Archived threads in /qst/ - Quests - 239. page

>>1093747
Betty gud but you might want to revise the descriptions of the lands.

>>1093747
>Elves breed slower than drow, giants and cyclops
>Dwarves breed as fast as humans
>The only thing that breeds slower than elves is crystalids

Other than that it looks good despite the lack of hardcore land options and the out-of-place seeming black & white picture for the myceloid.

>>1093747
Um, okay.
What do you consider is more fun civ game to play for you guys?
A math/list/chart/calculation/etc. heavy civ quest or one with fewer calculations and more story/roleplay?
Also has anyone hosted a science fiction or post-apocalyptic civ thread before?

>>1105198
>You'll meet, but only help if your demands are met first.
Well this meeting can end only so well.

>>1105198
>You'll meet, but only help if your demands are met first.

>>1105198
>You'll meet, but only help if your demands are met first.

>>1105151
>Pink
>Madrid

>>1105168
ill add you in, but you need to pick a city with +1 and not beyond that

>>1105174
Valencia

>>1103461
>Tank the hit
>yes, I will pay for freeing you, evidently.

>>1103461
>use Detect to stop the attack
>call out to it mentally
>I cut the power; you need to go now to escape!

Rolled 94, 33, 48 = 175 (3d100)

>>1103927

>>1103032
Vladimir Lenin

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>>1103060

You are a sculpture of Communist revolutionary Vladimir Lenin and have all the powers that an old school Communist revolutionary has. You have vague memories of almost being torn down in a town square when you were suddenly transported by a witch to a different world and granted life apparantly.

Now that you know who or what you are, what are you going to do now?


Roll a d100 to see how well you succeed or fail depending.

Rolled 87 (1d100)

Seize the means of production.

My fellow oppressed statues, we will let the foot of the fleshy bourgeoisie step on us no longer!

>>1094363
>Ask about the unmarked letter. It might be business.

>>1094363
>Thank him, then ask what the gift is for.
Then

>>1094363
Thank him, then ask what the gift is for.

>>1094889

Even with the rain forming a veil around you, the smoke from the bonfire will make a fine signal for anyone with the eyes to see it. It's impossible to know for sure how many of the natives live here – even counting the shacks might not tell you much, for you have the growing suspicion that they are purely for show – but you can imagine the alarm spreading quickly once it has been raised. The thought of deformed natives swarming out of the tunnels like bees fleeing their hive is not one you can easily dismiss.

And yet those tunnels are your goal, the mermaid far below your target.

Leading Uriah in a sullen march, you ignore the constant tapping of rain against your hood and descend down into the shanty town once again. The sound of the rain isn't the only thing that haunts you, with the mermaid's squealing call dancing around the borders of your awareness. Little wonder that Schreiber resorted to playing music all the time, with that droning song always waiting in the background. It's strange, the more you listen to it, the more you can hear... words.

No, that's not the mermaid's song, you realise, that's something else – some other song. The words are low and gurgling, too indistinct for anything specific or meaningful to be heard, but the voices – two, if you had to guess – are slowly approaching. Glancing back, you peer out at the fading remains of the bonfire. Fading, yes, but the smoke is still visible against the gloomy backdrop. Even if the smoke dies away completely, there's still the matter of Schreiber's body – waiting in her manor with a cut throat. Disposing of it was out of the question however, as it would rob the Ministry of any proof of her death. Without a body, the uncertainty would fester like an infected wound.

-

When you round a corner and see movement, you quickly duck back into cover, seizing Uriah by the sleeve and dragging him with you. From the brief glimpse of movement, you made out two figures – slouching forwards with a vague burden shared between them, and walking with the slow pace of the unaware.

Closer now, but the words of their song are still indistinct – perhaps because the voices themselves are indistinct, low and gurgling and terrible. Even so, something about the song, the rhythm of it perhaps, feels oddly familiar. Paired with the surreal ambience here, it feels like something plucked out of your own memory.

No time for reminiscing, you tell yourself harshly, you're still on duty – and you're still in hostile territory.

>Slip past the locals. The buildings should offer plenty of cover
>Intercept the locals and kill them both
>Try to capture and interrogate one of the locals
>Other

>>1094890
>>Slip past the locals. The buildings should offer plenty of cover

>>1094890
>Try to capture and interrogate one of the locals

Hope you've been well, Moloch.

You exit your quarters with a sigh, raising an eyebrow. There are sounds of an argument coming from somewhere downstairs. Not a yelling argument necessarily, but you can tell by the tone of both voices that it isn’t far from it.

Descending into the crew decks, you begin to hear the actual substance of the conversation, recognizing the voices as well.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Tom says bitterly. You can tell by the dismissive tone he’s taking that he expects to lose the argument.

“All I’m saying is that you should’ve listened to me!” An insistent female voice responds almost instantly. You realize that it is Samantha Brooks, the sole surviving crew member of the Wales.

“Oh yeah?” If you had to guess, you’d say Tom has his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. “So you’re saying we should’ve just gone onto someone else’s property with guns blazing, on a planet in the midst of a civil war I might add, because you had a hunch?”

“T-that’s not what I’m saying at all!” She’s clearly riled up. “I was certain that something was off about that place, but you didn’t even listen to me.”

“We had conflicting information,” Tom sighs. “An eyewitness’s information at that. You only had a hunch.”

You step into the wardroom to see Samantha leaning toward Tom, looking angrier than you’d thought possible, while Tom scowls dismissively at her, arms crossed.

They notice you as you sigh, stepping into the Wardroom. “Captain,” Tom nods. Both of them step back from each other, looking a little bit embarrassed to be caught almost shouting at each other.

>”What’s this all about?”
>”Both of you, cut it out.”
>”Tom, you shouldn’t go picking fights with someone we just rescued. We’re trying to make her feel welcomed here.”
>”Miss Brooks, you’re here on my permission. Picking fights with my crew is a good way to strain that.”
>Write-in.

>>1092121
>”What’s this all about?”
>"But slowly and at medium loudness please. And no interrupting each other."

>>1092121
>”What’s this all about?”
>"But slowly and at medium loudness please. And no interrupting each other."

We will have a historic record, with the fixtures, all seasons champs and runner ups.

The Mennonite State

Primary color: Light Blue

Secondary color: White

>>1096788

Big Tiddies
Primary color: Pink
Secondary color: Darker pink

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>>Resume being Keiichi Hirayama, but with a sense of déjà vu this time.

Being bonded with Akasha-Alea for three straight years has, unsurprisingly, exposed yourself to the intricacies of her personality. You know enough about her to read forum posts regarding ‘hypothetical’ firearm spirits and think to yourself, ‘Goddamn, how little you guys know.’

They speak of a regal, domineering woman, who resides in a nexus of all battlefields and treats the spirits of rifles like her own children. The real Akasha-Alea has little interest in the spirit nobility, is as sociable as an underground hermit and has zero hesitation in sending her army of familiars on suicide missions. You’ll give them the domineering part, though. Attempting to refuse her when she gets serious is like attempting to move Mt. Fuji with your bare hands.

She still hasn’t managed to make your mother back down, though.

(Another theory the soldiers, warriors and anonymous forum posters have written is that the spirit of firearms is a massive cube constructed out of weapons, emitting enmity and killing intent with every passing second. They are, ironically, partially right. Akasha-Alea devoured said cube and made it part of her existence. Thus, the cube is technically the spirit of firearms, in the same sense that a single leaf is the of the greenery.)

Akasha-Alea appreciates when her subordinates follows orders, enjoying reading in her small library and possesses a love for sweet foods that borders on matching her childish appearance. The pantry back home has been raided of its chocolates more times than she could count, under the façade of complete seriousness and a reasoning of ‘preventing too much calories from entering your diet’.

As for what she hates…these include terrible jokes, foul alcohol, spirits that represent the concept of swords, humans that get the clip and magazine mixed up (she is far from alone in this) and the reversion of skill. Not a single day has gone by where she hasn’t done some form of self-training. As her mentee, she naturally expects you to follow the same principle.

Add her irritation stemming from you losing a good chunk of your capability from last year due to the truck accident, and you’ve got a driven spirit who plucked you out of the human world on a Sunday afternoon to practice your Anti-Mana bullets and relearn the Bullet Time skill.

You contemplated protesting. She gave you a single look and the words died in your throat.

She kept you there for four hours with only several ten-minutes break in between. This is exactly what your father had warned you about.

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Inhale and exhale. Close your eyes and concentrate. Send the mana flowing up to your eyeballs, ignoring the cursing of your magic circuits. Feel the burn, as if both were immersed in a pit of hot coals. Remove the color from the world, for it is unnecessary. A field of blacks, whites and shades of grey.

Then, raise your weapon weighing a thousand tons. Squeeze the trigger. Watch the bullet fly out in slow motion. Then cancel the effect and see them soar through the air like small meteors. Watch them hit the target familiars, plow through the magical barriers covering them and drill holes in their torso. Watch the familiars stumble, collapse and vanish in a puff of black smoke.

Feel the sensation of your knees buckle. Refuse to let your stance waver, lest your mentor hit you over the head with a wooden pole. Devour emergency mana-restoring pills and repeat until all energy has been exhausted.

You direct your gaze upwards. The sky here is orange and dusty, reminiscent of an afternoon in the African wilderness. Footsteps approach. You twist your head to the side. Your mentor stands above your prone form, staring down at you with an expressionless look.

“You still haven’t managed to restrict the flow of your mana.” She intones. “Your consumption is increasing linearly, rather than being constant.”

“I couldn’t do that before the accident.” You choke out.

“No, but you were close.” She counters, closing her eyes for an instant. “You managed to hit all the targets and stretch your usage of Bullet Time to your maximum length. It seems that you have managed to regain some degree of proficiency with the technique, so I shall grudgingly accept this as a pass.”

“That's nice of you.” You grunt. “Are we done today?”

Akasha-Alea narrows her gaze a fraction, gauging how much and for how long you have been awaiting for a confirmation. She lets out a small breath. “Yes, your training is done. However, there is something we need to discuss. Pick yourself up and walk with me.”

In the early days of your training, Akasha-Alea would extend a hand and let you help yourself up with it. Now she doesn’t bother. And you agree with her, because you don’t need the help.

You trudge behind her, your tracksuit pants coated in a thin film of dust. You have a set of similar pants in your closet specifically for training. Because Airi is finicky as hell about dirt in the house, a pair gets shaken down and dumped into the laundry every single day.

Akasha-Alea leads you to a small pavilion at the edge of the training grounds, a tea table rests. You both take your seats. From here, you have a good view of the field, a stretch of barren earth pockmarked by shrunken trees, tufts of dry grass and training structures. Akasha-Alea may have won her land through her status and brutal crusades against her rival weapon spirits, but gardening was a concept that continued to elude her. Still, the view is picturesque in a rustic, desolate sort of way.

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“Here.” A familiar in a maid outfit (you never understood why Akasha-Alea made her servant familiars dress this way) serves two mugs of steaming coffee. The contents are pitch-black and dense as tar. The scent is 90% bitter and 10% sugar. Yet, your heart jumps at the sight, because Akasha-Alea rarely brews this special coffee of hers and you haven’t found any other drink in existence that’s better for restoring mana.

“What’s the occasion?” You ask.

“My hope that we can have this discussion without you complaining several minutes in.” Akasha-Alea responds. “Fleeting, I know, but to hope is to consider the impossible as a possibility.”

“Yeah, you’re exaggerating.” You say, knowing that it’s most likely in vain. You take a sip and immediately feel the vitality returning to your exhausted circuits. It tastes like liquified herb medicine but there’s something about it that’s just so good.

“There are several anecdotes I could counter your argument with, but in this instance I shall graciously refrain. Let’s make this straightforward.” Akasha-Alea replies and leans slightly across her end of the table. You stop drinking. “Tell me boy, have you, at any point in your life, had any sort of aspirations or ambitions regarding your future?”

“You’re concerned about that?” You ask, after some pause. This is a little surprising.

“Of course I am.” Akasha-Alea says matter-of-factly, a hint of disdain flashing through her violet eyes. “I am your mentor. It is my duty to provide adequate guidance along the course of your life, thus preventing you from making a total fool of yourself in public. Don’t answer with your childhood, boy. I have heard about your past ambition to become a fireman and I can say without doubt I would not let you follow that profession.”

“When did you hear about that?” You exclaim. “Also, why not?”

“Eavesdropping on your parents for the first. For the second, because you would have to learn elemental magic, which is difficult considering your limited magic potential, and because it is not a profession that allows you to wield firearms on a regular basis.”

“Do water guns count?”

“They do not.”

“…I dunno. They might call me in to fight another giant fire-breathing chicken.”

“Which is a task for the assault magus.” Akasha-Alea replies, snappily. “Now that is a career choice I would approve of.”

“Because it’s all about violence and assault magi carry guns?”

“Precisely.”

You hum and think. “I was thinking about something along those lines…” You mumble.

“Go on…” Your mentor prompts.

“Considering all the incidents I get caught up in and how much violence goes in the middle of them, I was thinking I’d like a job where I can fight and get paid for it.”

“…and?”

“That’s it.” You admit, feeling a little cowed. Akasha-Alea’s eyes narrow at this.

“You don’t seem to have put a great deal of thought into this.”

>>1094911
>Use the Garganta and casually waltz into Soul Society
It's not like we're invading, heck we could even ask nicely to speak with them.

>>1094911
>Go to the living world and use more ''regular'' means of transportation (Urahara)
Let's be polite

>>1094911
>>Go to the living world and use more ''regular'' means of transportation (Urahara)

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You awaken in the largest bed in the tower, which isn't amazingly large; merely a queen-size bed. Alongside you is Ben, soundly asleep and snoring lightly, whose world you thoroughly rocked last night. You bite your lip as you stretch, feeling a delightful soreness in all the right places. With a yawn, you shake your hair out of your eyes and think. By the light that enters through the dusty window, it is morning, and the chirping of birds reaches your ears.

'Gods, I needed that. Playing with Merriam only goes so far. I doubt Kaylessa could compare... but then again, I haven't given him the chance.'

Ben shifts slightly, turning his head. You look over at him and give a small smile as you rest a hand on his chest. He had been building up some doubt of you lately, due to questionable things he had seen and heard, but you did quite a bit of work bringing him unknowingly back under your heel last night, explaining how you had been distant from him and the reasons for it. He apologized for his doubt and then expressed how much he cares about you and wants to protect you, a sweet gesture indeed.

Then came the sex, which you cared about more than his words.

'Let's see... Faye went off to seduce that paladin woman. Amalia? Amantha? Amanda! I wonder how well that worked out for her. I didn't keep track of the others... I wonder where they are.'

Nearby are your belongings, along with all the new loot from the tower that you haven't gone through yet that Kaylessa has sorted.

>Wake up Ben
>Go check on the others
>Sort through the loot
>Rest some more
>Other/Write-In

>>1091747
>>Wake up Ben
Then
>Go check on the others.

>>1091747
>Wake up Ben

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>>1091545
I've been waiting for this :)

the jams of the forest invented a way to keep track of events by giving each form of a bead a certain constenant and each colour a vowel. together these beads can become a syllable.
(pic related: jam kai kiri: jam(s) of the forest)

>>1091586
Didn't they already have a written language back in the previous thread? Does that mean this is not a new development but a retcon?

>>1091710
probably a retcon, either way a cool idea

>>1098327
you got the succ

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>>1098345
Ah yes, the succ.

so good

hmmmmm

makes you H A P P Y

>who was giving you the succ and why

>>1098348
the succ - Super Underground Combat Championship - is the belt of the wrestling promotion you're a part of. You've been given it by the booking team and the reason is because you are to lose it to Garry "Actually beats people up for real" Johnson in your next fight.

>>1098443
Soviet Union
Red
Nomads
Eastern Orthodoxy
Start at the lumber in the far northeast

>>1098443
Achmed al-hussar
israel
islam
dark-green

>>1098467
Type?