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https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=The%20Imperium%20of%20Man%20Princess%20Quest

Pangea turned around.

“I’ll inform Father and wait with you for him, what he does after is up to him.

Under the covers of night, Pangea returned through the same route she exited the palace. A quiet footstep followed, one in an earnest effort to not be heard followed by another declaring its presence. Pangea turned around, Alpharius stood in his armor holding his power spear. Her shoulders stiffened, while Amar seemed completely unfazed.

“Alpharius… I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“When the sole princess is gone, people notice, Pangea.” Alpharius’ gaze aimed at Amar. “Who is this woman?”

“She is… our contributor to our genes. The other half.”

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What is the pinnacle of sorcery, magic, the arcane arts?

After fifty-seven years of long, ceaseless toil, poring over hundreds of arcane volumes with single-spaced size 10 font, performing thousands of experiments, spending millions of silver, and suffering from a number five on the Hamilton-Norwood scale, you stole fire from the gods. You achieved that long-held dream of all wizards: the means of resurrection, eternity, immortality!

Alas, thaumaturgy is not an exact science.

The theoretical underpinnings of your magnificent enchantment had suggested a duality of spirit and flesh upon which you had staked your own life. Although that duality has been all but confirmed, its true nature has proved less transparent.

You have indeed reversed your years. Your withered seventy year old body has been replaced with a youthful one, free of crow's feet, cataracts, and moderate to severe Crohn's disease. But where you had hoped to reverse fifty merciless winters, bringing you again to the peak of virile manhood, you seem instead to have reversed sixty, bringing you a second time into the midst of tedious boyhood.

If that were the extent of your troubles, if you were still locked away in your tower with your tomes, and servants, and talking birds, it might have been endurable. But trickery of time and fate seems to violate reality itself, and in its amendment strange distortions may occur. Case in point: although you awoke again in a tower, it was not your own. Although you kept your face and even your name, it was at the expense of your history. And although you were (and shall ever remain) a wizard, you appear to have been recast as a squire in a house of meatheaded knights.

It is now the third day since your resurrection (or metempsychosis, as the case may be). You have not adjusted well to this new life. Case in point: your current confinement in the bowels of the southeast tower, with only a chamber pot and a straw mattress for company.

>What was the cause of your imprisonment?

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Long ago, when mankind was young, torn from the chaos of the world by the light of the Judge of All Things, they struggled to understand the world that had been given to them. As order overcame nature, they were surprised and dismayed by the unpleasantness of their world. It was cold, ferocious, and desolate, where the strong devoured the weak alive, and life before the division of heaven and earth was a mad struggle to kill, or die.

“Judge Above,” Mankind lamented, “Is our lot truly naught but to suffer? If so, then take from us this curse of life, so we may at least find peace.”

In those days, the Judge was said to not be silent, as he was even when the First Saint was bequeathed his law, as Mankind was pitifully young. “Despair not,” spoke he, however he did so, “Warm yourselves with the strength you find in one another and that I have given you yourselves. The darkest day shall pass, and afterwards, the light of Judgement and Order will set aflame a new morning, and your world will be a beauteous paradise beyond your imagination. So it shall be forevermore.”

The people were doubtful of the latter claim, but did believe a day darker than they had known would come. So they stood against it, resolved to endure, and survived, but indeed, that day was the darkest to ever descend upon Mankind. Afterwards, the great cold and dark was broken, never to return, as Mankind was fully freed by the light of Order. In celebration and reverence, Mankind would celebrate the Darkest Day of each year as what is known as Langenachtfest in the Grossreich. For what better cause to celebrate could there be, than the beginning of the end of winter? The remembrance of the terrible times of old, and how they came to an end- whatever grim tides may rise, shall be endured, and in its wake, stand Mankind resilient…

-----

December 21, 1933

Langenachtfest season, here in Ysenhof. A city in the heartlands of the Grossreich of Czeiss, the most powerful, greatest nation on the continent, but one that wasn’t so big, and rather west to be anywhere happening and hip. A blanket of snow rested atop the canopy of the city, a fresh dusting covering surfaces previously swept and scraped clean. Twinkling, warm lights were hung alongside holly and winterbloom wherever it could be fit, paper recreations of fruit dangling from the branches of park trees regardless of if they were even the sort to sprout it. Couples could be found all over- most of them fresh in the making, which would be lucky to last. ‘Twas the season.

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Cursed from birth with silver hair, the sign of evil influence, you play as Argia Candente, a Knight-in-training determined to finally earn your valour and save your family… and protect your friend’s terrifying secret.

# # # # # #

Welcome to thefourth threadof Argia Candente's thrilling adventures, our scatterbrained, silver-haired (busty, as the players decided) Holy Knight-trainee with a penchant for daydreaming and plagued by self-doubt. Together with three other trainees who have become your fire-forged friends, you are now approaching an abandoned Temple of Flame inside a desert made of scorched glass…

During the latest thread you received a mission by the Angel of Ansàrra, crossed the sea to the heathen lands of the Treviri Throne, met with an Asterite mage who got on your nerves, and discovered that one of your friends is not of this world. Yes, the brunette skirmisher who you admired so much, Salicera Fors, is actually one of those so-called Stranders, and comes from another world— and her actual name is Willow Stark!

This has left you baffled, but you are positive that Willow will come to terms with her troubles and hold on to the true Faith.

Especially now that you are so close to achieving your goals.
Complete this mission, and you will be ordained a Knight… and you’ll be able to invite your family to live in the Holy Land.
So close. You can almost grasp it…

>ARCHIVES:

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Pick race and location.

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Pick race and location, except for those I marked with a big X, I don't wanna run those.

No write-ins for the race, please, just stick to the ones in the picture.

I'm on vacation so I'll be running sessions daily, I hope to run at least one full thread, later on we'll see if it goes anywhere.

First to three votes goes, or if we don't have enough in one hour I'll just roll with whatever votes we have.

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You labor beneath the glittering towers of the Elvish Kingdom, where light reflects endlessly on crystal spires, mocking the darkness below. The mines are your prison, and you are one of many—dark elves condemned to extract the precious ores that fuel their grand enchantments. They call you "lesser," "second-born," treating you as tools rather than people.

But you are no tool. You feel it in your bones—literally.

It starts with the discovery deep within the mines. Your pickaxe strikes something strange, something that isn’t ore. You uncover the remains of a great beast, its bones ancient and forgotten. The sight of them stirs something in you, an energy that feels alive, though the creature is long dead. You touch the bones, and for the first time in your life, you sense power in your hands.

You experiment in secret. Small constructs rise at your command—a scurrying hand, a twitching ribcage. The magic flows naturally, as if it had always been a part of you. The other workers watch you cautiously, but they say nothing. No one wants to draw the overseers' attention.


You know the wards in the mines are unyielding, built to keep you trapped. No teleportation, no tunneling to freedom. But magic like yours—magic they don’t expect—offers a chance.

You study the layout of the tunnels, memorizing patrol routes and weak points. At night, you practice with your bone constructs. A skeletal raven takes to the air, silent and swift, scouting paths you cannot tread. The raven brings back knowledge: the enchantment nodes that power the barriers, the location of the nearest exit, the patrol schedules.

Patience becomes your weapon. Weeks pass, then months. The overseers grow lax, assuming you are too broken to rebel. You bide your time, gathering bones piece by piece, building an ally for your escape—a massive skeletal beast formed from the remains of creatures long dead.


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You are an inhabitant of the Nameless Realm. This land is a land of countless paths to power, strange locales, powerful artifacts, and people who take them.

Cultivators on the path of ascension.

This is not who you are. You are one of the many more people who lead normal lives, far from the ones who grasp endlessly for power and their matters. Farmers, medicine men, nobles, whatever.

Yet the past few hours of your life elude you. You wake up in a strange place with 4 others, equally confused. The floor and walls are a cold smooth marble white, pillars rising far into the darkness above.

There are 3 paths ahead you, each one leading into a chamber...full of books. Tomes, manuals, and scrolls on topics which elude you. Though you're certain the contents within are invaluable, should you choose to study it.

Each chamber is marked with an intricate symbol. One of a sword. One of a pond. One of a mirror.
---

This game will take 5 players, first come first serve. Provide a name and 3 aspects of your background or personality from which to draw insight from, excluding any familiarity with cultivation.


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Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.


You feel it in a pattern, hitting your head, always in rhythm, like the march of a one-legged soldier. The swiishing sound of rustling leaves accompanies the beat as you are dragged by your leg, somewhere, by something, in a place you do not know. It remains foggy and unclear, yet you cannot think why, as if it had always been so. The visage above you is muddled into a sea of green. A forest, perhaps? You try to turn around and look, then try some more with little success, unsure of how to even move. The thing that hits your head must be the rocks on the ground, yes. You are certain of it. It is not an comfortable feeling. You feel you will be hurt seriously if this continues.

You try to raise your body, yet you cannot will it to do so. You feel so weak and lethargic. You feel so tired. Such a simple act seems impossible to you now, no matter how hard you try. But why were you trying? Yes, the thing carrying you, the man. You try to look, but yet again, your eyes themselves seem to be unable to comply, blinking slowly and tiredly, a blurry form just at the corner of its fields.

You try to call out to the man, to try to get him to stop, and what comes out is nonsense, garbled and unsure. Can he not hear you? You want to stop. You try to move your hands, to grasp upon a root, to stop these hurtsome rocks, but when your hand grasps upon the root, you feel pain, and quickly let go, quickly falling past you as you continue to be pulled. There must be thorns in the roots...if you hold on, you will surely be hurt. Yet if you do not, the rocks will do the same. Is there nothing else? Must all your choices lead to pain? You want to stop...you need to stop...stop...

You open your eyes.

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Ensuring that you have no direct sight of the unknown foe, you instead look through the various sensor data to predict enemy fleet movement. They appear to be hell bent trying to close the distance, burning at full speed even when one of their destroyers is brought low by concentrated lance fire. Seemingly ignoring the loss, the enemy, either brave, cold, or mad, continues its advance.

Due to your peculiar situation, you are incapable of proper coordination. Considering how extremely you were affected by just looking at the foe, you naturally have strong concerns about the humans aboard the Deimean vessels.

Considering all dangers, you had reached but just single solution for the issue – nuke the bastards, as an old saying goes.

Now, the biggest issue at hand is of course the fact that you have no means of control. You would be unable to deploy more powerful weapons that would require your direct guidance. The issue for autonomous weapons is also out, you’d rather avoid the worst-case grey goo scenario.

Everything combined leads to the simplest of weapons. In this case, a dumb weapon, a nuclear device. Sundial – the most powerful nuclear weapon available to you, easily capable of cracking planetary crusts and potentially destabilising entire worlds. Generating enough force to wipe out entire continents at its lowest charge and cracking worlds open at the strongest, this is the most primitive and powerful of your weapons. Just the shockwaves generated by these weapons are powerful enough to potentially level entire mountains and level the terrain into smooth plains. Of course, lacking atmosphere, the destructive capability is vastly reduced, which is why this specific variant is a two-stage device, creating temporary gravitical distortions, pushing the explosions away whilst at the same time moving nearby hostile vessels towards the explosion.

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The camera pans across a dimly lit room filled with scattered papers, a torn wrestling poster, and a single, battered championship belt sitting on a desk. A figure in a sharp, if slightly rumpled, suit stands up and adjusts his tie, staring directly into the camera. It’s The Commish.

“Alright, listen up, folks. If you’re here, it means you’re ready for something different. Something wild. Something… Smack Talk Wrestling Saga.

“Yeah, I used to run the show over on Substack, and let me tell you—it was legendary. But legends don’t live forever when the platform pulls the rug out from under you. No matter. The Commish doesn’t quit. And now, I’m here, ready to rebuild the greatest wrestling universe this world has ever seen!”

He slams his hands down on the desk.

“But I can’t do it alone. A league needs wrestlers, rivalries, and a whole lot of chaos. That’s where YOU come in.”

How It Works

This isn’t your average wrestling league. Here’s how the Smack Talk Wrestling Saga will unfold:

1 Weekly Schedule:

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You find a an ancient map from the old continent your people came from a long time ago, fleeing from an ancient undead plague. The plague seems to have stopped, and so the continent should be rife for conquest!

You assemble a team and traverse the waves!


You have up to 1000 points to prepare your voyage (you can spend less if you want, but not more).

Ships (you need enough ships to carry all your people and stuff, otherwise some of it will be left behind):

Caravel (capacity for 30 people - it is a sailship, can't move without winds) - 50 points
Rowship (capactiy for 50 people - it is fast but has no weapons, can only ram) - 100 points
Galley (capacity for 200 people - big and slow, but carry several ballista, can sail and row) - 500 points

Population:


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Thread #1 Archive:
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fo/7fem18ut3cdvwtl023tk1/AFSvBTcmGh-HIWJReZVB-vw?rlkey=7i5c5fe3d3jrft2771yqz3g23&st=lhj8ip04&dl=0

//i've never used dropbox for filesharing before so please let me know if it works. i have the first thread downloaded and i want a full archive to be available. lmk if there's any issues here (or if you can see my decade old uploads lmao)

Reconstruction Site (Fire Door) summary:
You woke up in a room with no memory of your previous self. Your room was filled with countless books and a small number of personal effects. You met Iris, a middle aged woman with a prosthetic arm and eye; your childhood friend. She gave you a letter from your old self, explaining that your memory loss is due to them "wishing to undo past wrongs". You can use magic, you enjoy art, and you employ several people for a goal which Iris will tell you once you meet them all. Whether not you will pursue this goal, though, is up to you. You eat and perform a simple spell and learn about Iris' past as a soldier and assassin. You decide not to smoke with her, taking advantage of your new lease on life, despite your resentment towards your previous self. You examine yourself in a mirror, revealing a short stature with a smooth face and large nose. You hair is various shades of brown, with brown eyes and thick eyebrows. You wear black jeans, a big green coat, and a t shirt with "LIFE IS ART" emblazoned on the front. You find out the old version of you was named "Pluto", although you don't believe Iris on that one. You decide to meet up with Cairo, a former member of a religious order, and make your way to a spaceship which Iris pilots. You explore the ship a bit, checking out the fridge and opening some drinks.

You still have some time left on this trip, but according to Iris, there shouldn't be more than 40 minutes left. You've just had a weird drink from the fridge, and gave Iris her sparkling water, which you didn't enjoy. There's still some ship to explore, some self to explore, and some Iris to explore. What do you do?

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You are L2S Trollhunter Fiona Jarnafeldt, and you think you’re in trouble. Big trouble.

Earlier today, you were directing a pair of engineers through the stormdrains with your compatriot, L2S Manhunter Saemus Fahy, as the workers installed a drone nest used to observe the squatter city and plot out the encroaching attack on the city. The mission went fine, that’s not the issue. The squatters have successfully reverse engineered the technology from a pneumatic suit they stole months ago, you put them down handily, and a team is on the way to pick up the bodies for processing. That’s perfectly fine.

But something happened.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=alCtsl65y3o

While on the mission, your radio transmission was hijacked by a strange caller who claimed to someone named Zephyr, a member of a clandestine research team serving Mother Nature’s Providence known as the Old Oaks. On the call he made a mortifying claim: that no amount of hard work or effort will get you to the promotion you seek, that no number of slain monsters however fierce and fearsome they once were really matters to your ends. The only way to earn this promotion to earn the life and family you’ve been fighting to earn is to sell your soul and morals and to kill a child of the city’s overpopulation. A brand of loyalty seared in to the back of your mind for the rest of your life.

Zephyr went on to say that everyone around you in any place of authority has done this. Your mentor, the stormwatch director, even your parents had to have done this. It was either this, or winning the lottery, if you wanted to bring that child that you always wanted, always seeing, haunting you like a ghost, into the waking world. He then made you an offer to try and destroy the system. You took off your radio; you did not want to hear any more of that seditious thought.

You thought that a complete dismissal would be enough to prove loyalty for anybody who happened to hear what was said.

But then a man in black arrived to direct you to an L4 operator’s office.

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"It all comes in threes, in threes, threes..." the caged one cackles as the crusaders finish their third barefooted lap around the mine. The sun scorches the skin and blinds the eye, it's noon in the outskirts of ancient Eridu. Just short of twenty men they are, the long road has tattered them in numbers, in garments, in meat on bone. Yet they persist in their tiredness, performing penance only days after the finish of their long journey.

There is no other way, two nights have passed here, two nightwatch squires have gotten sick. The bishop Adhemar blames his own sins, Ceolmund blames the dirty water that gathers in black puddles everywhere, some blame the one in the iron cage, that is dangling off of rudimentary mine crane high in the sky. Away they were from the glorious battlements of Francia, Adhemar knew, now the humble wooden structures for transport of broken rubble made long ago were their new palisades.

"If Jericho's walls fell after three rounds of encirclement, now let our walls never fall, Saint Michael, as we are paying the same price for the opposite... " Adhemar, leading the procession, finishes their barefoot penance with churchly monologue, extorting health and success from worship worthy figures from the cannon. Behind him are the three knights in the expeditionary group - the german twins Godrick and Gebehart, stuck shoulder to shoulder as always, and behind them - the englishman Ceolmund the Paragon, who is now ordering something to the men...

"Osbert and Thorley, fetch fresh water from the hills we passed as of late, as to rid our bloodied feet of those black pebbles and to bring relief to the two sick boys in the tents... Riley and Aldwin, send the Assyrian to those native abominations and get them back to mine work..."

Someone needs to stand guard tonight, the leaders decide it should be one of them this time.


>Ceolmund the Paragon

>bishop Adhemar


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