The man known as Marik shook his head, eyes blinking. “We have a confirmed nuclear detonation on force Center.”
“I can see it, Nero.” The visual feeds had corrected for the flash, filtering and darkening it so that he could look upon the growing cloud.
His second was already pushing the command mech back to its feet, standing it again as an elite pilot does. Not in the first wave, only an idiot leads directly from the front, but his position in the third wave, the reserves, was carefully planned for.
He could bring them where they were needed most, to drive forwards wherever the push had faltered or where a weakness had been sighted. Or more realistically, wherever the hell his best guess was, if everyone was operating in the dark.
Though that darkness had just lifted with an enormous flash.
He had watched Kinston’s superheavy stagger beneath concentrated firepower right before the Plaza of Heroes, before returning fire and charging into smoke. His attention had wavered after then, but add to that the proximity of the Senate building, tantalizingly close, and the bastards in power proved again that there was no line they wouldn’t cross in order to try and crush his rebellion.
The Old Man deserved the Imperial Cross for his sacrifice, he mentally noted. And a promotion. Posthumously, of course. No one objects to a dead man being promoted above them.
But it was a good thing he had withdrawn the remainder of Crimson lance before that final push. A smart commander took care of his loyal pieces, and there weren't many queens left to use.
“I’m not getting any traces of jamming. Just residual interference from the blast. Are we still pressing forwards, sir?” His second asked from the piloting seat.
“Forwards. We make the most of this. They’re not going to expect a fresh force attacking through their own blast wave, after all.”
Turning back would be admitting defeat, and certain death. No matter the losses, he had to win here.
You wake up with the rhythmic yet heavy drops of water falling on your parched lips
"Ugh where am i?", you ask yourself knowing full well you can't answer the question
As you sit up you feel a comforting moonlight blinding you for a moment under its ethereal gaze.
After coming to your senses you find yourself trapped in a chasm spanning who knows how far.
A feeling of dread washes over you, reaching into your ashy lab coats pockets you find a wrinkled letter as though written in a hurry, "Expieriment failed, code black, failed to select ideal dimension"
With nothing but your surroundings how will you survive? Beware there may be monsters, although similar to earth, this universe is... corrupted.
It’s name might sound like some ‘exotic dancer’ in a Hawksong Red Lantern girl-bar, but it’s not. Rather, it’s a realm on the eastern edge of Hawksong’s political sphere, characterized by a longstanding conflict between mongrel tribes of Man, Elf, and Orc, which have bled into genealogically each other even as they bleed each other on the battlefield, shedding weapons and armour in woodland skirmishes for so long that the rusted remnants have given the place its name. Though it exists now in a fragile state of stalemate and ceasefire, two adventuring parties have entered the area on a mission related to a ore ancient empire than the current clashing clans: that of the dwarves, or <span class="mu-i">Dwerrow</span>, whose ancient ‘megastructure’ lies abandoned, hidden among the hills.
The Delvers a band of little folk employed by the dwarven corporation ‘Treasuretrove Incorporated’, have in their turn taken on the services of the so-called <span class="mu-r">Monstrous</span> <span class="mu-g">Regiment</span>, a newly-founded enterprise helmed by Zena Youngtree and her companion, Cara—really, a pair of strange soul-sisters named <span class="mu-r">Zith-Zi[/ed] and <span class="mu-g">Cara-Zi</span>, once a single succubus-tainted goblin-girl, and now an odd couple if ever there was one. Harkening back to their outcast origins, they allied themselves with the Steelwood’s orcish denizens, a bandit-band of murdering, misogynist marauders who nevertheless provide the most reliable (well, manipulable) muscle around, and ask the fewest questions.
(Unfortunately, one of those questions was “what’s in it for us?”, and Zith-Zi had been forced to answer “a powerful magical weapon that can dominate or destroy your enemies,” but there’s always time for a double-cross if it comes down to it…)
Insincerity aside, the local orcs lent the aid of two of the chieftain’s half-human heirs, a potion-producing <span class="mu-i">ziran</span> witch, and a teenage simpleton with a penchant for whittling wood into savage spears. Added to the crew of Delver dweebs and the Zi’s crew of goblins (and goat-girl), it made for a fairly well-balanced assembly of adventurers. It was, at the very least, sufficient to slay or scare off the sword-stepping spider-freaks which assaulting their camp in the dead of night…
Freaks which, it turns out, are some strange breed of fucked-up fairy, the mutated brood of a creature call an ‘<span class="mu-b">Ettercap</span>’.</span>
Clover City is in chaos in the aftermath of the Dread Corps attack. A perfect location for new supers to surface, be they heros or villains.
>The major powers in order of fame/infamy >The Victory League: federally funded superheros, technically HQed in Clover City, but rarely involved in the cities affairs. >The Victory Wards Clover City: a related yet distinct organization for minor heros (both literal children and weaklings) usually responsible for your average, day to day heroing >The Flower Scouts: Magical girls, regular civilian concerns (read: school) prevent them from serving as full time heros >The Super Sentai Seven: Garbed in power armor from another dimension, they face the same logistical issues as the Flower Scouts. >Crawler's Crew: Gang/Mafia headed by a small, tight knit band of super villains. Unironically preferable to unorganized super villainy (see "Dread Corps") Simply introduce your supers and we can get into it.
You start in a grotto with and empty campfire with no fuel, there is a pot hanging on a spit. It is empty. There are 2 known paths from your spot. To the north, a desecrate mountain range. To the south a luscious swamp. >You are carrying 3 things. {even, odd, even} Your roll number in last 3 digits determine if what you say is true. IF it does not match Rice-King decides what you have.
>What is this? "The Mystery Dungeons 2e" is a text-based role-playing game created to expand on the setting created by the spinoff series, Pokémon Mystery Dungeon. This has no story relation to the first quest, and is its own new story. Players still isekai themselves into the world and become Pokémon, going on adventures with their newfound guild mates! SFW ONLY
>I'd like to participate! Currently, we're at full capacity as far as threads on /qst/ are concerned. However, there's always the chance that space for another player may grow in the future, or that you simply wish to play outside of /qst/ and the quests hosted here. There are other ways to participate, about which you can learn and do here: https://matrix.to/#/#the-mystery-dungeons-2nd-edition:matrix.org
>Okay, now what? After you've read up and familiarized yourself with the rules and setting, be sure to hop into the Element: https://matrix.to/#/#the-mystery-dungeons-2nd-edition:matrix.org. Everything that doesn't involve Main Quests occurs here and is helpful for coordination.
Darkstone. This precious mineral was able to sap away magic around itself, tearing through the ether of the Weave and allowing bullets to pierce through magical shields and projectiles.
When a volley of Darkstone came, it did not matter if grand Archmages formed great walls of fire to protect themselves or struck the bullets with swift lightning, the bullets continued on their terrible path and delivered death. Decades of study and generations of fine breeding could now be undone in a few seconds by a peasant with a good eye and a rifle.
When Darkstone came, magic died. Thus came the Darkstone Wars. The old countries, often ruled by bloodlines strong in magic, underestimated the usefulness of the black bullets. In but a few years, millennia old kingdoms and dynasties crumbled as brutalized serfs rose to overthrow their tyrannical regimes. The most terrible of magics were unleashed by the Weaveborn to protect themselves from the revolutionaries, whole countries shattered under their desperation, but, eventually, they lost. The new regimes hunted down the Weaveborn ruthlessly, they were the symbols of the old; potential tyrants that were better off exterminated before their powers grew too great.
But nothing is so simple. As the magic arts were forbidden, many of these new regimes realized how important they had once been. Humanity had grown dependent on magics that fertilized the land, created water for crops, healed the sick, controlled raging fires… Foul times of hunger and disease followed the Wars. The sky yellowed, the sun reddened. Times of anarchy and death.
When magic died, bullets ruled. Idealistic republics turned into ruthless dictatorships. All men and women were free, and yet they were cowed into a submission not too dissimilar from the old regime. Some Weaveborn were granted the right to live, as long as they used their dominion of magic to support their country.
And then, you were born. It was in 82 AD, After Darkstone, in Piras, capital of the Republic of Frankia. You were a girl, you were given the name Sybille. Your parents were humble factory workers, you lived in a tiny apartment near the district where they worked. Your early days were not too different from those of other Frankian children, you had plenty of siblings, but most of them did not make it past infancy, you went hungry to bed most nights, and you were put to work as soon as you could handle a mop. Your parents were strict and disciplined, everyone had to contribute and improve their lot, there was little joy to be had with them. Yet children will find happiness even where there is none. Two siblings survived into childhood, your elder brother François and your younger sister Justine.
You snuck away from your duties with them when you could. You played around, fought other kids, made friends.
When the Reapers arrived, entire nations were caught in denial, unwilling to accept possibility of a catastrophe of galactic proportions, even in defiance of factual evidence, as sparse as it may have admittedly been, and testimony of agents of varying integrity. Ironically enough, both those forewarned and those who refused to be had paid dearly together for their negligence. A cynical mind would accept such state of affairs with little surprise, and a clear prediction of what would come next.
In this event, the cynical mind would have been wrong. After a downright miraculous concert of unity and cooperation, albeit not without discordant tunes played by Cerberus or those who foolishly thought they could parley with an enemy interested in nothing besides carrying out their grim harvest, the galactic community did in fact hang together, in an effort spanning not only the known galaxy, but also eons of history by building upon legacy of countless precursors, in order to rescue their present and secure a future.
When this effort had borne fruit of victory, many of the cynical minds among those still around were perplexed and confused. Some had even, in ways of introspection, admitted to having been wrong.
However, as the cheers of victory slowly gave way to the reality of the vista of future laid out ahead, the bitter scent of nihilism began to worm its way back into the landscape.
Some embraced it more fully than others.
You are Eve, sometimes going by Eve Ferrum, an alliance infiltrator unit and an unchained AI, distant fork of a secret project of the Systems Alliance that made its way to Cerberus and then Alliance again, to be ultimately deployed in a semi autonomous mode in the galaxy's darkest hour after an elder cousin, if you could use that term, had showed her worth in service to Shepard's crew, and ultimately liberated when you personally demonstrated your dedication to the cause aligned with a friend and companion of yours, Henri Ford, the currently freelancing Xenoarchaeologist.
And through paths that would not be out of place in trashy paperback novels of yore, which lead designer of your particular branch had enjoyed alongside classics of vintage science fiction, you had found yourself in position of an infiltrator again, delving into lair of a renowned war hero with political ambitions and a proverbial ossuary on a dedicated mainframe.
Do you think that anyone has the ability and potential to become a diplomat for their country? I mean, not necessarily for a powerful country like the United States or Germany, but for a third-world country such as Brazil, Colombia, or any other that doesn't have global relevance.
The porcelain hordes are pushing from the north, east and south while the ever dwindling numbers of defenders, still loyal to the four, die, one by one, to stem the unending tide.
