Welcome to /qtg/, a place to talk about quests. Previous thread >>6243967
>What is a quest? An interactive story in which a Quest Master (QM) writes and provides the readers with options on how to proceed — similar to a choose-your-own-adventure book or an old text adventure
>Formatting guide: Only the thread's OP can format. Note that should the OP change ID, they will lose this ability as well. Remove the spaces between the [] brackets and the letters: Bold: text Italics: text Red: [ red ] text [ /red ] Blue: [ blue ] text [ /blue ] Green: [ green] text [ /green ]
>Formatting guide for everyone: Dice (type this in “options”): dice + [no. of dice]d[no. of sides on the dice] (optionally you can add modifiers: dice + [no. of dice]d[no. of sides on the dice]+[modifier]; for a negative modifier type: +-[modifier]
Examples: dice+1d100 = a 1d100 roll, dice+1d100+10 = a 1d100 roll with a +10 modifier.
Spoiler: spoiler or by pressing alt+s in-thread (doesn't work in OP)
>QM question What are common traps for Qms? >Player question What vote or decision surprised you? >Lurker question What's your spirit animal? >Miscellaneous question Any run ins with the paranormal?
A world where might makes right. A world of Jade and Gold, of Phoenix and Dragons, of Pills and Talismans, of Martial and Spiritual arts. A world where diligent training yield strength, meaning freedom. A world where loneliness means death, meaning social chains. A world still unfair, as the ones reaching the heavens are most likely born rich - be it political riches of the aristocrats, power of secret knowledges and hidden realms of clans, or lucky enough to be born one-in-a-thousand genius.
This was not the case of Quiet Word - that is, (You). Your current skill level is on par with other genius of your age. But where they were graced with secret techniques and special care, you just had lucky encounters leveraged to the best and a knack for navigating social situations.
You own a trove of techniques and treasures for such a young cultivator - more than you can study efficiently, but your strength lies in the impressive amount of Bonded Spiritual Beasts - A Phoenix spirit, a Horse spirit, a Snake spirit and a Wolf spirit. Speaking of that last one, you didn't told a world about him to anybody. As a scion of the Primordial Wolf spirit, its father warned you of its worth and how people could want to rip it away from you. Especially in such a ruthless and public environment than, say, a townwide cultivator tournament. Previously mentionned worth comes from its ability to Fuse without restriction - fusion being a secret of the higher ranking of your sect, secret you have almost completely rediscovered on your own, and freely shared with your sect-siblings (but not your masters). Alright, the Primordial Wolf might have helped you on that "figuring it out by yourself" point.
Recently, you focused on one of your Growth-realm treasure, the Wandering World-Tree. Cementing your relationship with the gifted graft-specialist, you searched and provide a trove of grafts as well as learning about the elegant art of tea composition; learned a new mythical Meteor-Hammer technique and made great progress in your cultivation, getting ready to break through the current minor realm - despite your falling behind issues. Right now, this is the eve of your fourth year with the Eastern Branch of the Tamers of Hundred Beasts. You chose to take on a rare opportunity : the <span class="mu-s">Stormwood</span> instead of breaking through, or helping chart the potential of a new crop of young lads.
WELCOME BACK, I plan poorly and don't ever note where the quest is on the board. I'll be using the last post of the prior thread as the first post of this thread so people can continue voting if they haven't already. I already have the votes from the prior thread saved and tallied but if you want to re-vote, please feel free as long as you let me know you voted once already.
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"That smell..." You begin. "You didn't bring... please tell me my apartment is demon free."
"Don't be a drama queen, course it is." He laughs as he sits up. "Honestly, a loyal friend brings you an apology gift and you can't even untwist your knickers long enough to say thank you."
"Thank you for what? The smell?" You grumble to yourself as you head for the window. "Question would at least keep it scent-free... God, I actually miss the normal break-ins."
"Come off it." John throws out.
"What'd you expect me to say? 'Oh. Hey. I was hoping to hear how the rest of your night went at Arkham.' something like that?"
"I'm chuffed you asked!" He barks, tossing the gift box to you. "It was actually a real pain in the bollocks, thanks for asking."
"A pain? You had Batman and you're supposed to be this big shot magician right?"
"Unfortunately for me, being hijacked and used as a Tulpa's johnny takes it out of a guy. I had to lug him out of there before it had a chance to affix itself to him again."
"And you didn't use a spell to just... float him or something?" You reply, picking at the tight knot of the ribbon. "You really don't have something like that?"
"First off, don't talk about my magic until you've looked in that box. Secondly, shutting down not one but TWO Tulpa's leaves a bloke a bit drained. So forgive me for not living up to your Magi stereotypes."
"Whatever." You reply. "After you forced me into a corner and got me to agree to a coma, I don't really think much of 'mages' anyway."
You pull the last loop and the knot falls apart, the ribbon hanging loosely around the box, you hear a metallic scrape and glance up to see John holding his zippo, loose cigarette dangling from his mouth. You narrow your eyes and he sneers.
"You opened the window, mate. I assumed..." He trails off as he watches you frown. "Well if you opened gifts faster than my granny maybe I wouldn't need a smoke. Not to mention all the hostility you have for a bloke who saved your life."
<span class="mu-i">3rd of Sun's Dusk, 4E 171.</span>
The sun rises over the Goldmoor, along the southern coast of Hammerfell. Here, the harsh desert that the region is known for gives way to green scrubland, thanks to the humid air of the ocean and the pleasant chill of winter. This is where the River Tark flows into Hew's Bay, and where the city of Taneth stands proud. Thousands call this port home and ply their trades within its walls and as one of its many guards, it is your job to ensure the safety of these people.
You work for the Imperial Guild of Bailiffs, as a sworn officer and enforcer of the Emperor's law. You have been keeping the streets of Taneth safe for over two years and just a month ago, your service was rewarded with a promotion. You are now a sergeant, the leader of your very own patrol, comprised of yourself and two other officers. It's not much, but the responsibility that you have been given is still a sign of trust, and an opportunity for you to prove yourself in the eyes of your superiors. With a little luck, you'll continue to climb the ranks and eventually claim a position of true authority.
It won't be easy. Hammerfell is a vicious and unforgiving place and its people, the Redguards, are not unlike the land that they call home. They are divided into many factions, though most of the region is split between two of them – the Forebears and the Crowns. The Crowns claim to be the descendants of the Na-Totambu, who ruled over the lost Redguard homeland. They remain true to the ways of their ancestors and shun Imperial doctrine. The same cannot be said for the Forebears, who have abandoned the old gods in favour of the Eight Divines of the Empire. This cultural divide has been the cause of great enmity between the two groups for centuries, an animosity that is unlikely to die down anytime soon.
Thanks to its proximity to the Imperial heartland of Cyrodiil, Taneth is considered a Forebear city and most of its population are proud to call themselves citizens of the Empire. However, not everyone that lives within the city's walls has abandoned the old ways. There are a rare few who stay true to the traditions of the Na-Totambu and bury their resentment deep within their hearts, so that they may live among the Forebears.
It all happened very suddenly. One day, the outpost gets news of at least three different coups in the Galactic Federation, then the next day there is only hyperlink silence. Comms were cut off with the Feds and people scrambled in a panic.
Helian Beta, your home, was the only populated planet in this star system, under the authority of Sector Xin’an. It’s a liveable planet, though far warmer and arid than most other liveable planets, many of the people living here would barely consider that the moniker “liveable” is at all deserved.
Still, humans can breathe here, so they can also work here. Mining outposts were established all around the planet’s largest continent, Continent Alpha, which was itself surrounded by various subcontinents and islands, the whole set of land was then surrounded by the Helian Beta Ocean, which covered the rest of the planet.
Life was good enough in your little outpost, Gaspost V, the dreariest part was living in the planet itself. Mining work was mostly done through advanced machines, but the workers had to supervise them, so miners still felt like miners, they got just as dirty as the equipment did after all. The outpost was in charge of digging into a source of gas that could be used as fuel, heating and electric appliances after refinement.
You are the Syndical Leader of Redstone V, in charge of ensuring the rights of the miners. Your name is Alexander Redstone.
It’s only been a few days since the comms cut. Everyone expected them to return after a bit, but they didn’t. Much as you prod the hyperlink station and checked frequencies, you still got nothing. You puff from your cigarette and let out the smoke with an irritated puff.
It’s really that bad, isn’t it? You’d been syndical leader for five years, you just got the hang of the job a few months ago. Everything was going well, you’d get comfy, finally take the time to find a partner, get some kids going, enjoy life as best you can.
Now this. You take a big puff and finish off that cig, then smash it into the ash tray by the hyperlink station.
“Alex, it’s about time we did something.” You hear the voice of your assistant, miss Ivy Fielder, as she enters the room with her usual pristine uniform. A young lady with a diligent mindset and an ambitious streak. She’s your second-in-command, but she’d probably climb much higher in the ladder than you. Still, it seems her ambitions were dashed now.
“It is.” You reply, then let out a long sigh. You look out the window from your Gaspost V Administrative Building office. The outpost is quiet, most of the townsfolk have gone off to work the mines one more day, their kids in school. The buildings rise out of windswept drylands, as does the outpost’s outer wall, built to keep wild critters out and wild children in.
You watch as whirlwinds of sand and dust rise from the pavement below. Could it really happen this fast? To lose contact with the entire federation in just a few days? Is there even a federation anymore?
The sharp, reinforced scalpel plunged into the Rangdan’s chest. Pangea grip’s tightened, then pulled the blade down and into a Y shape. The tough skin needed a steady pull from the mechanical arms, once open, Pangea and Amar examined each organ. Pangea nudged, pulled, and eventually cut out the organ after studying them, following Amar’s instruction more than doing the examination on her own.
“So, how are you feeling, daughter?”
Pangea looked across from the Rangdan corpse. “I’m fine… Why do you ask?”
A sickening plop popped as a tweezer pulled a circular organ. “To see if you’re feeling well. Are you?”
She glared. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I—”
The table rattled as Pangea slammed her fists on the autopsy table. “I said I’m fine! It’s not like I’m mad that Father chose to rob me of my legion, my retinue, and the glory of hunting down the Rangdan, the xeno race I found first!”
“I see.” Amar said. “Pangea, the Great Crusade does not reward missions to those who found an enemy first, only those who are fit.”
“And I’m not fit enough?”
“I did not say that.”
Amar set her scalpel down and powered down the mechanical arms.]
“That’ll be all for today, get some rest.”
After the autopsy, Pangea…
>Visited Kharn and Greer in the medicae facility >Visited Vulkan >Write-in
<span class="mu-i">“Extensive.”</span> You state a moment of thought later. <span class="mu-i">“Forge-Master Kelbanx is to be assigned to zone…”</span> You start to rattle off a series of orders, only to catch yourself. The <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">Surewrought</span></span>. The voidship seems odd, the damage being as extensive as it is, requires further investigation and research. Presuming xenos activity, it could very well be damaged by esoteric and so far, unknown weapons, or something even worse, perhaps worse than what the first Fabricator-general had encountered. This requires an expendable asset in the worst case, and one that could be controlled in the best case. <span class="mu-i">”No. Assign Forge-Master Kelbanx to investigate <span class="mu-s">Surewrought</span>.”</span>
<span class="mu-i">”As you command, Fabricator-General.”</span> The Voxmaster swiftly responds.
<span class="mu-i">”Forge-Master Belogophor is to re-establish contact with the planetary garrison within Special Military Exclusion Zone Alpha Alpha 1. Forge-Master Alsmer will secure the planetary capital of Nova Anveradon. Forge-Master Krahr is to disperse amongst farmlands and floodlands to investigate if production cycles have been impacted. Afterwards, they have full autonomy to pursue their objectives as they see fit.”</span>
Having finished giving out your orders, you stand in silence, your bionic legs not feeling any discomfort from the task. Before you, the thick coverage of world-wide fertilizer and the ever-present bloom of green encompasses the world as the remaining voidships of your fleet begin to spread and prepare to either enter geosynchronous orbit or to take up defensive positions around said ships. Soon enough, the void will be ablaze with landing craft as thousands will be ferried to their destinations. You cannot help but wonder, how many of them shall perish…how many of them shall join the silent crowd in their judgement of your decisions.
Finally, your mind does shift back to Deimea, and to Odysseus. With the fleet gone, your paranoia of a potential Orkish invasion of your home is flaring up, but you dismiss these thoughts as irrelevant to your current situation.
You are Charlotte Fawkins, Herald and heroine. With the power of your positive spirit, you have overcome deceit, defeat, and divine possession, and now you are going to save the world. First, though, you need to get your stolen Crown back— no matter what obstacles lie in your way. Or boring meetings.
"You're late, Ms. Fawkins."
Lucky is as glad to see you as always. "<span class="mu-i">Am</span> I? Or are you just being—"
"Don't sweat it. We weren't that far in." Eloise pats the chair next to her. "Lucky likes repeating himself, anyway, so it's like you won't have missed a thing. Actually—" Here she stage-whispers. "—we already knew a lot of it, so—"
"Mr. Blaine is offering his own insight," Monty says patiently. "It's nice to see you, Charlotte. Sit down, will you?"
You were planning on it— have been trying to, actually, but the chairs in the Wind Court meeting room are uncomfortable-looking and, more crucially, don't have holes in the back. You settle on sitting at an angle, so to not crush your tail. "Where's Madrigal? I thought she'd be—"
"She had other business to attend to. I'll fill her in afterward. Mr. Blaine, could you start over?"
"It appears I must. Unless we have other visitors I should know about?" (Monty shakes his head.) "Very well. From the beginning. At an unknown point early this morning— most likely between 2 and 4 AM— a barrier sprung up around, roughly speaking, the entirety of the Corcass. This barrier is circular or ovoid, pitch black, several hundred feet high, and unnatural in origin. It is impenetrable to casual testing. The perpetrator of is barrier is no mystery, because identical barriers have been sighted progressively eastward for approximately a month and a half. They are the work of—"
"Jean Ramsey!" you say.
Lucky looks down his nose at you, then shuffles his notes. "It's impossible to know how you might've guessed that, Ms. Fawkins. Yes. Ms. Ramsey, or, in the popular imagination, the 'Hero-Queen,' generates these barriers for the purposes of 'The Game.' This is what she has dubbed the flagrant waste of—"
"We're on the same page about this, Lucky." Eloise has leaned back in her chair. "Specifics."
