Archived threads in /qst/ - Quests - 490. page

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iIt has been 6 months since North Ridge high school began to fly.

Neil Green had been just another awkward nerd until he had woken up with powers that allowed him to alter reality itself. His first action was to convert his high school into a flying fortress.

now, as the teachers have all been transformed into various hideous guard monsters, the student body labors under the iron fist of the dark overlord Neil. yes, outside military has come, but none of them lasted very long. if Neil is to be defeated, it will take cunning, treachery, and guile.

well, you've got willpower, and that's a start.

who are you?

>The Good: Gabe Andrews
Gabe enjoys playing the guitar, skateboarding, and spending time with friends. hes been a boy scout since he was 7, and feels the dark sky empire Neil has created is wrong. Hes been doing the best he can to keep himself and all other students safe, but Neil has been showing signs of putting troops to the ground to expand his empire, and Gabe cant protect all of Earth.
Neil must be overthrown, for the good of mankind.

>The Bad: Genevieve Hawkins
Gen is snide, greedy, petty, and excellent at manipulation. she enjoys nothing more than getting a leg up on the suffering of others, and believes that life is a competition to see who can come out on top. She also hates Neil.
Due to her general demeanor towards him, when he conquered the school, she was punished in the same way as Neils other bullies before being sent to the slave pits.
Neil must be overthrown, because powers like that should belong to someone smarter and better looking.

>The ugly: Greg
Greg is a fat prick. He watches too much anime, plays too many video games, and spends far too much time posting on internet image-boards. his abrasive and competitive nature earned him many enemies, and a harsh rivalry with Neil, who he met on the battlefield of MTG many times.
Neil must be overthrown, because fuck that guy.

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You awaken in your bunk. The alarm clock buzzes, and upon a closer look, it is 4:30 AM.

Stepping out into the early morning, you take a deep breath, the smell of gasoline and gunpowder fill your nostrils. Sparking up a cigarette, you look down at your pager, reading "ROOM BRAVO 0500". Walking through the dimly lit walls of the FOB, you pass the Howitzers, and the motor pool. All familiar sights.

Checking your watch, it is now 4:45 AM. You call out to the marine sitting in his watch post, slowly taking your steps up into the post, each step creaking the plywood under you. Offering him a cigarette, he gladly takes it. "PFC Abbot, 1st Battalion, 4th Marines." He mutters through his dirt-filled shemagh. Just then, you hear an explosion in the distance, racing for his thermal-imaging device, it's a false-call. Air-force dropped a 500 pounder on what they believed to be an insurgent position, the private says.

Giving the private one final nod, you leave the watch-post, enjoying a cup of slop-style coffee. Standing in the command post, you look at the door. "Briefing Room Bravo," the door says; you've seen it a million times before, briefed on plenty of operations and day-to-day tasks in your fire-team. A soldier standing at the door requests your name..

>Name "LCpl. (Your Name Here"
>Age
>Gender
>Skills
>Appearance

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The President picks up the phone on his desk and dials the Hardbody Agency for Professional Asskickers. "Please help, I am being kidnapped by NEFARIOUS FORCES," was all he managed to say before the nefarious Skull Gang's agents kidnap him.Hearing the dial tone, The Chief puts down his phone, before looking at the dossiers on his agents scattered on his desk. Who will be the baddest agent to rescue the President?

>D02 QUEST! Rules are in image.
>Make a character sheet or vote for someone else's, I don't care how shit it is. Most popular is the protagonist.
>Dice Rolling: It's all D02, all the time.

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Welcome to WILD WEST QUEST.
First, a few rules.
There are THREE vital resources you need to keep track of. WATER, FOOD, and AMMO. You start off with 10 of each. They can be obtained through scavenging or crafting (with the exception of water, which has to be harvested/scavenged).
An option will be chosen after at least three people have replied, and there is no tie. The most popular option will be chosen.
Ready?

Your name is HANK. You are a lone cowboy in the wild west. Your goal is to conquer this vast, unexplored territory.
What will you do?
>Explore
>Hunt in the vicinity
>Write in

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Previous Thread: http://boards.4chan.org/qst/thread/320847/

Summary: Last thread our "hero" gained control of a small amount of populace in an attempt to become the widely worshipped demon lord he dreamed of being.

The "hero: himself: A long time ago he was ejected from one the imp mother's quivering orifices a tiny shivering glob of flesh. He is a pure imp with no imperfections (unless you count the pompadour he's been sporting as of recent). His abilities are a natural dexterity and speed, high resistance to heat and ballistic impact, and a nice pair of wings to glide with. Today you (now known as Mazzaranche) stand atop two corpses and feed upon the flesh of your fellow imp, staring out at your 21 followers. The rest of the village you failed to persuade is running in fear that you may riddle them with assault rifle fire.

>many of your followers ask if they should do something about the fleeing populace.

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So, in case your new to this quest, (I think this quest may be the longest running on /qst/, not sure to be honest.) then good luck. The archives are in the Character Sheet, so there you go.

Character Sheet: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jI0aGxA_2h3SAcPYri-1fdgskbK3IbtfEzSLJ7VY9gU/edit

Twitter: @QuestingQM

My other quest is Nazi Experiment Quest, which is sadly delayed due to me accidently deleting the lore.

You are Renexizious, and you are speaking to Lorriana, a gold dragon who either likes you, or dislikes you. You honestly can't tell.

"So. From what I gather, your talents lie in research?" you crook your head slightly.

"My word, you've understood what I said." She puts her hand over her mouth, feigning wonder.

"...I'm really fucking tired of your sarcasm." You slam your fist into a table, and cause it to break in half.

"Too bad, Ren. Too bad." She takes a sip of her wine, and looks back at you, amused.

"Don't fucking call me that, It's Renexizious to you. No one fucking calls me Ren." You are this close to strangling her. Too bad the voices in your head want you to appoint her as a minister of research or try to give her a rather good tumble.

"Too bad. It's quite popular around here."

"Son of a bit- Never mind. Now, here's what I want you to do."

Choices.

>Appoint her into the Imperial Research Director.
>Tell her to remain a courtier and stay out of trouble.
>Appoint her into the Defense Director.
>Write-In

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The Year is 2679, and it is a mess. An actual fucking mess. Hundreds of years of proxy wars and the rise of mega-corporations have birthed both horrific biological hazards, and the largest world war in Food history. Tens of millions of Foods have died in the conflict, and the concept of nations and countries by food producers have ceased to exist, territories are now divided by the Food Pyramid.

But this change wasn't perfect either. There were foods that didn't belong in the Pyramid, and those criticized and ridiculed by the other food groups for who and what they were. The former became the Candy Confederacy, the latter became dogs of war.

In your case, hotdogs of war.

Your name is Frank, and you and your mates are going to get paid tonight. One way or the other.

You sweep your eyes to your left and right, and see nothing but glorious, brave fucking hotdogs on either side of you in the trench all of you are sharing. Even Sav. Oh God yes Sav.
She notices your eyes on her and she winks at you before returning her gaze to the task at hand.

Holy shit, you think to yourself, she might actually take you up on that date if we both make it tonight.

Now properly incensed, you pull up your K3TCH rifle and make a final check on the spray setting and the standard-issue sights and find everything in tip-tip shape. Heinz made their weapons quality, a fact always appreciated by the dirty bastards using them at the front. You inspect your browned bun, properly heated for maximum protection, and find it also perfectly fine. Let none find us wanting this night, you muse.

Your eyes finally skip to Kiel, the battle-hardened sausage who leads this motley crew of mercenaries. He sometimes likes to go by il Condimentittiero, but nobody actually calls him that because he isn't an Italian sausage in the slightest. His eyes are locked onto his watch, and you know he is keeping time until the charge. You finally settle back down in your spot and stretch, you can't risk pulling anything once you cross that killing-field up ahead.

The enemy trench sits almost two-hundred meters away, surrounded by the wreckage of various types of Food containers and the rotting corpses of their former occupants. You'd heard the Coalition Food forces had been smashed yesterday, against those dreaded Candy Cannons that manned that trench and you must be looking at the remains of that force now.

(1/2)

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1:41 AM on a Sunday before the dawn, when even the crickets were asleep and the air was soundless, Starman gazed out of his window at phosphorescence and distant starlight.

He couldn't sleep. This was one of many nights where sleep did not come. He sat on his bed and opened his window and the breeze would hit his cheek and his neck and he could feel the wetness of it against his sweat and know that there would be rain in the morning or in the afternoon. Rain in the next night.

Starman was going to die in 3 years. In exactly 3 years, to the date and to the minute, he would take his own life. Without ceremony, in great quiet, he would hang himself from the curtain bar with a rope made of old pajamas. The breeze would hit him, and there would be rain the next morning.

He did not know these things yet. Starman's phone buzzed. Starman's phone never buzzed. He had bought the cheapest phone plan available to him, a pre-paid plan. $20 lasted him 6 months. No one called him. Nobody texted him. He had some numbers in the phonebook. But these were a formality -- a kind of pretend. He used his phone only to read and to listen to music. He didn't take any pictures. He never called anyone. He never texted. His phone shouldn't be buzzing.

He grabbed his phone. Someone had texted him from an unknown number. Spam, most likely. But even spam was rare.
This is Starman. This is u. From the future. I'm dead. ur dead, or will be, in three years, on exactly this day, at exactly this time.
The spammers were getting creating creative. There's more. Starman scrolls down.
i can help u. i know everything that's going to happen to u for the next three years. i wrote it all down in a journal. u need to find that journal. it's buried in ur mom's garden, not hte one in the front, the one on thebackyard. It's near the fence, near the back. Two steps from the garage. u need to go now and get it. u have 5 minutes.

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Light flashes into his eyes as he rose.

He wakes up as if in a trance. The air felt unusually heavy, like it was enough to suffocate him. He knew something was wrong in this scene, and he exactly knows what it was.

He was supposed to be dead.

"Are you alright? You seem you had a bad dream." Hinata asks.

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Post summaries of your favorite quests, why you think people should join them and when they can catch the next thread.

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New civ quest.

Ground rules:

Roll 1d20 and make a suggestion. Roll determines how well it will go. Vote for which suggestion you think is best, highest number of votes wins. In case of tie, highest roll wins. Crits are enabled.

Now, get to voting.
Now, get to voting on

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Hey /QST/ I need some help, there was a bomb ass quest made from a troll thread a while back called hood quest. Anyways the thing is I can't remember the characters names so if anyone from that thread remembers can you help out? I plan on writing out an idea for a story and qm'ing it but I've never done this before so it'll be a while.

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Previous: >>313265
Schedule (inconsistent, sorry): https://twitter.com/Scoundrel_OP
Inventory/CS: http://pastebin.com/cFJfscrH

Kaz... I'm already a Devaronian.

3950 BBY, shortly after the defeat of the Triumvirate...

You are Nas Rennow, a Devaronian bounty hunter with more bark than bite. You're all (devilish) smiles when druk hits the fan, but sometimes even a good attitude isn't enough to deflect beams to the head. The Force can do that, but you'd rather never deal with that perverted pseudo-spiritual monstrosity ever again.

Sure, the Force is dying or something, but you're too busy being a Nar Shaddaa hotshot to care. There are more important things in life, like stabilizing your financial situation and shooting people for a living. Maybe you'll even upgrade to an apartment on one of the upper levels of the city, if you're lucky.

You have a sneaking suspicion that your employers at the Exchange are beginning to see you as some kind of miracle-working errand boy, as their most recent assignment saw you hijacking a shuttle and tricking a Hutt Cartel crime lord into a kidnapping.

Soon you'll be visiting your new "friend", Gwan. He's not much to look at, and he certainly isn't endowed with the gift of the gab, but he may just be your ticket to bailing your friend Dalt Frey out of his overwhelming swoop debts.

Alternatively, you may be able to finish things up with the Exchange and get some payment for your troubles.

Current Agenda:

>Take a bath before meeting up with Gwan. Sure, you're late, but you'd rather not offend a Weequay with bad pheromones. {slight bonus to most dialogue options taken in person; more professional and presentable}
>Go to the meeting with Gwan.
- or -
>Head back to the Exchange lockup. They'll pull every card they can to get out of paying you for a job-well-done, but you're good at negotiating.
>Regardless of which choice you take, you'd like to get your toes fixed later on. You broke two of them only minutes ago in a daring escape from a rooftop blaster-fight. {very slight detriment to character's mobility in certain rolls}

Next post incoming. Don't reply to this one!

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Hark!

The brazen bells of midnight upon the darkness toll,
But sleep, life's custom agent, won't take from me his dole;
Down paths so many follow, death would my spirit lead,
And death, when all considered, resembles life indeed;
While in my heart the balance does level stand between
And neither to the one, nor to the other lean.

Welcome to the Monster's Ball. It always starts at midnight. Enter a name on https://en.shindanmaker.com/497807 and join in! Conflicts are resolved with d666s when needed, or with playing it out. When the thread dies on /tg/, we keep it going on archive.4plebs For additional resources, please visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Weird and http://www.generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=1093 .

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Welcome to the town of Drophorse, a rural settlement in the prairies. In this universe, superheroes are real, and are constantly tearing apart cities in their climatic battles.

You, however, don't care for that bullshit. The easy way of life seemed to you like the only way to not get a kryptonite bullet lodged in your skull, so you never left your home town, as boring as it may be sometimes.

Hey, you like it here.

To start, simply submit your character in this way:

Name: Gary Hiebert

Power: Can raise his hands to 300 degrees Celsius

Bio: quick run-down of his personality and occupation.

There can be as many players as you want, but keep it reasonable for me. As for powers- pick something low-tier (Marvel's Defenders).