Rise from Your Grave (a quest to escape your afterlife)

The car swerves. The guillotine falls. The lightning strikes. The disease spreads. The building collapses.

The coffin lid slams shut.

There's nowhere left to go but down.

Welcome to Pandemonium.






The Abyss. Hades. The Spirit Realm. Duat. The Basement. The Underworld. Hel. And, indeed, Pandemonium. The period at the end of the life sentence. A thousand different names scattered over a thousand thousand different realities - each and every culture has its own preferred word for inevitability.

The first stage of death is denial. It begins in the living.

Yet, in a sort of sideways synonym way of looking at things, the living are right, thinking the way they do. There is, in fact, something after death. The problem is, while most of the living believe death to be an ending, and most of the rest believe it to be a new beginning, most of the living... well, they haven't died, yet. They don't have the necessary perspective to make those judgements.

There is a world of difference between merely existing and being alive. Only one of them is something you do on purpose.

Death, to the dead, is not an ending, nor is it a beginning. Death is the climax of the story. What happens down here is the falling action. All the long-lost spirits learn that, given time.

So death moves to anger, its second stage.

Even the nonbelievers believe, after a fashion, in the afterwards. There are names for this place, after all - no matter how inaccurate they are, these names must exist for a reason, right? Even if all one's presuppositions about the absence of a soul are incorrect, one understands the alternative: that the stories they've been told since they were very small must have been told because they were true. "If death is not an ending," most nonbelievers believe, "Then it must have a name I already know."

And even among the others, who profess no belief, and expect no belief, there is still an expectation: everyone will go to the same place, after they die. Or at least the same judgement, or -

No. A thousand, thousand realities, and you are alone - and you do not know where you are.

There are no flames, down below. There are, to be sure, yet there aren't any at all. Put it this way: there are flames, but there is no burning. There are the dead, but there are no ghosts. There is revelation, but there is no understanding. There are doors, but no gates, and gates, but no exits, and exits, but no doors. There are pitchforks, but there is no point.

There is pain, but no punishment.

And there are pleasures - eating and sleeping and loving and gardening and baking and driving monster trucks, just to name a handful - but there is no reward. Mostly, what is here is: More. Forever More. There is the life, minus the living, there are the pain and the pleasure, without the punishment, or the reward, and there is the realization that, just like life, death is arbitrary, both as an event, and in its continuance.

You're here for no reason, and you're stuck here. What else could there be, but anger?

Well, there might be a third stage. Call it "bargaining."

The dead do not rest, here.

Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggg~

But every now and again, they at least manage to nap a little.

You awaken. Your alarm sees to that. You hadn't meant to leave it on last night, but that seems rather immaterial, in the moment. The day is shining through the window, after all, blinding bright and utterly insistent. Sunlight doesn't reach here, of course, down in the basement of reality, but that too is immaterial - it is day, regardless. There is light, regardless.

You are dead. You are alive, regardless. It is the job of your alarm and your futon and your basket-weave walls and the beam of light shining directly into your eyes to remind you of all that. That last one may be a coincidence. But, whatever - consider your memory jogged.

Regardless.

You don't think you're getting back to dreaming anytime soon, even if you've ended up undersleeping. One sigh, deep and heavy, is all you allow yourself before you sit u- oof - creak as you sit up from your bed. Literally, creak. Being made of soul-stuff usually feels like being made of body-stuff, but every so often...

You rub your eyes, and try and focus on the immediate moment. Come on, wake up, sleepyhead. Rise and shine, already. No use being dead tired.

Mrgrngl.

I've never been a morning person, anyway, you think, as you fall back to bed.

---

As you thought. No more sleep. "Mrgrngl," indeed.

But you're a bit more awake, now that you've had time to pout to yourself about being awake. Eventually, you manage to leverage yourself into standing up, eventually. After a while. Maybe a couple hours. Eventually.

From there, a quick trip to the shower leaves you feeling up-and-at-em... relatively speaking. When you say "not a morning person", you mean you're not a person, in the mornings. Dragging yourself back to selfhood usually involves either cold showers or purposefully itchy towels.

The fabric scratches and pulls as you dry yourself, and you grieve that today was apparently a "both" kind of day.

But you're mostly you again, as far as you can tell. Still, maybe you'd better check, while you've got the mirror to prove it.

According to the mirror, you are a:


[] Boy
[] Girl
[] Person
[] Boy, currently

Round about the age of:

[] Teenagedom. They say only the good die young. You think maybe you should've endeavored to be worse.
[] Young Adulthood. Cut down in the prime of your life. Things were just getting started, when they came to an end.
[] Middle Age. In your last days, all you could think about was death, what with all the shiny new aches and pains. Now you're dead, and all you can think about is living.
[] Elderly. You were not, in fact, too young to die. Of course, that doesn't mean you particularly wanted to, now, does it?

And right now, you're...

[] Smiling. Once you're awake - and, yeah, it is a process sometimes - you're actually quite the cheerful sort. Optimistic, in a word.
[] Frowning. You don't actually get less grumpy, when you're more awake. You're just more, ah, cognizant of what it is that's bothering you.
[] Smirking. "Cocky" is a strong term. But then again, you leave a strong impact, so hey! - cock away!
[] Staring. Or maybe "stalling" is a better term. You're the anxious sort, and that's all there is to say about that.


You sigh, the last dregs of dreaming, and run a hand through your hair. Still you, it looks like. Best to work under the assumption that will still be true in future days.

...but maybe not quite completely you, yet. You still have something left to do, this morning, after all.

You splash some water on your face, and get ready to go downstairs and deal with your landlady.

---

"Mornin', Gretel," you call down, ahead of your footsteps.

"Ru'Mon!" The voice that calls back is cheerful, like a smiley face drawn in a gravel road. Your landlady is in a happy mood - as she always is.

You check on her, at the bottom of the stairs, to see if anything's changed. Physically, no - obviously. Greta is still the same cyclops, and still has the same mottled green skin, gigantic scar over her lip, blonde hair, and the horn coming out of the middle of her forehead. Really, you don't have any reason to think she'd be otherwise. But in terms of what she's doing... well, still no. Still sitting, watching the morning news. Still got the weird pictures of... you think those are ships? Hung up on the wall. Still got that shoebox of dirt that apparently isn't for gardening, sitting in the windowsill.

Still your same old landlady, Gretel.

She takes getting used to, you muse, as you exit the stairwell, grabbing your jacket from the wall hook. The appearance isn't a big deal, of course, but the words... well. Apparently, her identity is so closely connected to the Cyclopean tongue that the multiversal ability of souls to speak a common language is nullified, when she talks. You still understand her meaning perfectly, even though the words themselves still sound like the foreign language they are, though, which is...you don't know how to finish the sentence! Not to mention the odd behavior, weird hobbies, the fact that you're technically paying her in order to stay in her house...

...you like Gretel, you think. You just don't really know how to act around her. She always puts you off-balance; you're never quite yourself.

"Mik'Er rellop! Hor'Tay benel mikow freng."

And worse yet, she's a morning person. Eugh.

The blender is waiting for you, like it always is. Like you always do, you put in two pinchfruit, two cups of milk, a scoop of Marvelous Powderous, a handful of bluesmells, and a dollop of "Honey". Like you always do, you try and not think too much about why "Honey" is both capitalized and in quotes.

Like always, you fail.

Like always, you blend them all together anyway. And like always, Gretel talks to you as you wait for full liquification:

"Keni'Mirrow belbel hifon?" she giggles. "Chezzer'Et mikow frim, rabbadar mieh."

"I wouldn't go that far," you mutter as you pour your "shake" into a glass. Still, despite yourself, you're smirking. "I mean, hey, it's not like the Angels are any prettier, right?"

She chortles, loud and hard, "Beez'Emel!" and it's almost enough to distract from the taste of pinchfruit and "Honey" shake on your tongue.

(It's not that it tastes bad, it's just that it... tastes. And keeps tasting. For hours. Often into lunch.)

"Just tellin' it like it is," you say, once you're absolutely certain you've swallowed your mouthful. It's, uh, hard to tell, sometimes.

"In other news," the TV says, grabbing both your attention. Like always. "The HypnoBros will be touring the Seventh and Eighth Circles, next month! After a meteoric rise from Circle Nine, the members of the HB - Ark'h'mel Crock'ire, Tokyo Dallas, Siv Del Tri, and Melvin - have been taking the lower levels of the land of the dead by storm! Their new single, Bumper Cars Downhill, has already hit Adamantine on-"

"Hrmph," Gretel grunts, and, ah. Of course. How could you have forgotten. She's also a boy band purist. "Kil'Grib mothim meb. Mot'Et Eager Graves iklow fevrev!"

Eager Graves is... old. Even in terms of time not ticking, Eager Graves is old. You mean, you guess you knew Gretel had been down here longer than you, but - anyway. "It's hard to really blame 'em." you say. "After all, we're all just tryin' to get to the top."

Some people, more than others.

"Wrek'Madar!"

Gretel's voice pulls you back to shore before you can really start drowning in the thought. "... just tellin' it like it is, then?"

"Wrek'Madar."

"Guess it'd be pretty stupid of me to gainsay the roof over my head, huh." It isn't a question. It's a poke.

And a pretty good joke, judging by the way Gretel waves you off, hiding her smile by turning away. "Mel'Elgon boreet mikow," she doesn't-chide you.

"Ah, and speaking of that creaky old roof up there..." you say, as though she hadn't said anything, downing the rest of your shake before you can change your mind and walking over to her. "Got this month's rent." You hold out the jangling cloth bag. Shake it once, like you always do. "Twelve Favors. And, uh, my continuous thanks."

Gretel takes the bag from you with a smile, like she does every month. Real big, pointy teeth and dimples and all. She never bothers counting it; just takes the bag, and trusts it's all there. It'd be the easiest thing in the Underworld to cheat her.

You can never quite bring yourself to.

"Got some business to run," you give a salute, like always, heading towards the door. "Might be a while. You good holdin' down the fort?"

"Krek'Milnmilnmiln!" You're pretty sure it's some kind of inside joke? But she gives a thumbs up and a laugh, so, eh, that's what's important.

"Glad to hear it," you say, opening up the door and stepping outside. "Be back later!"

Thunk-click.

The door is enchanted, and automatically locks behind you when you leave each morning. It's probably a metaphor.

So you think in the literal. The ground before you is a copper-red clay, as it is everywhere, in the Ninth Circle. There is a paler red path, more a marking of footsteps than a purposeful suggestion, winding from your doorstep to the road, where a bus stop waits for you to wait for a bus. The sky is the same copper red as the ground, so that if there were a single inch of horizon unspeckled by one strangely-shaped abode or another, you could not tell where one began and the other ended. Despite it being daylight, there is no sun.

But there are stars.

The sun is never there, and the moon, only every other night. But the stars are a constant; the nails that this place was hung upon at the beginning, some say. Each one is a slightly different color - just a shade, just a hue - so that the entire broad expanse of the sky is a single rainbow, an eternity long.

The stars are always there. They do not move.

You do not move.

The air and the sky never move, in this place. This is the weather, and it is the way it has always been. A cloudless sky, an inoffensive temperature. Flowers are hard-won in this place, though you never fear a storm.

You stand in the crisp morning air, wishing for a breeze you know will never come.

The houses are the same. Not same as in identical, but same as in uniform. Plenty of space in between each one, yet in every direction, eventually, you're surrounded. Traveling does nothing except change what buildings you can see. You implied it before, and you'll say it again: you haven't seen where the sky meets the ground, ever since you died.

There's nowhere to turn to.

So you close your eyes, and turn inwards.

You remember...


[] Instinct Running Wild - Your world was a world not conquered, but shared. That is not to say there was no such thing as competition- the air strikes with great winds and roaring thunders, and the land spouts magma and smoke, and the sea drives current through rock and raises waves as high as mountains, and mankind hunts. But they are all of the same planet, in the end. The sky gives rain, the ground gives crops, and the sea gives fish - and your tribe were stewards as well. Here and now, well, the internet is pretty handy to have, you'll admit. But your days of being in a tribe are long gone. +2 to Strength.
[] Starting Anew - It isn't just you - your world, too, has met an ending. Some sort of disaster. Armageddon came, and went, and a ruined world was left behind. But there were survivors, and there was a sudden realization that everyone on the planet had very nearly had it. And there was cooperation. And there was, from ash, a blooming. You are - were - a part of the first second generation, the first people to be born into stability on your world in over a century. Even now, there's still not quite hope... but there is an idea, and more pertinently, there is persistence. Maybe you, too, can come back from death. +2 to Constitution.
[] A World, Monochrome - You knew almost nothing about the world you left behind. Sure, compared to the average Joe, the world was at your fingertips, but in the grand scheme of things? You know better. You were an information-gathering specialist, after all - a covert ops, secret agent, undercover with an alias sort of person. You knew better than most just how much there was that you didn't know. How much you had to hide. Even choosing to remember where you came from is fighting against your own nature, at this point. Straining against the secrets you no longer need to keep. You... don't need to keep secrets anymore, right? +2 to Dexterity.
[] The Everyday Magical - Your world was a world of the arcane. It is as simple as that, in the same way that a witch's brew is as simple as a newt's eye, a warthog's snout, and a pinch of tumeric, boiled in goat's milk. Simple as a waggle of the hand and a few magic words. Simple as a prayer. That's magic: the deceptively complicated simplicity of being alive. And that was what you had known and lived and breathed, since you were a child. Swords and sorcery are too simple to encompass: you had a life, on the other side of the veil, and that life was magical. +2 to Wisdom.
[] Things Sufficiently Advanced - Yours was a world of stardust. Yours was a world of scientific endeavors. Yours was a world of technology, advancing impossibly quick. Yours was a world made of worlds, all strung together, glowing in unison, like a manmade constellation a universe long. Anywhere in the whole of creation, you could look up at the stars and know that you were home. You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss the ease and comfort your people's technology brought, but... you miss the wonder, more. +2 to Intelligence.
[] Capes and Cowls - Your world was one that was always looking to the skies. In every other way a world could be, perhaps the powerful and the exceptional lorded their gifts over others, but not where you come from. There, those with strength became protectors. Those with abilities became accountable. Those with power took responsibility. It wasn't everyone - maybe not even most people - but it was enough. People looked to the skies, after all. People believed in tomorrow. Only now, tomorrow's come, and here you are. It's hard not to look around and feel just a little bit hopeless. Still, you remember a splash of color, a cape, and a cowl... +2 to Charisma.
[] Write-In (Subject to approval. You will receive a +1 to any two of the aforementioned stats.)


... and because you remember - because you've reminded yourself - you take a deep breath.

Right. There's a reason for the alarm, and for the uncomfortable bedding, and the windowblinds cracked to the nonexistent dawn. There's a reason for the cold showers, and the itchy towels, and the shakes you can't shake the taste of. There's a reason for all of it, and the reason isn't that you're some kind of sinner, and this whole plane of reality was put in place to punish you for your crimes.

No. The reason for all of it is because you chose all of it. And you chose all of it to be the rock in your boot, the thorn in your side, to remind yourself, because...


[] You have to give her that toy she wanted. You promised that you would come back. You promised that you would be holding that toy in your hands when you did. You promised that everything would be okay. You're not going to make a liar of yourself.
[] You have to find the truth about what happened. The afterlife tends to clarify most memories, but the events of that particular night are still fuzzy. How did it all happen? Why did it all happen? And did they really betray you? You have to know.
[] You have to see what all is out there. You've always had a sense of wanderlust, and you don't believe you got through a tenth of what you wanted to see, before you passed. Once-in-a-lifetime events mean something different now that you're dead, after all.
[] You have to fix your mistakes. You'd always thought there'd be time to make amends, to make up for, to make right. And you were right - but you still managed to squander all of it. You won't be so foolish the second time around.
[] Write-In (Subject to approval. Must start with the words "You have to".)


Yeah. That's right. You may be staring down the barrel of a very long eternity, but there's no way you're going to let yourself forget what really matters. What you intend to do. What you have left to do.

Step, after step, after step, you stride out into the Underworld.

Your name is...


[] Write-In


... and you're going to get the hell out of Hell.

---

If at first you don't succeed...

Hello, all, and welcome to Rise from Your Grave, or as I like to call it: Hotel California: the Quest. I hope you have a wonderful time exploring the Land of the Dead with me.

For now, you'll be voting in plan format. I'll let you know when and if that changes. Vote will close in or before 24 hours from now, and the next update will come a variable amount of time after that.

Name: Robin Greene
Race: Mutated Human (cat ears, cat eyes)
Age at Death: 23 years old.
World: Clockwork, a world of brass and steam.

Traits:
Cattiness is in My DNA. Following a tragic lab accident back in college, your DNA was spliced with that of a common housecat, giving you night vision, an extra pair of ears, and a certain exotic je ne sais quoi that made you quite the catch around campus. Apparently, this little oopsy got so twisted up with your self-identity, it carried over into your very soul! You're still waiting on the claws, though.

Techniques:
An Arm and a Leg. Robin can sacrifice Score (this game's HP) to add d4s to any check that she knows in advance of, at a rate of 1 Score to 1 die. Sacrificing Score provided by armor, enchantments, etc., will cause that Score bonus to be permanently lowered by the amount sacrificed. However, Score sacrificed from Robin's "natural" Score does not reduce his maximum Score, and can be refilled as normal.

Resources:
Vestment: WIP

Perks:
None Yet.

I've made a semi-original rules system for this quest. As you discover what the rules are, they'll be copied over here, into one complete aggregate.

Traits are qualities inherent to your character. Aptitudes, personal enhancements, personality quirks, and the like. They can be cited to give bonuses to difficult checks, with more relevant Traits providing bigger bonuses.

Techniques are special powers and abilities which your character has that most other characters do not. They provide special abilities with their own special rules to follow. Techniques can also be used to attempt checks you normally would not be able to.

Resources typically provide a bigger bonus than a Trait, and can sometimes be used to attempt checks you normally couldn't, like Techniques. However, unlike the other two, Resources are limited in time, space, or quantity. For example, a gun with limited ammo would be a resource, as would an ability to read minds that only works under a full moon. In exchange for their limitations, Resources usually provide larger bonuses than Traits, and are more broadly applicable than Techniques.

While Traits, Techniques, and Resources apply bonuses to checks, Perks apply permanent bonuses directly to your Stats, boosting all checks you make with that Stat for free. However, Perks are conditional things.