NorseQuest: Collective Edition (Group-Based Xianxia Settlement-Builder)
- Thread starter I.F. Ister
- Start date
- Original
- Pronouns
- He/Him
IF has stated on Discord OOC that he's not long for this world. His Fated Day approaches. We can check on him, but it's probably not gonna help.
- Location
- Southampton, Great Britain
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I think he is just old and his Fated Day approaches.
Maybe we could help him go out with a Bang? Find some nasty monster for him to go out fighting against.
- Location
- The United States
- Pronouns
- He/They
If I was him, I would regret not dying in the Fall of Gotland for as long as I lived.
That sort of thing held inside long term isn't good for Norse cultivation.
That sort of thing held inside long term isn't good for Norse cultivation.
- Location
- Hell
That is unfortunate...has he named a successor? I think there was someone raised pretty high up recently.
They might not like the back and forth motion of the tide. Sounds like they need to be raised in a river equivalent.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Ragnarr is the hersir, which is the closest thing we have to that. We could elect someone, including Ragnarr, in theory.
- Location
- Southampton, Great Britain
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Ragnar Fair-Spoken.
I think I have pond-bound freshwater coral, actually, lol.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Sadly, the necromancer went to the seeress, and the reward must thus come from her. She could reveal your fylgja if you want extradimensional space, though it's harder to access in combat.
- Location
- United States
- Pronouns
- They/Them
Man, I am super scatterbrained rn. Yeah I'll get my Fylgja unlocked.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Cool, added to your sheet, talk with IF about what it is.
I.F. Ister
Fortifying The Thread
- Pronouns
- He/They
- Location
- Hell
?
I thought Hardwood and Agnes did that?
He agreed to let me help so I can have somewhere to place warding later.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Liv spent a Major action last turn on it that got sort of missed, so she also helped a lot. You two were still also involved, but so was she.
- Location
- Space between realms
- Pronouns
- He
We definitely need to elevate a few people into the Jarl class. Some characters should definitely start questing for Jarl-soul. The Hird Mechanic and leadership are too valuable for us to lose.
In addition, we need someone to act as a check and balance between the Seer and Shapecrafter.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I think IF said if we elect someone they become a full jarl and can do things like appoint a hersir, but we should maybe check.
- Location
- Space between realms
- Pronouns
- He
It's nice to see that we have options but I think a couple other Jarls will be healthy for the community.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I don't really disagree, but it's hard to orchestrate.
- Pronouns
- he/him
its kind of something that needs to happen naturally
Gefjosa Aslaugsdottir 3 (CoatRackRanger)
There were eight of them on the beach that day. SEVEN. SHOULDNT COUNT SCARED LITTLE GIRLS WHO'VE NEVER FOUGHT A DAY IN THEIR LIVES. SIX. SHOULDN'T COUNT DEAD MEN EITHER. Gefjosa's eyes flicked to Uncle Torgarr. He was crouched over the makeshift battlements, murmuring softly to the seaweeds below. Totally heedless of the chains which hung clung bound him. TAKE A GOOD LOOK NOW, SOON HE'LL BE FACE DOWN IN THAT SAND, CRABS EATING OUT HIS EYES Gefjosa swallowed. In the days before she'd tried to tell him, tried to say anything, but the words had clogged like mud in her throat. The Blomtamja didn't speak much as they worked, after all. Gefjosa couldn't remember the last words she'd said to him. Had it really been back at the Thing at the beginning of the season?
The Thing. It had all felt so different since the Thing. For a while, the change had been good. She'd let herself... feel again. Feel more than just the Sorrow, walk other paths than a slow march towards the grave. It had been awful, too. When the nightmares came back, when the Red Voice roared, it was all the worse for their moments of absence. YOU'LL NEVER BE FREE. THE MORE YOU STRUGGLE, ONLY THE MORE TRAPPED YOU BECOME. Since that day in the fields, however, she hadn't heard the Blue Voice again, not even a whisper. OR THAT NASTY LITTLE PINK ONE EITHER, YOU CREEP. YOU WORM. Things weren't back to the way they were before. They were worse. That dark world of peaceful pain, it was lost to her. Try as she might, and try she had, the numbness of Sorrow would not come. She was trying now. She tried to pull the darkness over herself as the sounds of Gutes fighting and dying in the surf beyond them filtered to her ears.
They hadn't wanted her here. When she'd told them she wanted to fight, they quietly put her in the reserves. If all else failed, if the village was about to fall, if she was going to die anyways, that's when they'd wanted to let her to fight. And Gefjosa couldn't blame them. Winter in this new land wasn't cold the way it was in Gotland. LOST GOTLAND, FALLEN GOTLAND, DEAD GOTLAND, DRAGGED TO HEL WHERE YOU'RE GOING SOON TOO But she was shivering in the damp, salt-scented heat like it was Fimbulwinter itself. It wasn't cold that set her teeth to chatter and bones to ache, it was FEAR.
FEAR. When Gefjosa asked to be placed on the frontlines besides her kin, perhaps they thought it had been bravery, right action befitting a drengr to demand to stand shoulder to shoulder with kith and kin. Gefjosa knew better. In that moment, she'd feared living while her Uncles died more than she'd feared death itself. If she could stand with them,maybe even save them! that would be good. If she could die with them, that would be good too. BETTER The chains on Uncle Torgarr clinked as he brushed a lock of dark, wet hair from his eyes and squinted at the sun. YOU SHOULD TELL HIM, GEFJOSA... TELL HIM AND MAYBE HE'LL LIVE... OR MAYBE YOU TELL HIM AND THAT'S WHY HE DIES! EITHER WAY, YOU CAN'T STOP WHAT'S COMING! When she'd taken her place between her Uncles on walls of their sand castle that day, she'd felt the Sorrow swell in their hearts.
There were eight of them on the wall. Long-armed Erik who always smelled a little of sawdust. When he died here, his baby grow up never knowing that scent or seeing the beautiful things he made. Black-skinned, mysterious Akali, silent if not singing and loved by all the village children. When he died here, silence would strangle the village and no one would ever sing again. Dashing Rikard who seemed to know everything and had grown so much since arriving in this land. When he died here, his brothers would throw their lives away avenging him and leave a sucking wound in village it would never recover from. Harald Logarson from big farm next to her family's in Gotland. When he died here, the waves would take his bones and he'd never return to the soil he loved. Uncle Njal, Uncle Torgarr, Little Geffy Nidheart, when they died here... when they died... when she died... When I Die... darkness rose in the corners of her vision and...
A steadying hand grabbed her shoulder just before she fell off the battlements and Gefjosa looked up into the eyes of Uncle Torgarr. They were the same color as newly turned earth. The Blomtamja don't speak much as they work because they don't need to. Little things can speak louder than any words. That touch... it's alright, it said. Focus, work to be done now, time for everything else later. Then he pointed to the horizon and she needed not guess what he meant.
The dead were coming.
As the breath quickened in her throat and the panic rose, he squeezed once more and shifted in front of her just a hair. On the other side, Uncle Njal had done the same. We'll protect you, no matter what comes.
Then the fight started. At first, it was quiet oaths and subtle summoning of power. Sand and soil moved and twisted. The seaweed danced to writhing life. Gefjosa's breath came in quick ragged gasps as she struggled to move, to summon her own magic, to do anything at all. "Concentrate." She grabbed both her ears and pressed, hoping to shut out the incessant splash-slap of skinless feet charging across wet sand and low surf. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to blot out the sight of the battalion of living dead coming to make dead of the living. "You are the Plow. You are the Plow, whatever it is you push through..." There was a familiar grunt of effort then something EXPLODED in the distance. Gefjosa shrieked, her eyes snapped open, and she saw the rune-carved caber hurled by Uncle Njal smash through the brittle bones of the charging skeletons. He turned slightly to her, smiling, hand still raised as if in victory and... the line of defenders below the wall crashed into the oncoming tide of bones and one slipped through... metal flashed and Uncle Njal's hand fall from his wrist. Hot blood splashed on Gefjosa's face. He stumbled back. The skeleton raised its axe again.
GEFJOSA ASLAUGSDOTTIR. YOU ARE DEATH TO EVERYONE WHO LOVES YOU. BUT SHE WHO BRINGS DEATH CAN GIVE DEATH! WILL YOU JUST LET THIS MAN DIE FOR YOU? OR WILL YOU FIGHT?! The sound that tore from Gefjosa was more animal bellow than something that should come from a human throat. It struck the skeleton like a physical weight a moment before The Plow tore into reality and reduced the skeleton to arcing fragments. CRUSH THEM! BREAK THEM! BRING THEM OUR SORROW! The Weight of Sorrow descended on her Plow, the Knife scraped and sharpened its edge. Gejfosa roared again, pain fear hate rage bloodlust indistinguishably mingled into one rumbling feral sound. And she brought the image of her bared bleeding soul down upon the enemy and broke them.
The Thing. It had all felt so different since the Thing. For a while, the change had been good. She'd let herself... feel again. Feel more than just the Sorrow, walk other paths than a slow march towards the grave. It had been awful, too. When the nightmares came back, when the Red Voice roared, it was all the worse for their moments of absence. YOU'LL NEVER BE FREE. THE MORE YOU STRUGGLE, ONLY THE MORE TRAPPED YOU BECOME. Since that day in the fields, however, she hadn't heard the Blue Voice again, not even a whisper. OR THAT NASTY LITTLE PINK ONE EITHER, YOU CREEP. YOU WORM. Things weren't back to the way they were before. They were worse. That dark world of peaceful pain, it was lost to her. Try as she might, and try she had, the numbness of Sorrow would not come. She was trying now. She tried to pull the darkness over herself as the sounds of Gutes fighting and dying in the surf beyond them filtered to her ears.
They hadn't wanted her here. When she'd told them she wanted to fight, they quietly put her in the reserves. If all else failed, if the village was about to fall, if she was going to die anyways, that's when they'd wanted to let her to fight. And Gefjosa couldn't blame them. Winter in this new land wasn't cold the way it was in Gotland. LOST GOTLAND, FALLEN GOTLAND, DEAD GOTLAND, DRAGGED TO HEL WHERE YOU'RE GOING SOON TOO But she was shivering in the damp, salt-scented heat like it was Fimbulwinter itself. It wasn't cold that set her teeth to chatter and bones to ache, it was FEAR.
FEAR. When Gefjosa asked to be placed on the frontlines besides her kin, perhaps they thought it had been bravery, right action befitting a drengr to demand to stand shoulder to shoulder with kith and kin. Gefjosa knew better. In that moment, she'd feared living while her Uncles died more than she'd feared death itself. If she could stand with them,
There were eight of them on the wall. Long-armed Erik who always smelled a little of sawdust. When he died here, his baby grow up never knowing that scent or seeing the beautiful things he made. Black-skinned, mysterious Akali, silent if not singing and loved by all the village children. When he died here, silence would strangle the village and no one would ever sing again. Dashing Rikard who seemed to know everything and had grown so much since arriving in this land. When he died here, his brothers would throw their lives away avenging him and leave a sucking wound in village it would never recover from. Harald Logarson from big farm next to her family's in Gotland. When he died here, the waves would take his bones and he'd never return to the soil he loved. Uncle Njal, Uncle Torgarr, Little Geffy Nidheart, when they died here... when they died... when she died... When I Die... darkness rose in the corners of her vision and...
A steadying hand grabbed her shoulder just before she fell off the battlements and Gefjosa looked up into the eyes of Uncle Torgarr. They were the same color as newly turned earth. The Blomtamja don't speak much as they work because they don't need to. Little things can speak louder than any words. That touch... it's alright, it said. Focus, work to be done now, time for everything else later. Then he pointed to the horizon and she needed not guess what he meant.
The dead were coming.
As the breath quickened in her throat and the panic rose, he squeezed once more and shifted in front of her just a hair. On the other side, Uncle Njal had done the same. We'll protect you, no matter what comes.
Then the fight started. At first, it was quiet oaths and subtle summoning of power. Sand and soil moved and twisted. The seaweed danced to writhing life. Gefjosa's breath came in quick ragged gasps as she struggled to move, to summon her own magic, to do anything at all. "Concentrate." She grabbed both her ears and pressed, hoping to shut out the incessant splash-slap of skinless feet charging across wet sand and low surf. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying to blot out the sight of the battalion of living dead coming to make dead of the living. "You are the Plow. You are the Plow, whatever it is you push through..." There was a familiar grunt of effort then something EXPLODED in the distance. Gefjosa shrieked, her eyes snapped open, and she saw the rune-carved caber hurled by Uncle Njal smash through the brittle bones of the charging skeletons. He turned slightly to her, smiling, hand still raised as if in victory and... the line of defenders below the wall crashed into the oncoming tide of bones and one slipped through... metal flashed and Uncle Njal's hand fall from his wrist. Hot blood splashed on Gefjosa's face. He stumbled back. The skeleton raised its axe again.
GEFJOSA ASLAUGSDOTTIR. YOU ARE DEATH TO EVERYONE WHO LOVES YOU. BUT SHE WHO BRINGS DEATH CAN GIVE DEATH! WILL YOU JUST LET THIS MAN DIE FOR YOU? OR WILL YOU FIGHT?! The sound that tore from Gefjosa was more animal bellow than something that should come from a human throat. It struck the skeleton like a physical weight a moment before The Plow tore into reality and reduced the skeleton to arcing fragments. CRUSH THEM! BREAK THEM! BRING THEM OUR SORROW! The Weight of Sorrow descended on her Plow, the Knife scraped and sharpened its edge. Gejfosa roared again, pain fear hate rage bloodlust indistinguishably mingled into one rumbling feral sound. And she brought the image of her bared bleeding soul down upon the enemy and broke them.
Forgot to shout out the people who I mentioned in my post.
If your accounts of this battle differ from Geffy's, it is because she's an unreliable narrator.
@Sirrocco @mythfan12 @Simon_Jester @Abensur @Alectai @OneArmedYeti all you are mentioned in the above post. Mostly Gefjosa thinking about what the village would be like if you died.
If your accounts of this battle differ from Geffy's, it is because she's an unreliable narrator.
@Sirrocco @mythfan12 @Simon_Jester @Abensur @Alectai @OneArmedYeti all you are mentioned in the above post. Mostly Gefjosa thinking about what the village would be like if you died.
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
First up, tallywork,
(Omake Ordstirr Capped)
+3 Ordstirr
9/9 Omake Ordstirr
Imagine if there was a Limit Break Twist.
(Omake Ordstirr Capped)
Ow, my heart.
+3 Ordstirr
9/9 Omake Ordstirr
Shard
One and Many
- Location
- Malaysia
"Jarls be who Karls say be one-telling-to-do. To have two, whom answers to who, must we be answering - Elsewise, be asking for unwise be-king'ed war." Moli Spotlight said.