Fucking witches. Fucking Kris.
These are your first thoughts as you worm your way into consciousness.
You seem to have awakened on your back, laying in the grass. It's outside- you can tell by the sun shining on your face. Your head feels as if it is full almost to bursting, each beat of your heart seeming another twist on the vice that surrounds it. Keeping this in mind, you stay still for a little bit to see if it subsides.
After thirty beats on the drum inside your head, it's probably safe to say that the headache isn't going anywhere immediately.
You try to remember how you got here, and experience a moment of alarm when you realize you cannot. The moment turns into several, as you realize you can remember nothing about anything. You open your eyes and sit up, and immediately regret that as the pain in your head grows excruciating
No... No, actually, you think you remember something. You remember...
> [ ]
And that you are an Unbound, and a little bit about what that means.
...Also, looking down at yourself, it is evident that you are a:
And that you are:
You remember thinking of Kris's name, but nothing else about... her? Him? So, not much of a starting point there.
Well, regardless of your mental status, you figure you have two options here. You can stay here, waiting for your headache to go away a bit- likely the healthier option- or you can go look for someone. Maybe figure out where the hell you are.
>Stay and rest for a bit
>Bull through the pain, go and find someone or something and figure out what the hell is going on
Hup, forgot my trip the first time. This is me.
Your name is Grace. You can't find a last name in your mind- you don't know if that means you don't have one, or if you just can't remember it.
You open your eyes just a crack, painfully, and raise your head look down at yourself. You see breasts- a good handful each, perhaps- under a simple croptop and denim jacket. Under them is the exposed skin of your belly, swarthy at the very least. You're pretty brown.
The effort angers whatever pains your head, and all of a sudden getting up and doing something sounds like a terrible idea. You flop over onto your side, with some effort, facing yourself away from the sun. With that, the pain lessens to bearable levels, and you find that you are incredibly tired. You take a quick nap in the field of grass, surrounded by nothing but the wind and the sky.
You wake up, but continue dozing for some time. The pain in your head is present, but much lesser. You feel confident that you chose the healthier choice. The light coming through your eyelids is redder than before, which probably means it's closing in on sunset. You didn't look at the sun much when you first got here, so you have no idea how long you slept.
You run through what you know.
Your name is Grace. You know someone named Kris.
You are an unbound, an agent of one of the Creators, formed outside fate to act as their hands when they wrote themselves into a corner, so to speak. You don't remember much about said Creators. You recall enough to realize that whichever one made you they must have been pretty desperate. Creating an Unbound means they have to retie the threads of fate after you die, which is a big job involving all of them, meaning that they could well piss of the other Creators thereby. Your knowledge peters out after that.
Something else eludes you. A memory snakes it's way through your mind.
Thinking very hard, and flaring up what pain remains, you manage to grasp it.
A pale woman blasts you with some sort of green light. The feeling of surprise in more way than one, and of being ripped from the world. Blackness.
...You feel as if there might be more to this.
Roll 3d10, +4 bonus from perniciousness. DC 18.
Crit success is usually going to be Ten to Fifteen over the DC, unless it isn't. If it's got special criteria for critting I'll let you know. For this roll, there is no crit success, it's just a straight pass/fail.
Yes, there is definitely something there.
This is important, and so you ignore your head for a moment. You focus intently on the memory, trying to glean anything else about it.
You remember being surprised that the witch had poured so much of herself into a spell- surely, she had died to cast it. You remember, of all things, being surprised at its colour. You had never seen a green spell before. In fact, you don't think you had ever seen any spell that wasn't a shade of grey.
You knew the pale woman, somehow. You don't think she was a friend, or if she was she hadn't been for some time.
Kris- there is that name, again with no face attached to it- had sent you out on what was supposed to be a normal mission.
But it wasn't. Because... because something. Your memory stops once more at that point, as the headache reaches a small peak. Maddening.
Still, it's a fair bit more than you had before. You relax once more, waiting for a while as your again-raging headache burns itself down into embers. Your vision becomes redder and redder, as the sun completes its slow-motion drop towards the horizon.
Your doze is interrupted by the sound of footsteps- small and fast ones, by the sound- coming up behind you. Once more you sit up, noting that the headache seems content to let you do so, and whip around to face-
Some... little white kid? Nine or ten, maybe. His skin is clear, almost porcelain, and he's dressed in clothing that looks out of a ren fair. A ruffled shirt as pale as he is has been placed over simple brown breeches, under which are just-as-simple shoes. They look kind of like loafers. Blonde hair sits on top of his head in a scruffy mop
"You're dark!" he exclaims, emitting a crooked smile at you. You don't recognize the language he speaks- it sounds vaguely germanic?- but you understand it all the same. You note that you, oddly, aren't surprised at this.
While you are still trying to find something to respond to his remark, you hear a man's voice from behind him, in the same rough language the boy was speaking.
"Karl!" it says, mildly alarmed. "I told you not to leave the damned 'van-"
The voice stops as you turn your eyes to it, and you place it onto the tremendous man lumbering towards his... son? He is about six-and-a-half feet tall and not much less around. He looks as if he could constitute four of you.
Maybe five, you decide, eyeing his still-jiggling belly.
His face isn't ugly, per say, but it is as fat as the rest of him. He has a greek nose, and under that a great and bushy mustache-beard combos. His eyes peer at you with a look you can't quite place. Behind him is his "van", which to you looks much more like an old-fashioned horse-and-carriage. That poor carriage, you think to yourself, looking at his tremendous frame.
Those poor horses.
Shaking your mind from the plight of animals, you quickly return to the situation at hand. Fat Man doesn't seem very conversational, and the silence is beginning to grow awkward.
>Wait for him to say something