You are lying naked in a crater.
Your teeth taste the dirt as you lie in the earth, still...
Your teeth taste the dirt as you lie in the earth, still...
BY SURTR'S BLADE - A Heavy Metal Apocalypse
- Thread starter TheOneMoiderah
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BOOK 1 - THE HEAD OF THE DEMON
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
You are lying naked in a crater.
Your teeth taste the dirt as you lie in the earth, still smoldering from your entrance. You wearily stand, ash flaking off your body as you stumble around in a daze. You shake your hands once, then twice, and you look around for it...where is it? Where'd you put it?
You stumble out of the crater, footfalls starting clumsy, then getting more steady as you look for the weapon; you landed in the remains of a fallen castle, bricks falling and collapsing and rumbling and tumbling. You sneer as your mind comes back to you.
That's right. You met a king once, didn't you?
Your feet slide across the ground and you see the castle in the distance. The top of it glows red.
He summoned you here. Here to get your power.
Your teeth grind against each other, and you stare forwards as thunderclouds gather around the castle. You've seen men like his kind time and time again; always the same. Always cowardly and weak, always seeking power. This isn't the first time your power has been stolen.
And as you stumble forwards you can see it; you see the hilt of a great weapon, lying on its side. You grasp it firmly with a single muscled hand, before you heft it over your head; even with most of your strength gone, you are still superhuman.
You are more than a mortal.
You are the first woman.
You are a God.
Your name is Freya.
And by your own name, you will get your strength back, and bring ruin to this realm.
You stop in your tracks as your grip tightens. You see an army rumbling towards you in the distance; tiny from here. The cowardly king was wise enough to try and end your life with a thousand men, it seems.
[] Fight. Weakened though you are, they are but ants.
[] Spare their lives and flee. You needn't fight here.
[] Hide. Watch their movements.
-[] And if the time calls for it, strike.
-[] And abstain; there needn't be bloodshed.
Your teeth taste the dirt as you lie in the earth, still smoldering from your entrance. You wearily stand, ash flaking off your body as you stumble around in a daze. You shake your hands once, then twice, and you look around for it...where is it? Where'd you put it?
You stumble out of the crater, footfalls starting clumsy, then getting more steady as you look for the weapon; you landed in the remains of a fallen castle, bricks falling and collapsing and rumbling and tumbling. You sneer as your mind comes back to you.
That's right. You met a king once, didn't you?
Your feet slide across the ground and you see the castle in the distance. The top of it glows red.
He summoned you here. Here to get your power.
Your teeth grind against each other, and you stare forwards as thunderclouds gather around the castle. You've seen men like his kind time and time again; always the same. Always cowardly and weak, always seeking power. This isn't the first time your power has been stolen.
And as you stumble forwards you can see it; you see the hilt of a great weapon, lying on its side. You grasp it firmly with a single muscled hand, before you heft it over your head; even with most of your strength gone, you are still superhuman.
You are more than a mortal.
You are the first woman.
You are a God.
Your name is Freya.
And by your own name, you will get your strength back, and bring ruin to this realm.
You stop in your tracks as your grip tightens. You see an army rumbling towards you in the distance; tiny from here. The cowardly king was wise enough to try and end your life with a thousand men, it seems.
[] Fight. Weakened though you are, they are but ants.
[] Spare their lives and flee. You needn't fight here.
[] Hide. Watch their movements.
-[] And if the time calls for it, strike.
-[] And abstain; there needn't be bloodshed.
- Firepower
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[x] Fight.
You bring the hilt of your weapon over your shoulder, and for a second muscle memory commands you to summon the primordial rage of the earth below. Then you remember that you have to actually fight.
You smile. You were, after all, a God of War, Death, Virilty and Light in your heyday. And it's been eons since you've had a good war.
The army marches towards you as clouds gather overhead; it's beginning to rain. You can hear the rumblings of hooves on earth, of feet both armored and unarmored. In the distance, you see a line of people getting to their knees as rifles are aimed by armored men and women, as wizards lined their spells up to blast you to kingdom come.
Rain falls upon your caramel skin, running through platinum blonde hair as you take in a deep breath.
You stretch your hand to the side, hilt in your palm.
You let anger flow into your blade.
The hilt shakes and rumbles and howls as the ground below it begins to glow. Your teeth clench as you let hate course through your body, and weight begins to build on your already heavy hilt. Molten lava explodes from the dirt, rising into the air in an eerie parody of pouring liquid. A marker of sludge, nine feet long, begins to form, before you twist your wrist. The blade grows _solid,_ lava flickering before a hardened shell gives it form; a gigantic broken blade. At the base is a floating ball of liquid metal, and all along its hilt are runes that shift and change, lined with the markings of a civilization long-dead.
A gun fires. A bullet makes a crack as it whizzes by your head.
A mistake.
In a motion too fast for a weapon as large and heavy as your blade, you bring the weapon over your head and slam downwards. The ground below you is cratered in an explosion of red-hot magma, and your blade is gone again. You soar through the air, wind running through your hair, rain hitting your bare skin as you soar over the heads of the army. What looked like a thousand from afar was really just a hundred men and women, all there to pick off a weakling.
Perfect.
You whip the hilt over your head, and the lava explodes back out of the ground all over again. A wave of molten metal speeds through the air, carefully arched so that it just overshoots. You bring the hilt forwards, and it speeds past you and latches into your hilt. You lurch forwards, weapon spinning, metal screaming, weapon seething as water droplets immediately evaporate upon your skin. Gunfire grows more intense as you get closer and closer to the army.
A fireball misses your face. A lightning bolt scratches your cheek. A bullet bounces across your blade. Then you hit the ground and bodies go flying.
Anyone not incinerated is knocked off their feet by the combination of heat and force. You slide across the ground with an empty hilt before you bring back the blade. Momentum carries you bare-footed across the ground as you swing with the force of a thousand men through a crowd of people. Armor puts up a token attempt to stop your swing, but it can hardly stand up to a metric tonne of molten rock.
A woman tries to attack you with a zweihander. You respond by turning her head into molten slag with a swing.
A man tries to fire a gun point-blank into your head. Convection causes the bullet to cook in his hand. His fingers are blown off, before you plunge a fist into his breastplate and rip out his sternum.
Wisely, the wizards of the group take a step back. They bark orders, some reading staves in preparation for a strike, others bring out summoning books.
Honestly, you think that's cute. You grab one unfortunate soldier by the face and take a look. She looks like a grenadier. You slam her back into the flat of your blade, and she screams into your palm as her back catches fire. You throw her straight to the wizards, and her ammo immediately cooks off. There's an explosion of flame and sharpnel, before the remaining wizard quickly finishes his summoning.
A golem emerges from the dirt, eyes glowing red in the rain, your sword illuminating elaborate stone armor. Dust and dirt falls from it as the golem towers over you, before it plunges its fist into the dirt and rips out an elaborate zweihander of solid rock.
You respond by headbutting its chest. It stumbles backwards with a smoldering crater in the middle of its chest, before it quickly swings down with its zweihander. You block it with a swing of your blade. You can feel your feet digging into the mud, as several of the survivors immediately begin to retreat. You push back, but the golem pushes back even harder. You can just tell that your strength has been sapped away. Were it not for that king, things would be on track. You would be whole.
Your teeth sizzle with anger. Your eyes pop with apocalyptic rage. Your skin turns blackened as a thin layer of soot and ash lines your body, and your bones turn molten with anger. You scream, spittle of molten hate spew onto the dirt as smoke and steam billow out of your throat. Then you shove.
The golem's weapon shatters under the combination of pressure and heat, and you impale. Your molten blade plunges through the head of the Golem out the back of its skull, before you let the magma seep through its pores. It stumbles back and grasps at you, before you pull up just a little bit and yank down.
The blade rips into the body of the Golem and tears it in half, your feet hit the ground just a moment later. It collapses in simmering pieces, as you fall to your feet and let out a long, deep withered sigh.
The rest of the army retreated after your display; by the looks of the bodies around you, you managed to kill two thirds of them. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot left of the corpses...
But you're certain you can find something.
[] Loot the corpses.
[] No need to loot. Go to town and look for a smith.
[] Find the survivors.
You bring the hilt of your weapon over your shoulder, and for a second muscle memory commands you to summon the primordial rage of the earth below. Then you remember that you have to actually fight.
You smile. You were, after all, a God of War, Death, Virilty and Light in your heyday. And it's been eons since you've had a good war.
The army marches towards you as clouds gather overhead; it's beginning to rain. You can hear the rumblings of hooves on earth, of feet both armored and unarmored. In the distance, you see a line of people getting to their knees as rifles are aimed by armored men and women, as wizards lined their spells up to blast you to kingdom come.
Rain falls upon your caramel skin, running through platinum blonde hair as you take in a deep breath.
You stretch your hand to the side, hilt in your palm.
You let anger flow into your blade.
The hilt shakes and rumbles and howls as the ground below it begins to glow. Your teeth clench as you let hate course through your body, and weight begins to build on your already heavy hilt. Molten lava explodes from the dirt, rising into the air in an eerie parody of pouring liquid. A marker of sludge, nine feet long, begins to form, before you twist your wrist. The blade grows _solid,_ lava flickering before a hardened shell gives it form; a gigantic broken blade. At the base is a floating ball of liquid metal, and all along its hilt are runes that shift and change, lined with the markings of a civilization long-dead.
A gun fires. A bullet makes a crack as it whizzes by your head.
A mistake.
In a motion too fast for a weapon as large and heavy as your blade, you bring the weapon over your head and slam downwards. The ground below you is cratered in an explosion of red-hot magma, and your blade is gone again. You soar through the air, wind running through your hair, rain hitting your bare skin as you soar over the heads of the army. What looked like a thousand from afar was really just a hundred men and women, all there to pick off a weakling.
Perfect.
You whip the hilt over your head, and the lava explodes back out of the ground all over again. A wave of molten metal speeds through the air, carefully arched so that it just overshoots. You bring the hilt forwards, and it speeds past you and latches into your hilt. You lurch forwards, weapon spinning, metal screaming, weapon seething as water droplets immediately evaporate upon your skin. Gunfire grows more intense as you get closer and closer to the army.
A fireball misses your face. A lightning bolt scratches your cheek. A bullet bounces across your blade. Then you hit the ground and bodies go flying.
Anyone not incinerated is knocked off their feet by the combination of heat and force. You slide across the ground with an empty hilt before you bring back the blade. Momentum carries you bare-footed across the ground as you swing with the force of a thousand men through a crowd of people. Armor puts up a token attempt to stop your swing, but it can hardly stand up to a metric tonne of molten rock.
A woman tries to attack you with a zweihander. You respond by turning her head into molten slag with a swing.
A man tries to fire a gun point-blank into your head. Convection causes the bullet to cook in his hand. His fingers are blown off, before you plunge a fist into his breastplate and rip out his sternum.
Wisely, the wizards of the group take a step back. They bark orders, some reading staves in preparation for a strike, others bring out summoning books.
Honestly, you think that's cute. You grab one unfortunate soldier by the face and take a look. She looks like a grenadier. You slam her back into the flat of your blade, and she screams into your palm as her back catches fire. You throw her straight to the wizards, and her ammo immediately cooks off. There's an explosion of flame and sharpnel, before the remaining wizard quickly finishes his summoning.
A golem emerges from the dirt, eyes glowing red in the rain, your sword illuminating elaborate stone armor. Dust and dirt falls from it as the golem towers over you, before it plunges its fist into the dirt and rips out an elaborate zweihander of solid rock.
You respond by headbutting its chest. It stumbles backwards with a smoldering crater in the middle of its chest, before it quickly swings down with its zweihander. You block it with a swing of your blade. You can feel your feet digging into the mud, as several of the survivors immediately begin to retreat. You push back, but the golem pushes back even harder. You can just tell that your strength has been sapped away. Were it not for that king, things would be on track. You would be whole.
Your teeth sizzle with anger. Your eyes pop with apocalyptic rage. Your skin turns blackened as a thin layer of soot and ash lines your body, and your bones turn molten with anger. You scream, spittle of molten hate spew onto the dirt as smoke and steam billow out of your throat. Then you shove.
The golem's weapon shatters under the combination of pressure and heat, and you impale. Your molten blade plunges through the head of the Golem out the back of its skull, before you let the magma seep through its pores. It stumbles back and grasps at you, before you pull up just a little bit and yank down.
The blade rips into the body of the Golem and tears it in half, your feet hit the ground just a moment later. It collapses in simmering pieces, as you fall to your feet and let out a long, deep withered sigh.
The rest of the army retreated after your display; by the looks of the bodies around you, you managed to kill two thirds of them. There doesn't seem to be a whole lot left of the corpses...
But you're certain you can find something.
[] Loot the corpses.
[] No need to loot. Go to town and look for a smith.
[] Find the survivors.
- Don't You Dare
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[X] Loot the corpses.
But of course.
One of the more intact corpses seems to just be missing her head; the armor she's wearing is still somewhat warm to the touch, but as you quickly take a closer look, the gambeson, chainmail and tunic underneath is intact. Without a moment's hesitation, you pull open the leather straps. The metal is still somewhat small, but it's no matter. You grab another breastplate and melt them together. Your powers make short work, and while it's not the best, you can deal. The crude look of the armor suits you. You put on the gambeson, then the chainmail. What would be loose on the woman underneath is perfect for you. You'd put on the tunic but you needn't care that much. Leggings, chains, then plate, you stand in a full suit of armor.
But you needn't put on a helmet. You'd be melting it off your skull the second you started getting enraged. Given that your blade is fueled by that; it's kind of a problem.
You wrap a scarf around your neck and take a deep breath. Your armor and gear glows a bright red for a second, as you flex your fingers and sign into the sky.
"This armor belongs to me now."
The armor glows with your name inscribed in an ancient tongue, the symbols of gods; personal friends of yours, really, long-since dead. You'd be sadder if it hadn't been, you know, trillions of years since the first Ragnarok.
Your hands glow with your name scribbled on them, your chest with Odin's firstborn, your back with Odin's second, your feet and legs with the names of the Valkyries. The hilt of your weapon shimmers in response, and you can't tell if it's enraged or melancholy.
"You will return to your duty shortly." You say as you turn back towards the castle. "For now, however, we walk." You begin your slow march to the castle...
That is, before it vanishes in the blink of an eye.
You suddenly feel a migraine coming on. "Oh by the..." You breathe in through your nose, then out through your mouth. Sparks fly out, as every single swear you've learned over the ages crosses through your mind.
Really you shouldn't be surprised. The king was smart enough to eject you from the premises and send an army after you. It's no wonder that he would have a contingency plan.
But that doesn't stop it from being immensely irritating.
"Fucking shitmonger coward just had to leave like the absolute flabfuckingcumtrumpet he goddamn is I hope he fucks his mother's cocks in hell the absolute rockfuckshitcunt."
[] Find a survivor You'd do this, except you're pretty sure they're all gone, and you're not even sure they'd even want to help you.
[] Go to the site of the castle.
[] Go to a town. You might find someone to help you find the castle.
[] Set the field ablaze.
But of course.
One of the more intact corpses seems to just be missing her head; the armor she's wearing is still somewhat warm to the touch, but as you quickly take a closer look, the gambeson, chainmail and tunic underneath is intact. Without a moment's hesitation, you pull open the leather straps. The metal is still somewhat small, but it's no matter. You grab another breastplate and melt them together. Your powers make short work, and while it's not the best, you can deal. The crude look of the armor suits you. You put on the gambeson, then the chainmail. What would be loose on the woman underneath is perfect for you. You'd put on the tunic but you needn't care that much. Leggings, chains, then plate, you stand in a full suit of armor.
But you needn't put on a helmet. You'd be melting it off your skull the second you started getting enraged. Given that your blade is fueled by that; it's kind of a problem.
You wrap a scarf around your neck and take a deep breath. Your armor and gear glows a bright red for a second, as you flex your fingers and sign into the sky.
"This armor belongs to me now."
The armor glows with your name inscribed in an ancient tongue, the symbols of gods; personal friends of yours, really, long-since dead. You'd be sadder if it hadn't been, you know, trillions of years since the first Ragnarok.
Your hands glow with your name scribbled on them, your chest with Odin's firstborn, your back with Odin's second, your feet and legs with the names of the Valkyries. The hilt of your weapon shimmers in response, and you can't tell if it's enraged or melancholy.
"You will return to your duty shortly." You say as you turn back towards the castle. "For now, however, we walk." You begin your slow march to the castle...
That is, before it vanishes in the blink of an eye.
You suddenly feel a migraine coming on. "Oh by the..." You breathe in through your nose, then out through your mouth. Sparks fly out, as every single swear you've learned over the ages crosses through your mind.
Really you shouldn't be surprised. The king was smart enough to eject you from the premises and send an army after you. It's no wonder that he would have a contingency plan.
But that doesn't stop it from being immensely irritating.
"Fucking shitmonger coward just had to leave like the absolute flabfuckingcumtrumpet he goddamn is I hope he fucks his mother's cocks in hell the absolute rockfuckshitcunt."
[] Go to the site of the castle.
[] Go to a town. You might find someone to help you find the castle.
[] Set the field ablaze.
- Township
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[X] Set the field ablaze.
You actually didn't even need to try. The fires from your blade were already starting, but then you decide to rekindle your flame. You take in a long, deep breath, and just for a second, you think about how your powers were stolen, and your missing sibling. Your skin turns to molten stone for a second, before the fires wrap around your body.
You exhale, and they're released in a wave of flame. The rain above your head sizzles as the ground turns hot with flame. The field begins to burn and burn and burn. When you're a hundred feet out, the fire has intensified. When you're kilometers out, the raging inferno has consumed the field and begun nibbling at the forests around it.
Not enough to burn the towns nearby, but enough to let them all know...
There is naught but folly in attempting to end your life.
[X] Go to a town. You might find someone to help you find the castle.
When you do reach a nearby town, the gates are wide-open for anyone to pass through, but as you get closer you realize that perhaps it's less because of apathy but because of poverty. This town does not look well-off.
Brick buildings look rotted and decay, with cobblestone streets in dire need of repairs. Plenty of the homes around you seem to be abandoned, and as you get closer to teh center, the company this town keep seems unwelcoming and almost dire.
As with any other civilization you've dipped your toes into, though, you know that you can probably find help at the tavern. You're not much of one for lying, so the unsavory, the lying, the wannabee traitors are all good help for taking back what's yours. And given what you've seen of magic, you'd reckon that wizards, warlocks and mages shouldn't be all that difficult to find.
As a bonus, nobody seems to even bat an eye as you enter the bar.
You would note that it should be unusual; most people don't have your build, your gear, or your rage, and certainly nobody uses a weapon like yours. But then you get your answer as you walk through; people are jabbering on and on about weaponry and gear and stuff. Women and men in armor with heavy weapons, some lined with runes, others with knickknacks and doo-dads and material stuffs that you're pretty sure is actually worthless.
You walk to the bar, where a woman quickly reorganizes the shelves, cleans a few glasses, and fills a new cup before turning straight towards you. She looks you up and down and gives you a smirk. "Oho, a newcomer." She says. "Don't think I've seen you before." She smiles. "What brings you-"
"I am just a passerby, nothing more." You say. "I am simply looking for hired help."
She stares at you, before muttering something about 'hot and boring'. "Well you've come to the right place. Just ask around." As she mutters, you take a look at the bar patrons.
[] Ask around! There should be someone to look for...(GM CHOICE)
[] Try to find...(pick three)
-[] A Thief! To try and steal materials in a clandestine way.
-[] An Assassin! To kill quietly; sometimes barging in as yourself isn't the best course of action.
-[] A Knight! Someone who's trained in the art of war would be a boon to have.
-[] A Landsknecht! Someone similarly trained in the art of war, but with a rifle, a zweihander, and significantly less moral standing.
-[] A Savage! Someone who fights just like you. Except they're probably shirtless while they do it most of the time.
-[] A Wizard! They cast spells.
-[] A Warlock! They also cast spells, except they've probably made a compact with one of your...less savory peers.
-[] A Medic! Medicinal magic isn't quite linked with the gods this time, you note.
You actually didn't even need to try. The fires from your blade were already starting, but then you decide to rekindle your flame. You take in a long, deep breath, and just for a second, you think about how your powers were stolen, and your missing sibling. Your skin turns to molten stone for a second, before the fires wrap around your body.
You exhale, and they're released in a wave of flame. The rain above your head sizzles as the ground turns hot with flame. The field begins to burn and burn and burn. When you're a hundred feet out, the fire has intensified. When you're kilometers out, the raging inferno has consumed the field and begun nibbling at the forests around it.
Not enough to burn the towns nearby, but enough to let them all know...
There is naught but folly in attempting to end your life.
[X] Go to a town. You might find someone to help you find the castle.
When you do reach a nearby town, the gates are wide-open for anyone to pass through, but as you get closer you realize that perhaps it's less because of apathy but because of poverty. This town does not look well-off.
Brick buildings look rotted and decay, with cobblestone streets in dire need of repairs. Plenty of the homes around you seem to be abandoned, and as you get closer to teh center, the company this town keep seems unwelcoming and almost dire.
As with any other civilization you've dipped your toes into, though, you know that you can probably find help at the tavern. You're not much of one for lying, so the unsavory, the lying, the wannabee traitors are all good help for taking back what's yours. And given what you've seen of magic, you'd reckon that wizards, warlocks and mages shouldn't be all that difficult to find.
As a bonus, nobody seems to even bat an eye as you enter the bar.
You would note that it should be unusual; most people don't have your build, your gear, or your rage, and certainly nobody uses a weapon like yours. But then you get your answer as you walk through; people are jabbering on and on about weaponry and gear and stuff. Women and men in armor with heavy weapons, some lined with runes, others with knickknacks and doo-dads and material stuffs that you're pretty sure is actually worthless.
You walk to the bar, where a woman quickly reorganizes the shelves, cleans a few glasses, and fills a new cup before turning straight towards you. She looks you up and down and gives you a smirk. "Oho, a newcomer." She says. "Don't think I've seen you before." She smiles. "What brings you-"
"I am just a passerby, nothing more." You say. "I am simply looking for hired help."
She stares at you, before muttering something about 'hot and boring'. "Well you've come to the right place. Just ask around." As she mutters, you take a look at the bar patrons.
[] Ask around! There should be someone to look for...(GM CHOICE)
[] Try to find...(pick three)
-[] A Thief! To try and steal materials in a clandestine way.
-[] An Assassin! To kill quietly; sometimes barging in as yourself isn't the best course of action.
-[] A Knight! Someone who's trained in the art of war would be a boon to have.
-[] A Landsknecht! Someone similarly trained in the art of war, but with a rifle, a zweihander, and significantly less moral standing.
-[] A Savage! Someone who fights just like you. Except they're probably shirtless while they do it most of the time.
-[] A Wizard! They cast spells.
-[] A Warlock! They also cast spells, except they've probably made a compact with one of your...less savory peers.
-[] A Medic! Medicinal magic isn't quite linked with the gods this time, you note.
Lineart of the Warlock
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
The update's coming as soon as I'm done with the portraits; I've had a busy week and weekend.
Here's a preview of one of them.
Here's a preview of one of them.
- Gathering the Party
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[X] Find some folks...
You turn around to see an eclectic mix of people all around. Women in fullplate, men in lingerie, and everyone in-between laying in wait. You see them chatting around, talking amongst themselves. You could make a scene; you're a God, after all. A little bit of annoyance is nothing in the grand scheme of things. You could clap your hands and command everyone's attention...
Then you hear the strumming of what sounds like a...guitar? An electric guitar, in fact. A peculiar sound for this particular world; you don't remember them being invented yet. You turn to look to the source of the noise.
Sitting in the corner of the room, strumming a large weapon of stone is a woman that's taller than you are. Her skin is made of stone, and her scalera are black as pitch. Dull orange hair hangs down her back, and she wears a fur cape, some fur faulds and...that's about it; her chest is utterly bare, revealing a glowing scar in the center of her sternum and a number of smoking cuts.
She strums her weapon/instrument once again, and taps it once to the sound of an entire drumset being slapped by hammers. "Seems to be working." She murmurs, before she strums again.
"A good god is a dead one. A good god is the one that Brings the Star."
You step right in front of her as she lets out a couple of lines and an experimental tap on her axe; each one in a different part of the head brings a different sound, before she finally notices you staring. She gives you a grin; full of glowing, yellow teeth, before slowly pressing the base of her weapon into the floorboards.
"Ah, an admirer." She says. "Here for the music? Or here for me?" She gives you a fingergun. "Or both? I can multitask."
Before you think about it, you respond with "I am here for you".
You pause.
That sounds kind of like innuendo. Maybe you should rescind that stateme-
She cuts your thoughts off with laughter. "Wow! Someone's forward!" She sighs. "But yeah I'm assumin' you want a party?"
"Correct."
She shrugs. "Well, I mean, I got my own obligations. I mean, I am a travelin' musician." She plays her instrument, and the distorted sound of electric guitars fills the air. "So like, you got a hook? Somethin' interesting to offer?"
A smirk crosses your face. "We're going to kill the King."
She stares at you for a second. Then she sighs. "Ma'am, I don't know how big you think you are but plenty of people have tried that. He might be a snake but the man is well-guarded. That shit ain't reasonable."
You grimace. "So you're a coward?"
"I'm not a moron." She says. "I would like nothing more than to see that fuckface's head on a pike. But right now I am perfectly content just playin' my axe."
"Well, an offer." You say. "I take you to where the castle was, and if you're interested, you can stick around." You lean again. "And I can make it worth your while."
"Sex or money?"
"I doubt you can satisfy me, so money."
"Cold." She stands upright and oh wow she actually absolutely is taller than you. "Also, wait. Was?"
-
One party member joined, and now you need some more people in your group. You still probably need to figure out how to pay these people, though the barbarian you met might not necessarily care all that much about paydirt. You wander through the establishment to find a woman among a group of mercenaries.
Her hat is well-kept, with a band of golden lace and a strange golden feather sticking out of it. Her hair is plain brown, her skin a light tan, and she seems dressed in fine purple clothing. She looks like a noble; a cape around her shoulders, some manner of floofy, expensive-looking clothing. But most peculiarly, and this is what clues you into her actually being a soldier, is a zweihander. As long as she is tall, with a telescopic hilt and a rifle trigger.
She has an ammo pack at her side, and a magazing hanging off her hip, and you realize that this woman is equal parts markswoman and swordswoman. Perhaps useful?
You walk over, and you tap the table. "I'm looking for hired help." You say. "I have the funds to make it happen."
Whatever chatter was happening here stops dead, and everyone, the woman included, turns to stare at you. "Yeah?" One man asks. "What're your terms? Due date? You got a plan?"
"It's simple." You say. "I just want our king dead. That's it."
They all stare at you, before promptly going back to their business. You grumble to yourself and check your pockets; perhaps some soldiers had something useful...something of value.
You pull out something that looks pricey and expensive; a jeweled brooch. A quick inspection says that it's definitely real...and more importantly, magical. This is the sort of thing that would probably have value in combat...well, it would have for the poor bastards you were fighting. You raise your hand, and bring the item up. "This is the pay." You say. "A single enchanted sapphire. Royal quality."
The other mercenaries stare at you for a good long second, before the woman with the zweihander just sighs, shrugs, then stands up. "Sure. Okay. Fuck it." She sighs. "I don't expect this to be that eventful. So feel free to just...guide the way, I guess." She turns to the rest of her party. "I'll be back in a day."
You nod. "Well, that was fast-"
"Let's be abundantly clear, I expect you to die on first contact with the guards."
You take a long, deep breath and ignore the insult.
-
Lastly, you'd like a spellcaster. Perhaps someone that could kill from afar? Steal souls? Devour flesh? Most people here look like right and proper wizards. Either skeptical or impossible to please.
Then you see someone interesting. Namely, in that they seem to be talking to a glowing skull. Their hair is short and brown, eyes with blackened scalera, a tongue of black and pale, deathly skin. They talk and talk to the skull with a clear voice, but as your eyes wander down, you see that their ribcage is exposed, clear as day. There is not an organ among them, just a glowing sphere of magic where their heart ought to be, with a cape draped over their pelvis, complete with a tiny hole for where their spine goes.
"Like they'd ever give a shit about that! It was like, one knife. One little knife! How was I supposed to know that they were gonna try shootin' me after that!" They tap their head and mutter. "I don't think I could last with too much more drain bamage. My head's all rattled from that time it got knocked off." They sigh and scratch at the stitches under their neck. "Nasty..."
"Spellcaster."
They turn around. "Yeah. That's me."
"Your blasphemy is needed. I seek to kill a king. I have money."
They stare at you for a good, long second. They opens their mouth. Then they close it. Then they shrug. "I mean...okay?" They turn back to the skull. "Honey, I gotta go. I have a crazy lady asking me to kill King Reklan." The skull promptly dissipates, before they shoot you a finger gun. "When do we go?"
"Tomorrow."
It was weirdly easy to get people on board, but you honestly suspect that most of them regard this mission as a joke, rather than a quest to reclaim your godhood...but you suspect their tune will change when you use Surtr's blade. In the meantime...
[] Rest outside and contemplate.
[] Wait around and try to actually talk to these people a little more...? (Pick One)
-[] The Barbarian.
-[] The Warlock.
-[] The Landsknecht.
[] Get a feel for this world; you're still mostly an outsider in a strange land.
You turn around to see an eclectic mix of people all around. Women in fullplate, men in lingerie, and everyone in-between laying in wait. You see them chatting around, talking amongst themselves. You could make a scene; you're a God, after all. A little bit of annoyance is nothing in the grand scheme of things. You could clap your hands and command everyone's attention...
Then you hear the strumming of what sounds like a...guitar? An electric guitar, in fact. A peculiar sound for this particular world; you don't remember them being invented yet. You turn to look to the source of the noise.
Sitting in the corner of the room, strumming a large weapon of stone is a woman that's taller than you are. Her skin is made of stone, and her scalera are black as pitch. Dull orange hair hangs down her back, and she wears a fur cape, some fur faulds and...that's about it; her chest is utterly bare, revealing a glowing scar in the center of her sternum and a number of smoking cuts.
She strums her weapon/instrument once again, and taps it once to the sound of an entire drumset being slapped by hammers. "Seems to be working." She murmurs, before she strums again.
"A good god is a dead one. A good god is the one that Brings the Star."
You step right in front of her as she lets out a couple of lines and an experimental tap on her axe; each one in a different part of the head brings a different sound, before she finally notices you staring. She gives you a grin; full of glowing, yellow teeth, before slowly pressing the base of her weapon into the floorboards.
"Ah, an admirer." She says. "Here for the music? Or here for me?" She gives you a fingergun. "Or both? I can multitask."
Before you think about it, you respond with "I am here for you".
You pause.
That sounds kind of like innuendo. Maybe you should rescind that stateme-
She cuts your thoughts off with laughter. "Wow! Someone's forward!" She sighs. "But yeah I'm assumin' you want a party?"
"Correct."
She shrugs. "Well, I mean, I got my own obligations. I mean, I am a travelin' musician." She plays her instrument, and the distorted sound of electric guitars fills the air. "So like, you got a hook? Somethin' interesting to offer?"
A smirk crosses your face. "We're going to kill the King."
She stares at you for a second. Then she sighs. "Ma'am, I don't know how big you think you are but plenty of people have tried that. He might be a snake but the man is well-guarded. That shit ain't reasonable."
You grimace. "So you're a coward?"
"I'm not a moron." She says. "I would like nothing more than to see that fuckface's head on a pike. But right now I am perfectly content just playin' my axe."
"Well, an offer." You say. "I take you to where the castle was, and if you're interested, you can stick around." You lean again. "And I can make it worth your while."
"Sex or money?"
"I doubt you can satisfy me, so money."
"Cold." She stands upright and oh wow she actually absolutely is taller than you. "Also, wait. Was?"
-
One party member joined, and now you need some more people in your group. You still probably need to figure out how to pay these people, though the barbarian you met might not necessarily care all that much about paydirt. You wander through the establishment to find a woman among a group of mercenaries.
Her hat is well-kept, with a band of golden lace and a strange golden feather sticking out of it. Her hair is plain brown, her skin a light tan, and she seems dressed in fine purple clothing. She looks like a noble; a cape around her shoulders, some manner of floofy, expensive-looking clothing. But most peculiarly, and this is what clues you into her actually being a soldier, is a zweihander. As long as she is tall, with a telescopic hilt and a rifle trigger.
She has an ammo pack at her side, and a magazing hanging off her hip, and you realize that this woman is equal parts markswoman and swordswoman. Perhaps useful?
You walk over, and you tap the table. "I'm looking for hired help." You say. "I have the funds to make it happen."
Whatever chatter was happening here stops dead, and everyone, the woman included, turns to stare at you. "Yeah?" One man asks. "What're your terms? Due date? You got a plan?"
"It's simple." You say. "I just want our king dead. That's it."
They all stare at you, before promptly going back to their business. You grumble to yourself and check your pockets; perhaps some soldiers had something useful...something of value.
You pull out something that looks pricey and expensive; a jeweled brooch. A quick inspection says that it's definitely real...and more importantly, magical. This is the sort of thing that would probably have value in combat...well, it would have for the poor bastards you were fighting. You raise your hand, and bring the item up. "This is the pay." You say. "A single enchanted sapphire. Royal quality."
The other mercenaries stare at you for a good long second, before the woman with the zweihander just sighs, shrugs, then stands up. "Sure. Okay. Fuck it." She sighs. "I don't expect this to be that eventful. So feel free to just...guide the way, I guess." She turns to the rest of her party. "I'll be back in a day."
You nod. "Well, that was fast-"
"Let's be abundantly clear, I expect you to die on first contact with the guards."
You take a long, deep breath and ignore the insult.
-
Lastly, you'd like a spellcaster. Perhaps someone that could kill from afar? Steal souls? Devour flesh? Most people here look like right and proper wizards. Either skeptical or impossible to please.
Then you see someone interesting. Namely, in that they seem to be talking to a glowing skull. Their hair is short and brown, eyes with blackened scalera, a tongue of black and pale, deathly skin. They talk and talk to the skull with a clear voice, but as your eyes wander down, you see that their ribcage is exposed, clear as day. There is not an organ among them, just a glowing sphere of magic where their heart ought to be, with a cape draped over their pelvis, complete with a tiny hole for where their spine goes.
"Like they'd ever give a shit about that! It was like, one knife. One little knife! How was I supposed to know that they were gonna try shootin' me after that!" They tap their head and mutter. "I don't think I could last with too much more drain bamage. My head's all rattled from that time it got knocked off." They sigh and scratch at the stitches under their neck. "Nasty..."
"Spellcaster."
They turn around. "Yeah. That's me."
"Your blasphemy is needed. I seek to kill a king. I have money."
They stare at you for a good, long second. They opens their mouth. Then they close it. Then they shrug. "I mean...okay?" They turn back to the skull. "Honey, I gotta go. I have a crazy lady asking me to kill King Reklan." The skull promptly dissipates, before they shoot you a finger gun. "When do we go?"
"Tomorrow."
It was weirdly easy to get people on board, but you honestly suspect that most of them regard this mission as a joke, rather than a quest to reclaim your godhood...but you suspect their tune will change when you use Surtr's blade. In the meantime...
[] Rest outside and contemplate.
[] Wait around and try to actually talk to these people a little more...? (Pick One)
-[] The Barbarian.
-[] The Warlock.
-[] The Landsknecht.
[] Get a feel for this world; you're still mostly an outsider in a strange land.