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>A quest heavily inspired by Warframe, as well as Kamen Rider Hibiki. >May be one-shot, may continue.
For centuries, generations, millennia... you slept. Waited.
While the galaxy beyond surged with war and peace, the changing of hands and thrones and powers, you slept. Awaiting... what it was, you could not tell. All that you knew was that when it - whatever /it/ was - came, you would awaken, and your time would come once more.
Your dreamless, void-like sleep was shattered one day by the sound of drums. Deep, reverberating, Rhythmic, stirring something that you didn't know you felt in your soul. One, then three, then five. The drums beat, and the darkness receded.
The void that dominated your sleep began to melt and shatter, and color and sight filled your mind once more. Strange structures surrounded you - cylinders, clear teal, filled with humanoid bodies in respite. No faces, but strange structures. No eyes, mouths, or any facial feature to speak of.
The teal liquid surrounding you is thick, but fluid. You try moving an arm - it detaches from wires and suction cups attached to... twisted, grotesque flesh. Is that flesh? No, while it might move like flesh, the shine was of metal. Were you made of metal?
The cylinder opens, the wall sliding down and the liquid spilling out. You fall forward, sluggish and groggy. This metal covered all of your visible body, making you look monstrous, you bet.
But alive, you were. And the drums still beat. To your North, you hear them call.
You are in the center of a room. To the North is a door with some kind of lock mechanism upon it. To the East and West are rows upon rows of similar cylinders, filled with humanoid figures of the same kind of metallic flesh. To the South is a solid window - though, what is outside, you dread to know yet.
>Go to the window. >Go to the door. >Inspect yourself. >Other (write in)
My name is Danny McGill. I'm a demi-god caught up in a whole heap of bullshit. From MIBs that want to dissect me to competing demi-gods looking to take me down, I've got a pretty full plate at the moment. So to finally get rid of some of my own ignorance I've taken to research, personally, some of my own family history. By checking big, really fucking boring books on Greek mythology out of the library.
I was reading most of the day, flipping through sections on satyrs, Dionysus, even Pan, before getting a knock on the door.
My handmaid with me, Andrea, went to check while I closed up my book. The guest was expected, but that didn't mean there wouldn't be any surprises. Andrea nodded. It was who we were waiting for. I set aside my book and took up my thyrsus. Went and opened the door.
Officer Van Owen stood in the doorway, all Nordic six foot of her. With aviators on and her hair tied up under her cap, she was dressed in her dark police blues, gun on her hip, baton on the other, looking like she'd chew nails.
She took off her cap, showing that blonde hair wound up in an intricate, tight knot.
"You've got thirty minutes," she said, stepping past me in a long stride, face stiff. She thought we were meeting up to talk about Gregory, another demi-god pain in the ass that had attacked a friend of mine. Dealing with Greg certainly was a reason I called Van Owen over.
She stood in my tiny living room, looking around, sniffing at the air. Unimpressed with everything about it. In her bulky vest and jacket she barely had the shape of a woman, and the gun she wore put my back up by instinct. She stared at Andrea for a moment, until she turned to me.
"So what's this information you have?" she asked, setting her cap down and pulling out pencil and notepad.
> talk about Greg a little > offer the officer a drink first
Last Time, on Feral Necromancer Quest: You learned of a new, oppressive regime being formed by a man called Karrim. You buried a fear totem under his priest's tent, so as to prevent him from advancement. You found the gnoll tribe to learn more about the goings on on the great plains, and they told you of unprecedented human aggression. You set out for Karrim's camp and an accidental meeting with him disrupted your chance of reaching the camp undetected. A battle ensued, where you ended up having to kill the vast majority of the tribe. After a talk with Bathory, you promised the survivors that you would aid them in any way you could. You were convinced to bring the family members of those still alive back in alchemical bodies. You bound thirteen spirits in all, and that is where the twelfth installment of the Feral Necromancer Quest ended.
And I don't mean in some metaphysical way as in our role in the universe. I mean you've been in a relationship for five years with this evil cunt, who just up and left you. Something about "being unhappy" or whatever, and fuck you. She couldn't care less if you were alive or dead. It's been going on seven months now. Your balls feels like they're being weighed down by cement blocks, and you are beginning to feel the most dreaded disease a man could ever get settling in.
The thirst.
The thirst is the stuff of Lovecraftian horror. It drives sane men into madness, turning alphas into simps and cuckolds. If you're lucky, you'll be some fucboi letting other dudes into the Hershey Highway. You can't let it come to that. So you've stepped foot outside. A roll of d100 highest result, will determine the next action taken. Otherwise for "combat rolls" (which is a catch-all for anything that requires a roll) you'll have a stat anywhere from 1 to 100. I have taken the liberty of setting up a generic sheet for you with the following stats:
Revolver: 41. (Sometimes you may just need to shoot a bitch. Magic gun that never runs out of ammo... or does it?) Sanity: 42. (You'll need this to prevent yourself from babbling incoherent like...well like a woman.) Stealth: 39. (Sometimes you will need to sneak around. If you're not too murder-hobo or assclownish this should not be a problem.) Strength: 40. (Lifting, jumping, anything requiring exertion. You're in relatively okay shape considering all you do is play expensive card games.) Flirt: 42. (Very important. You'll need this to get the girl. The only way to truly subside the thirst.)
Now you're outside, your eyes have to adjust to natural light... you've prepared well. Showering and not wearing pants that have holes in the buttcrack. You even put on deodarant! Now it's time to quinch your thirst. Where will you go? >The nearby church. >The park. >The gym. >Do something else.
Narcissa currently has her fingers wrapped tight around your hair, and with her other hand she seems to be experimentally running her fingers along your cheek. "By my right as Faerie Queen, by the bargain struck with the Windons long ago, your liberty is forfeit so long as you stay within my domain." Her lips curl up and she smiles down at you, her expression alien, warped, somehow recognizable even by your ophidian mind.
So that's what a smile looks like. She drags you with her, heading deeper into the forest, the physicality of the space changing. The surfaces of trees smooth out, gaining that same otherworldly beauty that Dana or Narcissa have, the faint feeling of being airbrushed, flawless. She's taking you into the fae realm, and you can't seem to fight her effectively, not here, not in the place of her power.
Forgetting about the fae was a stupid thing to do.
She tosses you to the ground, and her servants bind you, the ropes holding you in place with impossible strength. Once you're completely at her mercy, she starts.
You try to disassociate yourself from your body, to think of something else. You close your eyes, and think of the world-egg, trying to focus on your ancestral memory rather than your current suffering.
Pain. Fae magic. Fear. They work together - or against each other - and something cracks in your perception, and you see something primordial. Souls, as yet unborn. Two stick together: a matched pair, fitting just right, but they're pulled apart. They tumble through dozens of lives, one after the other, occasionally meeting.
