Or: It is a lovely day in the grim, dark future, and you are a horrible Gojo.
Seeing Chaos: A Jujutsu Kaisen/WH40K Quest
- Thread starter Azremodehar
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The history of humanity has been a history of doing stupid things, and hoping they work out for the best. From the first moment a bipedal ape looked across a chasm, and thought that they could totally make the jump (spoiler: they could not), humans and their antecedents have, from time-to-benighted-time been taking the ill-advised course of action, even in the face of all the evidence that they really shouldn't push that button.
No matter how intelligent, educated, skilled, or devout a person may be, there is always that little voice that says, "What if you did though?" And there is always someone, no matter how intelligent, educated, skilled, or devout, who listens.
It is this voice that speaks in the ear of a man in black as he regards an artefact of ancient Terra, a daemonic thing crafted of flesh and staring eyes, with no little sense of desperation. It is a box, he has just realised, and not merely a cube. A thing that could be opened and looked into, and perhaps extracted from… if only he knows the right twists of the Warp.
Whatever is inside could save this planet, or damn it.
He shouldn't. He manifestly should not; he has no way of knowing what lies within, and for all his psychic might, he is but one man. He knows better, even with all the forces of Chaos bearing down on this world, knows better than to use Chaos to fight Chaos.
"But," whispers that little voice that lives in all of us. The voice of curiosity, the drive and desire to know, to try, to strive. The voice of desperation, the voice of need, the drive and desire to do something, anything-- "What if you did? Surely," that part of himself continues, as he regards the box, "Just a peek would hurt nothing? This world is lost; what more can you lose, just by taking a look?"
There is a list of reasons longer than he is tall why he should, in fact, not. On any other day, he would listen to them. On any other day, But today, a thumb tips the scales of Chaos. The man gives in to the sins of both curiosity, and desperation, and opens the box.
Just a peek, he tells himself. "To see if it can be used."
Just a peek is all you need to finally, finally escape.
The Prison Realm is a place of utter isolation. It is meant to drive those contained within it to madness, despair, utter senselessness, and finally, after an eternity of nothing, death. If you were a lesser man, that would certainly have been your fate. But you are not a lesser man, you are Gojo Satoru, alone honoured in heaven and earth, and there was no way that you were going to let that thing get to you.
It was a very ambitious resolution; too ambitious perhaps, even for you, because although you dedicated a portion of your formidable mind to keeping the time—second by second, as you lay in a heap of bones, the remains of you predecessors—after a time it had seemed to you that you must have missed something. Skipped some vital moment, blinked, lost count, something—because the count of seconds made no sense.
It made less sense as time dragged on, as you devoted another portion of your kind to theoretical applications of your technique—all you could do with it, until you could get out of there.
Thinking.
Counting.
Thinking.
Counting.
Endlessly, thinking and counting and thinking and counting—
You understood how a lesser man could be driven mad. You could be driven mad by the sheer lack of stimulation—the only end to the nothingness was yourself, and the bones.
You had counted all of them by the time the way out opened up.
You knew yourself excruciatingly well, right down to the last quark by the time something shifted, and the changeless near-void cracked.
That slightest crack is all you need to be free.
As you pass through the space between the Prison Realm and the outside world, everything around you dissolves into endlessly shifting fractals. The tiniest permutations of cursed energy are like brilliant flares in your sight after so long blinded, and the world blooms around you in brilliant colours--some invisible to anyone else--smells--all of them horrifying, after so long smelling nothing but bone, dust, and your own skin--and sounds--an electric hum, and the beating of another heart.
Before you stands a man, armed, armoured, and clad in black. To your immense surprise, he is actually taller than you (you straighten your spine a little at the realisation, to no avail); you can count on your hands the number of times you have met someone taller, and still have fingers left over. This man, with his short-cropped hair, pale skin, and brown eyes makes eight. Seeing the shape of his cursed energy, you know him for a sorcerer, which makes him the second. (That time in second year when Suguru was one centimetre taller for an entire month doesn't count.)
By the energy you can see and the vectors you can sense you know that you are not in Japan. You are, in fact, so far away from Japan that although you can comprehend it--you cannot help but comprehend it, with your technique--a very large part of you wants to wholly reject it.
Regretfully, you don't have time for that, or for the breakdown that you really deserve to have, with all this sensory input after--you don't want to think about how long. Too long. Everyone and everything you have ever known are dead and dust, and you really don't have time to think about it. You can see the energy of curses, thousands of them, bearing down on this location, and you cannot see any other sorcerers save this man, and yourself.
The curses are accellerating, no doubt drawn by your sudden presence. You have time, though. Time before they arrive to assess yourself, and prepare.
No matter how intelligent, educated, skilled, or devout a person may be, there is always that little voice that says, "What if you did though?" And there is always someone, no matter how intelligent, educated, skilled, or devout, who listens.
It is this voice that speaks in the ear of a man in black as he regards an artefact of ancient Terra, a daemonic thing crafted of flesh and staring eyes, with no little sense of desperation. It is a box, he has just realised, and not merely a cube. A thing that could be opened and looked into, and perhaps extracted from… if only he knows the right twists of the Warp.
Whatever is inside could save this planet, or damn it.
He shouldn't. He manifestly should not; he has no way of knowing what lies within, and for all his psychic might, he is but one man. He knows better, even with all the forces of Chaos bearing down on this world, knows better than to use Chaos to fight Chaos.
"But," whispers that little voice that lives in all of us. The voice of curiosity, the drive and desire to know, to try, to strive. The voice of desperation, the voice of need, the drive and desire to do something, anything-- "What if you did? Surely," that part of himself continues, as he regards the box, "Just a peek would hurt nothing? This world is lost; what more can you lose, just by taking a look?"
There is a list of reasons longer than he is tall why he should, in fact, not. On any other day, he would listen to them. On any other day, But today, a thumb tips the scales of Chaos. The man gives in to the sins of both curiosity, and desperation, and opens the box.
Just a peek, he tells himself. "To see if it can be used."
Just a peek is all you need to finally, finally escape.
The Prison Realm is a place of utter isolation. It is meant to drive those contained within it to madness, despair, utter senselessness, and finally, after an eternity of nothing, death. If you were a lesser man, that would certainly have been your fate. But you are not a lesser man, you are Gojo Satoru, alone honoured in heaven and earth, and there was no way that you were going to let that thing get to you.
It was a very ambitious resolution; too ambitious perhaps, even for you, because although you dedicated a portion of your formidable mind to keeping the time—second by second, as you lay in a heap of bones, the remains of you predecessors—after a time it had seemed to you that you must have missed something. Skipped some vital moment, blinked, lost count, something—because the count of seconds made no sense.
It made less sense as time dragged on, as you devoted another portion of your kind to theoretical applications of your technique—all you could do with it, until you could get out of there.
Thinking.
Counting.
Thinking.
Counting.
Endlessly, thinking and counting and thinking and counting—
You understood how a lesser man could be driven mad. You could be driven mad by the sheer lack of stimulation—the only end to the nothingness was yourself, and the bones.
You had counted all of them by the time the way out opened up.
You knew yourself excruciatingly well, right down to the last quark by the time something shifted, and the changeless near-void cracked.
That slightest crack is all you need to be free.
As you pass through the space between the Prison Realm and the outside world, everything around you dissolves into endlessly shifting fractals. The tiniest permutations of cursed energy are like brilliant flares in your sight after so long blinded, and the world blooms around you in brilliant colours--some invisible to anyone else--smells--all of them horrifying, after so long smelling nothing but bone, dust, and your own skin--and sounds--an electric hum, and the beating of another heart.
Before you stands a man, armed, armoured, and clad in black. To your immense surprise, he is actually taller than you (you straighten your spine a little at the realisation, to no avail); you can count on your hands the number of times you have met someone taller, and still have fingers left over. This man, with his short-cropped hair, pale skin, and brown eyes makes eight. Seeing the shape of his cursed energy, you know him for a sorcerer, which makes him the second. (That time in second year when Suguru was one centimetre taller for an entire month doesn't count.)
By the energy you can see and the vectors you can sense you know that you are not in Japan. You are, in fact, so far away from Japan that although you can comprehend it--you cannot help but comprehend it, with your technique--a very large part of you wants to wholly reject it.
Regretfully, you don't have time for that, or for the breakdown that you really deserve to have, with all this sensory input after--you don't want to think about how long. Too long. Everyone and everything you have ever known are dead and dust, and you really don't have time to think about it. You can see the energy of curses, thousands of them, bearing down on this location, and you cannot see any other sorcerers save this man, and yourself.
The curses are accellerating, no doubt drawn by your sudden presence. You have time, though. Time before they arrive to assess yourself, and prepare.
Assess Yourself
- Location
- The Internet
Assess Yourself
You are the pinnacle of the jujutsu world, with ridiculous amounts of cursed enrergy, and the cursed technique to match. Your physical abilities are equally outrageous, superhumanly strong and fast, both physically and mentally.
None of this has changed during your interminable imprisonment.
Nice.
Just before the warped, spinning fractals around you resolved into the solid reality of space and time, something caught your eye:
[] The history of humanity: not the whole, but the shape of it now sits within you. What this means remains to be seen.
[] The existence of aliens. Aliens! Humanity is not alone! What this means remains to be seen.
[] Chaos Itself. D̸̢̯͋̐͗̃̕͝ở̸̧̢̪̤̪̳̪̘͎̤̱̯̀̈́͒̇́̓̑͑̄̈́̄̚͝͠ṅ̴̢͇̦̱̬̞̗̥̲̹̭͕̜̯̲͆̆̓͂͗̊̈͒̀̾̓͐̍͂͜͝'̶̺̗̮̫̦͉̰̤̘̬̎́͊͊͆̍̾̏̈́͐͌̃̇͘͜͜͠͠ͅt̷͕̗̤̻͙̮̱̃̀́ ̶̧̹͉͕̫͛̎͛̏̈͂ṭ̷̡̥̞͉̞̘̔̒̂̔̈͝͝a̶̢̧̡̼̝̳̟͖͍͖̫̦̝̫̮͓͇͋̊͆̌̑̚͠k̶̨̡̘̞̜͚̩͍̺͕̲͎͔͙̊́̀̀̐ͅͅe̷̫̙̦̭̘̼͕̹̜̜̠͖͍͔̲̮͈͂͂̑̍́̌͌̈́̑͊̍̓ ̶̢̡̳̳̝͖̮͔͔̼͈̟̓̑̓͐̎̆͑̑̉̐̎̇̀̈́̃̐͝t̸̢̪̬͉̜͙̞̟̭̲͉̀͋̕͝ḩ̸̧̛̠͇͓̟̝͕̣͇͓̤͋̈́̌͗̉͂́͑̚̕͜i̸͚̠̞̬̫̋̐́͑͌̋͆̃́́̆͆͋̋̏͝s̴̻͎̳̩̝̯̥̞̱̼͕̣̰̏͆ ̷̡̮̤̫̜͈̲̩͕̝̜̠̤̙̇o̴̤̍̓̑̎̔̽̒̔̉̀͘͘͝p̶͓͎̩̫̙̑̿̀̓́̅̋͆͛̽̂̍̓͘͠t̸̢̢̢̝̬̝̅ī̴̲̞̙̼͈͓̤͑͆͌̽̈̊͜͜o̶̧̡̢̥͕̜̦̹̟͙̗̻̘̅̌̓̀́̈́͊͛̀͆͝͝ͅn̸̙͉̫̫̙̦̮̞͖͎̞͍̫̈́̽̚,̵̢̛̙͒͆͒̎́̔̅͊̉̌̒̏͠ ̶̻̳̦̠̣̱͇̩͚͔̺͖̥̂̅̈͝͝i̸̢̛̥̘͎̺͗͌̀̓̍̚ṫ̵̰̫̼̼͉̹̐̆ͅͅ'̸̗̦͔͕̮͠͠s̴̨̡̧̖̯̝͇̰̥̤͕̗̯̜͍̣̈́͆͌̎̈͛͐̓͒̓̇̂̅̕͠͝ͅ ̶̡̧͓͕͇̼̮̞̭̣̬̗̮̄̊̑͛̏́̊͗̊̉̿̕̚ͅa̶̛̼̰̼̓́̊̓ ̷̮̝͈̫͉̳̥̞͌̆̎̅̋̑̑̒͐̀͠t̶̢̩̝̝̘́̇̚r̵̞̂̒͋̆̊̒ḁ̴̜̘͕̗̺͑̄͐͗̍̒͌͝p̶̡̨̧̛͕̖̺̞̻͎̥̲̗͕̤̮͐͊̾͋̌͝.̵̦̌̓ ̵̗̱̹͋
You have something in your pockets:
-Inventory:
-Uniform
-Sunglasses
-Blindfold
-Lip gloss
-Phone
-3 individually packaged marshmallow snacks
-6 pieces of melon candy
-That's it that's all she wrote.
You have 25 points to spend on various things. Choose wisely.
[] Cursed Tools:
-[] 3rd Grade (10pt): You have a cursed tool of 3rd grade or lower stashed in your pockets, somehow.
-[] 2nd Grade (15pt): You have a cursed tool of 2nd grade or lower stashed in your pockets, somehow.
-[] 1st Grade (20pt): You have a cursed tool of 1st grade or lower stashed in your pockets, somehow.
[] Seals:
-[] Seals I (5pt): You have a handful of seals shoved in a pocket for some reason. These can be used to contain someone or something of up to 3rd grade.
-[] Seals II (10pt): You have a double-handful of seals shoved in your pockets for some reason. These can be used to contain someone or something of up to 2nd grade.
-[] Seals III (15pt): You have enough seals shoved into your pants to contain up to a 1st grade person or artefact. For some reason.
[] Deep Pockets (1-5pt): Up to five additional items have made their way into your pockets. These must be small enough to fit in your hand, not jujutsu items, and invented before CE 2018.
[] ET Phone Home (20pt): Your phone is in perfect working order and can somehow still make calls, access your email, and all the other fun things a phone can do in 2018. Somehow. You might want to look into that.
[] Extra Chaos (20pt): You had time for two glimpses into the boundless depths of the Warp. Pick a second trait.
-[] The history of humanity: not the whole, but the shape of it now sits within you. What this means remains to be seen. If you choose this a second time, one era will be highlighted in detail.
-[] The existence of aliens. Aliens! Humanity is not alone! What this means remains to be seen. If you choose this a second time, one race will be highlighted in detail.
-[] Chaos Itself. D̸̢̯͋̐͗̃̕͝ở̸̧̢̪̤̪̳̪̘͎̤̱̯̀̈́͒̇́̓̑͑̄̈́̄̚͝͠ṅ̴̢͇̦̱̬̞̗̥̲̹̭͕̜̯̲͆̆̓͂͗̊̈͒̀̾̓͐̍͂͜͝'̶̺̗̮̫̦͉̰̤̘̬̎́͊͊͆̍̾̏̈́͐͌̃̇͘͜͜͠͠ͅt̷͕̗̤̻͙̮̱̃̀́ ̶̧̹͉͕̫͛̎͛̏̈͂ṭ̷̡̥̞͉̞̘̔̒̂̔̈͝͝a̶̢̧̡̼̝̳̟͖͍͖̫̦̝̫̮͓͇͋̊͆̌̑̚͠k̶̨̡̘̞̜͚̩͍̺͕̲͎͔͙̊́̀̀̐ͅͅe̷̫̙̦̭̘̼͕̹̜̜̠͖͍͔̲̮͈͂͂̑̍́̌͌̈́̑͊̍̓ ̶̢̡̳̳̝͖̮͔͔̼͈̟̓̑̓͐̎̆͑̑̉̐̎̇̀̈́̃̐͝t̸̢̪̬͉̜͙̞̟̭̲͉̀͋̕͝ḩ̸̧̛̠͇͓̟̝͕̣͇͓̤͋̈́̌͗̉͂́͑̚̕͜i̸͚̠̞̬̫̋̐́͑͌̋͆̃́́̆͆͋̋̏͝s̴̻͎̳̩̝̯̥̞̱̼͕̣̰̏͆ ̷̡̮̤̫̜͈̲̩͕̝̜̠̤̙̇o̴̤̍̓̑̎̔̽̒̔̉̀͘͘͝p̶͓͎̩̫̙̑̿̀̓́̅̋͆͛̽̂̍̓͘͠t̸̢̢̢̝̬̝̅ī̴̲̞̙̼͈͓̤͑͆͌̽̈̊͜͜o̶̧̡̢̥͕̜̦̹̟͙̗̻̘̅̌̓̀́̈́͊͛̀͆͝͝ͅn̸̙͉̫̫̙̦̮̞͖͎̞͍̫̈́̽̚,̵̢̛̙͒͆͒̎́̔̅͊̉̌̒̏͠ ̶̻̳̦̠̣̱͇̩͚͔̺͖̥̂̅̈͝͝i̸̢̛̥̘͎̺͗͌̀̓̍̚ṫ̵̰̫̼̼͉̹̐̆ͅͅ'̸̗̦͔͕̮͠͠s̴̨̡̧̖̯̝͇̰̥̤͕̗̯̜͍̣̈́͆͌̎̈͛͐̓͒̓̇̂̅̕͠͝ͅ ̶̡̧͓͕͇̼̮̞̭̣̬̗̮̄̊̑͛̏́̊͗̊̉̿̕̚ͅa̶̛̼̰̼̓́̊̓ ̷̮̝͈̫͉̳̥̞͌̆̎̅̋̑̑̒͐̀͠t̶̢̩̝̝̘́̇̚r̵̞̂̒͋̆̊̒ḁ̴̜̘͕̗̺͑̄͐͗̍̒͌͝p̶̡̨̧̛͕̖̺̞̻͎̥̲̗͕̤̮͐͊̾͋̌͝.̵̦̌̓ ̵̗̱̹͋ T̷̨̨̢͎͔̟̦̗̻̣̭̫̈́̈̓͌́̐͂ͅh̸̨̨̛̖̼̜̤̦̯̬̩̼̯͚̟̭̖͊̒̑̈̎͊̑̍̑̂̅̑͝͝i̶̢̧̬̲̣̰̦͇̞͎͇̻̥̮̺̔͒̕s̶̨̖̰͑̈̿͒͝ ̷͎̤͈̣̤̦̬̝̥͇̅̔̓̍̔̉͋͆͛́̿͐͐̊̆̚͝ͅį̴̘̭͕̰̲͙̗͍̓̆͛̓͗̀̑̅͠s̵̡͎͉̃͗̊͊͐́̓͆̕ ̶̛̦̜̲̫̩̤͉̳̜͐͂͗̈́͒͌̅̇̑̌̎͝s̷̘̰͓͗̊̚͝͝t̴͍͛̂̌̄͆́̈̒̄̔̉̆͐̂ī̴͓̹͇̯͍̟̫̗̱̿̄̃̆̅̚̕͝ͅļ̸̣̲̓̈́̽̃͑͂͛̿̚l̶̡̙̹̗̰͉̖͍̣̮͆̈ͅ ̶̡̘̘̬̝͚̱̖̩̠̿͑̓̆̈́͊͐̊̀͗â̷̼̟̼͈̇͐͛͋́͒͛̕ ̶̣̳̣͙͙̖̘͍̻͈̏͗̓̌͊̌̈́̚͝ẗ̸̡̳͔̫̩̟̥̮̥̠͍͙̼̀r̸̮̃̂̽͑̉̄̆̕a̸̡͖̺̜̠͉̼̺̼͇͖̘̅p̸̧̧̛̙͓̟̩̬̝͍̤̻̓́̾̏̇̀̍̕.̴̭̬̞͈͍͎̈́̇̒̄̂́͂̈͘̕͝ͅ
[] Extra Extra Chaos (0-25pt): Write in something you want. Offer a price. Fortune favours the bold.
[] WH40K Knowledge I (15pt): You know that 40K exists, and have probably heard a few things associated with it, like 'space marines' and 'The Emperor of Mankind.' [] WH40K Knowledge II (20pt): You've never played, but you are aware of 40K as a miniatures wargaming thing, and have some familiarity with the lore. You know who the Chaos Gods are, recognise terms like 'Astartes' and 'Necrons', and know the difference between orcs and Orks. You might even own a few minis, you know, because they're cool.
[] WH40K Knowledge III (25pt): You have a secret Warhammer habit, and are as familiar with the lore as you are with Digimon or Shounen Jump series. (Please include your choice for Gojo's army here.)
Any unspent points will be reserved for later.
You are the pinnacle of the jujutsu world, with ridiculous amounts of cursed enrergy, and the cursed technique to match. Your physical abilities are equally outrageous, superhumanly strong and fast, both physically and mentally.
None of this has changed during your interminable imprisonment.
Nice.
Just before the warped, spinning fractals around you resolved into the solid reality of space and time, something caught your eye:
[] The history of humanity: not the whole, but the shape of it now sits within you. What this means remains to be seen.
[] The existence of aliens. Aliens! Humanity is not alone! What this means remains to be seen.
[] Chaos Itself. D̸̢̯͋̐͗̃̕͝ở̸̧̢̪̤̪̳̪̘͎̤̱̯̀̈́͒̇́̓̑͑̄̈́̄̚͝͠ṅ̴̢͇̦̱̬̞̗̥̲̹̭͕̜̯̲͆̆̓͂͗̊̈͒̀̾̓͐̍͂͜͝'̶̺̗̮̫̦͉̰̤̘̬̎́͊͊͆̍̾̏̈́͐͌̃̇͘͜͜͠͠ͅt̷͕̗̤̻͙̮̱̃̀́ ̶̧̹͉͕̫͛̎͛̏̈͂ṭ̷̡̥̞͉̞̘̔̒̂̔̈͝͝a̶̢̧̡̼̝̳̟͖͍͖̫̦̝̫̮͓͇͋̊͆̌̑̚͠k̶̨̡̘̞̜͚̩͍̺͕̲͎͔͙̊́̀̀̐ͅͅe̷̫̙̦̭̘̼͕̹̜̜̠͖͍͔̲̮͈͂͂̑̍́̌͌̈́̑͊̍̓ ̶̢̡̳̳̝͖̮͔͔̼͈̟̓̑̓͐̎̆͑̑̉̐̎̇̀̈́̃̐͝t̸̢̪̬͉̜͙̞̟̭̲͉̀͋̕͝ḩ̸̧̛̠͇͓̟̝͕̣͇͓̤͋̈́̌͗̉͂́͑̚̕͜i̸͚̠̞̬̫̋̐́͑͌̋͆̃́́̆͆͋̋̏͝s̴̻͎̳̩̝̯̥̞̱̼͕̣̰̏͆ ̷̡̮̤̫̜͈̲̩͕̝̜̠̤̙̇o̴̤̍̓̑̎̔̽̒̔̉̀͘͘͝p̶͓͎̩̫̙̑̿̀̓́̅̋͆͛̽̂̍̓͘͠t̸̢̢̢̝̬̝̅ī̴̲̞̙̼͈͓̤͑͆͌̽̈̊͜͜o̶̧̡̢̥͕̜̦̹̟͙̗̻̘̅̌̓̀́̈́͊͛̀͆͝͝ͅn̸̙͉̫̫̙̦̮̞͖͎̞͍̫̈́̽̚,̵̢̛̙͒͆͒̎́̔̅͊̉̌̒̏͠ ̶̻̳̦̠̣̱͇̩͚͔̺͖̥̂̅̈͝͝i̸̢̛̥̘͎̺͗͌̀̓̍̚ṫ̵̰̫̼̼͉̹̐̆ͅͅ'̸̗̦͔͕̮͠͠s̴̨̡̧̖̯̝͇̰̥̤͕̗̯̜͍̣̈́͆͌̎̈͛͐̓͒̓̇̂̅̕͠͝ͅ ̶̡̧͓͕͇̼̮̞̭̣̬̗̮̄̊̑͛̏́̊͗̊̉̿̕̚ͅa̶̛̼̰̼̓́̊̓ ̷̮̝͈̫͉̳̥̞͌̆̎̅̋̑̑̒͐̀͠t̶̢̩̝̝̘́̇̚r̵̞̂̒͋̆̊̒ḁ̴̜̘͕̗̺͑̄͐͗̍̒͌͝p̶̡̨̧̛͕̖̺̞̻͎̥̲̗͕̤̮͐͊̾͋̌͝.̵̦̌̓ ̵̗̱̹͋
You have something in your pockets:
-Inventory:
-Uniform
-Sunglasses
-Blindfold
-Lip gloss
-Phone
-3 individually packaged marshmallow snacks
-6 pieces of melon candy
-That's it that's all she wrote.
You have 25 points to spend on various things. Choose wisely.
[] Cursed Tools:
-[] 3rd Grade (10pt): You have a cursed tool of 3rd grade or lower stashed in your pockets, somehow.
-[] 2nd Grade (15pt): You have a cursed tool of 2nd grade or lower stashed in your pockets, somehow.
-[] 1st Grade (20pt): You have a cursed tool of 1st grade or lower stashed in your pockets, somehow.
[] Seals:
-[] Seals I (5pt): You have a handful of seals shoved in a pocket for some reason. These can be used to contain someone or something of up to 3rd grade.
-[] Seals II (10pt): You have a double-handful of seals shoved in your pockets for some reason. These can be used to contain someone or something of up to 2nd grade.
-[] Seals III (15pt): You have enough seals shoved into your pants to contain up to a 1st grade person or artefact. For some reason.
[] Deep Pockets (1-5pt): Up to five additional items have made their way into your pockets. These must be small enough to fit in your hand, not jujutsu items, and invented before CE 2018.
[] ET Phone Home (20pt): Your phone is in perfect working order and can somehow still make calls, access your email, and all the other fun things a phone can do in 2018. Somehow. You might want to look into that.
[] Extra Chaos (20pt): You had time for two glimpses into the boundless depths of the Warp. Pick a second trait.
-[] The history of humanity: not the whole, but the shape of it now sits within you. What this means remains to be seen. If you choose this a second time, one era will be highlighted in detail.
-[] The existence of aliens. Aliens! Humanity is not alone! What this means remains to be seen. If you choose this a second time, one race will be highlighted in detail.
-[] Chaos Itself. D̸̢̯͋̐͗̃̕͝ở̸̧̢̪̤̪̳̪̘͎̤̱̯̀̈́͒̇́̓̑͑̄̈́̄̚͝͠ṅ̴̢͇̦̱̬̞̗̥̲̹̭͕̜̯̲͆̆̓͂͗̊̈͒̀̾̓͐̍͂͜͝'̶̺̗̮̫̦͉̰̤̘̬̎́͊͊͆̍̾̏̈́͐͌̃̇͘͜͜͠͠ͅt̷͕̗̤̻͙̮̱̃̀́ ̶̧̹͉͕̫͛̎͛̏̈͂ṭ̷̡̥̞͉̞̘̔̒̂̔̈͝͝a̶̢̧̡̼̝̳̟͖͍͖̫̦̝̫̮͓͇͋̊͆̌̑̚͠k̶̨̡̘̞̜͚̩͍̺͕̲͎͔͙̊́̀̀̐ͅͅe̷̫̙̦̭̘̼͕̹̜̜̠͖͍͔̲̮͈͂͂̑̍́̌͌̈́̑͊̍̓ ̶̢̡̳̳̝͖̮͔͔̼͈̟̓̑̓͐̎̆͑̑̉̐̎̇̀̈́̃̐͝t̸̢̪̬͉̜͙̞̟̭̲͉̀͋̕͝ḩ̸̧̛̠͇͓̟̝͕̣͇͓̤͋̈́̌͗̉͂́͑̚̕͜i̸͚̠̞̬̫̋̐́͑͌̋͆̃́́̆͆͋̋̏͝s̴̻͎̳̩̝̯̥̞̱̼͕̣̰̏͆ ̷̡̮̤̫̜͈̲̩͕̝̜̠̤̙̇o̴̤̍̓̑̎̔̽̒̔̉̀͘͘͝p̶͓͎̩̫̙̑̿̀̓́̅̋͆͛̽̂̍̓͘͠t̸̢̢̢̝̬̝̅ī̴̲̞̙̼͈͓̤͑͆͌̽̈̊͜͜o̶̧̡̢̥͕̜̦̹̟͙̗̻̘̅̌̓̀́̈́͊͛̀͆͝͝ͅn̸̙͉̫̫̙̦̮̞͖͎̞͍̫̈́̽̚,̵̢̛̙͒͆͒̎́̔̅͊̉̌̒̏͠ ̶̻̳̦̠̣̱͇̩͚͔̺͖̥̂̅̈͝͝i̸̢̛̥̘͎̺͗͌̀̓̍̚ṫ̵̰̫̼̼͉̹̐̆ͅͅ'̸̗̦͔͕̮͠͠s̴̨̡̧̖̯̝͇̰̥̤͕̗̯̜͍̣̈́͆͌̎̈͛͐̓͒̓̇̂̅̕͠͝ͅ ̶̡̧͓͕͇̼̮̞̭̣̬̗̮̄̊̑͛̏́̊͗̊̉̿̕̚ͅa̶̛̼̰̼̓́̊̓ ̷̮̝͈̫͉̳̥̞͌̆̎̅̋̑̑̒͐̀͠t̶̢̩̝̝̘́̇̚r̵̞̂̒͋̆̊̒ḁ̴̜̘͕̗̺͑̄͐͗̍̒͌͝p̶̡̨̧̛͕̖̺̞̻͎̥̲̗͕̤̮͐͊̾͋̌͝.̵̦̌̓ ̵̗̱̹͋ T̷̨̨̢͎͔̟̦̗̻̣̭̫̈́̈̓͌́̐͂ͅh̸̨̨̛̖̼̜̤̦̯̬̩̼̯͚̟̭̖͊̒̑̈̎͊̑̍̑̂̅̑͝͝i̶̢̧̬̲̣̰̦͇̞͎͇̻̥̮̺̔͒̕s̶̨̖̰͑̈̿͒͝ ̷͎̤͈̣̤̦̬̝̥͇̅̔̓̍̔̉͋͆͛́̿͐͐̊̆̚͝ͅį̴̘̭͕̰̲͙̗͍̓̆͛̓͗̀̑̅͠s̵̡͎͉̃͗̊͊͐́̓͆̕ ̶̛̦̜̲̫̩̤͉̳̜͐͂͗̈́͒͌̅̇̑̌̎͝s̷̘̰͓͗̊̚͝͝t̴͍͛̂̌̄͆́̈̒̄̔̉̆͐̂ī̴͓̹͇̯͍̟̫̗̱̿̄̃̆̅̚̕͝ͅļ̸̣̲̓̈́̽̃͑͂͛̿̚l̶̡̙̹̗̰͉̖͍̣̮͆̈ͅ ̶̡̘̘̬̝͚̱̖̩̠̿͑̓̆̈́͊͐̊̀͗â̷̼̟̼͈̇͐͛͋́͒͛̕ ̶̣̳̣͙͙̖̘͍̻͈̏͗̓̌͊̌̈́̚͝ẗ̸̡̳͔̫̩̟̥̮̥̠͍͙̼̀r̸̮̃̂̽͑̉̄̆̕a̸̡͖̺̜̠͉̼̺̼͇͖̘̅p̸̧̧̛̙͓̟̩̬̝͍̤̻̓́̾̏̇̀̍̕.̴̭̬̞͈͍͎̈́̇̒̄̂́͂̈͘̕͝ͅ
[] Extra Extra Chaos (0-25pt): Write in something you want. Offer a price. Fortune favours the bold.
[] WH40K Knowledge I (15pt): You know that 40K exists, and have probably heard a few things associated with it, like 'space marines' and 'The Emperor of Mankind.' [] WH40K Knowledge II (20pt): You've never played, but you are aware of 40K as a miniatures wargaming thing, and have some familiarity with the lore. You know who the Chaos Gods are, recognise terms like 'Astartes' and 'Necrons', and know the difference between orcs and Orks. You might even own a few minis, you know, because they're cool.
[] WH40K Knowledge III (25pt): You have a secret Warhammer habit, and are as familiar with the lore as you are with Digimon or Shounen Jump series. (Please include your choice for Gojo's army here.)
Any unspent points will be reserved for later.
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01
- Location
- The Internet
In the long second—minutes in the space of your own mind—that you spend processing the facts of your newfound freedom, the knowledge that you gained as you escaped coalesces into one sharp fact: humanity has been screwed.
(As if the literal thousand curses closing on you and one other sorcerer hadn't made that plain.)
It is more than that, though. Your brief glimpse into a timeless spaceless thing, a void that only you can comprehend, had shown you that: the rise and fall of mankind over a staggering period of time and space has lead to a world that is plagued by curses, beset by aliens, and irrevocably changed by science into something…
[] Unrecognisable.
[] Strange, but still familar.
[] The same as always, with a new coat of paint.
That glimpse has given you one other gift: the gift of language. So when the sorcerer who opened the Prison Realm looks on you in horror and exclaims "Daemon!" as he draws his sword, you understand him.
[] You're faster than he is; prevent him from drawing the sword.
[] Let him draw, and try to strike; it's not like he can reach you.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
While you're at it…
[] Chide him like an errant student.
[] Remain silent.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
While you contemplate that, you take in your surroundings: a metal bunker lit by what seems to be emergency lights, a series of elaborate seals carved into the stone plinth where the Prison Realm sits. In one corner a broken staff, still resonant with cursed enegry, sits discarded. In another, the still-smoking remains of a gun of some kind sit. You can see a console of some sort, and a table with a variety of exotic instruments (they pull at your thoughts; some have traces of cursed energy clinging to them) laid out or attached to it.
The man before you is still taller than you--over two metres. There is a look of wild desperation in his eyes, one you have seen before, usually right as you show up and save some hapless sorcerer from a curse out of their league. His armour--light, battered, and clawed deeply across one thigh--and long coat--even more damaged than the armour--are black, and about as blinged out as a character from JJBA; you see a stylised capital I, or something like it (I for Inquisition, some part of you whispers), a double-headed eagle (this, too, seems familiar now), and several skulls (you have seen far too many of these in the last aeons), in addition to other smaller things, like gold buttons on the coat, thread-of-gold scattered through it as well... Once upon a time--probably before it met an army of curses--it was a very fancy outfit.
In addition to the sword, you can see another small gun, and several knives on the man.
By his cursed energy, you'd peg him at right around second grade; that says nothing about his skill, but it's a decent measure of his raw talent.
Speaking of the Prison Realm…
[] Pocket it; it may come in handy some day.
[] Destroy it so that it can never be used against you again.
[] Actually let's just put this sorcerer in it.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
The curses, meanwhile, grow ever closer, and as they do, you realise that amongst their number there are actually a number of people, including three presumably curse users. None of them are greater than second grade.
[] Screw it, Hollow Purple right through the main mass—and the building, and everything else.
[] Wait.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
———
Congratulations! You have unlocked the 'no language barrier' route.
You have enough seals in your pockets to contain: 1 2nd-grade OR 100 3rd-grade OR 1000 4th-grade curses, or equivalent. In the case of containing large numbers, it will be a matter of corralling them and sealing them collectively, rather than having a literal thousand seals stuffed in your pockets.
Your offering of 15 points for increased chance of Black Flash pleases Khorne. In hand-to-hand combat, you will get a black flash on a roll of 84 or better. (Baseline, 100.)
(As if the literal thousand curses closing on you and one other sorcerer hadn't made that plain.)
It is more than that, though. Your brief glimpse into a timeless spaceless thing, a void that only you can comprehend, had shown you that: the rise and fall of mankind over a staggering period of time and space has lead to a world that is plagued by curses, beset by aliens, and irrevocably changed by science into something…
[] Unrecognisable.
[] Strange, but still familar.
[] The same as always, with a new coat of paint.
That glimpse has given you one other gift: the gift of language. So when the sorcerer who opened the Prison Realm looks on you in horror and exclaims "Daemon!" as he draws his sword, you understand him.
[] You're faster than he is; prevent him from drawing the sword.
[] Let him draw, and try to strike; it's not like he can reach you.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
While you're at it…
[] Chide him like an errant student.
[] Remain silent.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
While you contemplate that, you take in your surroundings: a metal bunker lit by what seems to be emergency lights, a series of elaborate seals carved into the stone plinth where the Prison Realm sits. In one corner a broken staff, still resonant with cursed enegry, sits discarded. In another, the still-smoking remains of a gun of some kind sit. You can see a console of some sort, and a table with a variety of exotic instruments (they pull at your thoughts; some have traces of cursed energy clinging to them) laid out or attached to it.
The man before you is still taller than you--over two metres. There is a look of wild desperation in his eyes, one you have seen before, usually right as you show up and save some hapless sorcerer from a curse out of their league. His armour--light, battered, and clawed deeply across one thigh--and long coat--even more damaged than the armour--are black, and about as blinged out as a character from JJBA; you see a stylised capital I, or something like it (I for Inquisition, some part of you whispers), a double-headed eagle (this, too, seems familiar now), and several skulls (you have seen far too many of these in the last aeons), in addition to other smaller things, like gold buttons on the coat, thread-of-gold scattered through it as well... Once upon a time--probably before it met an army of curses--it was a very fancy outfit.
In addition to the sword, you can see another small gun, and several knives on the man.
By his cursed energy, you'd peg him at right around second grade; that says nothing about his skill, but it's a decent measure of his raw talent.
Speaking of the Prison Realm…
[] Pocket it; it may come in handy some day.
[] Destroy it so that it can never be used against you again.
[] Actually let's just put this sorcerer in it.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
The curses, meanwhile, grow ever closer, and as they do, you realise that amongst their number there are actually a number of people, including three presumably curse users. None of them are greater than second grade.
[] Screw it, Hollow Purple right through the main mass—and the building, and everything else.
[] Wait.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
———
Congratulations! You have unlocked the 'no language barrier' route.
You have enough seals in your pockets to contain: 1 2nd-grade OR 100 3rd-grade OR 1000 4th-grade curses, or equivalent. In the case of containing large numbers, it will be a matter of corralling them and sealing them collectively, rather than having a literal thousand seals stuffed in your pockets.
Your offering of 15 points for increased chance of Black Flash pleases Khorne. In hand-to-hand combat, you will get a black flash on a roll of 84 or better. (Baseline, 100.)
02
- Location
- The Internet
First thing's first. You ignore the man drawing his blade; Infinity will catch it. (Does catch it, when he swings.) For all that humanity has changed, from what you have seen, they remain fundamentally the same. That's good and bad: Good, because it means you don't need to learn to understand people all over again. Bad, for… much the same reason.
The curses draw ever closer, and the sorcerer takes another swing at you, before dropping his blade and lashing out with lightning, which gets no closer to you than the blade, though it does look significantly cooler hanging in the air than a single sword did.
You click your tongue, and waggle a finger at him.
"Now, now, I hope you realise none of that is going to work," you say, even as the bulk of your perception remains on the only real threat in the room: the Prison Realm.
Part of you is admittedly tempted to shove it in your pocket for later; surely it might come in handy some day? Surely it would be a shame to destroy such an ancient and venerable—nah. That thing is one of the few things that can actually stop you, and while you doubt it will ever be effective again, after your last experience, you aren't taking any chances.
A well-placed flex of your power, and the thing is crushed. Sure, it's special grade, but so are you, and ultimately, so long as you're not inside the damned thing, you're higher on the food chain.
The sorcerer—who has now thrown half of his knives and shot at you six times—squeaks, and stares at you, goggle-eyed and more than a little scared. This is normal, and expected. (You wish it were less normal and expected, but you've never really been human. Not to most people, and especially not now.)
"What are you?" the man demands, but the increased proximity of the army of curses has become too much to ignore; they might just become an annoyance if allowed to progress further—not to mention the people among them. Are they, or are they not allied with the curses? Only one way to find out.
Luckily, you have several good tactics for dealing with an army of curses, and you open with the old reliable: Domain Expansion, Unlimited Void, for just long enough to stun them all. From there, it'll be an easy matter to dispatch them all, and separate the humans(?) from the… mass of twisted limbs and ichor—or so you would think. In actuality, some of the people(?) you find there are just as twisted as the curses around them. One of them is nothing but a gibbering thing of pure rage and bloodlust, broken teeth and claw-like nails drenched in blood as it (he? she?) lunges for you.
[] Pop it like a zit.
[] Ignore it; it can't touch you.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
That handled, there are still other people, spared Unlimited Void by your quantum-level control: A probable-man in (very cool) power armour shouting about daemons and laying into the stunned curses around him with a giant chainsaw sword and his armoured fist. A sorcerer with a staff like the one you saw broken in the bunker, eyes glowing blue with power, missing a leg but still standing on the remaining one, even as she bleeds out, maintaining a barrier around a group of ordinary-enough looking soldiers (barely holding themselves together as they pick off curses with what looks like laser guns (!!)), another group of ordinary-enough looking soldiers without the protection of a sorcerer, still holding their own since the curses are, you know, stunned...
[] Help the power armour.
[] Help the sorcerer.
[] Help the other soldiers.
[] Ignore them, they're fine. You have curses to deal with.
[] You're Gojo Satoru. You can help them all, and look good doing it.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
The curses draw ever closer, and the sorcerer takes another swing at you, before dropping his blade and lashing out with lightning, which gets no closer to you than the blade, though it does look significantly cooler hanging in the air than a single sword did.
You click your tongue, and waggle a finger at him.
"Now, now, I hope you realise none of that is going to work," you say, even as the bulk of your perception remains on the only real threat in the room: the Prison Realm.
Part of you is admittedly tempted to shove it in your pocket for later; surely it might come in handy some day? Surely it would be a shame to destroy such an ancient and venerable—nah. That thing is one of the few things that can actually stop you, and while you doubt it will ever be effective again, after your last experience, you aren't taking any chances.
A well-placed flex of your power, and the thing is crushed. Sure, it's special grade, but so are you, and ultimately, so long as you're not inside the damned thing, you're higher on the food chain.
The sorcerer—who has now thrown half of his knives and shot at you six times—squeaks, and stares at you, goggle-eyed and more than a little scared. This is normal, and expected. (You wish it were less normal and expected, but you've never really been human. Not to most people, and especially not now.)
"What are you?" the man demands, but the increased proximity of the army of curses has become too much to ignore; they might just become an annoyance if allowed to progress further—not to mention the people among them. Are they, or are they not allied with the curses? Only one way to find out.
Luckily, you have several good tactics for dealing with an army of curses, and you open with the old reliable: Domain Expansion, Unlimited Void, for just long enough to stun them all. From there, it'll be an easy matter to dispatch them all, and separate the humans(?) from the… mass of twisted limbs and ichor—or so you would think. In actuality, some of the people(?) you find there are just as twisted as the curses around them. One of them is nothing but a gibbering thing of pure rage and bloodlust, broken teeth and claw-like nails drenched in blood as it (he? she?) lunges for you.
[] Pop it like a zit.
[] Ignore it; it can't touch you.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
That handled, there are still other people, spared Unlimited Void by your quantum-level control: A probable-man in (very cool) power armour shouting about daemons and laying into the stunned curses around him with a giant chainsaw sword and his armoured fist. A sorcerer with a staff like the one you saw broken in the bunker, eyes glowing blue with power, missing a leg but still standing on the remaining one, even as she bleeds out, maintaining a barrier around a group of ordinary-enough looking soldiers (barely holding themselves together as they pick off curses with what looks like laser guns (!!)), another group of ordinary-enough looking soldiers without the protection of a sorcerer, still holding their own since the curses are, you know, stunned...
[] Help the power armour.
[] Help the sorcerer.
[] Help the other soldiers.
[] Ignore them, they're fine. You have curses to deal with.
[] You're Gojo Satoru. You can help them all, and look good doing it.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
03
- Location
- The Internet
The twisted remnant of a human before you reminds you of nothing so much as the patch-faced curse and its actions. You remember Yuuji's pain more than anything, the pain of killing people, even if they're alredy dead.
You can never remember feeling anything like that yourself. It's a foreign emotion, even if it is on your mind as you pop the slavering once-human creature like an errant pimple. Red stains the ground, and hangs in the air for a moment before you allow gravity to reclaim it, and the blood and bits of bone and flesh join the rest of it.
A dozen others like it meet the same fate, along with the curses they're intermingled with, and ichor mixes with blood in a wash of carnage that really isn't as cathartic as you want it to be, after so long locked away. There's just nothing here that can even get your heart-rate up.
All of this takes you roughly three seconds. You take one more to reassess the battlefield, before rising above it, and… yes. You can, in fact, help all of the little pockets of people struggling with the cursed horde with little more effort than it would take you to help one.
You called cursed energy to your hands, the gestures minimal, though not the most minimal; a little extra output won't hurt anything here, and you have plenty.
…and then you just roll Blue through the horde like a demented katamari, crushing and gathering up everything in its path of distinctly discriminate destruction. First past the sorcerer who's bleeding out; hopefully she has a medic who can help her. (Distantly, you notice that she collapses, but her barrier remains.) Then to the pocket of soldiers, sweeping a circle of destruction around them, eliciting a ragged cheer quickly silenced. You turn path of your technique then to aid the person in power armour, who, upon your rescue simply charges into a more distant, and still unmolested part of the horde.
This all takes you approximately ten seconds.
The thousand-curse horde has been neatly reduced to just a couple hundred, and none that remain are over 3rd-grade. It's easy. It's all just so damned easy.
Not that you wish it were any other way, but maybe it might nice to have something to vent your figurative spleen on, just a little bit.
More importantly, your awareness of the cursed energy of this place has grown, and you realise that this horde of curses is just one small part of a greater whole—and that there are other sorcerers, and likely more ordinary people, desperately fighting for their lives not to be overrun.
Actually, the sheer number of curses you are becoming aware of, as you scan the horizon is...
Well.
You're not sure just where the hell they all came from. This is more curses than you have ever experienced at one time in your life; the amount of human suffering it would take to generate this kind of horde would be monumental.
Fifteen seconds have passed.
The one-legged sorcerer is being tended to; the other group of soldiers is heading toward her group as well.
The man in power armour seems to be having a good time yelling about an Emperor and slicing through the low-level curses still milling about.
Seventeen seconds.
You have a decision to make.
[] Go back to the sorcerer who freed you.
-[] Ask him what the hell is going on.
-[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Go to the one-legged sorcerer and her cadre.
-[] Ask her what the hell is going on.
-[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Go to the man in power armour.
-[] Ask him what the hell is going on.
-[] Help sweep up the curses.
-[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Go to the strongest source of cursed energy you can perceive.
-[] Stealthily; best to gather information first.
-[] Forget stealth, go in ready to exorcise everything in sight.
-[] You can totally be stealthy and ready to clear the field.
-[] Something else? (Write-in.)
------
ETA: Formatting the very bane of my existence.
You can never remember feeling anything like that yourself. It's a foreign emotion, even if it is on your mind as you pop the slavering once-human creature like an errant pimple. Red stains the ground, and hangs in the air for a moment before you allow gravity to reclaim it, and the blood and bits of bone and flesh join the rest of it.
A dozen others like it meet the same fate, along with the curses they're intermingled with, and ichor mixes with blood in a wash of carnage that really isn't as cathartic as you want it to be, after so long locked away. There's just nothing here that can even get your heart-rate up.
All of this takes you roughly three seconds. You take one more to reassess the battlefield, before rising above it, and… yes. You can, in fact, help all of the little pockets of people struggling with the cursed horde with little more effort than it would take you to help one.
You called cursed energy to your hands, the gestures minimal, though not the most minimal; a little extra output won't hurt anything here, and you have plenty.
…and then you just roll Blue through the horde like a demented katamari, crushing and gathering up everything in its path of distinctly discriminate destruction. First past the sorcerer who's bleeding out; hopefully she has a medic who can help her. (Distantly, you notice that she collapses, but her barrier remains.) Then to the pocket of soldiers, sweeping a circle of destruction around them, eliciting a ragged cheer quickly silenced. You turn path of your technique then to aid the person in power armour, who, upon your rescue simply charges into a more distant, and still unmolested part of the horde.
This all takes you approximately ten seconds.
The thousand-curse horde has been neatly reduced to just a couple hundred, and none that remain are over 3rd-grade. It's easy. It's all just so damned easy.
Not that you wish it were any other way, but maybe it might nice to have something to vent your figurative spleen on, just a little bit.
More importantly, your awareness of the cursed energy of this place has grown, and you realise that this horde of curses is just one small part of a greater whole—and that there are other sorcerers, and likely more ordinary people, desperately fighting for their lives not to be overrun.
Actually, the sheer number of curses you are becoming aware of, as you scan the horizon is...
Well.
You're not sure just where the hell they all came from. This is more curses than you have ever experienced at one time in your life; the amount of human suffering it would take to generate this kind of horde would be monumental.
Fifteen seconds have passed.
The one-legged sorcerer is being tended to; the other group of soldiers is heading toward her group as well.
The man in power armour seems to be having a good time yelling about an Emperor and slicing through the low-level curses still milling about.
Seventeen seconds.
You have a decision to make.
[] Go back to the sorcerer who freed you.
-[] Ask him what the hell is going on.
-[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Go to the one-legged sorcerer and her cadre.
-[] Ask her what the hell is going on.
-[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Go to the man in power armour.
-[] Ask him what the hell is going on.
-[] Help sweep up the curses.
-[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Go to the strongest source of cursed energy you can perceive.
-[] Stealthily; best to gather information first.
-[] Forget stealth, go in ready to exorcise everything in sight.
-[] You can totally be stealthy and ready to clear the field.
-[] Something else? (Write-in.)
------
ETA: Formatting the very bane of my existence.
Last edited:
04
- Location
- The Internet
Eighteen seconds.
The people out here actually seem to be handling themselves all right, actually; the one-legged sorcerer is getting medical attention, the various soldiers are doing their soldier-y thing, shooting curses with their laser guns whenever they see one you haven't already splattered, shredded, crushed, or otherwise exorcised. The person in power armour (you think it might once have been green under the thick layer of blood, ichor, and char) still looks like they're having a great time. Good. Excellent.
For a moment, you consider going down to the one-legged sorcerer, and asking her for an explanation; she's on the ground, in the thick of things, surely she knows what's going on? But Shoko's phantom voice intervenes; are you really going to get anything coherent out of a sorcerer who just lost her leg? While she's still maintaining a barrier (tied to her cursed tool, maybe? She has a vice-grip on that staff of hers, and if they were expecting a horde of curses, maybe these people had time to prepare multiple tools of the same variety?)?
Twenty seconds.
There's always the guy who let you out of the Prison Realm--you owe him a thanks, anyway, and you bet he has answers. Men like him usually do. Maybe it's time to go back. The other curses aren't approaching your position yet, so you might never have a better time.
Decision made, you wave to one soldier who happens to look up and notice you, and then teleport back into the room you left the man in, less than one minute ago.
To his credit, he has good reflexes. No sooner than you appear there, and he's shooting again. Of course, nothing even comes close to hitting you, so the man comes in swinging with a set of brass knuckles—cursed items both of them, you can see it, but only third-grade. Meant to enhance the strength and precision of his strikes, if you're reading the energy right, and you are, because you are Gojo Satoru. Wholly ineffective of course, but it might sting if you let the impact land. Maki would have like those.
"You're lucky it was me in that box," you tell him, as he takes another futile swing. He stares at the place his fist hit Infinity as if just looking can give him answers. Who knows, maybe it can; you don't know how his technique works. You doubt it, though, since he has no cursed energy in his eyes, specifically. Not in the way you do; it suffuses his whole body, of course, like any sorcerer, but there's nothing particularly outstanding about it. Just another mid-grade sorcerer, only special in any way because he happened to be the one to open the Prison Realm. "It could have been a nasty special grade curse, and then where would you be? Not that I'm not grateful to be out, because I am, but kids-" the man looks older than you "-really shouldn't play with things they don't understand."
Another swing, the man's hand wreathed thickly in cursed energy. He has, you observe, very good control of its flow. The swing is futile of course. You don't blame him for trying, though. You can never really blame anyone for trying. He's hardly the first person to fling themselves against Infinity, thinking they can break it with sheer force, not realising that it doesn't work that way. It's not some barrier that can be surpassed or overcome through any kind of force. In fact, the things that can overcome it are so few and so circumstantial that you can count them on one hand--and one fewer, as of today.
"What are you?" he asks again, clearly frustrated. He pushes against Infinity, flaring his cursed energy, and straining with the effort. "How are you doing this?"
[] Answer him. (How?)
[] Ignore his questions, and ask yours.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
The people out here actually seem to be handling themselves all right, actually; the one-legged sorcerer is getting medical attention, the various soldiers are doing their soldier-y thing, shooting curses with their laser guns whenever they see one you haven't already splattered, shredded, crushed, or otherwise exorcised. The person in power armour (you think it might once have been green under the thick layer of blood, ichor, and char) still looks like they're having a great time. Good. Excellent.
For a moment, you consider going down to the one-legged sorcerer, and asking her for an explanation; she's on the ground, in the thick of things, surely she knows what's going on? But Shoko's phantom voice intervenes; are you really going to get anything coherent out of a sorcerer who just lost her leg? While she's still maintaining a barrier (tied to her cursed tool, maybe? She has a vice-grip on that staff of hers, and if they were expecting a horde of curses, maybe these people had time to prepare multiple tools of the same variety?)?
Twenty seconds.
There's always the guy who let you out of the Prison Realm--you owe him a thanks, anyway, and you bet he has answers. Men like him usually do. Maybe it's time to go back. The other curses aren't approaching your position yet, so you might never have a better time.
Decision made, you wave to one soldier who happens to look up and notice you, and then teleport back into the room you left the man in, less than one minute ago.
To his credit, he has good reflexes. No sooner than you appear there, and he's shooting again. Of course, nothing even comes close to hitting you, so the man comes in swinging with a set of brass knuckles—cursed items both of them, you can see it, but only third-grade. Meant to enhance the strength and precision of his strikes, if you're reading the energy right, and you are, because you are Gojo Satoru. Wholly ineffective of course, but it might sting if you let the impact land. Maki would have like those.
"You're lucky it was me in that box," you tell him, as he takes another futile swing. He stares at the place his fist hit Infinity as if just looking can give him answers. Who knows, maybe it can; you don't know how his technique works. You doubt it, though, since he has no cursed energy in his eyes, specifically. Not in the way you do; it suffuses his whole body, of course, like any sorcerer, but there's nothing particularly outstanding about it. Just another mid-grade sorcerer, only special in any way because he happened to be the one to open the Prison Realm. "It could have been a nasty special grade curse, and then where would you be? Not that I'm not grateful to be out, because I am, but kids-" the man looks older than you "-really shouldn't play with things they don't understand."
Another swing, the man's hand wreathed thickly in cursed energy. He has, you observe, very good control of its flow. The swing is futile of course. You don't blame him for trying, though. You can never really blame anyone for trying. He's hardly the first person to fling themselves against Infinity, thinking they can break it with sheer force, not realising that it doesn't work that way. It's not some barrier that can be surpassed or overcome through any kind of force. In fact, the things that can overcome it are so few and so circumstantial that you can count them on one hand--and one fewer, as of today.
"What are you?" he asks again, clearly frustrated. He pushes against Infinity, flaring his cursed energy, and straining with the effort. "How are you doing this?"
[] Answer him. (How?)
[] Ignore his questions, and ask yours.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
05
- Location
- The Internet
You grin at his questions, wide and almost genuinely cheerful. It's always gratifying when an opponent frustrates themselves with you. And they always do it, almost every single one. Those who haven't… you prefer not to think about them too often.
"I'm Gojo Satoru," you reply, the simplest answer to the question of 'what' you are. Once, it would have been sufficient in and of itself. Once. A very long time ago. So long ago that even you are reluctant to quite face the weight of those years, that time spent in a static, oppressive prison.
You are now the oldest fart you've ever met, and you're not sure how to feel about it. At least you're still pretty. You think. You still feel the same, but it occurs to you that maybe the reason this guy keeps freaking out is that there's something wrong with your face?
…nah. You know yourself down to the last quark; you would know if you were different, or wrong somehow. You would. You are sure of it.
Right?
[] Right.
[] Stick a pin in that thought for later.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
"As for how I'm doing 'this'," you continue, without betraying your internal thoughts. "Do you know the story of Achilles and the Tortoise? It's like that." The man gives you a blank look, so you try again. "Zeno's Paradoxes?" The man's forehead wrinkles slightly. "Come on, this is classic philosophy, don't tell me you've forgotten the basics?"
The fist hanging in the air is starting to annoy you, so you reach out, and push it away. The man fights you on this, but you're stronger. Not as much stronger as you think you ought to be, but thoughts of cybernetics and genetic engineering flit through your head.
"What the hell are you talking about?" the man demands, and you wag your finger at him.
"Nuh-uh, I answered your question; it's my turn. So, uh-" here comes your existential angst "-what year is it? And where, exactly, are we?"
"What makes you think I'll tell you anything?" He draws back as he asks the question, circling around you, as though you can't see behind you just as well as in front. In all fairness, after the vast gulf of years between your time and now, it's entirely reasonable that he has absolutely no idea.
"I asked nicely," you point out. You did, too, perfectly polite and not at all rude. He should appreciate that fact, because you didn't have to be nice. He reaches your back, and gives an experimental jab, finding it just as effective as every other attempt he has made. "That's really not going to work," you add helpfully. "You can't touch me. Not unless you can cross an infinite amount of space in a finite amount of time."
He makes a frustrated noise, and comes back around to face you properly.
"It is the 955th year of the 41st millennium," he grudingly allows. "And you are on the planet Gheistos."
41st millennium.
41st millennium.
You are old as balls.
You knew it had been a long, long, time, but somehow, you were unaware of how vast the gulf of time between when you went into the Prison Realm and really was.
No, vast doesn't cover it.
The amount of time that has passed is four times the entire span of human civilisation, the last time you checked. Enough time for multiple civilisations to rise and fall, enough time that everything you ever knew is certainly gone, dust and less than dust, vanished into the black depths of time.
No wonder this guy hasn't heard of Zeno's Paradoxes. He's probably never even heard of Greece. Hell, you're on another planet; he might never have heard of Earth.
Is he even actually human? The best part of forty thousand years is an awful lot of time; maybe even enough for new species to have evolved out of humans, or maybe been genetically engineered.
The possibilities spin through your mind, and you…
[] Ask him if he's human.
[] Ask about the curses.
[] Ask if he's even heard of Earth.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Two or more of the above. (Which?)
"I'm Gojo Satoru," you reply, the simplest answer to the question of 'what' you are. Once, it would have been sufficient in and of itself. Once. A very long time ago. So long ago that even you are reluctant to quite face the weight of those years, that time spent in a static, oppressive prison.
You are now the oldest fart you've ever met, and you're not sure how to feel about it. At least you're still pretty. You think. You still feel the same, but it occurs to you that maybe the reason this guy keeps freaking out is that there's something wrong with your face?
…nah. You know yourself down to the last quark; you would know if you were different, or wrong somehow. You would. You are sure of it.
Right?
[] Right.
[] Stick a pin in that thought for later.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
"As for how I'm doing 'this'," you continue, without betraying your internal thoughts. "Do you know the story of Achilles and the Tortoise? It's like that." The man gives you a blank look, so you try again. "Zeno's Paradoxes?" The man's forehead wrinkles slightly. "Come on, this is classic philosophy, don't tell me you've forgotten the basics?"
The fist hanging in the air is starting to annoy you, so you reach out, and push it away. The man fights you on this, but you're stronger. Not as much stronger as you think you ought to be, but thoughts of cybernetics and genetic engineering flit through your head.
"What the hell are you talking about?" the man demands, and you wag your finger at him.
"Nuh-uh, I answered your question; it's my turn. So, uh-" here comes your existential angst "-what year is it? And where, exactly, are we?"
"What makes you think I'll tell you anything?" He draws back as he asks the question, circling around you, as though you can't see behind you just as well as in front. In all fairness, after the vast gulf of years between your time and now, it's entirely reasonable that he has absolutely no idea.
"I asked nicely," you point out. You did, too, perfectly polite and not at all rude. He should appreciate that fact, because you didn't have to be nice. He reaches your back, and gives an experimental jab, finding it just as effective as every other attempt he has made. "That's really not going to work," you add helpfully. "You can't touch me. Not unless you can cross an infinite amount of space in a finite amount of time."
He makes a frustrated noise, and comes back around to face you properly.
"It is the 955th year of the 41st millennium," he grudingly allows. "And you are on the planet Gheistos."
41st millennium.
41st millennium.
You are old as balls.
You knew it had been a long, long, time, but somehow, you were unaware of how vast the gulf of time between when you went into the Prison Realm and really was.
No, vast doesn't cover it.
The amount of time that has passed is four times the entire span of human civilisation, the last time you checked. Enough time for multiple civilisations to rise and fall, enough time that everything you ever knew is certainly gone, dust and less than dust, vanished into the black depths of time.
No wonder this guy hasn't heard of Zeno's Paradoxes. He's probably never even heard of Greece. Hell, you're on another planet; he might never have heard of Earth.
Is he even actually human? The best part of forty thousand years is an awful lot of time; maybe even enough for new species to have evolved out of humans, or maybe been genetically engineered.
The possibilities spin through your mind, and you…
[] Ask him if he's human.
[] Ask about the curses.
[] Ask if he's even heard of Earth.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Two or more of the above. (Which?)
06
- Location
- The Internet
"Have you ever even heard of Terra?" Is what comes out of your mouth. You mean to say 'Earth', but the word in this language is Terra, and so that's what comes out. Funny how that works, that knowledge, and the instincts that come with it. Who knew that gazing into the Abyss would give you a second language as thoroughly as your first? The phenomenon is curious to say the least, and you might devote some thought to the matter, once the current obvious crisis is dealt with.
[] Yeah.
[] Nah.
The sorcerer looks briefly confused, and then offended, brow wrinkling as he scowls deeply at you, jarred somewhat out of whatever thought process he had been working through.
"What kind of an idiot question is that? Of course I've heard of it! I've even--" he starts, before cutting himself off abruptly, his scowl transforming into something harder and craggier. If nothing else, this guy is good at making his face say things. "You'll not get more information from me that way."
"Yeah, sure." You wave him off dismissively. "Just to be sure, we're talking about the same planet here, right? Yellow sun, right smack between Venus and Mars?" Your gestures broadly describe the solar system as you speak. "One moon? Lots of people? ...are there still people there?" The man remains silent, thoughts still evidently turning over in his mind as he regards you. "Right. Starting now, I'm going to take silence as a 'yes,'" you declare, and your sharpest of eyes do not fail to see the tiny twitch at the corner of his eye. You let your grin tick wider. He's good at not showing anything he doesn't want seen, you think, but your eyes are better. You can read his microexpressions, and see the currents of his cursed energy, and those things give away something of his mental state.
He is very clearly annoyed. He is also angry, and getting angrier, and not just at you. Desperation is there, too, deep in his eyes and well-hidden.
"So, Terra, still a thing, good," you continue in the face of his silence, to all appearances completely ignorant of his mental and emotional state. "What about all these curses? There are a lot of them." You consider the disposition of the curses back on the battlefield, above you, and the more distant, much larger swell of cursed energy, and just what it means for the sheer volume of curses present. Or the power of those present; you have no doubt that there is at least one special grade among them. Statistically speaking, there has to be; even a million flyheads wouldn't light up like that to your eyes. Not at the distance they have to be from you.
Still, the sorcerer doesn't answer, circling you again, as though looking for a weakness. Sucks to be him, your only weakness has been dust for tens of thousands of years. Another thought to pack away for consideration later, when there isn't an army of curses not too far away--and growing closer. A chunk of the cursed energy has broken away from the main body, and is heading your way. Unsurprising; at least one or two of them has to both have some kind of intelligence, and the will to send forces after you.
It won't do them any good; you still have cursed energy to burn, but the people on the battlefield will be in trouble again soon. Maybe you should evacuate them to this bunker. There are barriers and protections built into it, and even if they aren't up to the task of containing you--nothing is, anymore--you think they might be turned to keeping things out as well.
"Why were you sealed inside that daemon box?" the sorcerer asks from behind you. His words don't interrupt your thoughts, because you have them that swiftly. You tilt your head and look back over your shoulder at him.
[] Answer his question.
-[] Shortly.
-[] In detail.
-[] In sarcastic detail.
[] Refuse to answer.
-[] Unless he tells you about the curses.
-[] At all.
[] Forget this whole line of questioning and go see if one of the people you saved would be more amenable to conversation.
[] Forget conversation at all; those curses are more important.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
[] Yeah.
[] Nah.
The sorcerer looks briefly confused, and then offended, brow wrinkling as he scowls deeply at you, jarred somewhat out of whatever thought process he had been working through.
"What kind of an idiot question is that? Of course I've heard of it! I've even--" he starts, before cutting himself off abruptly, his scowl transforming into something harder and craggier. If nothing else, this guy is good at making his face say things. "You'll not get more information from me that way."
"Yeah, sure." You wave him off dismissively. "Just to be sure, we're talking about the same planet here, right? Yellow sun, right smack between Venus and Mars?" Your gestures broadly describe the solar system as you speak. "One moon? Lots of people? ...are there still people there?" The man remains silent, thoughts still evidently turning over in his mind as he regards you. "Right. Starting now, I'm going to take silence as a 'yes,'" you declare, and your sharpest of eyes do not fail to see the tiny twitch at the corner of his eye. You let your grin tick wider. He's good at not showing anything he doesn't want seen, you think, but your eyes are better. You can read his microexpressions, and see the currents of his cursed energy, and those things give away something of his mental state.
He is very clearly annoyed. He is also angry, and getting angrier, and not just at you. Desperation is there, too, deep in his eyes and well-hidden.
"So, Terra, still a thing, good," you continue in the face of his silence, to all appearances completely ignorant of his mental and emotional state. "What about all these curses? There are a lot of them." You consider the disposition of the curses back on the battlefield, above you, and the more distant, much larger swell of cursed energy, and just what it means for the sheer volume of curses present. Or the power of those present; you have no doubt that there is at least one special grade among them. Statistically speaking, there has to be; even a million flyheads wouldn't light up like that to your eyes. Not at the distance they have to be from you.
Still, the sorcerer doesn't answer, circling you again, as though looking for a weakness. Sucks to be him, your only weakness has been dust for tens of thousands of years. Another thought to pack away for consideration later, when there isn't an army of curses not too far away--and growing closer. A chunk of the cursed energy has broken away from the main body, and is heading your way. Unsurprising; at least one or two of them has to both have some kind of intelligence, and the will to send forces after you.
It won't do them any good; you still have cursed energy to burn, but the people on the battlefield will be in trouble again soon. Maybe you should evacuate them to this bunker. There are barriers and protections built into it, and even if they aren't up to the task of containing you--nothing is, anymore--you think they might be turned to keeping things out as well.
"Why were you sealed inside that daemon box?" the sorcerer asks from behind you. His words don't interrupt your thoughts, because you have them that swiftly. You tilt your head and look back over your shoulder at him.
[] Answer his question.
-[] Shortly.
-[] In detail.
-[] In sarcastic detail.
[] Refuse to answer.
-[] Unless he tells you about the curses.
-[] At all.
[] Forget this whole line of questioning and go see if one of the people you saved would be more amenable to conversation.
[] Forget conversation at all; those curses are more important.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
07
- Location
- The Internet
"I'll tell you if you tell me about the curses," you offer, very reasonably. Maybe too reasonably; the reasons you were in the Prison Realm touch on a bitterness and pain you try not to dwell on. It's keener now, than it was in all the time in the Prison Realm though, your emotions closer to the surface without its dampening effects. It's worse now, too, since it's not just Suguru you've lost, but literally everyone and everything. All that's left is what's in your pockets.
No students, no Shoko or Utahime, no Mei Mei or Nanami, not even those useless old bastards who thought themselves your superiors you should have killed them all when you had the chance. No school, no Japan, no--well. Earth is still there. But nothing else is left. Nobody. Not one soul in the whole damned universe.
For all your efforts, you truly are alone.
And yet… And yet. There are still people fighting the good fight, standing between humanity and curses, and even if it blatantly sucks that they still exist, even on this world so far from Earth that the planet only exists as a vector in your senses, there's something hopeful about that.
A little.
A tiny bit.
It's a sign not to give up on these people yet, anyway. Now if you can only convince this guy that you're actually on the same side…
He finally stops circling you, facing you once again with a frown on his face again, fingering a ring on his left hand in a way that's meant to subltly draw attention to it. Or 'subtlely'; you're sure he wants you to notice, so you make sure you keep eyes on both his hands, his feet, and his face for good measure.
"You truly do not know?" the man finally asks. He turns the ring around on his hand, once, twice, and you can see something on it flash. He turns it the other way, once, twice.
"I don't know anything that happened here before you let me out," you admit. "It'd really help me out if you told me what's going on, so I can make it stop."
"Very well." He turns the ring again, but you give it no more attention than before. "Assuming you mean daemons when you say 'curses', and that you are in fact sincere--" He tells you what he knows: That through some heretical means or another, a Warp rift has been torn asunder and a foul army of daemons has been unleashed on the surface of Gheistos. The armies of Khorne and Nurgle alike plague (in the latter case literally) the planet, more than the embattled Imperial forces can handle, more by the hour, by the minute--
None of that means anything to you, of course.
You can put the pieces together into something like this: Someone or something has opened a portal to another dimension, one teeming with more curses than should be physically possible. The answer seems obvious enough: blow through the curses--'daemons' in future-speak--and destroy the source.
[] Let's do that.
-[] Alone
-[] It's dangerous to go alone; bring help.
[] Gather more information first.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
While you consider that, you uphold your side of the bargain.
"So, you asked why I was in the box? Well, once upon a time, a very bad man was riding the corpse of my very best friend, so that he could distract me long enough to lock me away so that he and his army of curses could horribly kill all of my students and everyone else in Japan and maybe the whole of Terra while he was at it." You pause, thoughtfully, and a proud smile breaks across your face for a moment. "I guess my kids must've stopped him after all, since humans still exist!" Humans and Earth both still exist, and humanity has grown and spread across the stars--and brought its curses with it.
"Ah. And when, precisely, was this?" The man turns the ring again; the habit is beginning to get annoying. You know he's doing it on purpose; you just can't divine why. It's not a cursed tool; you would recognise that right away.
[] Time to blow his future mind--tell him.
[] Lie. (How?)
[] Something else? (Write-in.)
No students, no Shoko or Utahime, no Mei Mei or Nanami, not even those useless old bastards who thought themselves your superiors you should have killed them all when you had the chance. No school, no Japan, no--well. Earth is still there. But nothing else is left. Nobody. Not one soul in the whole damned universe.
For all your efforts, you truly are alone.
And yet… And yet. There are still people fighting the good fight, standing between humanity and curses, and even if it blatantly sucks that they still exist, even on this world so far from Earth that the planet only exists as a vector in your senses, there's something hopeful about that.
A little.
A tiny bit.
It's a sign not to give up on these people yet, anyway. Now if you can only convince this guy that you're actually on the same side…
He finally stops circling you, facing you once again with a frown on his face again, fingering a ring on his left hand in a way that's meant to subltly draw attention to it. Or 'subtlely'; you're sure he wants you to notice, so you make sure you keep eyes on both his hands, his feet, and his face for good measure.
"You truly do not know?" the man finally asks. He turns the ring around on his hand, once, twice, and you can see something on it flash. He turns it the other way, once, twice.
"I don't know anything that happened here before you let me out," you admit. "It'd really help me out if you told me what's going on, so I can make it stop."
"Very well." He turns the ring again, but you give it no more attention than before. "Assuming you mean daemons when you say 'curses', and that you are in fact sincere--" He tells you what he knows: That through some heretical means or another, a Warp rift has been torn asunder and a foul army of daemons has been unleashed on the surface of Gheistos. The armies of Khorne and Nurgle alike plague (in the latter case literally) the planet, more than the embattled Imperial forces can handle, more by the hour, by the minute--
None of that means anything to you, of course.
You can put the pieces together into something like this: Someone or something has opened a portal to another dimension, one teeming with more curses than should be physically possible. The answer seems obvious enough: blow through the curses--'daemons' in future-speak--and destroy the source.
[] Let's do that.
-[] Alone
-[] It's dangerous to go alone; bring help.
[] Gather more information first.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
While you consider that, you uphold your side of the bargain.
"So, you asked why I was in the box? Well, once upon a time, a very bad man was riding the corpse of my very best friend, so that he could distract me long enough to lock me away so that he and his army of curses could horribly kill all of my students and everyone else in Japan and maybe the whole of Terra while he was at it." You pause, thoughtfully, and a proud smile breaks across your face for a moment. "I guess my kids must've stopped him after all, since humans still exist!" Humans and Earth both still exist, and humanity has grown and spread across the stars--and brought its curses with it.
"Ah. And when, precisely, was this?" The man turns the ring again; the habit is beginning to get annoying. You know he's doing it on purpose; you just can't divine why. It's not a cursed tool; you would recognise that right away.
[] Time to blow his future mind--tell him.
[] Lie. (How?)
[] Something else? (Write-in.)
08
- Location
- The Internet
"Heisei 30," you tell him cheekily, before adding, "Or, to put it in a more familiar way, the 18th year of the 2nd millennium." It visibly takes his mind a second to process what you just said.
"Impossible--" he starts, and you interject. You can't help it.
"Not really. The Prison Realm kept whoever's in it alive, awake, and bored to tears until they kill themselves," you explain, waggling a finger. "And since I was never going to do that, I just stayed there, waiting for someone to open it." You make finger guns at him, grinning again. "'Someone' in this case being you. Which, I've already mentioned was really lucky for you, since you have this curse problem, and I happen to be the best there is at exorcising curses. Daemons, I mean." You pay attention to his reactions as you 'ramble', and you can see the moment he realises the implications of what you have told him:
You have been awake and aware for almost forty thousand years.
He takes an involuntary half-step back, weight shifting to the balls of his feet, and he turns the ring around his finger again, once, twice. Back the other way, once twice.
"Assuming I believe you-" you nod encouragingly "-that you have been awake for over thirty-eight thousand years. No mortal man can live that long."
"I haven't exactly been living, now I?" you point out. "Now, about those daemons." Seriously, there's another wave coming this way, and the cursed energy is still building up, and you'd like to cut this mess off before it gets any worse, but in order to do that, you need information.
"What about them?" the sorcerer asks, turning his ring again. Once, twice.
"What are the other forces fighting them? How many sorcerers do we have on the ground? Are there any other big guys with power armour running around? Why don't you have a veil up around the area?" you start, counting the questions off on your fingers. This is just the start. You have more.
[] Write in up to three more questions for this yahoo.
"Sorcerers--I assume you mean psykers," the man starts, turning his ring again. Once, twice.
"If that's the future word for us, sure, psykers." Funny, since the term 'sorcerer' exists in this language, but the knowledge gained as you came out of the Prison Realm does tell you that 'psyker' is more acceptable... "People who fight daemons, exorcise them, protect the non-psykers from their depredations?"
The man gives you another frown, this one half-confused, half-wary, looking at you like something dangerous. At least he has that part right.
"Psykers fight daemons, to be sure, but half the time they are the source of daemon invasions. Rather than protection, they are a risk," he declares.
"Don't you mean 'we'?" You're in no mood to let him get away with pretending to not be a sorcerer--as psyker. Not when there's another army of curses bearing down on your location as you speak.
"How-" his eyes flick to the discarded staff in the corner "-never mind. We, then, are a risk."
"Sounds like things have changed a lot," you muse aloud, tapping your chin thoughtfully. For sorcerers to somehow become the source of curses--well. You suppose it's possible, if, for some reason, they were untrained or poorly trained or improperly trained, then maybe instead of circulating in a controlled fashion, their cursed energy joined the rest produced by humanity, and the greater volume naturally produced a greater volume of curses...?
Maybe. You guess. Ultimately though, it...
[] Sounds like a skill issue.
[] Is a mystery that you'll have to solve later.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
"Was it not so, in your time?" the man asks. You shake your head, and raise a finger as you reply.
"It's common knowledge that sorcerers can't produce curses," you explain. "Because our cursed energy--or whatever you call it here in the future, the mega super power that lets you throw lightning, or me be better--is under control, and circulating-" you twirl your raised finger descriptively "-instead of leaking out with our emotions, we, unlike non-sorcerers--sorry, non-psykers--don't contribute to the general miasma of negativity that spawns curses." Your voice takes on its lecturing tone all on its own; you've spent long enough as a teacher that you just can't help it.
"Warp energy, or psychic energy," the man provides, and it occurs to you that maybe you should get his name.
[] Yeah.
[] Nah.
"And that 'misasma' you speak of--that is the Warp. The home of Chaos, and the source of daemons." You smack your fist into your palm.
"Ah! Where the Warp rift leads, I see." The man inclines his head. Turns his ring once more, twice. It glints again, a tiny flicker of light--ah. A hypnotic device. You had been wondering.
[] Play along.
[] Call him on it.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
The eye you have on the incoming army--twice the size of the previous one--notes that it is coming closer, but you still have some time before it reaches the people on the battlefield.
"Impossible--" he starts, and you interject. You can't help it.
"Not really. The Prison Realm kept whoever's in it alive, awake, and bored to tears until they kill themselves," you explain, waggling a finger. "And since I was never going to do that, I just stayed there, waiting for someone to open it." You make finger guns at him, grinning again. "'Someone' in this case being you. Which, I've already mentioned was really lucky for you, since you have this curse problem, and I happen to be the best there is at exorcising curses. Daemons, I mean." You pay attention to his reactions as you 'ramble', and you can see the moment he realises the implications of what you have told him:
You have been awake and aware for almost forty thousand years.
He takes an involuntary half-step back, weight shifting to the balls of his feet, and he turns the ring around his finger again, once, twice. Back the other way, once twice.
"Assuming I believe you-" you nod encouragingly "-that you have been awake for over thirty-eight thousand years. No mortal man can live that long."
"I haven't exactly been living, now I?" you point out. "Now, about those daemons." Seriously, there's another wave coming this way, and the cursed energy is still building up, and you'd like to cut this mess off before it gets any worse, but in order to do that, you need information.
"What about them?" the sorcerer asks, turning his ring again. Once, twice.
"What are the other forces fighting them? How many sorcerers do we have on the ground? Are there any other big guys with power armour running around? Why don't you have a veil up around the area?" you start, counting the questions off on your fingers. This is just the start. You have more.
[] Write in up to three more questions for this yahoo.
"Sorcerers--I assume you mean psykers," the man starts, turning his ring again. Once, twice.
"If that's the future word for us, sure, psykers." Funny, since the term 'sorcerer' exists in this language, but the knowledge gained as you came out of the Prison Realm does tell you that 'psyker' is more acceptable... "People who fight daemons, exorcise them, protect the non-psykers from their depredations?"
The man gives you another frown, this one half-confused, half-wary, looking at you like something dangerous. At least he has that part right.
"Psykers fight daemons, to be sure, but half the time they are the source of daemon invasions. Rather than protection, they are a risk," he declares.
"Don't you mean 'we'?" You're in no mood to let him get away with pretending to not be a sorcerer--as psyker. Not when there's another army of curses bearing down on your location as you speak.
"How-" his eyes flick to the discarded staff in the corner "-never mind. We, then, are a risk."
"Sounds like things have changed a lot," you muse aloud, tapping your chin thoughtfully. For sorcerers to somehow become the source of curses--well. You suppose it's possible, if, for some reason, they were untrained or poorly trained or improperly trained, then maybe instead of circulating in a controlled fashion, their cursed energy joined the rest produced by humanity, and the greater volume naturally produced a greater volume of curses...?
Maybe. You guess. Ultimately though, it...
[] Sounds like a skill issue.
[] Is a mystery that you'll have to solve later.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
"Was it not so, in your time?" the man asks. You shake your head, and raise a finger as you reply.
"It's common knowledge that sorcerers can't produce curses," you explain. "Because our cursed energy--or whatever you call it here in the future, the mega super power that lets you throw lightning, or me be better--is under control, and circulating-" you twirl your raised finger descriptively "-instead of leaking out with our emotions, we, unlike non-sorcerers--sorry, non-psykers--don't contribute to the general miasma of negativity that spawns curses." Your voice takes on its lecturing tone all on its own; you've spent long enough as a teacher that you just can't help it.
"Warp energy, or psychic energy," the man provides, and it occurs to you that maybe you should get his name.
[] Yeah.
[] Nah.
"And that 'misasma' you speak of--that is the Warp. The home of Chaos, and the source of daemons." You smack your fist into your palm.
"Ah! Where the Warp rift leads, I see." The man inclines his head. Turns his ring once more, twice. It glints again, a tiny flicker of light--ah. A hypnotic device. You had been wondering.
[] Play along.
[] Call him on it.
[] Something else? (Write in.)
The eye you have on the incoming army--twice the size of the previous one--notes that it is coming closer, but you still have some time before it reaches the people on the battlefield.