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 relocate to Earl's place, lest Lucky track you down and arrest you.
Rallying Earl and Gil is easy. Rallying a sleepy, cranky Claudia is harder: on your first attempt, she flips over and shoves her face into the settee, and you have to get Gil to coax her out. Why does she listen to Gil and not you? "She knows me," Gil mumbles, and it might help that he didn't violently absorb her. Even though he might've, if he were God and not you. It's harder than it sounds.
Earl pats you on the shoulder and says he'll wake up Branwen, who emerges, hair frizzled, and grunts when you say you have to go. "Suit yerself."
Gil clears his throat. "Er, i-it was really nice of you to let us stay here, and, uh—"
"Yeah, yeah. Jes' doing the sound thing to do. Won't tell them Courters shit, given I can help it. Fawkins."
"Huh?" She's looking straight at you.
"Don't git killed out there."
"Oh! I won't! Don't worry!" Not before you're God, anyhow. It just wouldn't work. "...Um, thanks, too. I meant to say that before he did. Thanks."
"Mm-hm. Git moving." She jerks her head toward the door. "Seeya around, Toothless."
"Hey, thanks! Seeya, Morris!"
Earl herds you, Claudia, and Gil out into the early morning darkness. Feeling sluggish, you exit last. It would be easy to blame on the odd hour, your lack of sleep, but as Earl counsels the three of you on nighttime safety measures (eyes <span class="mu-i">forward!</span> stay <span class="mu-i">together!</span> mind on the <span class="mu-i">destination!</span>), the feeling doesn't lift. When you get moving, it gets worse. Something about you is slow. Something about you is <span class="mu-i">heavy.</span>
«Your mass has increased.»
What? No it hasn't. (You prod surreptitiously around your waist.) Yeah! You're not any bigger. Did you bite your lip in your sleep? Maybe you're half-paralyzed? Could Richard please purge your blood of any—
«I said nothing about size. Your physical size is the same.»
'For now,' he'll say ominously. You're onto him.
«Yes. For now.» «But right now, you take up the same amount of space you always have. It's just that there's... more of you in it. You are experiencing difficulty moving that increased mass, which is only natural. You are now more strongly rooted to the ground.»
Where the Wyrm is.
«Yes.» «I take it that last night was a success.»
Yes. Something like that. Could he...?
«Anything for you, Charlie.»
>[-2 ID: 13/15]
You shiver as Richard's whatever-it-is crackles up your spine— does he use special equipment for this too? It really isn't magyck? He sits at his snake desk and pushes a snake button and some machine is able to...
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 for that is what this truly is now apparently has seen you as the last of the remaining Rimward commands in the area. The loss of the other commands has seen a significant number of refugees swarm your bastion in the form of the sector command of Cartha, the increased strain on the industrial world's food supply has seen you plan and launch a large scale raid on the recently lost world of New Garcia.
The raid has gone fantastic so far and as the last of the food is being stuffed into the few remaining empty places aboard one of the light cruisers, an enemy counterattack makes itself known. The corvettes left on a picket around one of the jump points just make it clear as an enemy battleship exits the swirling green vortex and then another and another. This continues on for several minutes as a total of 10 enemy battleships, 3 battlecruisers, 22 heavy cruisers,8 light cruisers and to your surprise 8 seemingly rare bird corvettes.
The enemy has yet to shake out into a proper formation but should do so very quickly, you have at your disposal. The Essex, 2 light cruisers, 7 destroyers and 9 corvettes 5 old 6 modern, a much smaller force than the enemies and you will need to hold on long enough for the army division to remount their transports and then fight your way to the jump point
>Be defensive around the planet >take the fight to the enemy
sorry about no new thread link in the last one I literally bumped it off myself
There once was a king, a king from a small but prosperous island.
The people were happy, the fields grew with abundance. The ports were bustling as the palace gleam with riches accumulated over generations. But the king was not satisfied.
He wish for more, with ambition and envy he eyed the islands around hem.
One day he found a crown, from whom or were been lost, but the crown allowed hem to control any monster he wish. To instantly tame any monster he lay he’s eyes on.
One after another, islands fell, entire cities massacred due to the resistance they put up, those who surrendered seeing an entire generation turn spades into spears. A entire generation of mothers, fathers, sons and daughters marched to war to satisfy the ambitions of a single man.
One kingdom fell after another, until the entire Shining Archipelago was under the kings thumb. But such was not enough for the king, he crave the world. A fleet of ships was constructed to move he’s entire army to the nearby contents. Fortresses was built to increase the numbers of he’s monsters. Mages, Wizards, and Alchemists were hired, kidnapped, and blackmailed to make the beasts more deadly, more numerous.
Eventually group of heroes rose up to challenge the Mad King. They go from island to island, disrupting the planned invasion, slaying monsters, and setting fire to the fortress hatcheries. At the final battle one by one they fell until on he’s last blow, the last hero slay the King.
The King was dead, but not all was won. The monsters the King once controlled were no longer subservient. Without warning, without direction, the King’s army was slaughtered by their own war beasts. The remaining fortress hatcheries spilled monsters onto the lands as the sea monsters for the invasion sunk most of the fleet.
One by one the islands fell once more. Creatures prowled and hunted those who fled, on land and by air those who stayed were devoured. Entire families starved, trapped in their own homes as day and night became too dangerous to tired. (1/2)
i need some1 who is able to find a lot of informations about one person. if you are skilled enough, then we can have a talk, but you gotta prove me that you are a good investigator.
if you are good and interested, comment or reach me via email : plut0.is.a.planet@proton.me
The year was 2091 when you left. The technology was brand-spanking-new, and the corporations that owned it became the richest in all of human history by exploiting the fact that nobody on Earth was happy, getting the people who inhabit the serene valleys of the Bell Curve to sell off all of their worldly possessions and, prince or pauper, cram themselves into a sketchy freezerbox and be fired off at a distant sun, never to be seen again. (God willing.) This didn't just lead to dozens of official, government-sponsored colony missions with actual objectives and trained specialists of course, suddenly, any minority or fringe group whose (paying) membership could fill a sportsball stadium could crowdfund themselves their own 1,500-pod Colony Ship, made in bulk beyond the atmosphere in some vast staryard packed with increasingly-spindly Indians. Representatives of every single ethnic group on Earth were to be found suddenly trekking across the Milky Way alongside ideological separatists, whether conservatives, liberals, religious pilgrim societies, monarchists, basically every Mormon, far-removed simps of some ancient civilization, vegans, every form of communist, and every form of fascist as well. <span class="mu-s">And you.</span> <span class="mu-r">And you quickly regretted it.</span>
Greetings, this is the "my first quest" disclaimer. Also I'll be using AI for some accompanying images, but not for the narrative content itself.
The snow continues to fall, but less and less as the weeks go by. The icy waters of the Great Lake slowly thaws as spring's getting closer. It's still ways away and your tribe's running out of food though. In the snowy tundra a small group of hunters slowly moves tracking a herd of raindeer. The strong wind bites at your face as you grip your stone tipped spear, trying to ignore your sweaty palms. You have to bring meat to the tribe or die together.
What's your age, gender and name?
Who are your people?
>Long-men Long Men are Homo sapiens sapiens, meaning they belong to our human species, in a slightly more archaic version that is usually referred to as Cro Magnon. They are from the Aurignacian culture and their craftsmanship is refined. Their stone, bone, and skin craft shows a great level of precision. They live in semi-nomadic settlements, in large, elaborate and comfortable huts that protect them from the harsh conditions of the ice age.These humans are robust and tall: 1m80 (men) and 1m65 (women). Most of the men and women of this people have come to live in the Tribe lands from the far lands of the rising sun, beyond the Icy Mountains, which is why their complexion usually goes from tanned to dark, their hair is black, and their eyes brown, black, or dark blue. These humans usually live in clans of 20 to 40 individuals.
Key Strengths of the Long Men: Choose either Hand of the Ancestors or Speed of the Horse.
>Bear-men Bear Men are Homo sapiens neandertalensis, also called Neanderthal Men. The Long Men of the ice age world sometimes call them Trolls. These humans are very robust. Their bones are thick and they possess a great physical strength due to muscle joints that sometimes differ from ours. They are small, the average male size being roughly 1m65, the average female 1m55. They have unusual facial features: powerful jaws with no chin, a long and wide nose, and a supraorbital torus forming an impressive brow ridge above the eyes. Built to whistand the cold climate of the Tribe Lands, these men and women have an exceptional resistance to the harsh conditions.
Key Strengths of the Bear-men: Choose either Strength of the Bear or Heart of Ice.
Lastly choose two additional Strenght's: > Hand of the Ancestors > Majesty of the Aurochs > Secret of the Bear > Strength of the Bear > Knowledge of the Beaver > Might of the Bison > Song of the Blackbird > Flight of the Crow > Rise of the Eagle > Breath of the Giant Stag > Speed of the Horse > Agility of the Ibex > Heart of Ice > Fury of the Lion > Reflexes of the Lynx > Softness of the Otter > Sight of the Owl > Wisdom of the Mammoth > Eye of the Panther > Magic of the Rhinoceros > Inspiration of the Rocks > Flame of the Salamander > Fins of the Salmon > Grace of the Swan > Venom of the Viper > Protection of the Vixen > Cunning of the Weasel > Nose of the Wolf
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">You find yourself sailing upon a sea of molten red; an odor strong and metallic that burns your nose and lungs, a brightness that blinds the eye and hurts the mind. It sears brands upon your face and chains upon your body; a steel-gray shell, an iron ship, is all that stands between you and the burning lake. You have not come here by choice, but there is also no way back; you must continue forth, and see the river clear, yet the journey is so long, and the path there so unclear.</span></span>
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">Worst of all, you do not pass here alone.</span></span>
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">These mighty colossi, formless and bare, they wade through the fires, they march there upon you, like moving mountains of brick and stone. Their faces, if they be faces, remain hidden from your gaze; their eyes, if they be eyes, remain far beyond your sight. They hold hammers upon their arms, and raise them. They seek to sink you? Has death grasped your soul at last? You feel an impact that shakes the teeth, so hard your vision blurs. Their hammers had fallen upon your ship, side by side in perfect symmetry. Your sight dims again, and you feel another shake. Their soundless blows rain upon your vessel, deforming it, caving it ever more so; what had brought you to these fates? Yet they hammering holds no malice. Their touch, though rough, bears no malice; their hands, though heavy, seek to destroy not, but to shape it to greater heights, like a smith upon his forge.. They wish to forge it, then? To mold your raft into a vessel, a galleon standing proud? You know not, care not, think not of such grand designs! You know only of your fate, your current fate, your roiling fate. You grasp your arms around the mast, hoping you will not be thrown off and burnt into an withered ember! For now, you must hold, hold to your life, hold on tightly!</span></span>
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">You hold on tightly.</span></span>
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">You hold on tightly..</span></span>
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">You hold on tightly...</span></span>
<span class="mu-s">Nocturne for the Damned</span> <span class="mu-s">ACT I – The Unseen Ledger, page 1</span>
The lamps along the street sputtered under the thickening fog, their flames dimmed to sullen embers. Windows along the boulevard glittered with light and laughter, but behind every curtained veil, a ledger was kept — invisible, meticulous, merciless.
<span class="mu-i">"Every pleasure tallied. Every deviation remembered."</span>
The mist creeps low around your boots as you walk with your collar turned high, the taste of wet stone sharp on your tongue. The gaslights sputter and hiss above, their glow struggling against the gloom, gilding the marble columns and ironwork balconies in a sickly, shifting halo.
Somewhere nearby, a musician saws a mournful tune from a battered violin. The notes drift through the fog, warping into something cracked and broken before reaching your ears. Perfume and coal smoke tangle in the air, masking the more honest scents of rot, iron, and old blood.
Carriages roll past in steady procession, wheels throwing up muddy fans of water onto the cracked stone. The passengers inside wear painted smiles and jewel-toned silks, but their eyes — when they dare to glance at you — are hollow, distant, hungry.
One carriage slows as it passes. Behind its glass, a pale figure presses her hand to the window, her fingers delicate and gloved, her expression hidden by a lacquered mask. A child's mask, you realize — frozen in a rictus grin. <span class="mu-i">"Is it warning... or farewell?"</span>
You tighten your grip on your coat and keep walking.
Above, the rooftops groan as something moves through the mist, too swift and sure to be the wind. The corner of your eye catches a glint — polished glass, perhaps a monocle — and the flutter of a long coat as a figure slips from one eave to another. Watching. Always watching.
The bells of Marrowgate sound the hour, a long, wheezing groan that shudders through the stones beneath your feet. A reminder: Curfew is near. Eyes are everywhere.
<span class="mu-i">"You are weighed,"</span> the signs say, gilt letters flowing like blood in the lamplight. <span class="mu-i">"You are watched. You are wanted."</span>
It has been almost a week since the CCCP was dissolved by the General Secretary, with a large majority of the various ethnic republics formed in the aftermath of the Great Patriotic War by imported populations having gained their independence. Their journeys to statehood have been long awaited by their peoples. However, in the general confusion and chaos which followed the collapse of one of the world's superpowers, one region within the malaise was forgotten. Unclaimed by almost every other group, at least by virtue of no real historical claim to what had been Russian land for centuries.
Oskovia.
Having been established for the Oskov peoples, themselves descendants of Slavic tribes which had inhabited the Urals before the very concept of Russia existed or the Mongols rode their armies from the east, the Oskovia CCP had been a prosperous but small republic in comparison to their immediate and surrounding neighbors. For as long as the CCCP had existed, there were no issues with any in the region. Now, this has changed.
For the first few days, the regional government was silent on the matter of the entire west of the country splintering into ethnic republics. The Belarusians, Ukrainians, Kravo, Gorodniks, Cossaks in the south and a number of others all broke off from the Union; leaving Oskovia completely alone and independent as a result of broad language, and as many would come to find out, the very local party deciding to pick up and leave back for Moskva.
What local apparatchiks remained scrambled to figure something out, and that's where you come in. You, whoever you may have been in your previous life, doesn't matter. You have been selected to form the Central Committee of the Emergency Crisis Council, the de facto governing body of what is being called the Republic of Oksovia. Never mind that no elections have been held, and that no one within the nation asked for it to be created.
