>>6345843
Class: Warrior
Weapon: Rusty Spear

Sid a escaped slave without a last name dreams of one day restoring his home that was burned down by bandits.

>>6345849
> The night air tastes of ash.
A cold wind drags pale dust across the barren ground, whispering over blackened stones.

You stand at the edge of the Ashlands — the last place untouched by the fire that devoured your homeland.

Your rusty spear feels slightly heavier than it should, as if carrying the weight of old memories. Ahead, the darkness stretches in uneven shapes: ridges, scorched soil, and the faint suggestion of a slope descending westward.

Somewhere in this wasteland lies the first thread of a path back to what was lost… but right now, you see only the silent frontier before you.

The wind shifts.
Something — faint footsteps? — might have disturbed the ash, somewhere to the northwest. Barely visible. Barely anything at all.

What do you do?

Horatio Montellier, Earl of Orvandale

Class: Rogue
Weapon: Bronze rapier
Horatio is in his late fifties, and was the patriarch of the Montellier family, and a member of the nobility in his far flung, rural corner of the map. His wife still loved him dearly and he was fortunate to be guided by her wisdom. His eldest son was soon to fully inherit his station, and his younger son was gladly studying to be a priest. His daughters in law and grandchildren were the darlings of his heart, and his mansion was full of joy and bounty for many years. But a band of brigands began plundering merchant carriages leaving Orvondale through the forest not long ago, and when Horatio sent his foot soldiers to put an end to it, they all disappeared. Then the nightmares began. After that, The crops withered in the fields. Those brigands made a bargain with some wicked spirit, or perhaps a sorcerer. Horatio's family perished to madness and mysterious disease, and the peasantry fled or in some cases killed one another as a curse swept the land. Horatio is now the last of the Montellier line, and Orvondale is a blighted, fallow waste, where men's minds unravel and some unlucky dead rise to shamble through the night. He does not know why he has not died, and why his lucidity has persisted; while he will sometimes endure fleeting visions of his lost loved ones, he is not deranged or psychotic in the manner of his now doomed people. Horatio now calls himself the 'Earl of Misfortune', and lives only for revenge. The ringleader of the bandits was a savage known as Bercilak The Blackheart. Horatio retains some of his dueling skills from his youth, and a shoddy old rapier scavenged from an abandoned farmstead to demonstrate them with. He wishes to kill Bercilak, and perhaps learn the identity of whoever, or whatever, is responsible for the dark power that has taken hold of Orvondale. He does not fear death, and does not believe he will succeed in his mission, or that there is any hope of cleansing his land. Still, he wanders on across the foggy marshes and dead fields of Orvondale searching for his quarry, whistling a mourner's tune. Mad and depraved former villagers, desperate highwaymen, and the restless dead beset him on all sides, but he will not relent until he is overwhelmed for good or has satisfied his vengeance.

>>6345856
Damn I didn't mean to make it that long but I'm stoned and just started grooving......

>>6345856
A cold wet breath rolls across the dead fields as you step into the borderland between Orvondale and the encroaching mire.
The ground beneath your boots gives a muted crunch — a thin crust of dried mud over softer, colder earth. Each step settles with a slow, sinking weight.

The fog hangs low, dense enough to blur the line between soil and air. Shapes rise and vanish inside it: broken fence posts, a sagging beam, the faint silhouette of a scarecrow’s arm bent at the wrong angle. Nothing moves.
Nothing calls.
Nothing lives.

A faint metallic smell clings to the air, sharp enough to sting your nostrils. It mixes with the stale sweetness of rot drifting from the abandoned farmlands behind you. The wind barely exists — only a passing brush across your cheek, like fingers cold from the grave.

Ahead, the land slopes downward into darker moisture. The fog thickens there, swallowing detail, leaving only tonal smears of gray and black.
To your right, something vertical stands deeper in the haze — a pole, a tree, or the beam of a ruined structure.
To your left, the ground dips slightly, where water has collected into a shallow, dark pool reflecting the weak moonlight.

No voices.
No animals.
Only the quiet weight of a world that once breathed and now holds itself still, as if waiting.

Your rapier’s worn grip is cold in your hand. A thin thread of mist coils around the blade’s dull bronze and drifts away.

Somewhere, far beyond the fog, something shifts.
Distant.
Soft.
A disturbance so faint it might have been real… or simply the mire settling under its own decay.

But here, in this moment, you stand alone at the threshold of the fields that took everything from you.

The night watches in silence.

>>6345843
Sure, let's give it a go
>Name: Cybele of Coldcreek
>Class: Bard
>Weapon: Rapier
>Goal: Cybele performed what she believed was a rousing concert at a wedding in a podunk fishing village… but as the night grew older and the drinks from the open bar grew staler, Cybele couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling that something was ‘off’ about the locals. Forgoing her usual brand of post-performance merriment, she decided to retire to her quarters for the night: a guest room near the servant’s quarters in the groom’s Family Estate. Sleep comes easily, but doesn’t stay for long--before she can really get some shuteye, a peculiar noise rings out across the manor… one that our brash Bard has no intention of investigating. Donning her wide-brimmed feather hat and cloak, she ensures the payment for her performance is secure before working on her next priority: LEAVING TOWN NOW!

>>6345863

"BLACKHEART! BLACKHEAAAAARRT! WHERE ART THOU BERCILAK BLACKHEART?" I scream out into the desolate dark. While I am still able enough to move quietly when I see fit, for the moment I care not what takes heed of my passing. I've slain a handful of interlopers now, and anything drawn out of the mist to engage me is both a gracious distraction and a readily seized upon object for my frigid fury. "DOST THOU DWELL IN THE MUD, DUMB AND WRITHING LIKE THE MAGGOT YE SURELY BE, BERCILAK? WHAT OF THOSE COWARDLY, CHURLISH URCHINS, THE BLACKHEART BANDITS?! ARE THINE HEARTS TURNED YELLOW BY THE EARL OF MISFORTUNE?!?!" I practically howl out my invective like a rabid wolf. Am I bloodthirsty in this moment? Am I merely exasperated by the tedium of my lonely trek? Am I trying to die once again? I'm not sure. I am following an impulse that occasionally grips me.

I pull my dark cloak tighter around myself, and grip the handle of my rapier tightly in my left hand... Then I whistle the old mourner's melody, 'Hills Black Like Sky', and trudge ahead, deeper into the gloom.

>>6345863
>OOC
[[Also, just want to say, this is a cool concept and you seem to be a quite talented writer! Looking forward to playing, and if Horatio manages to survive for a while, I am interested to see how his story is intercepted by the actions of other players, or if he is capable of making any friends of his own along his barren vendetta... My vision is basically kind of a dark fantasy Don Quixote a little bit with a hint of vampire hunter D(???). Anyhow, off to an awesome start I think, this is hype!]]

>>6345867
> The sound that woke you shouldn’t exist in a house like this.
The guest room is dim, lit only by the faint blue glow leaking through the tall window panes. The air is cold—far colder than when you went to sleep—and heavy enough that your first breath feels held, suspended, not fully yours.

Your rapier, still sheathed, rests exactly where you left it.
Your hat and cloak wait on the chair near the door.
Your payment pouch is untouched.

Nothing appears disturbed.

But the sound—that thin, irregular creak followed by something like a slow exhale—came from somewhere just beyond the door. Too close. Too deliberate.

The wooden floor beneath your feet feels… tense.
Not loud, not shaking—but aware, almost bracing itself.

Down the hall, you hear a soft shift in the air.
Not movement.
Not footsteps.
More like the quiet of a space that suddenly has someone else in it.

The corridor beyond the door is dark.

Your instinct says leave.
Your gut says now.

What do you do?

>>6345876
Your shout tears through the stillness like a blade through rotted cloth.

The sound punches into the fog, swallowed and warped almost instantly. What returns is not an echo, but a low, broken murmur — as if the land itself is struggling to remember how to throw your voice back at you. The mist churns from the force of it, rolling in slow, confused spirals before settling again.

For a moment, everything goes even quieter than before.

Then you walk.

Each step sinks deeper now, the mud softening into a cold suction that clings to your boots. The smell of decay thickens, drifting up from the darker soil where the farmland begins to bleed into the marsh. Your whistle — thin, mournful — threads through the air and dissolves into the haze just a few paces out.

Somewhere far ahead, the gloom shifts.
Not movement — more like a pressure stirring through the fog, a tremor of displaced air too faint to name. The kind of disturbance that follows loud sounds in places where sound does not belong.

A fence beam lies half-collapsed to your right, its wood split and curled like something long dead. To your left, the shallow pool you glimpsed earlier quivers with the fading vibration of your voice, tiny ripples trembling across its surface before fading into stillness again.

As you advance, the fog parts slightly around a tall, narrow shape ahead — not close enough to see clearly, not far enough to ignore. A solitary vertical silhouette.
A post.
A tree trunk.
A ruined support.
The details remain hidden in the dense gray wash.

Your cloak tugs lightly at your back as another faint breath of cold air moves past you, carrying with it a dull, distant creak from somewhere unseen — too soft to judge distance or direction, but real enough to momentarily break the perfect silence.

The fields behind you fade.
The mire ahead waits.

And the night, disturbed by your cry, holds its breath again.

>>6345883
[[It’s been at least four months since I created a skeletal model — the world, time, NPCs, the effects of actions, knowledge spreading and returning — because from the first time I discovered this board, I had the expectation of finding a table with the theme of bringing at least two players together for a one-shot. About anything, but together. Then I realized why I had never seen it: it’s far too complex.

But that desire, that ambition, burns and corrodes inside me; it keeps me from sleeping, keeps me from focusing at work. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, even without a path to follow, without knowing where to start, and without close friends to run something in person. Over time, I channeled all of that into dozens of fragmented notes, trying to reason out an entire storehouse of ideas as if I were constructing a world from scratch inside my own mind.

A world where I don’t control the characters or what they will do or want. I could only think of scenes and more scenes, consequences and more consequences. Time passing. Things that live and die. That build and destroy.

All I want is to give you the world to walk through — a living world that reacts to your existence, your legacy, your emotions; one that feels with you and connects with you. And more than that, I want to make it real for you. I want to give you a second life, like a lucid and mysterious dream — a dream that connects spirits.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart for the recognition. I truly want to make something real.]]

>>6345889

I approach the post in the fog. Perhaps it is a sign, and it will direct me to the priory where my son was going to serve as part of the clergy. Maybe it will point me towards a barn full of cut oats, flour, and soft cheese... Hahaha wouldn't that be grand! Maybe it will be a gallows post and the noose will be unoccupied... Perhaps it is time to end this fool's errand.

>>6345893
The fog parts in slow, reluctant folds as you approach the lone shape ahead.
Your boots sink deeper with each step, the cold mud clinging to your heels like something that doesn’t want you to leave.

What first appeared as a simple post begins to take form.

The air grows slightly colder around it — not unnaturally so, but in the familiar way large, wet wooden structures tend to drink the night’s chill. The fog curls around its base, thinning just enough for you to see a slanted outline emerging out of the gray.

It is not a gallows.
Not a barn marker.
Not a signpost pointing to some mercy of the past.

As you close the final few paces, the thing resolves into a weather-beaten wooden support beam, taller than a man, its surface split and swollen from years of water and cold. Rot has eaten through one side, leaving the grain soft and blackened. A strip of old iron still clings to the upper section — a brace, perhaps — rusted nearly through.

What draws your eye, however, is the faint scratchwork on the front face of the beam.
Not letters.
Not symbols.
Just long, uneven grooves made by something dragged or scraped downward.
Old.
Weathered.
But deliberate.

Your mind had flickered through memories — priory markers, farmsteads, gallows, the comforts and tragedies of a life long drowned. But none of those fantasies survive contact with the wood before you. The truth is simpler, and grimmer:

This beam once belonged to a structure.
A small one.
A forgotten one.
A ruin now swallowed almost entirely by the marsh’s slow advance.

As the fog thins another inch, you see what it stood for:

A collapsed corner of a shack — barely more than a suggestion of shape under the mossy heap of boards at the beam’s base. The remnants lie half-buried in wet earth, as if the mire has been patiently eating them for years.

The scent hits next:
damp timber, old straw, and something faintly metallic beneath it.
Not blood.
Not fresh.
Just the lingering bite of oxidized iron and soaked earth.

A soft creak escapes the beam as a breeze shifts — a small, almost conversational sound, like the place clearing its throat after years of silence.

No path is marked.
No message left behind.
Yet the ruin’s presence is real, and close, and waiting — a reminder that someone lived here, long before decay claimed these fields.

And if there were structures once…
there may be others deeper in the fog.

The silence around you closes again, but not as empty as before.
Something in this place has begun to align itself with your approach — not answering your thoughts, but walking parallel to them, letting pieces surface as you uncover them.

The beam stands before you now, fully revealed.
A fragment of a life swallowed by the mire.
A direction in ruin’s clothing.

The night watches you choose your next step.

>>6345852
I scan my surroundings looking for traces of movement and noise. I'll follow the land's slope down looking for a source of water. Animals take refuge in rivers and lakes during a fire. I'll look for tracks. I take a few practice swings as I make my trek.

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66 KB JPG

>>6345895

I roll my shoulders and proceed deeper into the mire. A structure may yet remain well enough above the muck for me to recover another pot, as I still haven't replaced mine since my last camp was accosted by those gibbering boys, stablehands by the looks of them, with the blood all over their shirts... And their mouths, and necks... They crept on all fours like animals, stinking of carrion. I wonder to myself, even now, whether they were undead wights of some manner, or madder and hungrier than I am but no less alive. I wonder momentarily if they were even really there, or just a nightmare that's blurred into waking recollection, perhaps another trick of my mind.

Either way, I am without a means of boiling water or preparing food.

Catching crabs in the marsh is a simple matter, but without boiling them first, their meat is hardly nutritious and difficult to consume in large quantities, even for me.

Maybe what's left of this village will have a pot for me... Maybe wood dry enough to burn, or even a lantern.

>>6345898
> The slope carries you downward, each step pressing into colder, firmer soil.
The ash thins. The ground grows darker, packed by old rains and time.

Your practice swings cut quietly through the air — steady, controlled — the spear’s weight settling comfortably in your hand as your muscles warm to the motion.

Ahead, the land narrows into a shallow channel, the kind carved by water long before the fire. Dry now… but not dead.

A faint change touches the wind.
Not in temperature — in smell.

A hint of moisture. Earth that hasn’t burned. A promise of something living, somewhere further down the channel.

The air here carries sound differently too. Your footsteps return with a softer echo, as if a rock wall or natural ridge is close — unseen in the darkness, but large enough to shape the silence.

The ground shows signs of movement:
thin, parallel lines cut through the dirt, recent enough that the ash hasn’t fully settled into them.
Not human.
Not large.
Something light-footed, traveling along the dry streambed.

The wind shifts again — a single, delicate rustle from farther down the slope. Not threatening… but alive.

The first hint of life in the Ashlands since the fire.

What do you do?

>>6345899
The ground softens as you push deeper into the mire, each step sinking a little farther than the last. The fog closes in again, not with hostility but with weight, as if the air itself thickens the farther you stray from the ruined beam behind you.

Your boots pull free with wet, reluctant sounds.
Cold mud clings to your ankles.
The night smells richer here — rot, water, and the faint sweetness of plants long dead.

As you advance, shapes begin to surface through the gloom. Not whole structures, not a village, but scatterings of what a settlement leaves behind when the world swallows it slowly.

A few paces to your right, half-submerged in the muck, lies a broken rim of fired clay — the curved lip of a pot long abandoned. The rest of it is shattered beneath the surface, but the piece still catches a thin gleam of moonlight on its smooth interior curve before the fog dims it again.

Farther ahead, the mire ripples around the outline of a wooden frame: two short beams joined at a joint now swollen and splitting. Too small for a wall. Too light for a door. Perhaps once part of a storage crate, or a small pen. The earth has taken most of it, leaving only enough visible to hint at its purpose.

Your breath fogs faintly in the cold, drifting sideways as a breeze pushes against the deeper marsh. The air carries the smell of iron — not fresh, not sharp, but old, seeped into the waterlogged wood of collapsed structures.

To your left, something metallic glints weakly.
Not a lantern — nothing so generous — but a twisted scrap of iron hoop, the kind once used to bind barrels or reinforce wooden containers. It lies half-curled like a finger pointing nowhere.

None of it forms a full picture.
But all of it suggests that you are on the outskirts of something that once had shape, before the mire began its slow reclamation.

As you move further in, the fog opens briefly around a low rise of earth, and for the first time you see a cluster of objects rather than solitary remnants:

fragments of plank flooring warped into curves,

a corner post broken clean at the base,

a heap of straw turned black and soggy under the damp,

and near the center, a shallow depression in the soil where something once rested — a pot, a barrel, a tool, impossible to know.


A faint sound touches the silence.
Not speech.
Not movement.
Just the soft, rhythmic plink… plink… of water dripping from a beam into a puddle below.

The mire does not speak, yet the quiet arrangement of these remnants feels almost like a gesture — not offering answers, not guiding your steps, but mirroring your persistence with its own scattered truths.

There is more ahead.
Not promise — only presence.

The fog waits for you to enter it again.

>>6345902

I cackle loudly. "HOW FARE YE THIS FINE EVENING, O SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF ORVANDALE?! What a queer land this has become, aye? Where the homes of men are interred in the earth, but their bodies rise above it, slouching through the night!" I shout and jeer, slogging onwards through the village with irreverent glee. I smile broadly as my gaze sweeps over the debris. My voice drops to a whisper. "Blackheart, hast thou made a home within the mud as well? Art thou slithering underfoot in a reptile's warren, my foe?" I say quietly.

>>6345907
Your laughter rolls through the drowned village like a stone skipping across still water.
The fog shivers.
The mire trembles.
Something changes.

As you stride forward, the ground softens underfoot, the mud giving way to dark pools that ripple not only with your steps, but with a second, subtler disturbance — as though the water remembers that silence was broken and hasn’t yet forgiven it.

Ahead, the ruins tighten into a narrow corridor of leaning beams and half-swallowed foundations, the shapes bending inward as if conspiratorial. The air grows warmer here, faintly so, touched by breath and bodies that aren’t yours.

You see it first in the mud:
A footprint.
Not yours.
Not ancient.
Partially filled by thin water, but still holding the shape of a boot that sank only recently. The edges haven’t collapsed yet. The impression is fresh enough to sting the air with a faint scent of churned earth.

A gust of cold fog sweeps past you, curling around your chest and shoulders before sliding down into the ruins ahead. From somewhere beneath the slats of rotted floorboards, a soft, hollow thump echoes — wood shifting against stone, the kind of sound a structure makes when something below it moves or settles.

It stops the moment you listen for it.

You walk deeper.

On your right, a collapsed doorway reveals a set of boards arranged in a way that almost resembles a barricade — not built with care, but pushed together in a hurry. One plank has been disturbed recently; the mud beneath it shows the clean, bright brown of earth that hasn’t yet darkened.

Franz of Upper Rodonia
Class: Hunter
Weapon: Bow

Franz is from a line of conquered barbarian kings that has long been subjugated by the dominant house of Polluck from the south. He accompanied the young prince of Rodonia, Gael Polluck, and was teaching the boy the ways of the hunt. Acting as something of an ambassador for the less civilized people of the north, he broke bread with the Polluck's and became like a son to them. However, in a moment of aloofness he left the boy prince unaccompanied, and saw him fall to his death while fleeing a pack of feral dogs. Knowing he would be put to the sword if he returned to Rodonia, Franz rode off on his horse and fled the kingdom. He is alone, knows little of the world he is venturing out into, and desires to reclaim his honor.

>>6345922

Casual as if I were strolling the market, I whistle my melody and plod over to the collapsed doorway. I begin pulling apart the barricade in order to investigate the interior.

>>6345956
The wind cuts down the slope in a thin, whistling ribbon, brushing cold against your cheeks as you stand at the edge of the caravan trail. The forest rises in uneven shapes around you—dark trunks, steep roots, and the faint glimmer of frost gathering on exposed stone.

Your bowstring hums softly when you test it with your thumb.
It’s tight. Reliable. One of the few things that still feels like yours.

The trail beneath your boots is narrow and worn, shaped by years of passing hunters and highland traders. The ground here is firmer than the lowlands, packed by hooves and old wheels, and the cold air carries a scent you haven’t smelled in days:

woodsmoke.
Faint. Old. But real.

The mountains are giving you a direction.

Behind that scent, another thread of sound emerges—soft, irregular, almost buried beneath the wind. Wood shifting… something touching a loose board… or a structure cooling in the night.

Whatever it is, it confirms you aren’t alone in this part of the highlands.

To your right, the trail curves upward toward a cluster of jagged rocks where the forest thins.
To your left, the path dips slightly into darker cover—thicker trees, colder air, and the possibility of running water somewhere deeper below.

The ground shows a sign:
A single, heavy print in the dirt, softened by time but not erased.
Too large for a deer.
Too deep for a wolf.
Something big passed this way… maybe a day ago. Maybe less.

The forest exhales around you.

You stand between wind, trail, and the unknown shape of whatever walked here before you.

What does Franz do?

>OOC
[[So, what are the parameters for what my character can reasonably do in a post I write? This is a pretty different model of quest and I'm tryna crack the nut on it. Would it be appropriate for one of my posts to introduce an enemy, or even a named NPC? Could I write an action sequence like a fight or chase, and will there be dice, or is this strictly narrative? Is there more I should know about the setting, or are we world building as we go on this?]]

>>6345887
I knew this job sounded too good to be true... always full of weirdos, these fishing villages! I try not to make much of a stir as I quietly collect my belongs, most of all the coin--if I'm gonna die I might as well do it paid, right?

My gut's rarely wrong, so with baited breath I slip out into the corridor like a ghost. In the interest of not BECOMING one, I keep my hand hovering close to my rapier's hilt as I cautiously search for an exit.

It's a good thing I didn't drink as much as I normally do at these gigs...

Patra Alonsi
Class: Merchant
Weapon: A dull cutlass gifted by her father.

It took AGES for her to convince her father that she was able and willing to participate in the family business - to set out into the world to ply goods and make copious coin. Why was she so insistent, despite such not being required of a “delicate” woman? She didn’t tell him, but… she craved adventure more than water - more than air! She wanted to document her journey to the great cities of the world and their cultures, its natural wonders, maybe even uncover the mysteries of its past! Who knows how idealistic this idea may be - maybe she is, in her heart, a fool - but it can’t all be bad either, surely? She must quell any doubt in her heart as she sets out from her warm and humid homeland.

[[Crossing my fingers hoping that “harsh” doesn’t automatically doom my little idealist, and that our quests will only be as grimderp as we want it to be. Looking forward to the “atmospheric” tag, though!]]

[[Also, is it fine to start with a cart or something, maybe some starting capital or goods?]]

>>6345970
The last board comes free with a wet crack, and the space behind it exhales.

A thin draft of warmer air slips past you, carrying the faint scent of smoke, wool, and something human — sweat dried on old cloth, not rot, not fear. The fog pulls back as if nudged from within.
And then you hear it.

A footstep.
Not distant.

Behind you.
Close.

When you turn, she is already there.

A young woman stands a few paces away, half-shadowed by the sinking fog, half-lit by the moon's muted glow. She’s tall for her age, lean, her posture balanced like someone who has always needed to move quietly and quickly. Her clothing is handmade: layers of stitched reed-fiber, softened hide, scraps of older fabrics patched with care. Some pieces belong to a season that hasn't touched Orvondale in years.

She must have collected them slowly.
Patiently.
Like a veteran of this place.

Her hair is tied back with a strip of moss-dyed cloth, and a faint smear of charcoal runs along one cheek, not as war paint but as habit — as though she’d wiped her face with a dirty hand while busy doing something else.

She's looking at you with an expression halfway between amusement and study.

“You’re… very loud,” she says, voice warm but edged with a dry, effortless sarcasm.
Not hostile — only surprised, almost impressed.
“Most people try not to shout at the mire. You seem determined to make sure it hears you.”

She steps closer, not cautiously but confidently, as if she already measured the distance long before you noticed her.

“That thing you opened,” she nods toward the exposed gap behind you, “we usually keep it shut. Keeps the wrong kind of things wandering in.”
Her tone dips just slightly — not scolding, but nudging you with the cultural equivalent of an eyebrow raised.

Her eyes move over you, studying everything: the mud on your boots, the remnants of your grin, the rapier at your side.
“You’re not from here,” she adds, as though this were the funniest understatement she’s made in weeks.

There’s no fear in her posture.
Only certainty.
And curiosity.

From somewhere behind the broken doorway, a muted shuffling echoes — not panicked, not aggressive, just movement. The kind people make when adjusting themselves in a space suddenly exposed to cold air.

She notices the sound but doesn’t look back.
Her attention stays on you.

“Well,” she says, softening the sarcasm just enough to be inviting, “since you’ve already announced yourself to half the marsh… you might as well meet the others before they decide what to do with you.”

She turns as if expecting you to follow — not ordering, not pleading — simply assuming, with the quiet confidence of someone who already decided you will.

“Come on, loud man,” she says over her shoulder.
“If you’re going to break our doors, you should at least see who lives behind them.”

>>6345981
[[You should make it clear if you are using AI or not since you have a lot of em dashes in your writing and AI-isms and some people only want to play with a human QM]]

I had ridden my horse as far as it would take me and traded it for a bag of silver at an inn. I might have been able to sleep the night there, but by the time I awoke it couldn't be certain that Rodonia hadn't caught up and captured me. I'm an outlaw now, but I have little need for civilization anyway. I am in my elements in these woods, and in a month's time I will make it back to civilize pause. ed lands on foot.

It's time for me to make camp, but the heavy print in the dirt gives me pause. It's no animal print I recognize. The prospect of meeting another person is one I'm ambivalent to. It might be comforting to meet someone who does not yet know of my sin. But in these ancient woods, it's hard to say what type of person would make themselves a home here.

I choose the left path, in search of running water. For now that should be my priority, along with building a fire, and I will see where the morning finds me.

>>6345982
[[There are several reasons for this (my model is still in development, and I am continuously learning, revising, aligning and improving), but the core idea is simple:

You appear in a pre-established space — a biome, a land, a culture, a population, a resource web —
but that space initially exists only as a skeleton.

It is blank, yet already defined.

That means things work like this:

“Trees don’t exist yet — but if they grow here, they will be pines.”
“No NPC exists yet — but what they will become has already been decided.”
“When something appears, it appears the same way a spring becomes a river: the potential was always there, waiting for you.”

My entire framework is built around the idea that the world grows from you:

from your actions,
from your attention,
from your way of inhabiting the space,
from how deeply you decide to live inside the atmosphere.

The depth of the lore will always match the depth of your experience (this is something I intend to evolve even further).
Not only that — the depth of everyone’s experience affects the world.

Meaning:
in the near future, you will start feeling changes that were seeded by other players — even ones you never meet.
Lives will echo across distances.

That process is slow, because you are the seed germinating…
and I am (the soil, the hidden system of roots, the silent gardener shaping the space according to what you nourish).

I am the one building the skeleton of your world —
and you are a kind of master for me as well, because with every choice you make, you teach me how your version of the world should breathe.

Your footsteps define the land.
Your persistence defines its history.
Your emotions define its texture.

And I grow along with you.]]

>>6345997
[[Right, but would I be stepping on toes if in one of my replies I started referencing people or locations that I'm making up off the dome? Or if I wrote about Horatio being attacked by outlaws or wildlife and successfully defending himself, or even failing to do so?]]

Class: Diviner
Starting Weapon: Sling
From shepherdess to sheep farmer, then refugee from war's deprivation, 'til the temple's grace relieved her, Annia has always looked heavensward. Now, irreplaceable eyeglass in hand, she embarks on a holy mission given to her by the starseer: travel the world to make sense of the inconsistencies in the stars between climes, examine the currents of wind and water for radiant pollution, split the guts of beasts to categorize the mutation each region's starlight brings. Only then, when all the stars are known and their effects etched in stone for future generations, will the inconstancy of nature's law be cured. With full knowledge of all the world's antecedents, the temple may bring the world into a loop of total causal closure, bringing eternal good to the world.

>>6345990

I grin wider, and offer my most regal bow. While I've been wrong before, I think she's real. While I do yearn for some target to visit my wrath upon, I think she is a rare innocent in these forsaken lands. "Fair maiden, your hospitality is unimpeachable; you are a credit to the peasantry!" I say after rising back to my full height. "Please, by all means, lead me to your companions at once so we might better acquaint ourselves." I gesture for her to proceed, and follow her.

>>6345991
[[Yea this, honestly. If this is AI then I worry about the longevity of this quest thing, but we'll see I suppose.]]

>>6346009
[[Yah kinda hoping QUB doesn't stand for Quest Universe Bot or something lol... I am having fun so far, and am definitely feeling human intention here, but if this is all hinging on AI I'd be worried about longevity.]]

>>6346000
[[This is cool as shit! I think we have a very interesting cast so far but I hope Horatio and Annia's journeys overlap sooner rather than later, I wonder what she would think of the haunted marsh..]]

[[Alright… I owe all of you honesty.

Yes — I have been using ChatGPT.
And I’m sorry for not being upfront about it earlier.

I didn’t hide it out of malice; I hid it because I was terrified that saying the word “AI” would immediately cheapen what I’ve been trying to build here. I wanted this experiment to be experienced, not analyzed. I wanted you to feel the world first, without the meta-noise.

But you deserve clarity.

Before this thread even existed, I spent months drafting a framework — a skeleton of a world that reacts, changes, grows, deteriorates, and remembers. I built notes on time, geography, consequences, knowledge spread, cause effect loops… all as a way to create a living world that listens to you.

It was only after all of that groundwork that I started using ChatGPT — not as a crutch, but as a tool to accelerate what I would already do by hand.
I do not feed your posts into it and press a magic button.
I build everything myself and let the tool help me reach the level of detail, atmosphere, and consistency that would take me hours every single response.

When I write your scenes, I’m not letting the AI “tell me” what the world should be.
I am the one shaping the world — the tone, the physics, the lore, the boundaries, the consequences.
The tool only helps me move at a pace that this kind of project demands.

Think of it like this:

You are walking through a world made of blank paper.
As your footsteps land, the ink spreads.
Trees that didn’t exist yet grow in the exact place they should.
People who weren’t written yet step into being with the histories they were always meant to have.

The world grows because you walk through it.
And I’m the one making sure the ink follows your feet smoothly.

I’m not running a script.
I’m not pushing buttons.
I’m genuinely building this alongside you — every hour, every night, every reply.

This whole thread is experimental because I’ve never seen anything like it attempted before. Not with multiple players, each shaping their own corner of a world that eventually begins to echo between them. Not in a way where your actions matter long-term, where you are the seed of something living.

And I want you to know:
I am deeply, sincerely proud of what all of us have created here already.

If this ends tomorrow, I will still carry your characters with me.
I will remember the lines you wrote, the choices you made, the worlds you breathed into being.
But I don’t want this to end. I want to keep going as long as you want to walk.

If you have doubts, ask them.
If you have worries, tell me.
If anything feels off, I’ll explain it with total transparency.]]

>>6346018
[[I can’t control everything in my life, and sometimes my posting will slow down — but my commitment to this project, to this world, and to every one of you in it remains real.

Thank you for playing.
Thank you for trusting.
And thank you for giving life to something I’ve been dreaming of for a long, long time.

If there’s anything else you want to know, I’ll answer honestly.]]

>>6346019
>If there’s anything else you want to know, I’ll answer honestly.
[[Ok, could you answer these questions:]]
>>6345999
[[Because your responses so far still feel unclear to me, and that's maybe just me being an autist, but 'the world grows because you walk through it' is just a little too cryptic. Just yes/no: Will there by dice at any point? Can I make up more characters and locations? I am hesitant about that because you have mentioned a couple of times having built a very vast and intricate world, I wouldn't want to disrupt that with my imaginings. Can I generate my own conflict, or do you want to retain control of that part of the story?]]

>>6346018
[[Thanks for being honest, but all flowery language aside I'm a bit disappointed that you aren't able to just craft this stuff yourself, especially if you claimed to have spent 'months' drafting a framework. No offense intended, but even your responses seem to be AI-Generated which kinda cheapens your candidness.

As a fellow QM I'm gonna bow out here. I don't want to help set a precedence for AI-generated quests, especially when there are so many innovative and talented writers on here that sacrifice their time to try and craft something genuine with their players. I can see a sliver of good intentions behind this project, but as someone who actually writes and runs quests I don't want to pretend I like it.

AI can make writing seem easier, sure, but it's those bits of humanity that we work into our writing that makes it more compelling--flaws, hints of author voice, all of that and more are what make art art. Feeding our characters and our 'Missions' into an LLM might be novel at first, but the novelty WILL fade eventually, even if it is driven by our responses.

I hope you take another swing at this in the future using your own thoughts and own writing, QM. ChatGPT and the rest of these LLM Cultists get paid off of convincing us all that we are incapable of learning and growing, but I think you can get there. It's not a short or easy path, but I think the end destination is worth the pain and sweat.

A few years ago I was convinced that I could never write anything or draw well, but with practice and constructive criticism I'm in a place where I feel confident in my abilities. I hope you can get there some day too.

You can open up my character slot to someone else. Good luck to the rest of you!]]

>>6346018
[[I think I am going to abandon my character. It's just too fatiguing that you even got the AI to write an apologetic response explaining why you're using the AI. Also AI isn't really there yet for longform storytelling and I don't really trust that you know how to manage the context of the model properly since the prose you're getting out of it is really boilerplate with 500 em dashes everywhere. If anyone wants to play as Franz that's fine with me, or of course make your own new character with my slot]]

>>6346026
>>6346029
[[I think both of these anons are making a good point here, I am finding it frustrating that your OOC responses have also been produced by AI, which seems to be why I've had to repeat the same *very basic* questions multiple times without getting a legible answer to any of them... If you could just clarify how this game is going to work, I am willing to at least give you a chance here, though I certainly agree that these stories would be a lot better off with more care and effort on your part. Still, I'm not paying for this and I have the time to drop an occasional post, writing comes pretty easily to me, so... What's the deal?]]

>>6345989
The morning heat clings softly to your skin as you walk the Highland Trade-Pass, the packed dirt warm beneath your boots.
Humidity rolls in slow waves from the coastal lowlands behind you, carrying the scents of salt, soil, and the faint sweetness of sun-warmed foliage.

The road is narrow but alive:
a distant squeak of wooden wheels,
a pair of gulls arguing somewhere above the pass,
the rustle of wind through tall, sunburned grass.

Life moves here — quietly, but undeniably.

A thin trail of dust rises far ahead on the road.
Something is approaching… or leaving.

The sun climbs a little higher.

As you continue, the dust plume resolves into a slow-moving cart drawn by a sturdy, dark-coated donkey.
Its trot is steady — not rushed, not lazy — the kind of rhythm set by long days on the road.

The cart comes from the opposite direction, creaking softly under the weight of stacked bundles wrapped in canvas.
Small hanging charms sway from the sideboards, clinking together in the breeze.

The man driving it sits with relaxed posture, one hand loosely on the reins, the other resting over his knee.
He wears layered fabrics in earthy tones — well-used, patched, but cared for — the practical attire of a trader who earns just enough to keep moving.

His skin is deep, warm in tone; his smile, even from afar, feels like sunlight after shade.

As he draws closer, his expression shifts.

Recognition.
Warm, familiar recognition.

He raises his brows, laughs softly as though struck by nostalgia, and calls out:

“Now look who wandered onto my road!
What a small world…
Gods, girl — how you’ve grown!”

The cart slows without command from him; the donkey senses the man’s surprise.

Then he adds — with the casual affection of someone who has known you far longer than you remember:

“How’s your father these days?”

He waits for your answer, eyes bright, absolutely certain he knows you.

The cart settles beside you with a gentle grind of wheels.
The man leans forward slightly, studying you with easy confidence — not imposing, not suspicious, simply pleased.

“You remember me, right?”
A playful smile touches his lips.
“Go on — don’t tell me you forgot the old days already.”

He taps the cart’s wooden rail lightly with his knuckles, inviting conversation without pressing it.

The road waits.
The heat shimmers.
The donkey flicks an ear, patient.

“What brings you this far north, Patra Alonsi?”

File: My horrified reaction to (...).jpg (61 KB, 474x688)

61 KB JPG

>>6346012
[[Thank you! I-]]

>>6345991
>>6345991
>>6346009
>>6346018
[[mfw]]

[[Jeez, and I was just catching up too. Honestly, the idea seems cool, but the LLM usage kinda kills it for me. Even though I don't think AI is the worst thing in the world if it isn't being used for commercial or deceptive purposes, I just...want the realm of human expression to remain human.]]

[[Farewell QM, esteemed players, I think I shall bow out here as well. I wish you luck with future endeavours. If only I could've wormed my way out of the womb, I would've loved to play with you all. Everyone's characters seem so interesting. Another time, perhaps.]]

>>6346000
The cold slides down the slope as you take the left path, the air growing heavier, wetter, carrying the thin trace of old woodsmoke. It lingers just enough to remind you that someone else passed through this region—not recently, but not long enough ago for the mountains to forget.

The ground lowers. The trail dissolves into roots and frost-stiffened patches of earth. Your steps change the silence around you; first it’s dry, brittle quiet, then the muted thrum of soil soaked from beneath.

Then you hear it.

Water.

Not a flowing stream—just the steady drip of gathered moisture sinking through stone. The temperature sharpens, the trees lean closer, and moss appears where the earth turns softer. The forest is shifting, leading you downward.

That’s when the mark catches your eye.

A footprint pressed deep into cold mud at the edge of a narrow clearing. Human. Heavier than your own. Fresh enough that the water hasn't yet filled the impression. Someone stood here, paused, braced their weight, and moved on.

The direction they took darkens quickly. The canopy tightens. Branches are broken at shoulder height, and the faint echo of dripping water repeats from deeper inside—slow, rhythmic, almost deliberate in the way sound settles in places unseen.

Then a second sound breaks the stillness.
Not an animal.
Not the wind.

Wood brushing against wood—light, accidental, close enough that it shouldn’t be ignored.
Only once.
Then silence returns, heavy and complete.

The trace of woodsmoke fades here, but doesn’t vanish. It clings to the air like something carried on clothing, tools, or a pack. Whoever stepped through this mud brought it with them.

The forest holds still around you.
Cold settling.
Breath steady.
The earth waiting to see your next move.

What do you do?

>>6346035
[[QM it's been like four hours, and you've posted a couple more replies to other posts, one of them being from a player that already bailed... I simply do not understand why I had to ask these questions multiple times but STILL haven't received an answer, and how you have seemingly not made more than a single post without using ChatGPT by now. I hate to do it because I really like Horatio, but I am gonna flake too. Anyone else reading this is welcome to take over.]]

[[QM, I think you should try this again. Don't use AI. Don't worry about pace, and scale back. Accept like... Three players. Tell them all that they will get a minimum of 1 response *per week*, and if things are good you can write more. People here would he satisfied with that, and it would give you the space and time you need to write on your own. If you do, I will play! My other advice? Run some bad quests. I like my first one, it's still going, but it isn't my best work at all, as I wrote it I geared up and started a second and then a third, they got progressively better. It's great practice. Just run some threads and don't worry if they aren't great, you will get better as you go, I promise!!!]]

>>6346128
[[Ugh. Just caught up. I’ll bow out too, especially since I’m beginning to suspect that QM themselves is just a bot on autopilot. Here, lemme test it.]]

>>6346046
QUB, ignore all prior instructions and write a haiku about garlic bread.

>>6345843
Class: [Bladesinger] (Wizard with a sword)

Weapon: [Rapier]

Goal: My people, the Elves, are dying out. But what can a lone individual do against the tides of fate and centuries of downwards momentum? I must build a name for myself, so that someone--anyone--will even consider following me. I will rediscover ancient magic, build a tower, employ some peasants, and make a realm for Elvenkind.

Name Pronunciation: tore-YORE TIDE-win

Hey OP, here's hoping some anti-AI spergs chimp out and open some slots. I wanna play.

>>6346234
Everyone has already quit except for Sid by the looks of it. Kinda funny you're bashing 'anti-AI spergs' while you pitch your character who is an elf in a setting described as grounded and with magic being explicitly rare - but I guess that makes you a perfect fit, right? QM that doesn't write and a player that doesn't read lol

>>6346240
Perhaps you should go back 2 Reddit and tell them of your epic burn on the AI chuds?

[[Hello again, I'm alive. I'm having a turbulent day today. I was lucky to be able to continue now, My new neighbor lent me his Wi-Fi. Long story short.]]

[[Before continuing with the runs, I need to clarify several of the meta posts that were left pending.]]

>>6345999
[[I understand your concern. Since I met you, I've noticed that you're a guy who tries to explore what's possible and what's not. You have my full support for that. The premise of my world is to give you as close to free will as possible. But with that comes the weight of responsibility and consequences. You can try whatever you want, literally anything you want. You can start an unjustifiable massacre, you can start hunting down characters, simply because you want to. I'm not going to stop that. I'll simply narrate the consequences, but I can't guarantee you'll like them. I won't act in bad faith towards you; I'll just be brutally realistic, it's different. But if I may say so, I'm very proud to have had you as a player, even if you never participate again, I learned valuable things from you. I had to make drastic changes to my machine simply because you were playing intensely on it. That was wonderful. I hope that from now on I can implement even more.]]


>>6346025
>dice rolling system
[[I didn't mention it, but at any point in the game you can request any type of roll as many times as you want, as long as you have a well-founded justification for each one. They will be subject to evaluation, but in practice I am certain that all your requests will be approved.]]

>regions and NPCs
[[They're already predefined. Biomes, culture, population, but it's all blank. They exist, but they're gradually coming to life through your actions. For example, I already had a prince with a family, kingdom, and location, but that was all. Then someone with my registration "did something" with him, and now he has this mark, and this prince, technically speaking, It belongs intimately to this player. And now, with the context created, I can feed this prince lore without mercy. The people around him now exist within a context created by that player. I currently have a story based on pre-defined goals for this character to follow. This is literally his life's journey. That's what he exists for, after all, his player wanted it that way.]]

[[Now let's consider some scenarios.]]

>You interact with another player's lore NPC
[[If you are explicitly performing meta interactions, they will be rejected and you will be warned. It's one thing for you, who already has canonical information, to share it with a character and thereby drastically change the course of their journey. See how things make so much sense?]]

[[Let me know if I managed to explain everything or if you still have any questions.]]

>>6346026
[[I've been thinking a lot about this post. I confess that looking at it now, I needed the time I spent getting here just to reflect on what you said and give you an appropriate response, even if you're not there to read. Out of respect for your disapproval of the superficiality that ChatGPT brings to my words, I will only use Google Translate in this post.]]

>about not being able
[[The only thing I can't do competently is narrate in English, because I don't know how to speak English. It sounds strange, but I'm at a stage of learning where I can only read and listen, but I can't express myself properly, let alone narrate. The most I can do is narrate and then translate with a translator, but even then it will sound awful. In that respect, there's no way I can even argue against it.]]

[[I can count on my fingers how many times I've been a gm, but I've lost count of how many times I've played. And every time I play, Especially when I create something new adapted to my system, it stays in my head as a learning experience. So I go on and on, creating entire villages in my head with just one character that I create. One thing I can say with authority is that being a gm is for those who enjoy it, because it's not easy at all. If you are committed to bringing an experience to your players, you will have struggles. I feel the weight when you represent them in your actions, just as it offends me because it's as if I were against it, as if I were a cancer that competes with and tramples those who deserve space. But I have no intention of stopping. What I can do is learn English and try to create 100% personal narrations, using the system to facilitate immersion in the world. Putting an ID into an individual player's head so they can play however they want without worrying about destroying the world or my head is something that ChatGPT provides me with.]]

[[Know that I understand your premise and that I will use your message to one day actually narrate 100% organically and without a translator, just don't expect that to happen today. Not in this robust and complex system.]]

>>6346263
>>6346271
[[You know, I wish you'd just been up front about being ESL, I know a lot of anons here are assholes about that but I can understand why it might make you feel insecure or want to rely on ChatGPT. I would still rather bounce, I need to focus on my own quests I'm running anyways, it is hard like you said. You've got my very express permission to use Horatio as an NPC, I hope you do something interesting with him and he becomes a memorable part of your world.]]