Grand Zen-Oh, the omni king and ruler of the omniverse has declared there will be a massive tournament to be held in his honor. A grand affair between several universes, each battling it out for the very right to exist. And at the forefront of this grand spectacle will be the Saiyans of Universe 7, who Grand Zen-Oh has grown fond of watching battle. Twenty eight years ago, the Saiyan race were annexed into the PTO as just another race, one of many sent to conquer other worlds. Now, the Saiyans are widely regarded as the strongest warrior race in the entire Seventh Universe, defenders of the PTO led by their strongest, the “Dragon of New Salda” General Karn and his family.
You the players will (most often) control Karn. A man who has grown from his lowly beginnings as a Saiyan Brawler with a sub-3000 powerlevel in Age 733 to become not only the strongest Saiyan of his time at AGE 759, but also personal friend to the former emperor Lord Freeza, father to well over a dozen powerful and unique children, a mentor and teacher to his fellow Saiyans, and the best hope for his universe's continued survival. No one warrior can hope to battle eight other universes' strongest fighters alone and hope to prevail, one man's power and skill won't be enough to overcome the looming threat of extermination. But this coming battle will be the ultimate test of how you've lived your life until now, the choices you made not only for yourself, but for the fate of your entire universe.
Quest rules are as follows(unless otherwise noted): >30 minute vote times >Pick ONLY ONE option when voting >Dice rolls are all best of three correctly-rolled dice >At ten minutes past your previous roll, and there are not yet enough rolls, you may roll an additional roll >Crits are 100 on a d100 >99s or paired rolls may net you extra bonuses >Crit fails are a 1/100 with no passing rolls, or if two 1s are rolled regardless of the third >Write-ins are both allowed and encouraged, but OOC options will be ignored >If your goal is simply to troll, at least put in enough effort to make it funny >Have fun
SCQ will usually start on Saturdays at noon Eastern Standard Time, and run throughout the weekend. Also, for updates or schedule changes you can also find me on twitter @GrandDragonQM, which I keep as up to date with any scheduling changes.
Something shook the blackened acid-metal surfaces of the cylindrical capsule - the piercing tip breached its way into the fleshy and distinct cavity. Inside of the transverse was a number of crystal tubes, pressurized with yellowy chemical sleep - helpless figures inside. Each was clad in a tight elastomer suit, covering the mid thigh to the shoulder and lower jaw, with a circular cutout from below the ribs to the upper pelvis. The suits dug into the skin, the flesh beneath bloated with chemical sleep - several, in fact, had grotesquely filled the tube in entirety; gurgling and moaning as they suffocated, pressed against the crystal. A few did survive - recent memories crudely wiped, and re-implanted with the nature of their mission: > Primary goal: Destroy the Furnace Record > Secondary goals: Kill Pontainlou, kill Germfather Gustav, destroy the Gas Injection Depot. Any agents that survive to complete the primary goal, will be psychically broadcasted directions on how to be safely extracted. Completion of secondary goals will reward additional pardons and indulgences.
Surviving agents: > Fusil - Grapevine Cult Psychic Description: A grotesque mystic of the apocalyptic Grapevine cult. Believes in the great coincidence and upholds the cult doctrine. Skin is pale grey like all clones, lips are drawn back from drinking tumor wine. His forehead is engorged from his overdeveloped brain. Skills: Knows basic psychic abilities.
> Marmora - Insect Ranch Midwife Description: Buxom farmhand from an insect ranch, where creatures are grown for repurposable biomass. Skin is pale grey like all clones, her hair is wiry and curly. Body is muscular and disproportionate from rearing mammoth grubs. Skills: Immense strength.
> Vittori - Data Clan Spy Description: Petite and unassuming, but more fragile than most clones. Skin is pale grey, hair is short. An additional eye grows in the middle of her forehead, and one arm is lost to degradation. External stomach sac implant hangs off the hip, implanted by their Data Czar. Skills: Espionage and infiltration.
> Linter - Neo-Chauvinist Description: Neo-Chauvinist from the Orangutan Cities, skin dyed olive to emulate womb-made humans. Hair is short and face is covered with stubble. Build is slight but muscular. Fingers are surgically elongated. Skills: Deduction and rhetoric.
> Which agent are you? As you awaken, the failing release valves on the remaining chemsleep tubes give way. The three other surviving passengers aboard the transverse begin to thrash in agony and pound on the inside of the crystal tube. > Which additional agent do you move to rescue?
A hundred years ago, during a GREAT WAR, Maou, THE MONSTER KING, has been defeated and sealed away by human HEROES. For a hundred years, he was biding his time, and recovering his strengh.
During that time, MONSTERS didn't dissapear from the world, but with MONSTER KING sealed, a person would need to be exceptionaly evil to transform. Places with evil aura can also spawn monsters on it's own! But not often. And with monster population low, the HEROES could always beat them back.
But now THE MONSTER KING stirs in his prison. He releases his power into the world in a terryfying roar! Humans who's heart is black on the inside, the ones harboring EVIL within them, cannot withstand the call of their inner monster, and by the power of MONSTER KING'S ROAR they transform!
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>
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.
