You blink in surprise at the corpse of the angel in front of you. You glance back and forth at the faces of your squadmates, and see... the same mingled relief, horror, and disbelief that you feel. This is ridiculous. It was inconceivable literally a minute ago.
Little do you know exactly how much has changed in that one minute.
--
Elsewhere...
--
The sweeper looks up, across the temple, shocked by the sudden silence. The practitioners of the Screaming Fiery Monkey style are rarely quiet in their practice, even discounting the impact of their fists or the crackle of flames. Now... none of them are moving. Bodies are strewn across the ground, with no evidence of violence beyond the usual damage to the scenery. The sweeper clutches his broom tighter, gradually trying to work up the nerve to call for someone. He's almost as afraid of hearing someone respond as not hearing anyone.
--
"Now remember," the archmage says, with a sharp rap across the youth's knuckles with his cane, even as he circles behind the youth's stool to yell over his shoulder. The youth isn't actually doing badly, but the archmage isn't about to let that stop him. "This is the most critical part of potion brewing! One slip-up here and you'll ruin the potion, or poison and injure yourself. What you need to do is..." The long pregnant pause goes on for at least two minutes before the youthful apprentice convinces himself this isn't just a dramatic pause and turns. Here he finds his mentor crumpled into a pile. If not for the archmage's eyes being locked wide open and his lack of breathing, he might just be sleeping. The youth stares. Behind him, the complex alchemical set-up bubbles ever harder.
--
The under-priests of Bel-Kirandu, god of forests and hearths, survey the scene from within hoods that conceal almost all of their faces. Moments ago, their god slowly keeled over and died with what sounded like a soft sigh of contentment. Everyone who had had a powerful Contract with Bel-Kirandu, which meant the upper priesthood, died, too. So did the bound demon they'd been keeping prisoner. The floor of Bel-Kirandu's palace, attached to his main temple, is an abattoir. One of their number finally speaks, breaking the numb horror that has been holding them. "There's... a service tonight. The people are expecting to
see Bel-Kirandu!" None of the others have an answer for him.
--
The farmer rubs his hands in glee. A dead dragon! Out in that stupid rocky field that keeps damaging his plows! He doesn't know how it got there, nor does he particularly care. Whatever has killed it, he is the one who could turn this into a money-maker. Dreams of selling access to rubberneckers, and maybe turn a profit selling bits of the body, dance across his imagination. "What great luck!" He turns back to yell at his daughter. "Viviendra! Run into town and find that boyfriend of yours who knows how to write!"
--
It strikes silently, instantly, without warning, unstoppably. All across the Shallow Ocean, from the rare depths to the most distant isles, from rarefied mountain peaks to bustling city squares, they die. Every being of significant personal power falls dead simultaneously, from no discernible cause and without any sign of distress beforehand. Mature magical beasts leave behind mewling young. Archmages and heroes leave weak, traumatized apprentices. Great spirits and tame demons leave kings and princesses without their ultimate fallback power. All the gods and angels who had walked with the men and women of the world, guiding and protecting their worshipers, are all torn away simultaneously.
It will take time for anyone to recognize the universality of it, and at least a little longer for anyone to begin to act on it.
For you, though, the immediate situation is more than enough to deal with.
--
You weren't supposed to survive today. No normal mortal, like you, could possibly fight with a greater angel and win. You knew it was coming, though. You have spent more than half your life raised by the priests of Tal-Roshath. You were young when your father gave you to the priests. Your last memory of home was him standing stony-faced next to your crying mother, listening to her call your name plaintively as you left.
What name was that?
[] Write-in (include gender if not obvious)
Why did your father give you up, anyway? It definitely came out of your home situation.
[] Minor noble. Eldest child of a boyar far from the centers of power. You're not sure why your father took umbrage to you, but he was anxious to have you sent off to Tal-Roshath's priests. You have a minor claim to a noble title, familiarity with many of the peers (by name if not by fleeting introduction) and the etiquette to not seem out of place.
[] Artisan class. Eldest child of a smith who embraced the recent innovation of a water-powered drop hammer, which proved a deeply profitable investment. Your family's piety meant that your father chose to show his thankfulness to the gods in a very sacrificial way: sending his beloved child to serve a god. You have a talent for handling money efficiently or following money trails.
[] Subsistence. Eldest child of an impoverished fisherman, and that was before raids took away the village's food stores and wrecked the boats. You were given to the priests because there was no way to feed you otherwise. Your upbringing does mean you are good at survival, hunting, and serving on small boats.
Your mother was definitely right to fear for you, however. Tal-Roshath rightfully has had a bloody reputation since ancient times, all across the Shallow Ocean. He was a war god, with a specific focus on glorious death in battle and the spilling of blood. Even without that, Tal-Roshath, like all gods, gains power from sacrifices to him. His priests have a tradition of searching for unwanted or orphaned children. You were one of their prizes, and placed in a small group of children of similar ages to be raised. The priests were not unkind, nor did they allow the children to torment each other beyond a very basic level. You were always fed, clothed, given a dry place to sleep during the regular rainstorms, and otherwise cared for. Your education was top-notch, better than it would have been at home.
It had to be. The true hope was that through such education, they could find people able to walk one of the five paths of magic, or take to one of the enlightened martial traditions. For, of course, a hero or mage makes a much better sacrifice.
Succeed or fail, your ultimate fate is the same, and no one in the church has ever lied to you about it: you will be groomed to be as great a warrior as possible, then you will be sacrificed in ritual combat against an angel that no normal human could possibly harm.
The first to disappear from your shared class to their own, private instructions were those with some heritage related to a god or other spirit. The next were those who showed a real flair for elemental or conceptual magic. After them you lost those who learned the intricacies of tome magic or achieved enlightenment through martial training. Finally, you lost those with no initial spark for any of the above, but who managed to force success after enough training.
That left four of you. Failures, more or less. No less destined to sacrifice, but with no spark of more-than-mortal power behind it. Making the best of a bad situation, the four of you were given training to fight as a squad and counted as just one sacrifice.
You found one of the Shallow Ocean's traditional weapons to be more intuitive to handle than the others.
[] Spear. A sharp metal tip on a wooden haft, cut to be a good length for a fight on ship as well as on land. Traditional Shallow Ocean styles emphasize using it as not simply a thrusting weapon, but also a quarterstaff when in very close quarters. Spearmen also often carry a brace of shorter javelins.
[] Bow. The king of ranged combat is the composite shortbow, made from a combination of wood and horn. A selection of arrows are used to deal with specific targets, from hunting animals to dealing with shields to cutting rigging. Archers rely on quick movement and a little dagger training in close combat.
[] Sword and shield. A single-edged short blade a little longer than a forearm and hand is paired with a small shield. Considered a mainstay everywhere, this is a flexible, classic choice. Countless schools of swordsmanship and fencing teach various styles and emphasize slight differences in blade and shield.
[] Mace and shield. A style favored by monster hunters and ceremonial guards. A heavy mace and large shield are simple, reliable weapons, if heavy. The weight of the mace and the shield's blocking ability are useful in cracking the hard shells or similar defense of many monsters, as well as holding any line.
[] Cestus and sling. Simple weapons that can be disguised as clothing and offer only a modest improvement over bare-handed combat, which often indicates someone with an extra trick up their sleeve: magic, enlightened martial arts, a stealthy approach, poison, a ferocious grappling style, or the like. Sling bullets are not as hard-hitting as arrows, and offer far less range.
Today was to be the day of your sacrifice. You and your squadmates, all turned out in the rich burgundy of Tal-Roshath, clothes emblazoned with his sigil, were taken to a pre-arranged field where one of Tal-Roshath's angels was waiting for you.
The angel stayed perfectly, stoically still while the priests made respectful bows and left, then continued to stay still while you took stock of the scenery and set up to fight. The angel was a glorious figure, a humanoid figure over two and a half meters tall and carrying a sword with a length over half his own height in one hand, still with every indication that his impressively muscular figure considered this a light burden. Knowing what you have been trained, this clearly enchanted blade was still the least of your worries. His softly glowing bronze skin could deflect anything short of a battering ram, and his other hand was free specifically to allow him to use it for magical casting. He can run faster than a horse at gallop and lift a wagon over his head. A merely magical sword, on the other hand, is still just a sword. Its use or not makes no real difference.
Once the four of you were deployed, the angel took a moment to check in that you are all prepared. It's not an unkind sentiment. When his voice echoed in your head with all the impossible to misunderstand clarity of angelic speech, you clearly heard his concern... and the fact that kindness will not mean mercy this day. He heard back confirmation of your readiness.
He attacked. Even before an arrow could reach him, he was charging at you with an impossible swiftness. You were his first target. He didn't even hit you hard. It was just an off-handed gesture that summoned magical winds that picked you up, spun you through the air, shredded the burgundy tunic you wore, and dropped you back on the ground with stunning force. He was just taking you out of commission for a moment to break your formation and focus on the others.
By the time you recovered enough to sit up woozily, he was just dead.
For no reason.
Meaning you've survived what was definitely an impossible challenge.
That catches you up to now. You and your three squadmates are suddenly given a reprieve from your inevitable death.
--
"Boss... I think we're going to live." Samir cracks a smile, as much in relief as humor. With deliberate ceremony, he slowly lets his bow relax and takes the arrow off the nock with a flourish. "We're going to live!" He's giddy, bouncing from foot to foot.
Dawn, on the other hand, seems rigid with shock and horror. Her lips move in what is probably a silent prayer, judging by the pose she's making, ignoring the mace in her clasped hands. She was always the most pious of your quartet, so that's not surprising to see.
Somewhat between the two extremes is the phlegmatic Kalju. The tall, muscular spearman rests the butt of his weapon on the ground and idly scratches the side of his ribcage through one of the ventilation/showing off holes he's slashed in his burgundy tunic. You all were issued the same uniform, but only he felt like making adjustments to his. He still seems to be processing the angel's unexpected death. He glances around at the three of you, checking up.
"Did we do this? Did some sin on our part cause this?" Dawn comes out of her stunned state with a theological question.
"I don't think so. That would be a pretty dumb cause, wouldn't it?" Samir mimes cutting his own throat. "'Oh, woe is me, the sacrifices I'm here to kill aren't worthy, I should probably die instead of smiting the sinner.' Doesn't really fly."
Dawn whips to face Samir, anger flashing in her eyes. "Don't make light! This is supposed to be a holy ceremony! If something has gone wrong with it, surely we have to look to ourselves. An
angel--" she stabs an accusing finger at its corpse "--isn't going to be the cause."
"Hey, chill, I'm just glad to be alive! Aren't you glad? We just got saved by a straight-up miracle! Surely that's a good thing?"
Dawn tries to suppress her anger, but is clearly a moment away from another eruption. Kalju is watching them with alarm, but hasn't come up with how to interject. He looks to you. This, of course, is why you're "boss" to them. None of them are leader types, and they tend to butt heads. You slotted nicely in as a leader and team mediator, thanks to your personality. Which is best described as...
[] Cocky. Despite the setbacks of life, you're always self-assured (or smug, if the person describing you doesn't like you), and this self-assurance makes people want to go along with you. People follow because you don't get them a chance to think about not following you.
[] Educated. You truly excelled in your scholastics and other studies, and just knowing enough is good enough a lot of the time. People trust that you know what you're talking about because you really do know what you're talking about.
[] Good listener. You have exactly the sort of active listening skills that make people know you've listened to their concerns, even if you disagree afterwards. You rarely speak without good reason, and people know to listen when you do.
[] Write in. Why are you the leader?
--
Author notes
So there you have it: the central conceit of this quest is that all the existing heroes/mages/etc of this setting all died suddenly without explanation. Luckily, you were kind of a rubbish hero, so it didn't happen to you. Maybe you'll be less rubbish now that the world really, desperately needs replacements. Or maybe you'll just get in over your head! The world is just about to turn over into chaos given the sudden removal of the protectors of the current
status quo, after all.
This is intended to be a fantasy action story. There won't be any visible systems; it's a narrative first and foremost. Voting will be done by simple plurality: the option with the most votes wins. If there's multiple votes in one update (like this one), I'll let you know if they're linked or independent.
This one, where we're creating our protagonist and have four different things to vote on (name, background, weapon, personality), is linked.
Anything that I missed or if you have any questions, let me know and I'll see what I can do.
