[X] Go eat. Not what they feed the fighters here, it's too frou-frou fancy for your blood. You need something cheap in vast quantities that you can dig into and sleep off overnight.
-
Going forward, links to content from Twitter (now X) will no longer be embedded. Pre-existing links should not be affected.
[Exalted] Ain’t No Devil
[X] Get a massage. Hey, why not? You've been beat all to shit today, might help keep you limber for tomorrow. Assuming anyone in town is willing to get that close even if you pay them.
Stupid sexy lewd ghosts...
ConfusedCanuck
Where did it all go wrong?
- Location
- Neverland
[X] Get a massage. Hey, why not? You've been beat all to shit today, might help keep you limber for tomorrow. Assuming anyone in town is willing to get that close even if you pay them.
[X] Go eat. Not what they feed the fighters here, it's too frou-frou fancy for your blood. You need something cheap in vast quantities that you can dig into and sleep off overnight.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
A new Zerbanquest? Sign me up!
[X] Go get drunk. Okay not drunk-drunk, not the day before the big day. You'll be responsible for once, keep it low-key. Find somewhere nice and affordable and just watch the hours fly by.
Because Zerban writes the best drunks. I will not pass up a chance like this, no way.
[X] Go get drunk. Okay not drunk-drunk, not the day before the big day. You'll be responsible for once, keep it low-key. Find somewhere nice and affordable and just watch the hours fly by.
Because Zerban writes the best drunks. I will not pass up a chance like this, no way.
[X] Go eat. Not what they feed the fighters here, it's too frou-frou fancy for your blood. You need something cheap in vast quantities that you can dig into and sleep off overnight.
You know, we're probably about to get a Celestial Exaltation in the middle of Realm territory...this will be fun.
You know, we're probably about to get a Celestial Exaltation in the middle of Realm territory...this will be fun.
Chapter Two: Soaking It In
ZerbanDaGreat
Daemon Noble of D E M O G R A P H I C S
- Pronouns
- They/them
You slide your sword back into its sheath, feeling its familiar weight shift to the belt slung over your shoulder, and step out of the fighter's quarters into the sun.
White Tower always looks faintly ridiculous come the Festival. It's like putting a pink bow on an attack dog - even if it's not biting your kid's face right now, you're not fooling anybody about what it was bred for. You think the proper full title is Main Operating Base White Tower, but nobody's got time for a mouthful like that. If you squint you can see the titular White Tower, an unyielding spire that scrapes the heavens and keeps an ever-watchful eye out across the sea for the barbarians of the north. There's another, smaller copy of it just across the harbour that's just a lighthouse.
As far as the rest of the place, it's hard to tell where what must've been left over all those years ago ends and what the Dragonblooded built when they arrived begins. It's all variations on the same theme - the kind of city where every building looks like a castle, all harsh lines and sharp angles, thick walls and heavy doors. You'd need a siege weapon to break into someone's house, at least in the inner city. Everything looks grey as steel but for the few splashes of colour, so vibrant by comparison that they seem garish - green to honour the elemental dragon of Wood, black as the richest soil for Earth, so on and so forth. Immaculate temples are decked out in all five colours of course, but everywhere you look it's impossible to miss how white dominates. When night falls even the lampposts all around you will burn white. Colourless flower petals float in the waterways that crisscross the city like slender veins. This is a city of Air and no one's about to let you forget it.
It's a Festival day but it's no random, unguided revelry. You have to shoulder your way through the crowds a bit at a time, turning this way and that to slip between all the damn people making it their life's work to mill about and bother you, tune your ears out to the din of people shouting at street vendors and each other to be heard, some rude bastard even throws rice at you, but you see them. The eyes, ears and arms of the Tamura Clan. There's one on every street corner all decked out in his parade-day finest; high-collar jacket with silver buttons, freshly-polished boots, stiff cap, white armband on his sword-arm and the sword in question hanging from its ceremonial sheath. Unlucky bastards get a whole day of it, standing ramrod straight but for their heads on a swivel. Everyone else just has to muster for the parade later at Tengoku Airstrip. One notices you looking, shoots you a look of his own when he spies the kind of weaponry you've got hanging off your shoulder. You ignore him.
Speaking of the long arm of the law, you bump into a Warstrider not long after. Towering eyesore of a thing, no way you'd have missed it unless that smack from Bull's hammer really did blind you. It stands as tall as two men on backbent legs of pure white jadesteel - it'd probably collapse under its own weight if they used another kind - billowing grey-white smoke out of the pipes in its back-end with every heavy, plodding step. The pilot gets to sit comfortably up in what you guess is the saddle, protected by armour plating that sweeps up before him like a cresting wave. It leaves his back and sides exposed, but hey, when you get deployed a dozen at a time in a wedge formation who's gonna get the angle on you with a dinky little bow? You don't even know the kind of firepower they're packing up front, never had the good or bad fortune to deploy either side of a battlefield with one of 'em, but you've heard stories of knocking chunks out of walls and levelling solid stone buildings. The guy up top must feel like a god right now. Him and the other dozen or so, all doing their rounds a couple city blocks apiece, showing off the goods. 'cause that's what the Festival is, right? Everyone's time to show off.
Blacksmith's easy to find, and damn quiet compared to outside too. You don't get many people racing in to get heavy-duty steelworking done during the Festival, so the masters are all out probably having a good time. Which leaves the forges upstairs cold and you alone in a vast, empty foyer of cool marble with the scrawny apprentice they left to man the counter. He looks like he'd rather you pull out your sword and decapitate him right now rather than stick around listening to the party outside another minute. You'd oblige but hey, hardly gonna make your chipped-sword problem any better right?
"I need this repaired," you grunt, drawing the offending weapon and hefting it across your spread hands. "Rush job, priority one. Need it for the tournament tomorrow."
It's a blunt, unadorned thing but you'd say it's got its own brutal beauty to it. It's damn near your height tip-to-pommel, and even with the deep full-length fuller scraping out enough iron to forge a whole extra sword it's still damn heavy to match. The crossguard is wide and slightly angled, the grip long enough to fit a third hand if you had one lying around, and the pommel's a simple circular chunk of metal the size of an apple. A good two handspans of the blade just below the hilt are blunt and leatherbound, the better to control it. Plus, makes it safe to use your custom-made sheath with the cut-out at the top so you can draw from the back without getting the damn tip caught at the throat. You remember going some hungry, hungry nights saving up for this beauty. It's no exaggeration to say it's been your most enduring companion.
"I-I... ah..." the kid's eyes flick rapidly between you and the sword, probably worried it'll crush him if you hand it over. "I can do that for you sir b-but there will be the holiday sur-"
"Fine."
"-charge..." He blinks. "And I don't know when my master will be back so you'll have to pay in ad-"
"Sure, fine, can you get it done or not?"
"Y- yes sir we would be glad to take your business today!" the kid says rapidly, fumbling through the papers on his side of the counter until he finds the ones he needs, then repeating the process for his pen. "And the name for the order?"
"Jiro," you grunt. "As in 'two' and 'son'."
"Thank you." The pen scribbles on paper in a second of blissful silence. Then, regrettably, the kid tries to lighten the mood. "Ha, younger brother huh? Been there."
You stare at him. He glances up at your silence, only to double-take as if you'd reached over and punched him in the mouth. He gets the hint and hunches down to finish up. The numbers get a whole lot messier after that. You read it upside-down and have the money waiting for him like a spread paper fan when he goes to straighten up - issued by the Bank of White Tower and each delicately inked with either the satrap Shuzen Tamura's austere profile or his brother Sho. You'd prefer money that isn't jeopardised by rain but hey, that's the price of doing business here.
"Just visit tomorrow morning and your sword should be ready for anything just in time for your match!" the kid says, injecting as much enthusiasm as possible. You just grumble something inaudible, grab your proof of purchase and leave. You hear a clang and muffled "(shit)" as he makes his first try at dragging your sword upstairs.
Next, your massage, and fuck if you're going to find anywhere in the inner city that isn't completely packed at a time like this. So you head east, crossing the main flow of the crowds like you would a rain-swollen river and one of the wider waterways over a rounded footbridge, edging your way further and further from the light and life of the Festival until the din becomes distant enough to tune out. The streets grow narrower in the new developments on the outskirts, the buildings no taller but somehow they feel so in how they cluster closer and closer together. It's like stepping into a deep, dark forest of steel and concrete, only thin slices of the sky visible if you crane your neck straight up. Not much room for revelry in the streets here - anyone inclined is either back there or staying home today - and that suits you just fine. Signs and banners protrude from the blocky buildings all around at every level, splashes of colour all but begging you to stop and visit, to duck down a side-street otherwise invisible and go up three flights of stairs to get a fantastic price on something-or-other. There's a thin level of grime here you'd never see in the inner city, something ever-present. You prefer it. It's more honest.
A stroke of luck. You find what you're looking for thanks to the guy in the street outside helpfully ranting about the service to anyone who'll listen. You know the type from a glance; dishevelled but well-dressed, well-fed, and at least half-cut. Someone got a little too much liquid courage and decided to slum it so he could tell all his friends about the real city. His face glows red-orange between the drunk anger and the firelight through the doorway, shadow falling as he notices you approach and swings his head in your direction. And then he... moves to block you. You sigh heavily, shooting him a steely stare.
"Hey hey, hey keep walking," he says, half-slurring and waving a finger in your face. "Y'know- y'know what they say about these kinds'a places right? Welllll they're fulla shit. Fffffucking daylight robbery, y'can get a happy ending from the inner city girls for half the price an' at least they aren't flea-bitten-"
You punch him in the throat. Just a fast flicker of movement and his eyes bulge out, wheezing and sipping at the air as if through a straw. His hands fly up to his throat and he slowly, ponderously topples over. You step over him and into the front office. The woman behind the counter and the bouncer lingering by the wall are both staring at you.
"You gonna be a problem too?" the ash-grey wolf rumbles, folding arms bulging with brawn.
"Nah." You walk past him without another word and dig out your wallet. He grunts, but doesn't stop you. "Want a massage and a private bath for an hour if you have it."
"Of course sir," says the woman behind the counter. She leafs through her logbook carefully so as not to tear the cheap paper with her claws. Her hands and face are dusted liberally with pale green scales, but when she speaks it's impossible to miss the forked tongue - must've sucked back when she first realised those scales meant snake, not dragon. "And what sort of masseur would you like?"
You make a face. "Why's it matter?"
Then you remember why it matters. You blink twice, then turn your head and scowl at nothing.
"Don't care. Send whoever."
She takes your money and sends you to room three. It's down the hall, third on your left, but something draws your eye on the way there. A door at the far end propped open to expose a tantalising glimpse of the tiny break area out back. As you watch another employee ducks inside, flicking the stub of a cigarette outside as the door swings shut. He's a foxblood in a loose white robe, lanky and strung with lean muscle, rust-orange ears protruding from the curly tangle of his hair. He's got the brightest green eyes you've ever seen, and the robe sags open at the chest right down to the navel. He's idly polishing his curved, dainty black claws on said robe when he notices you looking.
You break eye contact immediately and head into your room. In the end they send you a black-haired girl who looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over. You say nothing, just strip to the waist and climb on the table.
"Do you know where you carry your ten-"
She gasps, snatching away the hand that unthinkingly reached out to probe your back. Staring in shocked silence at the tapestry of old wounds on your back, raised-ridge scars that each tell a story and none of them happy, the ugly grey-black stretch marks by your shoulders and under your arms from when you put on so much muscle so young you nearly broke. Staring at the dark blood vessels, the black veins in your folded arms. Staring at her hand that felt how cold you are.
"M'not gonna bite you," you grunt. "Just do the job and I'll be out of your hair."
It was a useless question anyway. It's all tension back there. She seems to get the hint quickly, forgoing all the foreplay to hammer your back with knuckles and elbows, practically beating it all out of you. Hurts like hell, but you don't complain. The worst part isn't even her, it's the vein twitching on your forehead that won't go away. Probably the head injury.
When at last you get to sink into the hot bath you ordered, even you can't resist a sigh of relief. Your skin buzzes and tingles as the heat leeches into you, forcing your blood to rush through you the way it's supposed to. You flush the lightest, weakest shade of pink but that's a victory in its own right. Your beaten and battered back all but sobs in gratitude. You spread your arms wide along the rim of the circular tub and lean back, watching the white steam curl up toward the ceiling. It's dark in here too, just the way you like it. Only the flickering orange light of a single lamp to keep you company, and what light bleeds through under the door of course. Slowly, almost by degrees, your body relaxes. Your eyes go half-lidded, then finally close.
It's the big day tomorrow. Tournament of Ten Winds finals. You don't know who you'll be up against, and you don't much care. Whoever it is you'll crush them like the rest. You'll get the money, the wreath, the lot of it. And then...
... then... what?
Your brow furrows slightly as you finally give a thought to what happens after you win. Your eyes crack open again, squinting up at the steamy ceiling as you'll find your answer there. What'll you actually do with all that money?
[ ] Retire and buy a farm somewhere. You're sure you'd be bored to tears within a week but at least there'd be nobody around to bother you but animals.
[ ] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
[ ] Start your own mercenary band. Travel Creation, drifting from region to region and job to job, taking on more hands until you have your own personal army.
[ ] Probably just buy yourself something big and expensive, like a new sword or some armour, and keep doing what you're doing. Maybe you'll come back every year until you have a full set.
[ ] You... don't know. The more you think about it the more you think maybe you are just in it for the glory. To win at least once just to say you did. Nobody can take that away from you.
White Tower always looks faintly ridiculous come the Festival. It's like putting a pink bow on an attack dog - even if it's not biting your kid's face right now, you're not fooling anybody about what it was bred for. You think the proper full title is Main Operating Base White Tower, but nobody's got time for a mouthful like that. If you squint you can see the titular White Tower, an unyielding spire that scrapes the heavens and keeps an ever-watchful eye out across the sea for the barbarians of the north. There's another, smaller copy of it just across the harbour that's just a lighthouse.
As far as the rest of the place, it's hard to tell where what must've been left over all those years ago ends and what the Dragonblooded built when they arrived begins. It's all variations on the same theme - the kind of city where every building looks like a castle, all harsh lines and sharp angles, thick walls and heavy doors. You'd need a siege weapon to break into someone's house, at least in the inner city. Everything looks grey as steel but for the few splashes of colour, so vibrant by comparison that they seem garish - green to honour the elemental dragon of Wood, black as the richest soil for Earth, so on and so forth. Immaculate temples are decked out in all five colours of course, but everywhere you look it's impossible to miss how white dominates. When night falls even the lampposts all around you will burn white. Colourless flower petals float in the waterways that crisscross the city like slender veins. This is a city of Air and no one's about to let you forget it.
It's a Festival day but it's no random, unguided revelry. You have to shoulder your way through the crowds a bit at a time, turning this way and that to slip between all the damn people making it their life's work to mill about and bother you, tune your ears out to the din of people shouting at street vendors and each other to be heard, some rude bastard even throws rice at you, but you see them. The eyes, ears and arms of the Tamura Clan. There's one on every street corner all decked out in his parade-day finest; high-collar jacket with silver buttons, freshly-polished boots, stiff cap, white armband on his sword-arm and the sword in question hanging from its ceremonial sheath. Unlucky bastards get a whole day of it, standing ramrod straight but for their heads on a swivel. Everyone else just has to muster for the parade later at Tengoku Airstrip. One notices you looking, shoots you a look of his own when he spies the kind of weaponry you've got hanging off your shoulder. You ignore him.
Speaking of the long arm of the law, you bump into a Warstrider not long after. Towering eyesore of a thing, no way you'd have missed it unless that smack from Bull's hammer really did blind you. It stands as tall as two men on backbent legs of pure white jadesteel - it'd probably collapse under its own weight if they used another kind - billowing grey-white smoke out of the pipes in its back-end with every heavy, plodding step. The pilot gets to sit comfortably up in what you guess is the saddle, protected by armour plating that sweeps up before him like a cresting wave. It leaves his back and sides exposed, but hey, when you get deployed a dozen at a time in a wedge formation who's gonna get the angle on you with a dinky little bow? You don't even know the kind of firepower they're packing up front, never had the good or bad fortune to deploy either side of a battlefield with one of 'em, but you've heard stories of knocking chunks out of walls and levelling solid stone buildings. The guy up top must feel like a god right now. Him and the other dozen or so, all doing their rounds a couple city blocks apiece, showing off the goods. 'cause that's what the Festival is, right? Everyone's time to show off.
Blacksmith's easy to find, and damn quiet compared to outside too. You don't get many people racing in to get heavy-duty steelworking done during the Festival, so the masters are all out probably having a good time. Which leaves the forges upstairs cold and you alone in a vast, empty foyer of cool marble with the scrawny apprentice they left to man the counter. He looks like he'd rather you pull out your sword and decapitate him right now rather than stick around listening to the party outside another minute. You'd oblige but hey, hardly gonna make your chipped-sword problem any better right?
"I need this repaired," you grunt, drawing the offending weapon and hefting it across your spread hands. "Rush job, priority one. Need it for the tournament tomorrow."
It's a blunt, unadorned thing but you'd say it's got its own brutal beauty to it. It's damn near your height tip-to-pommel, and even with the deep full-length fuller scraping out enough iron to forge a whole extra sword it's still damn heavy to match. The crossguard is wide and slightly angled, the grip long enough to fit a third hand if you had one lying around, and the pommel's a simple circular chunk of metal the size of an apple. A good two handspans of the blade just below the hilt are blunt and leatherbound, the better to control it. Plus, makes it safe to use your custom-made sheath with the cut-out at the top so you can draw from the back without getting the damn tip caught at the throat. You remember going some hungry, hungry nights saving up for this beauty. It's no exaggeration to say it's been your most enduring companion.
"I-I... ah..." the kid's eyes flick rapidly between you and the sword, probably worried it'll crush him if you hand it over. "I can do that for you sir b-but there will be the holiday sur-"
"Fine."
"-charge..." He blinks. "And I don't know when my master will be back so you'll have to pay in ad-"
"Sure, fine, can you get it done or not?"
"Y- yes sir we would be glad to take your business today!" the kid says rapidly, fumbling through the papers on his side of the counter until he finds the ones he needs, then repeating the process for his pen. "And the name for the order?"
"Jiro," you grunt. "As in 'two' and 'son'."
"Thank you." The pen scribbles on paper in a second of blissful silence. Then, regrettably, the kid tries to lighten the mood. "Ha, younger brother huh? Been there."
You stare at him. He glances up at your silence, only to double-take as if you'd reached over and punched him in the mouth. He gets the hint and hunches down to finish up. The numbers get a whole lot messier after that. You read it upside-down and have the money waiting for him like a spread paper fan when he goes to straighten up - issued by the Bank of White Tower and each delicately inked with either the satrap Shuzen Tamura's austere profile or his brother Sho. You'd prefer money that isn't jeopardised by rain but hey, that's the price of doing business here.
"Just visit tomorrow morning and your sword should be ready for anything just in time for your match!" the kid says, injecting as much enthusiasm as possible. You just grumble something inaudible, grab your proof of purchase and leave. You hear a clang and muffled "(shit)" as he makes his first try at dragging your sword upstairs.
Next, your massage, and fuck if you're going to find anywhere in the inner city that isn't completely packed at a time like this. So you head east, crossing the main flow of the crowds like you would a rain-swollen river and one of the wider waterways over a rounded footbridge, edging your way further and further from the light and life of the Festival until the din becomes distant enough to tune out. The streets grow narrower in the new developments on the outskirts, the buildings no taller but somehow they feel so in how they cluster closer and closer together. It's like stepping into a deep, dark forest of steel and concrete, only thin slices of the sky visible if you crane your neck straight up. Not much room for revelry in the streets here - anyone inclined is either back there or staying home today - and that suits you just fine. Signs and banners protrude from the blocky buildings all around at every level, splashes of colour all but begging you to stop and visit, to duck down a side-street otherwise invisible and go up three flights of stairs to get a fantastic price on something-or-other. There's a thin level of grime here you'd never see in the inner city, something ever-present. You prefer it. It's more honest.
A stroke of luck. You find what you're looking for thanks to the guy in the street outside helpfully ranting about the service to anyone who'll listen. You know the type from a glance; dishevelled but well-dressed, well-fed, and at least half-cut. Someone got a little too much liquid courage and decided to slum it so he could tell all his friends about the real city. His face glows red-orange between the drunk anger and the firelight through the doorway, shadow falling as he notices you approach and swings his head in your direction. And then he... moves to block you. You sigh heavily, shooting him a steely stare.
"Hey hey, hey keep walking," he says, half-slurring and waving a finger in your face. "Y'know- y'know what they say about these kinds'a places right? Welllll they're fulla shit. Fffffucking daylight robbery, y'can get a happy ending from the inner city girls for half the price an' at least they aren't flea-bitten-"
You punch him in the throat. Just a fast flicker of movement and his eyes bulge out, wheezing and sipping at the air as if through a straw. His hands fly up to his throat and he slowly, ponderously topples over. You step over him and into the front office. The woman behind the counter and the bouncer lingering by the wall are both staring at you.
"You gonna be a problem too?" the ash-grey wolf rumbles, folding arms bulging with brawn.
"Nah." You walk past him without another word and dig out your wallet. He grunts, but doesn't stop you. "Want a massage and a private bath for an hour if you have it."
"Of course sir," says the woman behind the counter. She leafs through her logbook carefully so as not to tear the cheap paper with her claws. Her hands and face are dusted liberally with pale green scales, but when she speaks it's impossible to miss the forked tongue - must've sucked back when she first realised those scales meant snake, not dragon. "And what sort of masseur would you like?"
You make a face. "Why's it matter?"
Then you remember why it matters. You blink twice, then turn your head and scowl at nothing.
"Don't care. Send whoever."
She takes your money and sends you to room three. It's down the hall, third on your left, but something draws your eye on the way there. A door at the far end propped open to expose a tantalising glimpse of the tiny break area out back. As you watch another employee ducks inside, flicking the stub of a cigarette outside as the door swings shut. He's a foxblood in a loose white robe, lanky and strung with lean muscle, rust-orange ears protruding from the curly tangle of his hair. He's got the brightest green eyes you've ever seen, and the robe sags open at the chest right down to the navel. He's idly polishing his curved, dainty black claws on said robe when he notices you looking.
You break eye contact immediately and head into your room. In the end they send you a black-haired girl who looks like a stiff breeze would knock her over. You say nothing, just strip to the waist and climb on the table.
"Do you know where you carry your ten-"
She gasps, snatching away the hand that unthinkingly reached out to probe your back. Staring in shocked silence at the tapestry of old wounds on your back, raised-ridge scars that each tell a story and none of them happy, the ugly grey-black stretch marks by your shoulders and under your arms from when you put on so much muscle so young you nearly broke. Staring at the dark blood vessels, the black veins in your folded arms. Staring at her hand that felt how cold you are.
"M'not gonna bite you," you grunt. "Just do the job and I'll be out of your hair."
It was a useless question anyway. It's all tension back there. She seems to get the hint quickly, forgoing all the foreplay to hammer your back with knuckles and elbows, practically beating it all out of you. Hurts like hell, but you don't complain. The worst part isn't even her, it's the vein twitching on your forehead that won't go away. Probably the head injury.
When at last you get to sink into the hot bath you ordered, even you can't resist a sigh of relief. Your skin buzzes and tingles as the heat leeches into you, forcing your blood to rush through you the way it's supposed to. You flush the lightest, weakest shade of pink but that's a victory in its own right. Your beaten and battered back all but sobs in gratitude. You spread your arms wide along the rim of the circular tub and lean back, watching the white steam curl up toward the ceiling. It's dark in here too, just the way you like it. Only the flickering orange light of a single lamp to keep you company, and what light bleeds through under the door of course. Slowly, almost by degrees, your body relaxes. Your eyes go half-lidded, then finally close.
It's the big day tomorrow. Tournament of Ten Winds finals. You don't know who you'll be up against, and you don't much care. Whoever it is you'll crush them like the rest. You'll get the money, the wreath, the lot of it. And then...
... then... what?
Your brow furrows slightly as you finally give a thought to what happens after you win. Your eyes crack open again, squinting up at the steamy ceiling as you'll find your answer there. What'll you actually do with all that money?
[ ] Retire and buy a farm somewhere. You're sure you'd be bored to tears within a week but at least there'd be nobody around to bother you but animals.
[ ] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
[ ] Start your own mercenary band. Travel Creation, drifting from region to region and job to job, taking on more hands until you have your own personal army.
[ ] Probably just buy yourself something big and expensive, like a new sword or some armour, and keep doing what you're doing. Maybe you'll come back every year until you have a full set.
[ ] You... don't know. The more you think about it the more you think maybe you are just in it for the glory. To win at least once just to say you did. Nobody can take that away from you.
Omegahugger
Inattentive Idiot
[X] Probably just buy yourself something big and expensive, like a new sword or some armour, and keep doing what you're doing. Maybe you'll come back every year until you have a full set.
Shopping therapy is best therapy. This message is sponsored by Your Local Shopping Malltm.
Shopping therapy is best therapy. This message is sponsored by Your Local Shopping Malltm.
- Location
- London, England
[x] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
I choose this idea on the basis that it means Jiro's ultimate ambition is, at present, to get the fuck out of this place. Travel a bit, see the world, die having seen a city that isn't 99% fucking white.
I choose this idea on the basis that it means Jiro's ultimate ambition is, at present, to get the fuck out of this place. Travel a bit, see the world, die having seen a city that isn't 99% fucking white.
SirLagginton
Shadow Cabal Caerbannog Bun-Bun
- Location
- Arrrghhh
[x] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
- Location
- Austria
[X] You... don't know. The more you think about it the more you think maybe you are just in it for the glory. To win at least once just to say you did. Nobody can take that away from you.
I like him as just a guy who's in it for fame and acknowledgment. Like a giant middle finger to any and all naysayers.
I like him as just a guy who's in it for fame and acknowledgment. Like a giant middle finger to any and all naysayers.
- Location
- HELL
- Pronouns
- They/It
[x] Sail to the Blessed Isle. See if everything your father always talked about is true. Maybe find someone in the Immaculate Order to punch.
off to the B L E S S ED I S L E
off to the B L E S S ED I S L E
[X] Probably just buy yourself something big and expensive, like a new sword or some armour, and keep doing what you're doing. Maybe you'll come back every year until you have a full set.