapping up, there's not much left to do before heading back into space. Will everything go according to plan, or will there be a hitch?
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.
The Army of Alterac had marched into Strahnbrad Hills and claimed what is rightfully yours, the land and the oil hidden deep underneath the surface. They hadn’t faced any serious opposition, just a scattered band of bandits and brigands. Now would the work start as soon as the goblins gather themselves and the Dark Irons, deep from Blackrock Depths, would arrive with their machines and technology beyond your reach.
But not everything would be just about the oil, for you spent considerable time with your lover Jandice Barov as you were recovering from the Incident. Her three words of “I love you” echoed in your mind, for it was love you couldn’t answer to.
Yet your time in Tarren Mill would cut short. Jandice would leave and you would have to return back to Dawnholme as finally after months of waiting the Stonemason’s of Stormwind have arrived. Hundreds of them, with them mercenaries, a warlock in disguise, children and women. You would have your hands full with everything related to them.
You had hoped that you wouldn’t be swamped with work, especially with Taretha increasingly pregnant. A lot of paperwork would fall into your hands amongst other duties. But you had decided to put the work away, you wouldn’t repeat the previous mistakes and work yourself nearly to death.
You would enjoy your life, take whatever chances you have to relax and spend time with your friends. Maybe for once your life could be steady and without worries?
In @ world filled with dangers an explorer sets out with <span class="mu-s">oneshot</span> to delve within an even more perilous dungeon, this character. What was their identity like?
In the last thread we convinced Tim to not report our extrajudicial killings, and enthusiastically participated in Pahan-Hys' maturation ceremony. After undergoing uncertified 'medical' procedures, we are now healthy again, if slightly stranger from the experience.
Come help this talentless and skill-less peasant forge a future, or will you let them fade into obscurity?
<span class="mu-s">What were they again?</span> <span class="mu-b">Male</span> <span class="mu-r">Female</span>
This is my first time as QM and I make no promises this is going to be any good or enjoyable! I hope I got the formatting down and haven't already butchered this into oblivion.I will try my best, hope you enjoy!
<span class="mu-i">“Long ago, long ago, our world was lush and green. Singers sang and dragons flew, and sorcery and steel were made one…”</span>
In the deepest dark of an ancient metal ruin, eyes of dead glass watched over broken eggs. Lifeless guardians of lifeless wards, eternal in their vigil, they awaited power which would never come. Severed cables wrapped like vines about the metal eggs, cradling their broken shells and the shattered songs within. They would never be heard, never know the sand and seas and skies, never live.
So it had been for ten thousand years, and so it would be forever.
Across the endless centuries, the egg crypt became known to the members of a diminutive and curious people. They took the shape and size of the old masters; tufts of fur upon the tops of their heads, their bodies surfaced softly in pale or tan hues, and possessing four limbs yet standing upright upon one pair and grasping with the other - and none of them were winged. Ignorant, the two-eyes knew little what the ruin once was, and nothing of the egg chamber or its dead machines. They came for salvage, and secrets, but gained little of either - ancient places do not give up such things.
Slowly, even their pestering encroachments became nearly forgotten, swallowed by the sands.
<span class="mu-i">Nearly</span> forgotten, until one of their young returned, pursued by its own kind through the shifting sands. Others fled with it to the ruin, but their pursuers were faster upon the dunes, piloting bounding bipedal machines and plated skimming craft. Only the young one lost its pursuers when it reached the metal fortress, disappearing within the shattered pyramid's depths.
Rushing through the metal halls, it stumbled, fell, crashed, slid, and then lay still.
Crimson fluid pooled from its cracked mask, and poisons leeched in from the toxic air. When its eyes opened again the burning had already begun, the <span class="mu-i">fire</span>, but the shouts of its pursuers sounded from high above. With failing strength it fled deeper into the dark, past shattered eggs and dead glass, through severed cables hanging like vines, and beyond doors overgrown with fungus, until finally it could bear to go no further. It collapsed within a small chamber, quiet and still, beside a large black egg resting in a bed of sand and coiled cables.
The exhausted young creature pulled itself closer to the egg, and sang as it tried to patch its mask. It sang a lullaby taught by its crafter, - its mother - lyricless and soothing, while kneading a ball of repair agent into the cracked ceramic surface of its mask. If it did not finish quickly, then the growing fire within its mind would become an unbearable inferno, and wracked with madness it would perish in the toxic air as so many had before. No mask could reverse the change then.
As the creature's fingers slowed, and the fire in its mind grew too hot, the surface of the egg <span class="mu-s">cracked.</span>
>You are the song. [Hatching Egg] >You are the singer. [Young Creature]
The solution to no earthly secret is beyond the grasp of your little elvish head. After living for thousands of years only boredom and the road are your constant companions. Oh, Adelyle too. People always assume that she is your caretaker because of your short height but then they notice the leash around her neck. She is a tall and slender demonette, lead on a leash after loosing her eyesight privileges. She overboiled the potatoes the other day. She is now complaining but it's not your problem.
Humans approach you constantly with offers to buy her, as she is the last of her kind. The attention that she always gets irks you a bit. Just slightly. Now you feel guilty and return her sight. A hopeful potential buyer approaches you again and you enter tirade mode. You start a convoluted story, which is an allegory to a verbal representation of saying that you are a collector too. Then you proudly show off your other, non-person, collection. It is the string of seashells that form a necklace around your neck. Each seashell is taken from the shores of a different sea. Great way to fight boredom and existential dread, you have found.
<span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">My goal is to collect a seashell from every sea! Now this is a reason to keep on living!</span></span> you say with childish enthusiasm.
<span class="mu-i">This is stupid</span> Adelyle murmurs to herself. You are forced to take her eyesight again. She puts on her leash with a sigh.
<span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i">So in short, no, she is not for sale. Keep moving, pal, not my problem.</span></span> The nonsensical verbal barrage repulses the buyer successfully.
Adelyle is very loyal, Stockholm syndrome you assume. One time, after another fit of existential anguish, you let a group of drunk humans to put their what-nots in your whatever and once the demonette learned about your clandestine endeavors, she pursued the men for several days in search of retribution. You went chasing her, concerned about her potential collector value dropping, oh, and her safety, only to find her innocently sleeping under a peach tree, covered in someone else's blood. You took her eyesight privileges for a few weeks, you recollect, she made something that wasn't your problem, your problem, after all. After that whole ordeal you started calling Adelyle Aids, but you do it sparingly now because she tends to cry after hearing her nickname for some reason.
