- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That is actually super cool. The six pointed start works really well, and I think you've picked some really cool ideas to fill it out.
TALOS: Fantasy Giant Robots Rampaging Across the Apocalypse
- Thread starter Bromeliad
- Start date
- Original
Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
(( The thread voted to use FORTUNE'S FAVOR immediately to enchant a Witchfire Shell to go over the wall and hit a valuable target blind))
"Look at this," Strix coos. "The Protection Mage Pacitar enchanting a humble Pain-Mage's ammunition. This concorde between two opposing Magi. Mine the Fire thine the Scryer. The distance between our tones bringing out such excruciating, climactic harmony!"
She rolls her head across the cannon to the side, where Pacitar channels his Luck Magic into Jackpot Jane's hulking breech.
"I think this will finally make us best friends," she says. "I'm going to sew your name into my back left shoulder, and then rip the thread out with my fingers."
"You deeply repulse me," Pacitar says. "If it was a sure chance that by beating myself into drooling simplicity I could rid myself of any memory of your existence I would do so, and in this action I am halted only by the fear that I would cling to just enough cognizance to recognize and continue to loathe you without the ability to inform you frankly of my loathing."
"That was 67 words in a row directly to me, Pacci." Strix beams. "You just beat your record by four!"
"I have nauseated myself."
"Which do you wager'll be higher: that or the number of corpses you and I are about to char-broil?"
"Inform the Mantis that the Witchfire Shell is ready to fire," Pacitar calls to the Batterymaster. "And that I am retiring briefly to wipe myself with enough linen to clean this brief interaction physically from myself."
The Rumbler kneels. Hydraulic pistons hiss and push iron stakes into the ground at his shin to keep him stabilized.
His chest cavity slides open with the deep, hellish rumble that gave him his name.
The 150 foot barrel of Jackpot Jane slides out on its oiled rail and locks in place.
In the Rumbler's head, your radio turns on with an unassuming click and the clipped, curt voice of the Batterymaster emerges.
"Main gun ready."
It clicks off again.
1 Trusting in Pacitar's magic, you prepare to fire Jackpot Jane:
A At the best possible military target.
B At the biggest grouping of royalty possible
C Directly at the Emperor of Anabas
D At the most visible public landmark
"Look at this," Strix coos. "The Protection Mage Pacitar enchanting a humble Pain-Mage's ammunition. This concorde between two opposing Magi. Mine the Fire thine the Scryer. The distance between our tones bringing out such excruciating, climactic harmony!"
She rolls her head across the cannon to the side, where Pacitar channels his Luck Magic into Jackpot Jane's hulking breech.
"I think this will finally make us best friends," she says. "I'm going to sew your name into my back left shoulder, and then rip the thread out with my fingers."
"You deeply repulse me," Pacitar says. "If it was a sure chance that by beating myself into drooling simplicity I could rid myself of any memory of your existence I would do so, and in this action I am halted only by the fear that I would cling to just enough cognizance to recognize and continue to loathe you without the ability to inform you frankly of my loathing."
"That was 67 words in a row directly to me, Pacci." Strix beams. "You just beat your record by four!"
"I have nauseated myself."
"Which do you wager'll be higher: that or the number of corpses you and I are about to char-broil?"
"Inform the Mantis that the Witchfire Shell is ready to fire," Pacitar calls to the Batterymaster. "And that I am retiring briefly to wipe myself with enough linen to clean this brief interaction physically from myself."
The Rumbler kneels. Hydraulic pistons hiss and push iron stakes into the ground at his shin to keep him stabilized.
His chest cavity slides open with the deep, hellish rumble that gave him his name.
The 150 foot barrel of Jackpot Jane slides out on its oiled rail and locks in place.
In the Rumbler's head, your radio turns on with an unassuming click and the clipped, curt voice of the Batterymaster emerges.
"Main gun ready."
It clicks off again.
1 Trusting in Pacitar's magic, you prepare to fire Jackpot Jane:
A At the best possible military target.
B At the biggest grouping of royalty possible
C Directly at the Emperor of Anabas
D At the most visible public landmark
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Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
Just wanted to note that the heart symbol didn't translate here: ♥, or you can use
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
No, it's just hard to run on SB/V given that most people come here for fanfiction.
Anything Bromeliad makes will be fine since he does art quests and those snag people a lot easier than anything else. If you've got an art quest it's a hell of a lot more likely to live than most anything else, original or fanfiction since art circumvents the CEG*.
The largest problem with original questing on SV is that most of it is pure word based which (without inherent familiarity) makes it harder to keep fans.
Even with that, we're still seeing an upswing in Original Quests as time goes by as people get tired of the waves of Worm and PMMM fanfiction.
*Context Establishment Gorge.
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- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
So that's what Strix is like lol
I was wondering when you said in the magic update that she was a pain mage. Are they all like this, @Bromeliad?
I was wondering when you said in the magic update that she was a pain mage. Are they all like this, @Bromeliad?
Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
Not all to the same degree, maybe; but you can't be a pain mage without being at least a little fucked up.
- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
That's so metal.
There's no rating for the horns, so you get a hug. It has the most similar shape.
Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
You step to the mic. "This is Victoire to Jackpot Jane. We're firing for maximal effect on the Anabasi Automaton strength."
"Beg pardon, my Queen, but we can't actually aim down here." The batterymaster is back on.
"Don't aim. Just trust in Pacitar. Or Inkiros if that's your flavor." You squint at the horizon. "Mark."
"Mark."
"Fire."
"Firing."
"FLY," Strix screams, as Jane's thunderous roar echoes, cracks against the wall, and redoubles upon the Rumbler. The scarified skin of her face ripples with the shockwave. "FLY AND BRING HOLOCAUST!"
The Central Courtyard
Anastasi has never been one for crowds, but she likes them when nobody knows her. It's quite sunny, though, isn't it.
There's also the matter of the eulogy, which is quite dull. Anastasi sometimes writes little eulogies in her head for victims she knew well enough, and she thinks she could do better.
Her daggers are itchy, which sounds an odd thing to say, but when you have the same daggers for long enough you know when they start to itch.
Victoire told her to wait for the signal but she's not sure what exactly that signal is. Victoire told her she'd know it when she saw it with that crinkly little smile she gets when she's very excited about something clever she's going to do, so Anastasi is on the lookout for--
Ah. That would do it.
Her daggers light themselves into her hands.
The Gates
The first minute passes.
You chew your knuckle. They're right near the gate. Any second now it should be opening.
"Chest cannon reloaded." The Batterymaster's voice hangs in the air.
Seventy seconds.
"Come on, Stasi," you whisper.
The gates tremble, then squeal, then open.
The Rumbler sweeps one massive foot back, then pushes off into an earthshaking sprint.
Your eye darts to the Spotter.
Ancient Spacial Magic, with a slug of Pain in it to draw on wrathful intent and paint the holders of it across a matrix. It plots the location of anyone who wishes its user harm.
As crewed Automata become visible over the rooftops tiny red fluorescent indicators flicker to life along its rings.
Per turn of combat you can execute a turn of at most 90 degrees, fire all your weapons that aren't emptied, and either or both of your War Mages can cast spells.
Moving at full speed requires a turn of acceleration and a turn of deceleration. In both of those you move one range increment.
At full speed you can move two range increments a turn, and can use the Piston Pirouette to turn a full 180 degrees if your Winch is loaded. Your top speed moving backward is only 1 range increment. Every cannon takes one turn to reload. Jane takes two.
Jackpot Jane can only be fired at a complete standstill or at full speed; there the Rumbler can leap into the air and nullify the recoil with a Jumping Jackpot Shot. Firing Jane eliminates the need for a deceleration.
10 Targets:
To the left:
Middle Range (reachable by Winches and slugs)
A swordsman Automaton who has spotted you and is moving toward you fast
Long Range (reachable by slugs only)
A cannon automaton whose attention is currently occupied desperately shelling the angry crowd of peasants
Past Long Range (reachable by Jane only)
Two automata, otherwise engaged. One, a swordsman statue, appears to be having serious trouble; the mob is swarming up his legs.
To the right:
Past Long Range
An automaton trying to get a bead on you through the buildings still separating you
An automaton evacuating nobles
To dead center:
MIddle range:
An automaton moving toward your right flank in an apparent effort to surround you.
Long Range:
An automaton swatting at a squadron of your soldiers as they grapple and cling to it, seeking entrance
Another cannon automaton trying to get a bead on you
An automaton retreating backward to find higher ground
No automaton targets are currently in close range. There are several ranks of footsoldiers marshalling against your peasant rebellion ripe for canister shot, though, if you're willing to spend it on them.
Currently you are MATCHED in the ground battle, but peasant losses are heavy. The tide could easily turn.
Pacitar's spells have a 15% failure chance.
Strix's spells have a 0% failure chance.
"Beg pardon, my Queen, but we can't actually aim down here." The batterymaster is back on.
"Don't aim. Just trust in Pacitar. Or Inkiros if that's your flavor." You squint at the horizon. "Mark."
"Mark."
"Fire."
"Firing."
"FLY," Strix screams, as Jane's thunderous roar echoes, cracks against the wall, and redoubles upon the Rumbler. The scarified skin of her face ripples with the shockwave. "FLY AND BRING HOLOCAUST!"
The Central Courtyard
Anastasi has never been one for crowds, but she likes them when nobody knows her. It's quite sunny, though, isn't it.
There's also the matter of the eulogy, which is quite dull. Anastasi sometimes writes little eulogies in her head for victims she knew well enough, and she thinks she could do better.
Her daggers are itchy, which sounds an odd thing to say, but when you have the same daggers for long enough you know when they start to itch.
Victoire told her to wait for the signal but she's not sure what exactly that signal is. Victoire told her she'd know it when she saw it with that crinkly little smile she gets when she's very excited about something clever she's going to do, so Anastasi is on the lookout for--
Ah. That would do it.
Her daggers light themselves into her hands.
The Gates
The first minute passes.
You chew your knuckle. They're right near the gate. Any second now it should be opening.
"Chest cannon reloaded." The Batterymaster's voice hangs in the air.
Seventy seconds.
"Come on, Stasi," you whisper.
The gates tremble, then squeal, then open.
The Rumbler sweeps one massive foot back, then pushes off into an earthshaking sprint.
Your eye darts to the Spotter.
Ancient Spacial Magic, with a slug of Pain in it to draw on wrathful intent and paint the holders of it across a matrix. It plots the location of anyone who wishes its user harm.
As crewed Automata become visible over the rooftops tiny red fluorescent indicators flicker to life along its rings.
Per turn of combat you can execute a turn of at most 90 degrees, fire all your weapons that aren't emptied, and either or both of your War Mages can cast spells.
Moving at full speed requires a turn of acceleration and a turn of deceleration. In both of those you move one range increment.
At full speed you can move two range increments a turn, and can use the Piston Pirouette to turn a full 180 degrees if your Winch is loaded. Your top speed moving backward is only 1 range increment. Every cannon takes one turn to reload. Jane takes two.
Jackpot Jane can only be fired at a complete standstill or at full speed; there the Rumbler can leap into the air and nullify the recoil with a Jumping Jackpot Shot. Firing Jane eliminates the need for a deceleration.
10 Targets:
To the left:
Middle Range (reachable by Winches and slugs)
A swordsman Automaton who has spotted you and is moving toward you fast
Long Range (reachable by slugs only)
A cannon automaton whose attention is currently occupied desperately shelling the angry crowd of peasants
Past Long Range (reachable by Jane only)
Two automata, otherwise engaged. One, a swordsman statue, appears to be having serious trouble; the mob is swarming up his legs.
To the right:
Past Long Range
An automaton trying to get a bead on you through the buildings still separating you
An automaton evacuating nobles
To dead center:
MIddle range:
An automaton moving toward your right flank in an apparent effort to surround you.
Long Range:
An automaton swatting at a squadron of your soldiers as they grapple and cling to it, seeking entrance
Another cannon automaton trying to get a bead on you
An automaton retreating backward to find higher ground
No automaton targets are currently in close range. There are several ranks of footsoldiers marshalling against your peasant rebellion ripe for canister shot, though, if you're willing to spend it on them.
Currently you are MATCHED in the ground battle, but peasant losses are heavy. The tide could easily turn.
Pacitar's spells have a 15% failure chance.
Strix's spells have a 0% failure chance.
- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The cannon firing and the shell hitting might be the two coolest pictures you've ever drawn.
Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
"Astor. Target the one hitting the peasants at our 11 and fire on my mark."
"With all speed." Your Left shoulder batterymaster's voice is high and excited. "ROTATE! ROTATE! AUTO BAKER!"
"Left hand, angle at that swordsman medium range. Get ready to fire when he's closer."
"Orders received." Ire's ice-cool voice is a tonic to Astor's excitability. "Locking, Iron Mantis."
"Toth. Free to fire on massed infantry."
"Roger dodger. Would you like those spearmen chunky or pureed?" As usual, your right hand batterymaster can't close comms without coming up with something wiseass to say first.
"Feng. Track the flanker. Don't let him get away from you."
"Already on it, boss."
"Right." Your fingers grip the coarse hide along your throne. "Get ready for the Jumping Jackpot. Rooftop that means you."
"Restabilizing." Jane's Batterymaster's measured tone belies the intense speed of her actions. "Lock and sync."
Crix swings down from the trap into the head, landing nimbly on his feet and sliding his nocked arrow back into its quiver. "Fuck yeah," he says. "Front row."
"Bounding," you say.
The Rumbler finishes his sprint with a massive, reckless, leaping dive.
A muffled boom and a dopplering howl indicate that one of the long-range automata who was aiming at you has fired and missed.
At the height of his jump, Jackpot Jane thunders into fiery life.
The insane backblast slaps back against the Rumbler and for a gut-churning moment stills him in the air, before he comes crashing back down to earth.
You squint through the soaring splinters of a tower Jane's slug annihilated on the way to its target.
The Automaton you'd aimed at has been cut almost clean in two.
"Full effect," the Batterymaster drones.
"Outstanding." You punch the air then turn to your Pain-mage, who has made her way up to the eyes to gaze, transfixed, at the butchery. "Strix. Time to bring the agony. I want you to target that automaton far back loading in the nobs."
Her eyes widen and she smiles so hard her stitches might come out. "Yes. YES!"
She scrambles to the roof, stretches her hands wide, and howls.
The sound magically amplifies itself to the point that you can hear it even over the crash of Astor's left shoulder cannon as it punches a massive chunk out of its target.
"RACK AND RUIN," she sings, and from the abrasions, scars, and even the pores of her skin, rapidly growing barbs spin and dart into the air.
They caterwaul and whizz over the brawling heads of the peasants and warriors spilling blood in the plaza, and burrow their way through the automaton's chinks and cracks.
The Automata on the field have refocused themselves away from the peasants, now, and toward the greater threat: you.
There are now 9 targets:
To the left:
Middle Range
An automaton who was originally defending the front of the palace and is now charging you down.
Long Range
The peasant-shelling cannon automaton, now down one arm and a huge hunk of chest. Swiveling ineffectively to face you as peasants swarm it.
Another cannon automaton, zeroing in on you with a sizable cannon that takes up its entire arm.
To dead center:
Close Range
The swordsman automaton you've trained your canister shot on, head low and sword up.
Middle range
The automaton currently fighting your squad of soldiers, slowly advancing toward you. One of your men, you note with alarm, has been wounded, perhaps very badly.
The automaton that retreated back last turn, which is currently defending the twitching, jittering automaton laced through with Strix's swarm.
To the right:
Middle Range
Flanker automaton, who's now far to your 3:00. Using the buildings around the outside of the plaza as cover on its approach.
Long Range
The automaton that just took a shot at you, reloading its cannon.
The Swarm-infested automaton, slumped and jerking as its praetor and crew take desperate cover from Strix's spell.
Jackpot Jane is reloading for 2 turns.
Your Left Shoulder is reloading for 1 turn.
Your Right Hand is reloading for 1 turn.
Pacitar has a 15% spell fizzle chance; so does Strix.
The field remains MATCHED; the spearmen begin to notice, however, that their Automaton backup has put them on the backburner.
Scattered groups of them are readying grappling hooks to try to board you.
To the right at close range you spot a Mage, preparing an evocation. You doubt its efficacy.
"With all speed." Your Left shoulder batterymaster's voice is high and excited. "ROTATE! ROTATE! AUTO BAKER!"
"Left hand, angle at that swordsman medium range. Get ready to fire when he's closer."
"Orders received." Ire's ice-cool voice is a tonic to Astor's excitability. "Locking, Iron Mantis."
"Toth. Free to fire on massed infantry."
"Roger dodger. Would you like those spearmen chunky or pureed?" As usual, your right hand batterymaster can't close comms without coming up with something wiseass to say first.
"Feng. Track the flanker. Don't let him get away from you."
"Already on it, boss."
"Right." Your fingers grip the coarse hide along your throne. "Get ready for the Jumping Jackpot. Rooftop that means you."
"Restabilizing." Jane's Batterymaster's measured tone belies the intense speed of her actions. "Lock and sync."
Crix swings down from the trap into the head, landing nimbly on his feet and sliding his nocked arrow back into its quiver. "Fuck yeah," he says. "Front row."
"Bounding," you say.
The Rumbler finishes his sprint with a massive, reckless, leaping dive.
A muffled boom and a dopplering howl indicate that one of the long-range automata who was aiming at you has fired and missed.
At the height of his jump, Jackpot Jane thunders into fiery life.
The insane backblast slaps back against the Rumbler and for a gut-churning moment stills him in the air, before he comes crashing back down to earth.
You squint through the soaring splinters of a tower Jane's slug annihilated on the way to its target.
The Automaton you'd aimed at has been cut almost clean in two.
"Full effect," the Batterymaster drones.
"Outstanding." You punch the air then turn to your Pain-mage, who has made her way up to the eyes to gaze, transfixed, at the butchery. "Strix. Time to bring the agony. I want you to target that automaton far back loading in the nobs."
Her eyes widen and she smiles so hard her stitches might come out. "Yes. YES!"
She scrambles to the roof, stretches her hands wide, and howls.
The sound magically amplifies itself to the point that you can hear it even over the crash of Astor's left shoulder cannon as it punches a massive chunk out of its target.
"RACK AND RUIN," she sings, and from the abrasions, scars, and even the pores of her skin, rapidly growing barbs spin and dart into the air.
They caterwaul and whizz over the brawling heads of the peasants and warriors spilling blood in the plaza, and burrow their way through the automaton's chinks and cracks.
The Automata on the field have refocused themselves away from the peasants, now, and toward the greater threat: you.
There are now 9 targets:
To the left:
Middle Range
An automaton who was originally defending the front of the palace and is now charging you down.
Long Range
The peasant-shelling cannon automaton, now down one arm and a huge hunk of chest. Swiveling ineffectively to face you as peasants swarm it.
Another cannon automaton, zeroing in on you with a sizable cannon that takes up its entire arm.
To dead center:
Close Range
The swordsman automaton you've trained your canister shot on, head low and sword up.
Middle range
The automaton currently fighting your squad of soldiers, slowly advancing toward you. One of your men, you note with alarm, has been wounded, perhaps very badly.
The automaton that retreated back last turn, which is currently defending the twitching, jittering automaton laced through with Strix's swarm.
To the right:
Middle Range
Flanker automaton, who's now far to your 3:00. Using the buildings around the outside of the plaza as cover on its approach.
Long Range
The automaton that just took a shot at you, reloading its cannon.
The Swarm-infested automaton, slumped and jerking as its praetor and crew take desperate cover from Strix's spell.
Jackpot Jane is reloading for 2 turns.
Your Left Shoulder is reloading for 1 turn.
Your Right Hand is reloading for 1 turn.
Pacitar has a 15% spell fizzle chance; so does Strix.
The field remains MATCHED; the spearmen begin to notice, however, that their Automaton backup has put them on the backburner.
Scattered groups of them are readying grappling hooks to try to board you.
To the right at close range you spot a Mage, preparing an evocation. You doubt its efficacy.
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Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
1 minute ago
The Right Hand
Strummos sprints down the hallway as the horizon gyrates and leaps wildly outside the window. His left hand holds his scabbard to his hip to keep his khopesh from clanking against his thigh; his right hand rests on the crossbar of a cart laden with canister shot as it clacks down the rail toward Tiny Trev, the rumbler's right hand gun. He pulls up a little as he rounds the elbow and the gravity shifts. The canisters rattle and jump like crazy here and if you're going too fast they can spill.
Someone cuffs him on the top of the head. He looks up and back to see Pelaga running the other way on the low catwalk ceiling.
"We're evening out!" She turns and runs backward a few paces, face flush with adrenaline. "Toth says any second!"
"Then where the fuck are you going?" Strummos yells over his shoulder.
"Getting my crossbow! We're infantry-killing!"
Strummos considers juking back for his hand-grenades for a second, then shrugs it off and keeps his sprint.
"Come on, Mama Mantis. Come on." Toth is fiddling with his communicator as Strummos rounds the corner into the fist.
He's smeared black powder under both eyes and is sitting in his customary pre-battle observational position, straddling Tiny Trev with the barrel extending out between his legs like a massive brass phallus.
"Canister!" Strummos calls, flipping the cart onto the wall and pushing it down to the cannon deck. It smacks into the girder-stop in front of the cannon. Branch and Howster, the two loaders, instantly overturn the cart and dump its contents onto the ground. Strummos flinches involuntarily.
When he was powdermonkey for the left shoulder Batterymaster Astor said he'd scalp anyone who dropped "those fucking death piñatas" as he called Canisters.
But this month when he swapped down to the Hands he found quickly that Handers are a whole different breed.
It takes someone fundamentally a little off to man a cannon that swings wildly around with every movement of the Rumbler's arm. At speeds like this the gravitational magic can't block out all of the momentum, and things need to stay nailed down in the forearm so they don't tilt and fall. Not to mention the Mantis' love of point-blank canister fire and the fact that they are all sitting in what is technically a massive battering ram. If you're a Hander you accept that you are basically a melee weapon. Toth is one of those stringy, hyperactive guys, the kind who sits crosslegged on normal chairs if he doesn't just eat on the floor, and over in Left they say Ire's an ice statue. His face never even so much as twitches unless he's giving orders.
The shifting horizon levels, then swings up as the Hand angles toward the ground.
Toth strokes Trev's metal girth. "I'm feeling it. I'm feeling it, kids. Ooooh, them's some juicy ants down there."
Howster grunts as he rights the emptied cart and eases it back onto the rail. "Inky, Toth. Are you gonna fucking shoot them or cum on their faces?"
"Shrapnel IS my cum, Howster."
Why the fuck does Pelaga like this clubhouse, Strummos asks himself. She was the one who convinced him to try serving down here.
"Toth." The communicator carries the voice of the Mantis down to the Hand. "Free to fire on massed infantry."
"Roger dodger." Toth slips off of Tiny Trev and slaps Weevil, the marksman, on the shoulder. "Angle at that officer," he says, then back into the communicator: "Would you like those spearmen chunky or pureed?" He tosses the communicator to Branch and slaps out a drumroll on Trev as it pivots toward the Earth. "Hold onto your balls, kids."
"Could be worse," Howster says. "Could be punching them."
"As soon as we unload we better be fucking punching them," Toth says.
"You don't have to clean the guts off the knuckles, motherfucker," Howster says."
"Lock," Weevil says.
"On my mark." Toth crouches and grips the handrail. Strummos sets his jaw and makes sure his tongue is out of the way. The first few weeks of Battery duty his tongue must have looked like jerky he bit it so often.
"FIRE!" Toth screams.
For a moment the world is pressure and noise. When Strummos' eyelids recover from the pressurized snap enough to reopen the column of soldiers they were targeting has a gory rent torn through its ranks. The screaming starts as soon as the boom goes.
"Reloading." Howster cracks the breech and vents the steam and stray gunsmoke out a second before throwing it open. He dashes round to the ramrod apparatus as Branch slots a new shell in place. Strummos knows from experience that chamber's sizzling hot and you're supposed to use thick mesh gloves, but Branch does it bare handed like he used to on a raider Auto back West. They call him Branch because his hands are so callused they look like bark.
"YES! Suck it down!" Toth is bouncing off the walls. "That's how we RUMBLE!"
"Get ready for the jumping jackpot." The Mantis again. "Rooftop that means you."
The outside world swings hellaciously again as the arm starts pumping into a sprint.
"MAN I wish I could fire that thing," Toth says, as Strummos fishes out his lead and straps himself to the handrail.
"They wouldn't let you within ten feeta jane," Branch says. "You'd get your fuckin crazy all over the sprockets."
"That's not ALL I'd get on the sprockets." Toth clings to Tiny Trevor as they pick up speed.
"Shrapnel too?" Strummos pitches in.
"You fuckin' bet, newbie." Toth's eyes gleam. "You fuckin' bet."
Metal screams and soars. The Rumbler leaps.
The Right Hand
Strummos sprints down the hallway as the horizon gyrates and leaps wildly outside the window. His left hand holds his scabbard to his hip to keep his khopesh from clanking against his thigh; his right hand rests on the crossbar of a cart laden with canister shot as it clacks down the rail toward Tiny Trev, the rumbler's right hand gun. He pulls up a little as he rounds the elbow and the gravity shifts. The canisters rattle and jump like crazy here and if you're going too fast they can spill.
Someone cuffs him on the top of the head. He looks up and back to see Pelaga running the other way on the low catwalk ceiling.
"We're evening out!" She turns and runs backward a few paces, face flush with adrenaline. "Toth says any second!"
"Then where the fuck are you going?" Strummos yells over his shoulder.
"Getting my crossbow! We're infantry-killing!"
Strummos considers juking back for his hand-grenades for a second, then shrugs it off and keeps his sprint.
"Come on, Mama Mantis. Come on." Toth is fiddling with his communicator as Strummos rounds the corner into the fist.
He's smeared black powder under both eyes and is sitting in his customary pre-battle observational position, straddling Tiny Trev with the barrel extending out between his legs like a massive brass phallus.
"Canister!" Strummos calls, flipping the cart onto the wall and pushing it down to the cannon deck. It smacks into the girder-stop in front of the cannon. Branch and Howster, the two loaders, instantly overturn the cart and dump its contents onto the ground. Strummos flinches involuntarily.
When he was powdermonkey for the left shoulder Batterymaster Astor said he'd scalp anyone who dropped "those fucking death piñatas" as he called Canisters.
But this month when he swapped down to the Hands he found quickly that Handers are a whole different breed.
It takes someone fundamentally a little off to man a cannon that swings wildly around with every movement of the Rumbler's arm. At speeds like this the gravitational magic can't block out all of the momentum, and things need to stay nailed down in the forearm so they don't tilt and fall. Not to mention the Mantis' love of point-blank canister fire and the fact that they are all sitting in what is technically a massive battering ram. If you're a Hander you accept that you are basically a melee weapon. Toth is one of those stringy, hyperactive guys, the kind who sits crosslegged on normal chairs if he doesn't just eat on the floor, and over in Left they say Ire's an ice statue. His face never even so much as twitches unless he's giving orders.
The shifting horizon levels, then swings up as the Hand angles toward the ground.
Toth strokes Trev's metal girth. "I'm feeling it. I'm feeling it, kids. Ooooh, them's some juicy ants down there."
Howster grunts as he rights the emptied cart and eases it back onto the rail. "Inky, Toth. Are you gonna fucking shoot them or cum on their faces?"
"Shrapnel IS my cum, Howster."
Why the fuck does Pelaga like this clubhouse, Strummos asks himself. She was the one who convinced him to try serving down here.
"Toth." The communicator carries the voice of the Mantis down to the Hand. "Free to fire on massed infantry."
"Roger dodger." Toth slips off of Tiny Trev and slaps Weevil, the marksman, on the shoulder. "Angle at that officer," he says, then back into the communicator: "Would you like those spearmen chunky or pureed?" He tosses the communicator to Branch and slaps out a drumroll on Trev as it pivots toward the Earth. "Hold onto your balls, kids."
"Could be worse," Howster says. "Could be punching them."
"As soon as we unload we better be fucking punching them," Toth says.
"You don't have to clean the guts off the knuckles, motherfucker," Howster says."
"Lock," Weevil says.
"On my mark." Toth crouches and grips the handrail. Strummos sets his jaw and makes sure his tongue is out of the way. The first few weeks of Battery duty his tongue must have looked like jerky he bit it so often.
"FIRE!" Toth screams.
For a moment the world is pressure and noise. When Strummos' eyelids recover from the pressurized snap enough to reopen the column of soldiers they were targeting has a gory rent torn through its ranks. The screaming starts as soon as the boom goes.
"Reloading." Howster cracks the breech and vents the steam and stray gunsmoke out a second before throwing it open. He dashes round to the ramrod apparatus as Branch slots a new shell in place. Strummos knows from experience that chamber's sizzling hot and you're supposed to use thick mesh gloves, but Branch does it bare handed like he used to on a raider Auto back West. They call him Branch because his hands are so callused they look like bark.
"YES! Suck it down!" Toth is bouncing off the walls. "That's how we RUMBLE!"
"Get ready for the jumping jackpot." The Mantis again. "Rooftop that means you."
The outside world swings hellaciously again as the arm starts pumping into a sprint.
"MAN I wish I could fire that thing," Toth says, as Strummos fishes out his lead and straps himself to the handrail.
"They wouldn't let you within ten feeta jane," Branch says. "You'd get your fuckin crazy all over the sprockets."
"That's not ALL I'd get on the sprockets." Toth clings to Tiny Trevor as they pick up speed.
"Shrapnel too?" Strummos pitches in.
"You fuckin' bet, newbie." Toth's eyes gleam. "You fuckin' bet."
Metal screams and soars. The Rumbler leaps.
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- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The Mantis has hired some weird ass people 
- Location
- St. Petersburg
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Read it in one fell swoop, and it's now nearing 5 AM here. About half through, I started thinking that I just have to share it with someone else. The half-wacky, half-serious atmosphere of a group of nomadic raiders in a walking fortress is pretty spot on.
Didn't realize you were the author of RETREAT, but recognized the art style a couple of updates in.
It is pretty hard to keep up with the amount of content that is produced on a daily basis, so you will have to attract attention to it somehow. Yours is pretty unique, though.
It would be great if I could participate somehow, but I imagine that turning it into a crossforum quest and coordinating the discussion between the two forums would be a pain. You are doing good job by posting relevant bits and pieces from there, though.
And if it were moved to SV, a part of your existing audience from SA would not follow. So I am not sure what could be done here.
Still somewhat unhappy that I wasn't there to vote on the 'Mama Mantis' speech.
Didn't realize you were the author of RETREAT, but recognized the art style a couple of updates in.
I'd say that illustrated quests are a niche on their own. You can already judge how it is, having run two of them. That said, while SV audience is bigger, getting its attention is much harder because of just how many quests there are. A community that has a few quests values them more, and it's damn hard to miss one. Here, we have 12 Original quests in the last week.
It is pretty hard to keep up with the amount of content that is produced on a daily basis, so you will have to attract attention to it somehow. Yours is pretty unique, though.
I think you are dramatically misinterpreting it.
I would still follow this thread, but I would not register on SA. A matter of principle regarding paid registrations, if you will.
It would be great if I could participate somehow, but I imagine that turning it into a crossforum quest and coordinating the discussion between the two forums would be a pain. You are doing good job by posting relevant bits and pieces from there, though.
And if it were moved to SV, a part of your existing audience from SA would not follow. So I am not sure what could be done here.
Zaphidor. No contest. That little conversation he had with Vic in the beginning has sold me on the concept.
Still somewhat unhappy that I wasn't there to vote on the 'Mama Mantis' speech.
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Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
"Pacitar! Forceswitch on our 11!"
Pacitar initiates a dazzling series of hand motions as a blue light starts crackling across his fingers. "By Eurandon it shall be."
"Strix! I need more hellbats on the right flanker!"
Strix's muffled screams of ecstasy sounds from the crown.
"Left hand prepare to fire on Mark Left. Right shoulder target center engaged automaton, middle distance, end of my pivot, on Mark Right. Right hand brace for melee." You're giving orders so quickly you barely have time to breathe. "Prepare to repel boarders, people."
"On it." Crik clips his tether to the Rumbler's eyehole and dives out the window, his mechanical arm already spinning up.
After the loss of his right arm, Crik had his replacement built for the sole purpose of firing arrows.
His custom-built bow and unfletched arrows all figure into his system. The arrows go into a mechanism at the stump of his arm built like a drill bit, and since fletching would mess with the speed of his slotting he has a rotor built in that spins them at breakneck speeds. His arm isn't fast, it has no manipulators on it to speak of, and its musculature is only really good for pulling; but its pull is over 200 pounds.
His arrows fly farther and hit harder than any other archer in the Wasteland, and his shaytan eyes can shred the wings off a fly at half a mile off. Even now as he hangs down all the way to the Rumbler's chestplate you can hear the twang as the first would-be boarder finds that out.
The charging Automaton takes a cold-cocked swing from the Rumbler's right fist, pulled up from the bloody muck of the infantry killing field to face it. But it ducks the follow up with the fistful of canister, and the bones in your legs jar as its sword pushes into the Rumbler's flank and tears the plating open in a long rake across his right side.
"Fuck," you hiss, and then your heart skips a beat as out the Rumbler's left eye a distant explosion sends a shell hurtling directly toward your throne room.
In a sudden flash of blue it fizzles into nothingness, then tears itself back into reality whizzing the other way.
It blows a second-story building open, sending shreds of brilliant purple fabric corkscrewing into the air, and slaps into the Automaton that fired it, tearing its leg off at the knee. Pacitar's just saved your life for the dozenth time. The orange flame of Strix's streaking hellbats seeking their target to the right reassures you that her spell worked as well.
Your right arm clamps the swordsman automaton hard up against the Rumbler's chest, crushing several boarders and sending Crik swinging for cover. Metal screams as the Rumbler wrenches the automaton to its knees and pushes his loaded-for-bear left fist against its head.
"Mark left," you say, and watch the Automaton's head fill with fire and jagged metal. When the Rumbler lets go, it crumples.
(authors note yes thats totally the right hand firing not the left forgive me i noticed way too late)
"Brilliant, Ire," you say. "Mark right."
"Firing." A whiplash whir as Feng looses the winch.
It catches its target, the Automaton battling your men, on the hip, snaps taught, and tugs it heavily to the ground. Your soldiers sprint, tuck, and roll to escape its crushing scope. Several peasants are not so fast and turn into grease stains.
There's a percussive pop and flash on its forehead that draws your eye to Ghostly Anastasi, who's just flung a breaching hand-grenade into the plate glass of its eyes. You get a glimpse of her daggers shining like daystars before she executes a perfect mid-air somersault directly through the shattering glass and into the Automaton's cockpit.
It suddenly seizes then goes limp, as its praetor breathes their last.
"They're shredding ass out there." Zaphidor's fingers drum across his axe head.
1 You say:
A I know you want to join the groundfight. Get down there. Crik can keep me safe.
B I know, Zaph, but I need you up here. You're my bodyguard.
C Take your berserkers down to that hole that just opened up in our side. We're going to need axes there soon.
7 targets remain:
To the left:
Long range:
Two cannon automata, both battle-damaged and half disabled, now swarming with increasingly vicious peasants. One of them has swiveled all the way to face you; it's unclear whether they're capable of firing at the moment.
Middle range and closing:
A charging swordsman automaton, now with its shield held high and defensive, juking and weaving to avoid your left side cannon. It's seen what happened to its fellow melee Auto, but it also sees the battle damage it left along your side.
To dead center:
Long range:
The automaton that was defending its noble-carrying friend. Satisfied that Strix's hellbats have been retargeted, it's now preparing to fire on you.
To the right:
Middle range:
The automaton who was flanking you earlier; now shot through with Hellbats and struggling to move.
Long range:
A cannon automaton who's completed its reload and is at your right rear flank, aiming at your right shoulder.
Past long range:
The noble-evacuating automaton, limping back into a run away from the scene of combat now that the Hellbats have been recast.
Strix and Pacitar's spell failure chance are both now at 30%.
Your left shoulder and right hand have both reloaded.
Right shoulder, left hand, and Jackpot Jane have 1 more round before they're ready to fire again. You are stationary.
The fight on the ground is now slightly IN YOUR FAVOR, as the sheer number of peasants and lack of Automaton support begins to take its effect.
The number of boarders trying to clamber up your legs is steadily increasing.
Pacitar initiates a dazzling series of hand motions as a blue light starts crackling across his fingers. "By Eurandon it shall be."
"Strix! I need more hellbats on the right flanker!"
Strix's muffled screams of ecstasy sounds from the crown.
"Left hand prepare to fire on Mark Left. Right shoulder target center engaged automaton, middle distance, end of my pivot, on Mark Right. Right hand brace for melee." You're giving orders so quickly you barely have time to breathe. "Prepare to repel boarders, people."
"On it." Crik clips his tether to the Rumbler's eyehole and dives out the window, his mechanical arm already spinning up.
After the loss of his right arm, Crik had his replacement built for the sole purpose of firing arrows.
His custom-built bow and unfletched arrows all figure into his system. The arrows go into a mechanism at the stump of his arm built like a drill bit, and since fletching would mess with the speed of his slotting he has a rotor built in that spins them at breakneck speeds. His arm isn't fast, it has no manipulators on it to speak of, and its musculature is only really good for pulling; but its pull is over 200 pounds.
His arrows fly farther and hit harder than any other archer in the Wasteland, and his shaytan eyes can shred the wings off a fly at half a mile off. Even now as he hangs down all the way to the Rumbler's chestplate you can hear the twang as the first would-be boarder finds that out.
The charging Automaton takes a cold-cocked swing from the Rumbler's right fist, pulled up from the bloody muck of the infantry killing field to face it. But it ducks the follow up with the fistful of canister, and the bones in your legs jar as its sword pushes into the Rumbler's flank and tears the plating open in a long rake across his right side.
"Fuck," you hiss, and then your heart skips a beat as out the Rumbler's left eye a distant explosion sends a shell hurtling directly toward your throne room.
In a sudden flash of blue it fizzles into nothingness, then tears itself back into reality whizzing the other way.
It blows a second-story building open, sending shreds of brilliant purple fabric corkscrewing into the air, and slaps into the Automaton that fired it, tearing its leg off at the knee. Pacitar's just saved your life for the dozenth time. The orange flame of Strix's streaking hellbats seeking their target to the right reassures you that her spell worked as well.
Your right arm clamps the swordsman automaton hard up against the Rumbler's chest, crushing several boarders and sending Crik swinging for cover. Metal screams as the Rumbler wrenches the automaton to its knees and pushes his loaded-for-bear left fist against its head.
"Mark left," you say, and watch the Automaton's head fill with fire and jagged metal. When the Rumbler lets go, it crumples.
(authors note yes thats totally the right hand firing not the left forgive me i noticed way too late)
"Brilliant, Ire," you say. "Mark right."
"Firing." A whiplash whir as Feng looses the winch.
It catches its target, the Automaton battling your men, on the hip, snaps taught, and tugs it heavily to the ground. Your soldiers sprint, tuck, and roll to escape its crushing scope. Several peasants are not so fast and turn into grease stains.
There's a percussive pop and flash on its forehead that draws your eye to Ghostly Anastasi, who's just flung a breaching hand-grenade into the plate glass of its eyes. You get a glimpse of her daggers shining like daystars before she executes a perfect mid-air somersault directly through the shattering glass and into the Automaton's cockpit.
It suddenly seizes then goes limp, as its praetor breathes their last.
"They're shredding ass out there." Zaphidor's fingers drum across his axe head.
1 You say:
A I know you want to join the groundfight. Get down there. Crik can keep me safe.
B I know, Zaph, but I need you up here. You're my bodyguard.
C Take your berserkers down to that hole that just opened up in our side. We're going to need axes there soon.
7 targets remain:
To the left:
Long range:
Two cannon automata, both battle-damaged and half disabled, now swarming with increasingly vicious peasants. One of them has swiveled all the way to face you; it's unclear whether they're capable of firing at the moment.
Middle range and closing:
A charging swordsman automaton, now with its shield held high and defensive, juking and weaving to avoid your left side cannon. It's seen what happened to its fellow melee Auto, but it also sees the battle damage it left along your side.
To dead center:
Long range:
The automaton that was defending its noble-carrying friend. Satisfied that Strix's hellbats have been retargeted, it's now preparing to fire on you.
To the right:
Middle range:
The automaton who was flanking you earlier; now shot through with Hellbats and struggling to move.
Long range:
A cannon automaton who's completed its reload and is at your right rear flank, aiming at your right shoulder.
Past long range:
The noble-evacuating automaton, limping back into a run away from the scene of combat now that the Hellbats have been recast.
Strix and Pacitar's spell failure chance are both now at 30%.
Your left shoulder and right hand have both reloaded.
Right shoulder, left hand, and Jackpot Jane have 1 more round before they're ready to fire again. You are stationary.
The fight on the ground is now slightly IN YOUR FAVOR, as the sheer number of peasants and lack of Automaton support begins to take its effect.
The number of boarders trying to clamber up your legs is steadily increasing.
Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
Further down the shelf than JOURNEYS in the Iron Mantis' library, and with a heavier accumulation of dust on its peeling cover, is a copy of A SURVEY OF THE TARIC EMPIRES, written by the late Veritable Pascuto in the pre-tide years, when true empires existed anywhere but the sickly minds of deluded men like the Emperor of Anabas.
Pascuto was a bit of a lush.
The discourse within is entirely obsolete, the nations and states having been obliterated by the Crimson Tide. But the castoffs and bones of the Old World now make up the disheveled New World, and although borders have been atomized, the survivors cling to their fading cultures like driftwood in a hurricane.
Let's take a look at the most powerful of the Old Nations first: Zestimora, and the Zestal courts.
Zaphidor, Pacitar, the deposed Tyrant Argus XVI, and the Rumbler itself are all products of Zestimora, as are many of its most veteran crewmen. There are plenty of Zestal peoples left in the Wasteland; the higher climates they favored means more of them survived than most, and more of their artifacts and knowledges did, to boot. Zestal arms and armor have always been the best in the world; now they're some of the only in the world.
THE IRON KINGS: AN EXAMINATION OF ZESTIMORA
When this author first came to Zestimora, forge-place of the Automata, it was to attend a family retreat in the most handsome of its handsome mountain ranges. He feared in his childishness that he'd be kidnapped and turned to a slave. This was a silly thought to have, pampered and silver-spooned as he was, but there's a kernel of truth to it, isn't there. Zestimora is a place of the highest, brightest, warmest places and people in the world, and also a place of the lowest, meanest, coldest, and most wretched. Gleaming, gigantic Automata, strapping Praetor-Princes, and pink, perfumed noblewomen are its fancy flesh; but the skeleton they drape themselves across is Slavery, down to the marrow.
The Zestal cult of Stebros, Brother-God of War, and the addition of his forty steel pages to the Holy Index, are decried as fatal heresy by the Seeing Library, but none of the ancient crusades up to the Zestal peaks ever succeeded, and although Stebros worship has petered off naturally over time simply by fading from fashion, the strong martial tradition He demanded continues. The art of blacksmithing is sacred to Zestal warriors, a devotion most characterized by the Automata they introduced to the World several centuries ago. Bound up by powerful magic of every stripe (excepting Void, of course), and metallurgy of the caliber only the Iron Kings could devise. Amazing works of artifice and enchantment, and exemplifications of the stark, ironbound art favored by Zestal craftsmen, and the multitudinous slaves they command.
The Courts demand courtiers with sharp tongues and astringent humor; this combined with the Zestal history of open defiance of the Seeing Library might be what gives them their predilection toward coarseness and brassiness in speech. Zestal men, as a rule, are chiseled in face and musculature; Zestal women tend to hide their faces demurely behind peaked hoods, but select cuts and fabrics designed primarily to show off the race's charmingly copious bosoms, the welcoming softness of which your author has deeply enjoyed and highly recommends.
The Examination then forgets any further commentary about the Zestal practices of war and slavery to embark on an extensive tour of the Zestal vineyards; but since all of those dried and withered with the tide (which would have brought Pascuto to tears if he'd survived) I'll stop here.
Pascuto was a bit of a lush.
The discourse within is entirely obsolete, the nations and states having been obliterated by the Crimson Tide. But the castoffs and bones of the Old World now make up the disheveled New World, and although borders have been atomized, the survivors cling to their fading cultures like driftwood in a hurricane.
Let's take a look at the most powerful of the Old Nations first: Zestimora, and the Zestal courts.
Zaphidor, Pacitar, the deposed Tyrant Argus XVI, and the Rumbler itself are all products of Zestimora, as are many of its most veteran crewmen. There are plenty of Zestal peoples left in the Wasteland; the higher climates they favored means more of them survived than most, and more of their artifacts and knowledges did, to boot. Zestal arms and armor have always been the best in the world; now they're some of the only in the world.
THE IRON KINGS: AN EXAMINATION OF ZESTIMORA
When this author first came to Zestimora, forge-place of the Automata, it was to attend a family retreat in the most handsome of its handsome mountain ranges. He feared in his childishness that he'd be kidnapped and turned to a slave. This was a silly thought to have, pampered and silver-spooned as he was, but there's a kernel of truth to it, isn't there. Zestimora is a place of the highest, brightest, warmest places and people in the world, and also a place of the lowest, meanest, coldest, and most wretched. Gleaming, gigantic Automata, strapping Praetor-Princes, and pink, perfumed noblewomen are its fancy flesh; but the skeleton they drape themselves across is Slavery, down to the marrow.
The Zestal cult of Stebros, Brother-God of War, and the addition of his forty steel pages to the Holy Index, are decried as fatal heresy by the Seeing Library, but none of the ancient crusades up to the Zestal peaks ever succeeded, and although Stebros worship has petered off naturally over time simply by fading from fashion, the strong martial tradition He demanded continues. The art of blacksmithing is sacred to Zestal warriors, a devotion most characterized by the Automata they introduced to the World several centuries ago. Bound up by powerful magic of every stripe (excepting Void, of course), and metallurgy of the caliber only the Iron Kings could devise. Amazing works of artifice and enchantment, and exemplifications of the stark, ironbound art favored by Zestal craftsmen, and the multitudinous slaves they command.
The Courts demand courtiers with sharp tongues and astringent humor; this combined with the Zestal history of open defiance of the Seeing Library might be what gives them their predilection toward coarseness and brassiness in speech. Zestal men, as a rule, are chiseled in face and musculature; Zestal women tend to hide their faces demurely behind peaked hoods, but select cuts and fabrics designed primarily to show off the race's charmingly copious bosoms, the welcoming softness of which your author has deeply enjoyed and highly recommends.
The Examination then forgets any further commentary about the Zestal practices of war and slavery to embark on an extensive tour of the Zestal vineyards; but since all of those dried and withered with the tide (which would have brought Pascuto to tears if he'd survived) I'll stop here.
- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I am perhaps misremembering Vicki's biography entry a little here, but it is the case that Argus XVI was the ruler of Tales of Zestimora?
FUCK YES.Hi, everyone!
At the encouragement of the IRC, this is a place I'm going to dump updates from my Something Awful CYOA, Talos, which you can find here, so that nobody has to pay :tenbux: to get through its paywall, or deal with all the Gently Caress censorship garbage you get if you're not subscribed. At some point in the near future I'm also going to figure out a way to get a cross-play going so that votes from SA and SV both count, though in the meantime this is just a place for my brother-men who don't believe in padding Lowtax's pockets to read the updates rather than make suggestions. That could change.
Update dump incoming!!
Thread Reading Music
In the name of Inkiros, father of Genesis, and by his prologue, and his fifty brass pages, may I be blessed.
In the name of Eurandon, mother of Consciousness, and by her inception, and her hundred silver pages, may I be mindful.
In the name of Rabulaster, son of Civilization, and by his core, and his two hundred golden pages, may I be protected.
In the name of Quist, daughter of Death, and by her termination, and her infinite obsidian pages, may I strike my enemies down.
Let my enterprise gild my prayers with wings enough to pierce the empyrean and deliver themselves to your hands.
For season, measure, and the Golden Book will teach us: mortal works are undone without faith.
And intrepidity.
And zeal.
And giant robots.
The Great Cities have fallen. First to debauchery, then to disrepair, then precipitously to destruction. The crimson flood, brought on, some say, by the displeasure of the Gods, has wiped the continent clean of full half of its life.
The Cities now are overrun by marauders or monsters. It has been three full decades since their despoilment. The huddled remnants of civilization scratch out their existences in the discarded amnion born by their great apocalypse. In the oases, life and resources are scant and fragile.
On the wastes live the Praetors.
Pilots, priests, generals, or bandits, voyaging across the toxic land in massive robots called Automata.
Some are keepers of the shards of their cultures, dedicated to the expansion and continuance of their postcalamitous communities. Some are treasure-seekers, looking for riches and adventure among the bones of the world. Some are ruthless pirates, hellbent on little more than survival and power.
1. What kind of Praetor are you?
A. A priest of the Four Gods of Ophyras, city of gold. A stalwart guardian of the innocent and custodian of civilization.
B. A general of the budding township Anaziphrale, at the helm of the very first Automaton they've managed to build. Venturing into the Wastes to find new lands and resources for your people.
C. A merchant explorer with a fearless crew of mercenaries, out for fame and fortune.
D. A hard-hearted warlord operating from a cold iron fortress in the heart of the wasteland, where only the unyielding survive.
E. A highwayman, in a stripped-down, nimble Automaton envoy, preying on the weak and foolish.
F. A desperate survivor of a recently destroyed village, cast into the wilderness to rebuild the pieces.
YES. YES.
FUCK.
Most of that is just Rihaku, who is kind of unique? I mean, most people just give minor rewards for neat stuff users put effort into to reward participation to encourage said thread participation without being toxic.
It was more a technical analysis of the questing scene than something the users "want" I'd say. You have good story and pretty pictures, and the appeal of that's universal, or at least should be. SVers have no taste I guess?
Most "CKII" quests don't actually have any CKII mechanics beyond like, the stats thing which doesn't really play much of a role and isn't really that important in CKII the video game. It's more a shorthand for "kingdom management type game". I'm not saying this well, but I mean, there's little mechanical/setting or even anything except general idea overlap between CKII the game and CKII quests.
I agree CKII is boring.
You got me?
Not really?
Will read, have not paid.
Tyrant Argus
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Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
There were a whole array of princes and nobles in the Zestal courts. Argus was just one of them
<3
Ridiculously Average Guy
I'm you, but stronger
- Location
-
Since people seem to be doing these.
BUT, that isn't an issue for you. Because you've got art, and that gets around the biggest issue.
I mean, right now you've got at least 5~ people willing to read this as just an archive, I figure you'll get more if voting is possible, also if you get people to follow you over from SA.
And, of course, even more if you get an ad for this (which have [so far] worked really well for art quests).
Define, suffesting audience. Yeah, as I said before, you've got an art quest which means you circumvent the biggest issue with making an original quest (the context gorge). You've also been pretty good (here and in your other quest) at slipping in the setting material without being dry or overwhelming.
That original quests are ahrd to do here? Yes, we've got a ton of quests 90% of which are text. Fanfiction quests don't need as much explained, so they tend to live easier than original quests. Even with that said, ther has been a noteable rise of successful original quests.
BUT, that isn't an issue for you. Because you've got art, and that gets around the biggest issue.
I'm doing the first now, so yeah. Have not 10bux'd.
Zaphidor.
Not that I've noticed? I mean, you're not as active with them as you were, but I was under the impression that you felt discouraged and so slowed down. That said, I've been offsite for most of the past week or so, so maybe that's changed.
I mean, right now you've got at least 5~ people willing to read this as just an archive, I figure you'll get more if voting is possible, also if you get people to follow you over from SA.
And, of course, even more if you get an ad for this (which have [so far] worked really well for art quests).
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- Pronouns
- He/Him
I like the structural Howl reference.
Bromeliad
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
- Location
- NYC
"Take your berserkers down to that hole that just opened up in our side," you say. "We're going to need axes there soon."
"YAS ma'am!"
Zaphidor is down the hatch so fast the wind audibly whips through his surcoat.
The Rumbler plants a foot on the fallen automaton's shield and with a mighty yank tears it from its arm. Rivets pop and weldings warp. Shield in hand, the Rumbler backpedals, pulverizing a clocktower behind him, then corrects slightly, rotates, and retreats backward down a screamingly vacating street.
He crouches low to keep as little of himself exposed over the rooftops and waits.
"Toth," you say. "Are we reloaded?"
"You bet your ass we're reloaded."
"Get ready on Mark Right. Left Shoulder."
"Reloaded."
"Keep that cannon in front of us locked. I'm gonna get you a sightline. On Mark Left."
The Swordsman automaton tears round the bend and takes a shield directly to the chest.
"Mark Right!"
Toth's cannon jumps and flares, and the swordsman's face flowers open.
You rotate the left shoulder a hair, questing for an angle on your distant adversary.
It finds you first; a dark streak of slug connects with the Rumbler's thigh, dinging and cratering into the mechanism but not breaking through.
It's enough to nearly knock you off your feet but both you and the Rumbler stay upright.
Down at the gash the sword made, the blow is enough that several invaders are shaken, screaming, from the ledges and peeled jetties the wound opened for them. They fall up, tugged by the Rumbler's bizarre gravity, then hover briefly for a moment as the outside world takes over before hurtling down to smash themselves against the ground below.
Zaphidor is the eye at the center of a hurricane of gore and steel. His berzerkers swing and scurry effortlessly through the Rumbler's dense scaffolding, axeheads thirsty for blood.
"Eyes on! We have eyes on!" Astor's voice is on the edge of hysteria. "For Inkiros' Sake he's reloading--"
You yell over him: "Mark Left!"
The slug hits the distant automaton full on and bowls it over out of sight. A cloud of plaster and stone dust rises from where it caved in a townhouse on its descent. You're not so foolish as to think it's out of commission yet but you can't check on it from where you're situated.
Four targets remain:
EAST (Left Side)
Long Range:
One automaton still upright, hanging thick with the boarding ropes of the peasantry, aiming directly at you. The one next to it has collapsed as your makeshift army courses through it stabbing and bludgeoning its crew to death.
The automaton you just shot, which has disappeared from your line of sight.
The automaton which was evacuating the nobles is nowhere to be seen. It's gone out of range of your Spotter.
SOUTH (Dead Center)
Middle Range:
The Automaton flanker, filled with Hellbats. As the spell wears off the crew is beginning to regain control of it, and it's broken into a run to try to get around you. It's a moving target.
SOUTHWEST (Right Side)
Long Range:
A cannon automaton, kneeling in cover between a tower and a stocky barracks and preparing to fire.
Pacitar and Strix have a 30% fizzle chance.
The Rumbler has a long gash along its side and a slug stuck in its thigh.
Your Left Hand (Canister) is reloaded, and so is your Right Shoulder (Winch).
So is Jackpot Jane (Slug).
As the peasants die in droves trying to raid the automatons, the resistance on the ground is beginning to thin. The mages you spotted before are scorching droves of them to ash.
The tide of the ground battle is now IN THEIR FAVOR.
1 Ghastly Anastasi and her men are:
A Spread out among the fray, killing as many officers as they can.
B Fighting as one unit in the plaza and prioritizing those mages.
C Boarding the East Long Range automaton in an effort to bring it down before it can fire on you.
"YAS ma'am!"
Zaphidor is down the hatch so fast the wind audibly whips through his surcoat.
The Rumbler plants a foot on the fallen automaton's shield and with a mighty yank tears it from its arm. Rivets pop and weldings warp. Shield in hand, the Rumbler backpedals, pulverizing a clocktower behind him, then corrects slightly, rotates, and retreats backward down a screamingly vacating street.
He crouches low to keep as little of himself exposed over the rooftops and waits.
"Toth," you say. "Are we reloaded?"
"You bet your ass we're reloaded."
"Get ready on Mark Right. Left Shoulder."
"Reloaded."
"Keep that cannon in front of us locked. I'm gonna get you a sightline. On Mark Left."
The Swordsman automaton tears round the bend and takes a shield directly to the chest.
"Mark Right!"
Toth's cannon jumps and flares, and the swordsman's face flowers open.
You rotate the left shoulder a hair, questing for an angle on your distant adversary.
It finds you first; a dark streak of slug connects with the Rumbler's thigh, dinging and cratering into the mechanism but not breaking through.
It's enough to nearly knock you off your feet but both you and the Rumbler stay upright.
Down at the gash the sword made, the blow is enough that several invaders are shaken, screaming, from the ledges and peeled jetties the wound opened for them. They fall up, tugged by the Rumbler's bizarre gravity, then hover briefly for a moment as the outside world takes over before hurtling down to smash themselves against the ground below.
Zaphidor is the eye at the center of a hurricane of gore and steel. His berzerkers swing and scurry effortlessly through the Rumbler's dense scaffolding, axeheads thirsty for blood.
"Eyes on! We have eyes on!" Astor's voice is on the edge of hysteria. "For Inkiros' Sake he's reloading--"
You yell over him: "Mark Left!"
The slug hits the distant automaton full on and bowls it over out of sight. A cloud of plaster and stone dust rises from where it caved in a townhouse on its descent. You're not so foolish as to think it's out of commission yet but you can't check on it from where you're situated.
Four targets remain:
EAST (Left Side)
Long Range:
One automaton still upright, hanging thick with the boarding ropes of the peasantry, aiming directly at you. The one next to it has collapsed as your makeshift army courses through it stabbing and bludgeoning its crew to death.
The automaton you just shot, which has disappeared from your line of sight.
The automaton which was evacuating the nobles is nowhere to be seen. It's gone out of range of your Spotter.
SOUTH (Dead Center)
Middle Range:
The Automaton flanker, filled with Hellbats. As the spell wears off the crew is beginning to regain control of it, and it's broken into a run to try to get around you. It's a moving target.
SOUTHWEST (Right Side)
Long Range:
A cannon automaton, kneeling in cover between a tower and a stocky barracks and preparing to fire.
Pacitar and Strix have a 30% fizzle chance.
The Rumbler has a long gash along its side and a slug stuck in its thigh.
Your Left Hand (Canister) is reloaded, and so is your Right Shoulder (Winch).
So is Jackpot Jane (Slug).
As the peasants die in droves trying to raid the automatons, the resistance on the ground is beginning to thin. The mages you spotted before are scorching droves of them to ash.
The tide of the ground battle is now IN THEIR FAVOR.
1 Ghastly Anastasi and her men are:
A Spread out among the fray, killing as many officers as they can.
B Fighting as one unit in the plaza and prioritizing those mages.
C Boarding the East Long Range automaton in an effort to bring it down before it can fire on you.
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Why is he holding the axe like that? Not taking advantage of LEVERAGE!
- Location
- The Hague
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Aww yes SAers you better do something good with