Anonymous ## Mod
Welcome to /quest/ - Quests 04/27/16(Wed)18:37:33 No.2

Welcome to /quest/ - Quests Anonymous ## Mod 04/27/16(Wed)18:37:33 No.2   [Reply]

This board is for author-driven collaborative storytelling (i.e., "Quests"). In a quest there is a single author who controls the plot of the story and who drives the creative process. They can choose to take suggestions from other posters, or not, at their sole discretion. Quests can be text-based, image-based, or a combination of the two. Drawfaggotry is strongly encouraged!

To facilitate the author-driven nature of quests, /qst/ differs significantly from other boards in that the OP of a thread is considered the quest's author, and has some basic text formatting abilities: [b], [i], and color tags [red], [green], and [blue]. Therefore, only those people willing to put in the effort to be a quest author should post threads. If you do not intend to run a collaborative story, do not post a thread here! This includes meta-threads.

Dice rolling follows /tg/'s format (e.g., "dice+2d6" without the quotes in the options field rolls 2d6).

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Welcome to /qtg/, a place to talk about quests.
Previous thread
>>6150243

>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

Questionably Useful links:
>QTG discord: https://discord.gg/dZavHuK
>Skirmish discord: https://discord.com/invite/DZCVvVU
>Evo Game discord: https://discord.gg/v55Xaaja
>Old pastebin containing advice for QMs:
https://pastebin.com/Z78p8gXf
Badly in need of renovation.


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Inhale. Exhale.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It's smudged, spattered with god knows what but you still recognize yourself despite all the blood.

Kyle Mercer. 25 years on your way to Hell. Naked, splattered with someone else's blood. Again.

You're trembling, a mixture of nerves and adrenaline. Why? You're sure you're going to find out whether you want to or not. You had been planning on making changes in your life and maybe others. That's why you were going home, right?

You stare into your own pale eyes and see…well, not much. Vitreous orbs, your fleshy windows to the world. You look down at your chest and see your tattoo, directly over your heart. You got it years ago and it meant the world to you but you can't remember when or why.

It was an Ouroboros, black on pale flesh but now streaked with red. You wet your hand in the sink and wash the blood away delicately. The cold water makes you break out in goosebumps. You see the blood on your body is dried. How long have you been standing here? Whose blood do you have on you this time?

You shake your head trying to clear it. "Fuck!" You didn't bother wondering why you couldn't remember anything. It was a consequence of what happened to you when you were younger. The same reason your arms were dotted with circular scars from cigarette burns and small, hard crosses carved into you years ago. It was the same reason the skin across the left side of your face, running down your neck to your shoulder and peck, was shiny and taut. A cruel burn that left those parts of you without feeling. Your long hair only partially conceals the scar tissue.

"You can't desecrate the temple," she'd said. "Only decorate it."

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You are still William. Currently framing several mages as arsonists for breaking school property to get the school hall monitors to come and beat their shit in.

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Last time, you tied up the final ribbon to the Prison Break mission, reunited people, talked to friends and allies, and left on a high note to rest at home with your bestie by your side. From that, one thing led to another and you find yourself with your friend visiting your favorite neighbor to relax with. As you were helping them get to know each other, an interesting undisclosed topic was brought up that changed the shape of the conversation. One, you weren’t aware hadn’t been discussed yet!

You mentioned that Ajna will be a vibrant trumpeter!

“Crossbill, you know this amazing girl over here is going to become an idol?” You place your hands on Ajna’s shoulders. “She’s part of the agency I’m building and all!”

“…!!!” Ajna looks surprised to be thrown into the spotlight.

“That sounds swell!” Crossbill is more optimistic than you give her credit for. “Why the hell do you have an idol agency…?”

“Woah, Ajna is going to do WHAT?!” Craig is flabbergasted.

“Play the trumpet.” You pantomime it.

“Ooh! I can tell. I bet she’s good.” Crossbill points at the trumpet decoration on Ajna’s blanket.

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Sing, goddess, of thirsty Argos, and of the glory of Hippomedon Aristomachides - sing of the folly of Adrastus, of the savagery of Tydeus and of Oedipal transgressions! Sing, O Muse, of Zeus’ designs, which even now come to fulfillment…

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The deck is silent, despite all the ranking officers—your fellow battle brothers—circled around the holo projector. It depicts the planet that the void ship, Gigante, is closing in on. You can see the speck of it outside the observation deck, above the heads of the serfs navigating the ship. The planet in question was named Serena, a pleasure world, out here on the Periphery. On the wrong side of the Great Rift, on the wrong side of the Eye of Terror.

“We will conduct the Red Tithe here,” the Reaper Prime, captain of the entire company, spoke through an open air vox caster. There was simply no other way for him to communicate, for he was a dreadnought. A massive hulk of armor, a white center flanked by obsidian arms, covered in exile markings, plumes of predators’ teeth around the visor. Armed with melta, bolters and chain-bladed claws, Reaper Nikora has served the Fourth Company of the Carcharodons Astra for centuries. Still of sound mind, his body was torn to shreds by drukhari decades ago.

The Red Tithe meant taking their due. Even on a pleasure planet, there were candidates for new Astartes, new chapter serfs. You recall a tropical world you once called home. A peaceful life among islands, surrounded by blue seas and sky. ‘Even from frail material such as you can come our future,’ the apothecary Whetu had said to you before implanting the gene-seed into your body.

“We couldn’t have chosen a better time,” Nikora said again, his robotic hand making a small gesture. The serf at the holo projector zoomed in on the image. The human population was mustering a defense. It felt strange to think of them as such. They were not men of the Imperium. This subsector had seceded and became the Severan Dominate. Rebels against the Void Father. This Tithe was more targeted than ones in the past, you knew it.

You truly were a shark circling around prey in desperate straits. The projector showed the xenos invaders…

>Vote for one
>Orks
>Tau
>Drukhari
>Aeldari

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You’re ANTON PEAS: a Grill Jockey at GREASE MONKEY: THE DEEP-FRIED EVERYTHING FAMILY RESTAURANT! Well, you were, anyways. Thanks to a demonic ritual gone wrong, you were whisked away to ZORAL: a fantasy realm shrouded in perpetual darkness–the surprise trip leaving you with a plate full of troubles and a head full of holes!

You’ve only got one lead for making it back home, and it’s a pricey one: for 20,000 BELLS, VOLKIR: potionseller, retired wizard, and adoptive father of your new pal VOLKA will help you out, but as they say in your home dimension, ‘pimpin’ ain’t easy’!

Ruthless Gangsters! Ferocious Monsters! A City Spiraling into Anarchy! Toxic Brothels! These are just a few pitfalls you dodged so far in your quest for ‘Fat Stackz’, but all of them are dwarfed by your most pressing concern: the revelation that your recently-acquired MAGICAL POWERS were indeed provided by a DEVIL!

His terms are clear as crystal: once you’re dead, you belong to RED... but surely someone in town can help you out, right? That line of thinking brought you and your chums VOLKA: LAMPLIGHTERS GRAND MARSHALL and TZAH-TZIE: RENOWNED BARD, APPARENTLY, to the doorstep of OTI: THE MAGE AND UNTIL RECENTLY A TRAFFICKER! You wouldn’t exactly call him a friend, but your list of people who know a thing or two about demons is woefully small… and you get the feeling you’ve got a long night ahead of you!

Guided by the brisk evening wind towards a creaky old fireworks shop, THIS is where your tale continues…

https://youtu.be/1lR8VLt1Xlk

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The Steelwood.

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 Dwerrow, 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 Monstrous Regiment, a newly-founded enterprise helmed by Zena Youngtree and her companion, Cara—really, a pair of strange soul-sisters named Zith-Zi[/ed] and Cara-Zi, 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 ziran 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 ‘Ettercap’.

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Your grandfather was a king, your mother a queen. But no one expects much from you. Your grandfather, the Mad King, with his even madder queen, brought his kingdom to such an intolerable state that his own peasants stormed his castle (with the aid of some enterprising foreign barons) and set his head on a pike. With his queen they did you know not what. No one speaks of it. The historians and archivists did not deem it fit to record that particular atrocity in their scrolls, though they gleefully recorded the despoiling of the Mad King's heir, your mother, by the leader of the rebellion, Walter Stonecutter, a peasant, a soldier, a king by marriage, and your father.

Your mother was slain two nights ago by the errant arrow (or perhaps not so errant) of a coalition of rebellious barons. They who once trembled beneath the gaze of your demented grandfather (your bloodthirsty, short-tempered grandmother they avoided altogether) besieged your castle, broke it, and fearing the reprisal of foreign kings and civil war, did not go any further.

And so, as the eldest son of five siblings, at the ripe old age of 14, with your parents slain by the same men who lie at your feet, swearing eternal fealty, you have inherited the throne.

Already, they refer to your mother with the sobriquet of the Unfortunate. Only time will tell what they will call you.

As for your character:
>You have very high standards, expecting perfection from yourself as much as you do from others
>You seem to inherited your grandmother's looks, particularly her ice-blue eyes. You've been given a wide berth for this, leading to a lonely life
>You were the king in your own mind even before you were crowned. You will not let what happened to your parents and grandparents happen to you. And that will require a firm hand.

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About half a year ago, the world changed forever.

Individuals worldwide began manifesting the qualities of various figures- gods, spirits, heroes, beasts, and monsters- from Greek mythos. The system that caused and continues to facilitate this phenomenon is shrouded in mystery, both in how it functions and why it began its activities when it did.

The protagonist of this tale is the incarnation of Atë, a minor goddess in the grand scheme of Greek mythology, who causes and presides over folly and ruin. She, formerly a miserable but ultimately normal office worker, has since accepted her role as the embodiment of her . She, along with her partner in crime, the incarnation of Pheme, titan of rumors and gossip, have been working to expand their influence and stack the deck in their favor against not only mortals, but also rival incarnations. In her own eyes, she is no longer human. Her ultimate goal- the elimination of all rival incarnations and, eventually, ascension to true godhood.

After a catastrophic failure in a confrontation with the outerversal horror known only by its title of the Uncrowned King, Atë found herself thrown out of her very plane of existence. Completely deprived of the System’s protections and powers, unable to restore her slowly depleting divinity, and trapped in a reality where everything, from the divinity to the air to the fabric of spacetime itself, is poison to her. With only death awaiting her in this foreign dimension, she must find some way to escape before her very existence is eroded into nothing.

Her only remaining hope are the records of the so-called Devil, a legendary sorcerer who supposedly attained something like godhood. Unfortunately, the only known archive of these forbidden texts is the Royal Vault of Malgha, one of the nations in this foreign plane and a fantastical parody of earth and its cultures. Fortunately, the human-esque nature of the residents allows Atë to return to her old tricks, lying and manipulating her way home.

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You are Charlotte Fawkins.

Presently, you're in your own home, though it's more broken-down than you remember it. Though you expect you've gone to hell for the inexplicable, unforgivable crime of murdering your own father, you have so far evaded the endless suffering you deserve. Instead, you've promised to help your imaginary younger self locate some keys, so she can follow said father through secret tunnels under your house. You have a bad feeling about all of this.

Lottie isn't ten steps into the neighboring room before she stops in her tracks, spinning on her heel to face you. "Wait!"

You haven't even reached the doorway. "What?"

"You need a weapon! What if the footsteps are a burglar? What if Daddy..." She doesn't finish. "You're tall enough, right?"

"To—"

"To reach?"

You sigh, duck under the cobwebby doorway, and enter the room. Yes, you know what she means: the neighboring room has a fireplace, and a mantel, and a sword hanging tantalizingly above it. You can reach it now, if you apply your tiptoes, but not then. (And if Aunt Ruby ever caught you moving the furniture, let alone handling something so dangerous, you'd be without breakfast for weeks.)

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Since it doesn't look like that there will be another LBCF post for me to participate in, I've collected the questions from last week's anchor post, and answers thereto, into https://www.emlia.org/pmwiki/pub/web/LeftBeyond.FAQ.html

I'm not very functional, and I am pretty sure that I missed some of the questions in the anchor post, so I had to use AI to suffice for some of the questions and answers. The answers are 100% my own but I used ChatGPT to make them grammatically coherent. I have also done this for this post.

If you liked "Left Beyond" and if it has made a difference in your life; if you cared at all about my work or my being; thank you, thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I'm now in Italy because I wanted to see a few things and be somewhere safe, and hug my family. So I will not be walking into the ocean for the King of Rust's coronation after all. I suppose if such a counter-historical event comes to pass, instead I will be walking into the lake. In my hometown there is a horrible mausoleum of a WW1 general, one of those who would throw men at machine-gun nests, facing a beautiful lake. It was a little tradition to go egg it in high school when people studied WW1. I think it stopped a few years after I graduated, but I am going to go egg it anyway.

Deus nolens exitus.

This may be the great filter. I hope we as a species and a collection of cultures make it through it.

https://www.emlia.org/pmwiki/pub/web/LeftBeyond.TalesFromTheBeyond.html

Thank you to everyone who was there.

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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.

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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.