It is the 27th of July, 1944. The 4th Armored Division prepares to take Coutances. You are an M4 Sherman tank and its crew, at the tip of the spearhead.
You see his face. Sharp razor slit eyes etched onto a hulking creature’s giant head, which would give children across the galaxy vivid nightmares, stare into your soul. It produces no feeling of horror or fear, nor any other natural response, because you know him. Those eyes that are locked onto yours are dulled, empty, lifeless. The vacant glare causes your heart to wither in your chest. It was you, you did this, you killed your closest friend. A man who has saved your life, and you killed him. Now his face is slack, muscles relaxed, and his eyes are barren; all that vigour and life that he carried around with him is forever gone, never to return.
It was your choice to kill him. Sith Lord Yvalok presented the options to you. During your months on Lao training as a Sith Acolyte you, Vulfstahn a child of the extinct Sith people, have shown a wild potency with the Force which is unequalled by your supposed peers. This rare talent caught Yvalok’s eyes and has him captivated with your development, wanting nothing more than to see you flourish. The ancient human decided to gift you hate through a choice: slay Urr’tal in a duel or watch as Yira gets gangraped. You gave the withered husk of a Human your answer. With a slash of your sword, you betrayed Urr’tal, ending all the myriad great possibilities he could have achieved in his prodigious lifespan.
The Sith Lord that would be nothing but a frail old man if not for his mastery of the dark side of the Force stands above you as thick red ichor spews from the Whiphid’s severed neck. Forced onto the hard durasteel floor by a burst of lightning, you are enveloped by the growing pool of your friend’s blood. His decapitated head rests in front of you, not able to steal your eyes away from the lifeless face as his matted fur stains from his bleeding. Yvalok monologues and lectures, but you can’t hear him. The unblinking eyes have stolen your world.
The president put on the ceremonial gowns, now knowing the terrible conventions of society. A forbidden fruit, offered to her by subordinates and friends, that which they all deemed an essential part of youth; the what to say, the what not to say; the great secrets of seduction; the three gazes of the man-eating leopard; “The height of skirt that melts the inexperienced virgin”. And she endured it all, like a woman. She endured to have them play with her, as if a rag or some mauled doll; only by the time they began to imply that the size of a bag was perspectively proportional to the osseous width of her body, she had already ran out of patience. And with the skirt, and the blouse, the inconspicuous accessory and the invincible bow of black hair, victory was served with imminence, and tremendous prematurity.
As the lead of the Paranormal Investigation Club, she was in labour of solving mysteries in the company of her most trusted. Who hasn’t heard yet about the rapist of human souls, the phantom on the staircase, or the not single instance when the devil went and took the farmer's cows for a dance? After that, and many other adventures together; seemingly united, in their hearts she earned a deep place with her pure merit. And this time it was their turn to prepare her with the ubiquitous knowledge, to face the unknown, and perhaps even… to scare her fears. Trembled the world when the day came,
Surely, long had spilled been the tea; and yet, in shame, a single drop lied and dared not to be spit. She, and she alone knew; thoughtless, truly thoughtless the compromise had been conceived. Upon their first and only conversation she was met with a sudden and unknown boiling emotion. She couldn't admit; the temptation was too much to bear. From the pure desire to partake in that which impossible is, agreed they to meet the next Sunday, despite knowing her she lived in the neighboring city. And even then, prepared and committed, without respect for distance, without fear, she departed on the afternoon, towards a station lost in time, lost from reason, all so she could ever meet with him... the next morning.
- <span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-s">The Hairy Hand</span> is a quest ruled by contradiction of wills and whims The President has towards all gruesome realities awaiting. Survival is doubtful, and physical integrity is never assured; bad decisions are ultimate.
Players can cumulatively pick a maximum of 3 choices, once 3 different courses of action are picked, no alternatives can be proposed nor votes. Actions are taken upon popular vote, effected at irregular, arbitrary and unforgiving times. Small and menial actions may be taken by individuals at times; affecting or not the outcome of an encounter. The whims of a few may just suffice to change The President's fate. </span>
You remember primary school: running past metal doors and out into the recess playground, the teachers would always say "don't play rough." But inevitably someone would cross the line, and pushes and kicks and punches would be thrown over a crude joke or a prank, or for any one of a million stupid reasons.
You were never one of the offenders. But you do remember a close friends being a frequent troublemaker and an almost semi-permanent fixture inside the principal's office; on returning he would parody the principal's lecture in a faux serious voice—”propriety this, behavior that,” and other such things that kids liked to make fun of.
But at the end of whatever day he'd decided to make trouble, you would always spot him sitting on a chair inside a bereft classroom, looking downcast. Then you'd see his mother and the homeroom teacher deep in conversation, walking down the hallway and entering the room, closing the door behind them.
The following day he'd always return muted and solemn, and no roughhousing would occur for several days. You'd learn many years later that at dinner, when his father would ask "How was everyone's day," his mother would report on her son's mischief. Sometimes his father would wait until after dinner to bring out his belt. Other times, right there and then, he would administer his displeasure.
It befuddled you. Education at the point of the sword—a paradox if ever you saw one. But it wasn't something you ever personally experienced growing up, getting "disciplined" in that manner.
Your father…
>wasn’t around much >wasn't around at all >wasn’t prone to violence
Welcome back to Our Brave Boys, a quest that is more about worldbuilding (or loredumping) but also a somewhat light RP setting. You are all young men of 20 years of age and are part of the Nation's Apprenticeship Required for Male Youths, otherwise known as ARMY. The Nation is one of many countries of the Empire, but after decades of suppressing Republican Revolutions, the Nation emerged as the leading faction championing the Monarchy, placing the late Princess of your Nation on the throne as Eternal Empress.
The quest essentially runs as a world event where you are all common soldiers who have little control over the progression of the war, but are nonetheless free to write bits of your characters' thoughts and even subtle actions to bring life to your characters.
The Nation has a mandatory conscription policy for all young men, who must serve for 5 years after conscription at 20 years of age. Nearly a year and a half has passed since the quest started, although new boys are welcome. You might want to skim through the archive to understand the lore.
<span class="mu-s">Summary</span> You are the junior brothers of Lexion XXI, 41st Artillery Cohort, Battery Green, Section 1.
The Empire has been ever watchful over Republican Revolutions in neighboring states. When the Southern Principality erupted into revolution, Legion XXI was commanded to establish a foothold to prepare the rest of the Imperial Army to land for invasion. You and your brothers had successfully assault and captured a small port town just outside the Ancient Capital, holding it for a few weeks. Just then, the rest of the Imperial Army arrived...
The eternal malice of the sun bothers you from a long and weary sleep. You open your eyes for the first time. The world appears boundless and without form. You open your mouth and let out no vagitus to rend the air. The horizon is empty and full of opportunities. You are but a newborn and yet it is not hard to stand.
<span class="mu-s">INTRO</span> (Please do not skip this)
◕ Fatale Albion is a Spin-Off of Lumina Canima’s “Meguca Royale”, taking place in the U.K. Three players are currently taking part in this game. They each will answer to their own prompts with their own characters. This Quest will have major spoilers for PMMM, so if you haven’t watched it yet and don’t want me to ruin it for you, watch it right now or else. If you still want to read and participate in this quest then I’ll have something to show you.
◕ In the previous thread: Abigail and Stephanie successfully stop a stabbing in school caused by a Familiar by using bravery, connections, and a rifle from the Victorian Era. They commiserate over the escalation that the Witch is causing, more violent and targeted actions will make the building inhospitable. Megan and Oliver decide to escalate in response by bringing guns to school. In a different part of York, a girl named Emily is Contracted, smuggles a body, and enters her paradise with the help of a strange but helpful girl named Marisa. Abigail is now asleep in class, Stephanie is going to cause a localised blackout, and Emily will explain her way of life.
<span class="mu-s">OTHER STUFF</span>
>Can I also join in the suffering?
I’ve decided that I’m accepting new players for now. Just fill in this Contract Form and you’ll be all set.
Name: (The name of your character. Shameless Self-Insert or not) Appearance: (The garish looks of your character. Clothing descriptions are also welcome.) Quirks: (Personality traits, how they behave. Examples of how they act in specific situations are good. This space is vague intentionally, but remember: Simplicity is power and Brevity is the Soul of Wit.) Wish: (The Wish that you made with your Incubator. Your magical ability and theme is influenced heavily by your Wish. Make sure to be careful, some wishes have unforeseen consequences.)
Humanity has spread out into a massive sprawling empire throughout the galaxy. The edges of the sprawl remain poorly guarded and sparsely settled after all humanity throughout a thousand stars has always been alone save for their own creations which once waged war against them. This is no longer true now an unknown force has begun to attack sector 63 and other sectors and it is up to poorly supplied and desperate sailors to hold them back.
You are the Admiral of the naval fleet of sector 63 one of nearly a 100 rimward sectors on the edge of settled human space. The war has finally turned in humanity's favor the once unending horde of bird ships, who you now know are called the Argono have finally ebbed away. Your industry soars and the first of the friendly fleets have begun to probe from Mid Rim sector 63 in your own sector to hopefully soon relieve you.
You're currently on patrol facing off against a small fleet of enemy ships made up of 4 battleships, 2 battlescruisers and 12 Heavy cruisers facing off against your veteran picket line of corvettes, destroyers, and several light cruisers along with your freshly converted semi guided missile cruiser. The enemies' lasers dance around the picket line as the push forward even as your missile cruiser comes to a stop and turns to give the enemy their broadside. There's several large flashes as all 12 of its missiles fire and burn fast toward the enemy capital ships. There is some swearing over comms as the missiles zip past the picket line and your strike craft but the pilots and captains are too busy dodging incoming fire as they loose their own torpedo strikes to give too much complaint.
>be you >be at the edge of the world >your people are finished >the last great city is a sinking husk behind you >the Old King is dead, choked on his own prophecies >the crown is in your pack, heavy with failure >ahead lies only the Black Sands, a sea of ash under a dying sun >the scrolls say nothing lives there >the scrolls were wrong >something is moving in the ash, and it has seen you >the survivors at your back are silent, waiting >choose
"JESUS FUCK." A bit of spit leaves the girl's mouth with the utterance of the expletive. The thin blonde man shoots an annoyed look at his coworker as he leans on his broom, watching her wipe the spit from her chin.
"Hey, management said we couldn't curse. Get that side for me." The brunette gives him an indifferent glance, grabs a dustpan, and starts sweeping in various things: rose petals, scrapped, <span class="mu-s">badly framed photos</span>, a dust of cocaine that had slipped from some celebrity's torn pocket. She scoffs at the discovery of a used condom leaking all over the concrete.
"Just saying. You'd think that at a big event like this, people would be a bit more dignified." She turns to look at the big black block letters that burned boldly on the arena sign.
<span class="mu-s">MILLER V HAWKE</span> <span class="mu-s">FATHER V SON</span> <span class="mu-s">TONIGHT</span>
