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She's gone before you can argue, lost in the scrum of people— you suppose she's headed to her secret weapon stockpile. You wish you had a secret weapon stockpile.

«You'd never use it.»

Well, sure, you'd still just use The Sword, but you need to arm your future throngs of devotees. You know, like… oh. Where'd Gil go?

«Excellent. You lost him.»

You didn't lose him, he just… vanished. All of a sudden. But he's still around, isn't he? People don't just stop existing when you stop observing them, right? (Don't they? …Richard?)

«Why are you asking me.»

This is the kind of thing he'd— okay, there's Gil. (You weren't worried.) He's huddling in the shadows, one hand over his oozing mouth. You wave, and, when that fails to catch his attention, stagger over. "Gil!"

"Mngfff," manages Gil— who squints, reevaluates, and strikes himself on the chest. "Sorry," he mumbles from somewhere inside his neck. "I-I was just getting used to having teeth, then, uh… I mean, they started melting. Um. They're still doing that, by the way."

You're not sure what to say. "Okay."

"I mean, i-i-it doesn't hurt, it's just, uh…" He scratches his nose. "…weird. Is this regular weather for you all?"

You glance over your shoulder and appraise the chaos: the water thick with flying debris, the trees doubled over from the force of the current, the entire camp up and about at some unholy hour—

«2:38 AM.»

—at some unholy hour, yes. You put it delicately. "Not… as such. I believe this may be the workings of a notorious, uh, villain— the one who claims to know you?"

"The Garvin guy?"

"Yes! Yes, the Garvin guy. He has obtained a precious artifact and is utilizing its dastardly power to, um…"

You're not actually sure what Horse Face has to gain from summoning a massive current. There must be more efficient ways to destroy things. "…you know, do stuff. Bad stuff. So we're going to stop him."

"…'We,'" Gil says.

You attempt to bat your eyelashes. "Well, yes, as my loyal retainer…"

"I'm melting."

"And?" (If anything, that's a point in your favor— it makes him expendable.)

"And it's the middle of the goddamn night, during a freak storm thing, and— what do you want me to do? Tackle the guy? I-I don't get into fights— what do I look like?"

At the moment, like Ellery. You cross your arms. "Tall."

Gil pauses. "…I-I mean, yes, but this guy's a stick, he's not… look, I just don't think I'm any good here."

God! What a whiner! You hunch your shoulders. You save him from a living hell, murder a man… okay, murder Ellery for him, and for what? Backtalk? How was his upbringing this shoddy? "Okay, remind me why the hell I bothered to rescue you?"

He makes a kind of strangled buzzing noise. "…Because you're nice?"

«Poor man.»

What does Richard mean? You are— you are nice. When— when called for. "Well, I would be, if you weren't such a bitch, okay? You'd rather sit and melt than go be a big damn hero?"

(2/3)

"I just don't know if I'm the hero… type." He wilts under your gaze. "I-I mean, I just do tech. Did tech."

"You have zero relevant skills?"

"I-I can shoot a gun? But it's very dark, and windy, and I— I don't have a gun, so I don't…"

"We'll get one! It's fine." You clasp his free hand in both of yours. "We'll get a gun, then you won't be deadweight, alright? Easy. We'll get you a gun, we'll go get Monty, we'll stop Horse Face, and then everyone will like me."

"What?"

"Like us. I said us." You said us. "We'll— you know, they'll have a parade."

"Seriously?"

The unappreciative bastards that live around here? Absolutely not. "Yes. Probably. They better have a parade."

"Um… sure." Gil appears skeptical. "Who's Monty? And Horse Face? And how do you know that guy has an artifact, any—"

«Look sharp.»

What? You swivel. Oh, it's Madrigal, carrying an armful of pointy things… and you are talking to the man she thinks is Ellery. "Gil!" you hiss.

"Huh?"

"You have to go! You have to— see that big fallen-down tree?" You gesture. "Go there. Hide. I'll meet you."

"Um, okay… why?"

"It's your ex! Just go!"

He shoots you a glance, but slips away without further inane questions. You duck out of the tent's shadow and place yourself in Madrigal's line of sight.

She drops the armful. "Charlotte! What the fuck! I told you not to go anywhere!"

"I forgot," you sign blandly. It's not the worst lie of your life. "And I'm here now, so. Did you bring any guns?"

"What? You can't use a gun."

It's true, but you're still rankled. "I could figure it out."

"In these conditions? You're gonna crawl back all 'whoopsie daisy, jumped at shadows, shot Monty in the head'— you know he won't come back?"

"I know!" you snap. "I just— did you bring any guns?"

"No."

"Do you have any guns?"

"Yes, but they're fucking far away, and unloaded, and— I mean, look at this." She holds up her forearm, where a fist-size bruise is blossoming. "Big rock came outta fucking nowhere. This place is a warzone. Why do you even want a gun?"

"I just—" What are you supposed to say? "What stuff did you bring?"

She kicks the pile. "Poleaxe, harpoon, this big-ass hammer thing… I think that there's a mace?"

"No swords?"

"I'm outta swords, Charlotte. Told you last week."

You narrow your eyes. "Hrm."

(Choices next)

>[A1] Could she… go get a gun? Pretty please? (Write-in a good fake reason why you need one, else roll to convince. This'll burn some time.)
>[A2] Can Gil just, like, visualize one? It worked for you that one time, sort of. And you aren't even made of imaginary beetles. [Gil will roll.]
>[A3] Whatever. Gil doesn't need a weapon— he's cannon fodder, anyhow.

>[B1] Madrigal's already being generous. You should probably pick a weapon and attempt to use it. (Which?)
>[B2] Pick a weapon to be polite, but attempt to transmorgify it into a sword later. Because. (Which?) [Roll.]
>[B3] Ha! You need no petty handouts. You will find a sword to use later. Probably. Definitely. Don't accept anything.

>[C] Write-in.

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>Announcements
Welcome back to Drowned Quest Redux! I hope all of you have had a wonderful (or at least decent? adequate?) couple of months. As for me, I'm alive, unCursed, and excited to return to QMing.
I haven't made anything elaborate over the hiatus, but I do have sketchy portraits of most reoccurring characters, so I can stop stealing from Pinterest. I also have a whopping one thread's worth of detailed recap complete, but I'll be working on that over the next couple weeks.

>Schedule
For quick one-post SOL / combat / exploration updates, expect two or three a day - for longer/more involved updates, I try to guarantee one/day. If I miss a day, I'll try to compensate with multiple updates the next. There may be sporadic half-updates (no options) if I start writing too late in the evening, sorry in advance. I am in the PST timezone.

>Dice
We use a 3d100 degrees of success system with crits. The base DC is 50. Modifiers may be applied to the roll or to the DC as are relevant. The # of rolls that match or exceed the DC determine the result. Probabilities may be found in the Dice and Mechanics pastebin.

The degrees are:
0 Passes = Failure
1 Pass = Mitigated Success
2 Passes = Success
3 Passes = Enhanced Success
0/100 = Critical Failure / Critical Success [regardless of other rolls]

>Mechanics
The MC has a pool of 9* Identity ("ID"), which may be considered both HP and the measure of her current sense of self. It may be lost through physical, metaphysical, or emotional damage. It may be regained through write-ins, designated options, and at reasonable narrative points, including sleep. It may be spent on a flat +10 bonus to most rolls, as well as on more elaborate metaphysical effects. Dropping to 0 ID is bad.
*The ID cap is typically 12, but prior choices have lowered this until a sidequest is completed.

>Archive
http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=drowned%20quest%20redux

>Twitter (updated sporadically)
https://twitter.com/BathicQM

>Pastebins
https://pastebin.com/u/BathicQM

>Doodles (I have about 45 pages of hiatus doodles, but they are not yet uploaded, plz be patient)
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1eVbvuqY6BF7Lk0xcXGLHtoFP4OwXtZ14?usp=sharing

>"Redux"?
This quest is a sort of sequel/reboot of the original Drowned Quest, which ran for eight threads in 2019. Reading the original isn't required. Check out the attached image instead to catch up quick.

>I have a question/comment/concern?
Tell me!

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>LAST TIME ON ALL OF DROWNED QUEST REDUX

You are Charlotte Fawkins, sole heiress of the disgraced Fawkins noble family. In an attempt to win back your family's honor, you plunged into the ocean, where the reality-warping crown that would confirm you as queen lay hidden. You were convinced to do so by Richard, a snake you found in a box in your attic.

Your quest for the crown went... poorly. It took you three-and-a-half years to locate it, during which you lost your savings, your dignity, and your right eye. The minute you find the damn thing (in a cave in podunk nowhere), Richard informs you that he left some crucial information out: you can't actually leave the ocean unless you power up the whole crown, at which point you're a god and can do just about anything you want. You don't really want to be a god, but you want to stay underwater even less, so you are begrudgingly starting to power up the crown.

...This is the goal on paper, at least. In practice, you've been dealing with a host of other nonsense: investigating twitchy acquaintance Ellery on behalf of his ex, your frenemy Madrigal; accidentally uncovering shady clone conspiracies; obtaining letters of recommendation so your landlord Monty doesn't evict you; and most of all slowly learning more about Richard, who is proving to be a very odd and complicated person. Slash snake.

As for you, you're getting along... fine. You're plagued with strange dreams and occurrences. Richard keeps possessing your body, and he changes bits of it while you're unconscious. You have no real friends, and push away anyone who makes an attempt. You are horribly lonely. But it's fine. It's fine. Positive thinking!


>LAST TIME ON THREAD 13 OF DROWNED QUEST REDUX

With Madrigal, you interrogate Ellery about his presence at the Spelunker's Associated meeting, then discover he has no memory of this whatsoever: that wasn't him at the meeting. Or, actually, that was him at the meeting-- and the one living at Camp is a fake copy.

After learning this, you fail to work on your model and instead wake up in your manse, where you begin work on an imaginary body for Gil (with Richard's help). It's evening by the time you stop, and you discover that Madrigal's slipped you a note under your door. You go to find her, but discover her asleep, with fake-Ellery standing watch. You let fake-Ellery know that he's just a copy. He grows suicidal, and you oblige, strangling him in the Fen. Gil possesses his corpse.

You take Gil on a tour of the local area before collapsing in the middle of the road. You find yourself in a dark room with a woman(??), who reveals herself to be Richard's coworker. She asks you some gossipy questions about Richard before he appears, scares her off, and wakes you up.

You go to bed, but are roused in the middle of the night by Gil, who informs you his (Ellery's) teeth are melting. Shortly after, a violent current hits Camp.

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>TO-DO this is typically written in an IC fashion, but for sake of clarity after a hiatus it's been reformatted into an OOC quest list

Immediate goals:
- Track down Monty and keep him safe
- Stop the current that's battering Camp

Short-term goals:
- Go through the books in your tent
- Speak to Madrigal about investigating Ellery together
- Speak to Eloise about her job proposition
- Finish Gil's manse-body
- Have Richard teach you about Law
- Distribute the $$$ to your heist crew (tomorrow night)
- Spend your share of the $$$
- Figure out current status of the recommendation letter thing

Long-term goals:
- Procure permanent, non-melting body for Gil
-- Go to Hell? Murder someone not named Ellery? Look into Namway gooplicates?
- Regain your missing ID
--- Speak to Richard about your missing ID
- Finish your model
-- Get back your stolen model?
- Locate and reclaim your lost Sword (in real life)
- Power up the Second Crown (1/16)
- GTFO of this underwater hellhole
- Make friends???

Mysteries:
- Who or what drove Ellery into self-imposed exile?
-- Speak to Anthea or BK about him?
- Who or what is Namway Co.'s “Management”? What did they want with the clone of a snake?
- What's the deal with that weird sword training flashback you had?
- What's the deal with that golden-eyed thing that keeps showing up in your dreams?
-- Ask Richard about it?
- What kind of company(?) does Richard work for? What is its endgame? What does it want with you?
- What is Richard actually like, behind the whole... dad thing?
- And why did your dad (and his friend) have weird powers, anyhow?

Ongoing assignments:
- Inform Eloise about anything you discover about Namway Co.
- Periodically check on Madrigal to make sure she's not in horrific agony from sort of turning into a snake or whatever

-----

Don't forget to scroll up and vote!

>>4598687

>>[A1] Could she… go get a gun? Pretty please? (Write-in a good fake reason why you need one, else roll to convince. This'll burn some time.)

Intimidation! Guns are scary! We are mysterious and full of surprises so that makes it even MORE scary.

>[B2] Pick a weapon to be polite, but attempt to transmorgify it into a sword later. Because. (Which?) [Roll.]

The poleaxe, it is basically just a long sword...ish. Worst case scenario a sharp walking stick. Name it something cool like "Benediction", all weapons have cool names.

>>4598687
>B2
Pick whatever looks closest to a sword and easiest to transmorgify.

>C
Give Gil the harpoon. It can be thrown, it's ranged, that pretty much makes it a gun. If he's unhappy he can try his own transmogrification.

>D

Tell Maddy that as a weapons merchant she is understocked and poorly prepared. Hopefully she has a better supply of fresh corpses because our alternative isn't working out.

If monty doesn't waive the recommendation letter for this, at least we shouldn't have any trouble getting the rest of them.

Finally we can get our missing model back from Horse Face. Oh man maybe he can be the fresh corpse.

I would like to submit that regaining lost ID be moved from long term goals to short term.

Welcome back Bathic!

>>4598687
>[A2] Can Gil just, like, visualize one? It worked for you that one time, sort of. And you aren't even made of imaginary beetles. [Gil will roll.]
>[B2] Pick a weapon to be polite, but attempt to transmorgify it into a sword later. Because. (Which?) [Roll.]
The mace. A mace is a heavy stick, a sword is a sharp heavy stick, the conceptual relatedness is glaring.

Rolled 1 (1d3)

>>4598726
>>4598729
>>4598754
>Chew out Madrigal
>[B2] -- flipping between mace and poleaxe
>Name resulting sword
>Rolling between go get a gun, give Gil harpoon, Gil visualize
Cool. Give me a sec to write up the roll prompt.

>>4598729
>I would like to submit that regaining lost ID be moved from long term goals to short term.
It's under long-term since it's a multistep process, not a task you can do in one shot. You're welcome to get started pursuing it ASAP, though. Step 1 is discussing it with Richard, so you'll probably have to wait until you resolve this first.

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>4598913
>Go get a gun
Okay, you'll ask Madrigal to do this. Flipping for the choice of weapon.

As for the eventual transmogrification (a real and technical term you definitely did not just make up)...

>[ID: 3/(9)]

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 25 (+10 Good With Swords, +10 Noble Heroic Fighting Spirit, +5 Suck It Richard) vs. DC 70 (+20 This Is Not A Real Thing People Do)

>Spend 1 ID for +10 to each result?
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 31 (1d100)

>>4598922

N

Rolled 45 + 25 (1d100 + 25)

>>4598922

I

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Rolled 83 (1d100)

>>4598931

Uhhh Whoops. Force of habit.

I meant to say N.

>>4598930
>>4598931
>>4598933
>56, 70, 108 vs. DC 70 -- Success
>No spend
I'd typically request for all three rolls to be done by different people if it's not a slow day, but I won't be finicky this time around. Congrats on squeaking this one out.

Writing, though I expect to be interrupted, so realistically it might take 5-6 hours to get this update out. Sorry!

>>4598938
Noice. Glad you're back!

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>You're ugly, you're disgusting, I'm gonna kill you, give me a gun

You spend long enough squinting critically at the pile of weapons that Madrigal scoops the mace off the ground and shoves it into your arms. "For fuck's sake, Charlotte."

"I don't know how to— what kind of person uses a mace?" (It's rhetorical. Barbarians use maces. Barbarians and evil mooks.)

"People who want to smash other people's skulls open. This isn't— you just hold the handle, swing the pointy bit. This isn't hard."

"It's not very civilized," you mutter.

«Be polite.»

How are you supposed to be polite? You don't want this. It was thrust upon you with no regard for your opinion. Madrigal doesn't understand you. It makes sense. Nobody will ever understand y—

«Shut up. This is exhausting.»
«Be <polite>.»

It's hard to be polite when your life is a hollow sham, and also while Madrigal's still going. "—gives a shit? You know we're on a bit of a time limit? I'm doing what I can, and you—"

"Okay," you snap. "Sorry. Whatever. I'll take it."

«No. Don't apologize.»

He told you to be polite!

«I didn't tell you to be a doormat. Now you have to make up for this. Go.»

"…But it's not my fault you're such a shoddy weapons dealer. I mean, really? No swords, no guns, just a bunch of braindead hunks of iron…"

Madrigal looks exasperated. "It doesn't fucking matter! It— I'm not a weapons dealer, I just have them, and— I do have guns, I just didn't bring them—"

"Prove it," you say.

"What?! What— Charlotte, what the fuck is your hangup?"

There's no simple lie for this one. You cross your arms to stall for time.

«Just say you need one for intimidation. You don't want to overuse your spirit energy, or whatever inane garbage you decide on.»
«A mace isn't enough. Look at you. You're so short and flabby. You wouldn't intimidate a tadpole.»

You're not short, or flabby, but okay. You cross your arms tighter. "What if there's other people out there? Besides Monty? They're not gonna take me seriously with just amace. And I—" Madrigal is gesturing in disbelief. "—I can't use Richard all the time, he'll… you know, my very soul will be levigated, and all my trueith self will be reduced to pomace, and—"

"Those aren't even words," Madrigal says.

"They are." Probably. "And anyhow, I'm not going unless you get me a gun."

"You can't be—" she starts, but sees that you're indeed serious. "You're a fucking asshole. Could you not have asked me earlier?"

You raise your eyebrows.

"Fine. But I'm not loading it. Find your own fucking ammo."

She stalks off, leaving you to bask in your victory.

>[+1 ID: 4/(9)]

The current is brisk, and you're forced to shield your eyes from flying sand as you wait around for Madrigal to return. Someone yells at you to help secure the tents. You ignore them. They'll understand later.

(1/2)

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You inspect the mace, which you suppose is well-made, though you have little way to tell. It's just so ugly. Is there any way you can extract a sword from it?

«No.»

You extracted a sword from nothing, didn't you? This should be easier.

«You didn't extract a sword from nothing. You extracted the concept of a sword from yourself.»
«You're lucky your colossal idiocy didn't damage anything.»

So it will be easier. Excellent. If you just focus, you—

Madrigal slaps a pistol into your empty hand. "Here. Hope you choke on it."

"I'll try my best," you say mildly (further confirming your moral victory). "Any last advice?"

"I—" She struggles against the urge to flip you off. "Just tell him there's people who care about him, okay? Clearly not you, but— other people. And whatever fucked-up shit he did, it doesn't matter, cause he's— he doesn't have to make up for it. Nobody cares. Okay? Just show some fucking empathy, for once in your life, it's not hard."

You doubt you'll give any of that speech, but okay. "You bet. Uh, I'll get going."

"Yes! Go! And get him back safe. If he's missing both arms, I'll—"

Her threat is lost in the current: you're already off, striding past rows of tents, around deposits of mud, through the nasty omnipresent bramble. Night has posed less terror ever since Richard screwed with your eye, but seeing in the dark helps little when the water is thick with grit and debris. You're forced to navigate mostly by memory as you find your way to the fallen-down tree.

The dark lump by its trunk is not an unusual shellfish, as you first expected: Gil unfolds and stands, wiping his forehead. "Hi. I-I thought you forgot about me."

"Nope!" you say loudly (the current is much noisier out in the open). "Madrigal's just slow. I got you a gun!"

"…Really? Oh, geez." He takes the pistol from you. "You did."

«It's a nice gun, too. Rare model. Colloquially known as a 'Squidger' for… reasons I have yet to discover, at present.»

You're not sure how you could go on without Richard identifying the model of every gun you find. You'd just keel over if he stopped.

«It's interesting. Not that you'd be able to appreciate it.»

Gil coughs, spattering silver gunk onto his hand. The pistol gleams in his waistband. "So… what are we actually doing?"

"Finding Monty," you say. "I already—"

"Yeah, but how?"

(Choices next)

>[1] Okay, so the current is washing away all the evidence of Monty's trail. But it can't have washed away everything, right? And you're good at noticing things. Track him down. (Difficult roll + roll for random encounter.)

>[2] Wasn't there that thing about… seeing through the ground? That Richard did, or did to you? That could solve your visibility issues, though you'd be blind and rooted in place as the current flings things at your head. (Autosuccess at locating Monty. Roll for what hits you in the face.)

>[3] If you close your eyes, and are really confident, and just walk… you'll run into him, more likely than not. It just works! (You just need to not walk into a tree, or sinkhole, or into the jaws of a crocodile.) (Roll + roll for random encounter, with disadvantage.)

>[4] Don't make any special effort: just make a beeline for the source of the current. You're both headed in the same direction, after all— he'll probably be fine by the time you get there. (Roll for random encounter.)

>[5] Write-in.

You will do the transmogrifying in a future update!

>>4599272
>>[2] Wasn't there that thing about… seeing through the ground? That Richard did, or did to you? That could solve your visibility issues, though you'd be blind and rooted in place as the current flings things at your head. (Autosuccess at locating Monty. Roll for what hits you in the face.)

>>4599272
>4

I'm all for experimentation, but we're in a bit of a time crunch here

>>4599272
>[2] Wasn't there that thing about… seeing through the ground? That Richard did, or did to you? That could solve your visibility issues, though you'd be blind and rooted in place as the current flings things at your head. (Autosuccess at locating Monty. Roll for what hits you in the face.)

Rolled 4 (1d8)

>>4599290
>>4599447
>2

>>4599305
>4

Called. Rolling for being bodied...
1-5 -- Small
6-7 -- Medium
8 -- Large

Rolled 2 (1d8)

>>4599487
>Small
Rolling for type, then writing.

>>4599272
>[4] Don't make any special effort: just make a beeline for the source of the current. You're both headed in the same direction, after all— he'll probably be fine by the time you get there. (Roll for random encounter.)
> Check our pockets for ammo. Pretty sure the universe runs on spite, and inagine Maddies face when she finds out we had ammo for her sooper speshal shooty bang bang stik

>>4599616
You are what I'd call "hella late," so I can't use this, but I appreciate the vote regardless. Give me a few minutes and I'll have a new one up.

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>Crouch down and stare vacantly

"Okay," you say, "so I have this Dread and Terrible Beast…"

"I-I'm very aware. We've had…" Gil's eyes dart. "…long conversations. You know he blatantly cheats at cards?"

«I win at cards. He loses at cards.»

You grab at your hair in a futile attempt to get it out of your face. "Y-es. Uh, so he imbues me with magyckal…"

"He says he manipulates your body. And nervous system. Um, I-I guess that's part of your body. And he drugs you sometimes?"

«In a good way.»

"In a good way," you insist. "Um, and they're— they're magyckal drugs, and it's still imbuing, so it— whatever. You don't get it. He's going to help me find Monty, okay? So just sit tight and I'll…"

"I still don't know who that is," Gil is saying, but you've ceased to listen. You're holding Richard up to your face and staring into his beady eyes. He flicks his tongue.

«What.»

Well, now he has to help you.

«I already have. See, and you complain so much about my alterations. When they are objectively and provably useful.»

…How are your teeth going to…

«Moron. Recall the sewer. Recall your descent into the—»

Oh! Your latent earth powers! You'd forgotten. You drop Richard, who bobs indifferently, and crouch down. You press your hands into the mud.

«Soles of the feet are more traditional, but I suppose there's no practical reason not to use your palms.»

You screw your eyes shut, waiting. The current has a lower pitch at this height, more of a moan than a wail. You're going to need to wipe your hands after this. Would Gil let you use his sleeve? It's not like Ellery's sweater is getting dirtier—

«You're unfocused. Relax.»

Easier said than done. You sigh through your nose and waggle your palms in the mud. You'd always thought of mud as just wet dirt, but this is much finer than any dirt you've dug through— more silt, really, more like the clay you're used to. Made of tiny, tiny particles. Particles of what? Rock? But what is rock but stacked and hardened mud? It seems to you a mystery without origin, except that one day in the infinite void God deigned to place mud or rock upon the world, and decreed one would become the other for-ever, and—

(Gil, consigned to a familiar hell of sitting there and doing nothing, starts when your eyes snap open. You don't move. "Charlotte?", he attempts, to no response. He slumps against the tree again.)

—somewhere in there, you began to feel your own mass. The skin of the earth sinks under your feet. Press harder with your hand, and it sinks further, and you do, too, until it embraces you wholly and you can't feel your hand anymore.

But you know you're alive, for you still indent the mud, and your heart sends quivers through it— and you know Gil is there, too, you can sense him tapping the ground, impatient to get living, and his heart is there too, weak, irregular—

(1/2)

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—And before you is Fenpelok, tremor-forest, home of fish-hearts and crab-hearts and hearts of things that don't exist, slow and terrible, like the creep of mangrove-roots plumbing the soil for water, unaware there is none, or too much, unaware their needs are provided for— they will not die. Will not die— but the earth quakes as the current fells them.

And below you is— is— is— the soil. The earth. Miles and miles of it, dead and rich and shining. You want to be there. You must be there, you must descend, and you must meet—

«Charlie.»

It's never good when Richard is drawling. He sounds far above you.

«I suppose I am. In any case, sorry to interrupt your religious awakening, but we don't have all day.»

He's not sorry.

«I'm not. But good, you're lucid. Locate the smiling man.»

You'd think he'd know Monty's name by now.

«I do know the man's name. It's simply not— easily accessible.»
«It's inessential information. Just get on with it.»

With some regret, you withdraw. (You've forgotten who you were supposed to meet, anyhow.) How do you locate Monty? The Fen is huge. And you can't see a damn thing.

«I don't know what you expect when you're detached from your body. I hope I shouldn't have to put you back under. You're insufferable in trances.»
«Or more insufferable, should I say.»

Thanks, Richard. Well, here you are, six feet under. And there you are, heart pounding away— and there Gil is, making footsteps. Pacing, presumably. Wouldn't Monty also be walking? There's plenty of vibrations from the Fen— the whole thing's shaking, really— but how many pairs of human footsteps could there be?

Five. Five, at least in the immediate area: twenty minutes away or less, by Richard's estimate. One must be Monty, but who else would be out on a night like this? Scoundrels, probably. Horse Face's henchmen? (Though if he had henchmen, why would he pay you to steal the artifact? That's what henchmen are for.)

Regardless, when feeling comes back to your fingers, you're initially distraught. "Richard!" You grope around for Richard. "Richard, I— I can't see."

«Your eyes are working fine.»

"It's not! My eye's not…" You paw at it, smearing mud over your eyebrow. "It's— ow."

«There's just a lot of grit in them. I suggest blinking.»

You do so. "Ow. What… oh. Gil!" Gil freezes blurrily. "Gil, did you— did you witness the manifestation of my latent earth powers? Grit— the stuff of the earth— accumulated in my— did you see?"

"Um." His hair whips about. "Actually, uh, I-I-I think… I think your eyes were just sort of… open. And not blinking? So, uh, grit just kind of…" He gestures towards his face. "Got in there?"

"That's the same thing," you say.

"Okay, that's the same thing." He rubs at his wrist. "Do you need to shake some grit out of your eye socket?"

"My what?" You touch your bad eye.

"Your… eye…" He gestures limply. "Okay. Okay, um, nevermind. What's the scoop?"

"I found Monty."

"I-I assume that's a good thing?"

(Choices next)

File: richard gadsden.png (16 KB, 330x220)

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"And four other people. So we just have to decide…"

>[GAINED: Ow Your Eye — -5 to the next couple vision-centric rolls]

>Who are you headed towards? One of these options will contain Monty— the rest are other people.
>[1] Confident footsteps that stopped short, joined by soft, quivery footsteps.
>[2] Hurried footsteps. Quick gait. Long stride.
>[3] Heavy, booted footsteps.
>[4] Purposeful footsteps. Subtle limp— weight on left foot.
>[5] Write-in. (Anything you'd like to say? etc.)

>>4599640

>[4] Purposeful footsteps. Subtle limp— weight on left foot.

Monty's missing an arm, right? Might throw off his weight in his footsteps a little, just enough to pick it up.

>>4599640
>[2] Hurried footsteps. Quick gait. Long stride.

>[4] Purposeful footsteps. Subtle limp— weight on left foot.
I concor with armboy theory

>>4599640
>>[4] Purposeful footsteps. Subtle limp— weight on left foot.

Worst case scenario we have to fight someone with a limp.

>>4599640
Gimme a few minutes to think.

>>4599645
Monty is missing his left arm though, so if it affected his gait it would be heavier on the right.

Not just from the weight of the arm, but from the motion of it swinging.

Or I'm overthinking a pretty simple clue.

Still, I think it's worth considering the confident footsteps, joined by quivering soft footsteps.

A) Monty was with a woman earlier, it could be her.

B) Monty might have an assassin after him according to earlier threads, it could be an assassin stalking him now that he's out of the camp.

>>4599640
>[1] Confident footsteps that stopped short, joined by soft, quivery footsteps.

>[5] Write-in. (Anything you'd like to say? etc.)
Can Richard use our senses? Like. Can he track Monty's scent by using our nose even though we can't?

>>4599645
>>4599688
>>4599775
>Limp

>>4599673
>Hurried

>>4599806
>Confident

Called. Good job.

>>4599806
You'll ask about Richard boosting your senses. Sorry, yeah, you were overthinking it. I put it as limp on the left as compensation for the lack of an arm, but I'm not a limp (or missing arm) expert so I may have been wrong in that department. Good deductions otherwise, even if they weren't accurate in this instance.


Now that you have your target, I need dice for navigation!

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 5 (+15 Destination in Mind, -5 Directionally Challenged, -5 Ow Your Eye) vs. DC 65 (+15 In The Current) to successfully get to Monty.

>>4600082
Oops, sorry. ALSO:

>Would you like to spend 1 ID for +10 to all results? You are at 4/9 ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 61 (1d100)

>>4600082

N

>>4600108

Add 5 to my total

Rolled 87 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4600082

>>4600157

N

On mobile. Forgive the change in ID

File: 4880101F-F62A-4CE6-BE18-4(...).jpg (33 KB, 498x417)

33 KB JPG

>>4600161

Oh wait it stayed the same nevermind

Rolled 9 (1d100)

>>4600082
>N

Rolled 5, 4 = 9 (2d8)

>>4600108
>>4600157
>>4600164
>66, 92, 14 vs. DC 65 -- Success
Nice. You dodge the random event, but stuff still flies at high speeds towards your head. Rolling for what, then writing one update today, most likely.

Rolled 93, 35, 17 + 5 = 150 (3d100 + 5)

>>4600170
Actually, one more roll on Gil's end.

3 1d100s + 5 (+25 Unreal Nature, -10 Facts and Logic, -5 Cynical, -5 Court Influence) vs. DC 45 (+5 Well-lit, -10 Nighttime)

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>Head towards the limping footsteps
>66, 92, 14 vs. DC 65 — Success
>Sord :DDDD
>56, 70, 108 vs. DC 70 — Success
>Pebbles

"…what footsteps to go towards. Uh, they're all within 20 minutes, so it's just…"

"'It's just?'" Gil wipes his eye, which has begun to leak fluid. "How do you intend to catch up? Don't tell me we're going to sprint, that's ridiculous… I-I'm a corpse. You're in heels."

"They're not heels," you explain patiently, "they're heeled boots. So. And we're not going to sprint, we're just going to walk, then we'll find him, okay? Or whoever we're headed towards."

"Right." He hesitates. "Um, that makes no sense. If we're walking, and they're walking, it'll— we'll never catch up. And that's if we're completely uninterrupted, and—"

He can't be this obtuse on purpose. "Are you new down here?"

"…No? I-I just—"

«It's fairly interesting. The beetle one clings to reality like a limpet. Far more than you.»
«I suspect it's a learned behavior, given his former situation.»
«Considering that, it's difficult to begrudge—»

Shut up. You'll begrudge him all you want. "Then what the hell are you— look at me. Look into my eyes. Gil."

"Eye," he mumbles.

"Into my eye. If we walk, we'll find him. But it won't work unless you shut up about times, and math, and… logic. Okay? It's not even that weird. You're a whole lot of beetles in a dead guy, Gil, just— just think about that instead."

«'Please.'»

"…Please?"

He sags a little. "I-I'll try? I-I guess?"

"Good! Good. Then let's go." You scoop the mace off the ground and point in the general direction of the most suspect set of footsteps— the one with a limp. The limp of a one-armed man? Yes. You're going with that. "Onwards! To our destiny!"

The Fen is dramatic tonight, all lit up in blue— not the roiling blue-green of a plankton bloom, but a pure, pale, steady blue. (You're reminded of moonlight.) Is it enough to banish the nightmare-beasts your fellow bargoers liked to complain about? Absolutely. If you believe that, they can't touch you. It might even be enough to light your way, though the water is so filled with sticks and leaves it's a little like wading through a bush.

You are unconcerned about what direction you're headed— it'll all sort itself out. You busy yourself instead with not running into trees, not stepping into any primitive pitfalls, keeping an eye on Gil (is he stuffing leaves down his throat?), keeping your unruly hair out of your face, and toying with your mace. If you hold it out just so, can you pretend it's a sword? If you wave it around until it's blurry? If you hold it behind your back? No, no, and no— you just can't seem to forget it's not a sword.

«Well, you should've just said so.»

What?

«What.»

What? Your head hurts. There's something heavy in your hands. Something… sharp. (Ow.) Something metal. What is it?

«A sword, I think.»

(1/2)

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Oh. Okay, well, obviously. Thanks for your much-needed help, Richard. You really required that explanation. What the hell else would it be?

«I have no idea.»

Of course he doesn't. Useless reptile. You slide your sword (not The Sword, of course, this one is much lower-quality- it's too heavy for your liking) into its scabbard and turn to make sure Gil's still following.

He is, though he's stopped in his tracks. He leans against his walking-stick. "What the shit was that?"

"What?" you shout back.

"You just— it just— your mace."

"My what?" You look down at your hip. "This is a sword, Gil. It's called…" Good sword name. Good sword name. "…Ixelbraith!"

«That doesn't even mean anything.»

"That wasn't really the…" Gil attempts, but concedes the point. "…Okay. Cool… sword."

"Yes!" See, Richard? See? Ixelbraith is cool.

>[+1 ID: 5/9]

"Are we close?" Gil shields his eyes with his free hand. "I-I think it's gotten worse."

It has: the trees by the outskirts were shedding leaves, the trees wherever you are are shedding branches. It's taking real energy to move against the current: every so often, you watch a weaker animal, a hapless turtle or fever-otter, pinwheel past your head. You were already pummeled with a fastball pebble, which explains the bleeding scratch on your cheek— you count yourself lucky it wasn't a boulder. "We're close," you say, lacking all evidence of that. "Actually, I think I saw something over… there."

You point in a random direction. Gil follows your finger. "Are you sure? I-I-I don't see…"

"I'm sure," you say. "Come on. Be careful…"

What you pointed to was a small clearing, open to the sky, carpeted with lush algae. It'd be a darling place to picnic, though the atmosphere is ruined by the net trap tangled in the blistered roots of a nearby mangrove. A fish has been here before you.

Gil insists on drawing his pistol, which you don't debate— it is unloaded. You graciously allow him to go before you, on the off chance it's someone more dangerous than Monty. "There's nobody there!" he signs over to you. "I don't know what you saw, but it's not— ack!"

He's on the ground, all of a sudden, bowled over by the force of something, someone, falling from a tree— leaping from a tree? You squint to gain some clarity, then think better of it and stumble over. "Gil!"

Gil is on his back, but he's managed to keep ahold of the pistol— he has the muzzle pressed to the assailant's forehead. The assailant, meanwhile, has a gleaming trident to Gil's neck. If you weren't here, it'd be a proper standoff.

Unfortunately, you are here, and you have a clear line of sight. You can't see the assailant's face, but you can see his rumpled button-down and his muddy dress shoes. And there's the matter of the missing arm. It's Monty.

But how do you defuse this?

(Choices next.)

>[1] Shout for Monty— he'll look away, and Gil will be able to get out. Or he'll fire the gun, but… there's no bullets, right? Surely? So what could he do? (Does he know there's no bullets?)
>[2] Shout for Gil— he'll be distracted, and Monty might stab him, but it's not like he's lasting long anyhow. You can make it up to him tomorrow.
>[3] Rush in, yelling incoherently. If you're lucky, they'll both be too confused to murder each other. If you're not… well, you can cross that bridge later. (Roll.)
>[4] Do nothing. See what happens.
>[5] Write-in.

>>4600607

>[3] Rush in, yelling incoherently. If you're lucky, they'll both be too confused to murder each other. If you're not… well, you can cross that bridge later. (Roll.

Time for Charlotte to do what she does best; Stumble in blindly, making everything worse. Diplomancy!

>>4600620

+1

>>4600607
>[3] Rush in, yelling incoherently. If you're lucky, they'll both be too confused to murder each other. If you're not… well, you can cross that bridge later. (Roll.)

>>4600620
>>4600651
>>4600724
I'm not updating again tonight, but I doubt anything will beat a 3-vote lead, so I'm comfortable calling it here so I don't have to wait for rolls tomorrow.

Let's see if high risk high reward works out!

>Please roll me 3 1d100s - 5 (+5 Distinctive Voice, -10 Hard to Hear) vs. DC 60 (+10 Serious Business) to resolve the situation without grievous injury!

And...

>[ID: 5/(9)]

>Spend 1 ID for a +10 to each result?
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Rolled 4 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>4600831
no spendy

Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>4600831

Idk how to -5

>>4600927
You do +-5 at the end of the dice+1d100, for future reference.

ID or no ID?

Rolled 62 (1d100)

>>4600831
>Y

>>4600948

Y

Forgot ID

>>4600926
>>4601037
>>4601038
>9, 69, 67 vs. DC 60 -- Success
Narrow margin right there. Nice.

Update tomorrow! Have a good night (or morning, afternoon, etc.), folks.

>>4601045
Big spendy was the right call

File: windstorm monty.png (1.24 MB, 1006x707)

1.24 MB PNG

>AAAAAAAAAA
>9, 69, 67 vs. DC 60 -- Success
>Spend(y)

This isn't something you can be slow about, you think. Or stealthy about. Or even tactical about. No, better to go in blindly, yelling your head off: they can't murder each other if they're too busy staring at you.

«That is a terrible plan.»

That is a great plan, and it's not like he has a better one, and if he does you don't want to hear it. That is a great plan. And you are going to execute it in three, two—

«Why are you like this.»

—what's that? You can't hear him over your amazing plan, which will succeed, and—! Your thoughts stop short there, replaced with the gross tang of metal and a sustained ringing in your ears— Richard has unlatched his jaw and bitten painlessly into your neck. You stagger at the shock up your spine, your shoulder snapping involuntarily backwards—

>[-1 ID: 4/(9)]

—and it is over as soon as it began. You hang in a dizzy haze, for a second, until Richard bites you again. It hurts. "Hey!"

«Go.»
«Do your 'amazing plan.'»

Okay! You're going, you're running— you can't remember how you started running but you're certainly doing it now. Ixelbraith your inferior sword rattles in your two-handed grip. And there is a noise about you, a throaty warble, that cuts straight through the roar of the current and prickles some ancient part of your brain. Some enormous dying creature? It's only when you close your mouth to wet your lips that you realize it's coming from you.

"AaAaAaAaAaAaAaaaaa!" you conclude as you break into the clearing, then double over to hock phlegm onto the algae. When you stand, you discover Gil and Monty with matching expressions of bewilderment.

Neither appear much injured, though there's a shallow silver gash on Gil's cheek. He stands several feet away from Monty, who has spun around to face you. A flickering glorb hangs from his trident, and he is strange in its green light: sweaty, haggard, a little manic.

"Again," he mouths more than says; you can barely hear him over the current.

You ignore him, for now, and round on Gil. "Don't— put your stupid gun down! It's Monty!"

"What?" Gil touches his wound defensively. "How was I supposed to know? You- you didn't tell—"

"It's obvious! You— what if you shot him?! And you—" You level an accusing finger at Monty. "You can't just— jump on people! God! Are you demented?"

He says something you don't catch, and you motion for him to speak up. He hesitates, then stakes the trident into the mud and begins broken handsign. "Are you real."

You furrow your brow. "What?"

"Are you real. I just saw you in- in different clothes." He gestures. "You both can't be real. He's not real." At Gil. "That's not— Ellery. Don't tell me that's Ellery."

"Um," you say. Gil says nothing.

"He'd know better." At you, again. "You should go."

"No, I—"

"It's not safe, if you're real. And if you're not, I— I don't want you. Any of you. Charlotte."

(1/2)

Gil is shooting you a 'what in the goddamn is he talking about' look. You have no answers for him. Is this Monty? Bland, patronizing Monty? You'd always suspected some hidden depths, but you thought they'd be… you know, he'd be secretly really cool, or possibly evil. Not insane.

…Is he insane? He's not making any sense, but his eyes are narrow and alert, not glazed like you'd expect from a proper madman. His senses haven't taken leave of him. What then? He's just In A State, briefly out of his mind with… well, you don't know yet. But this is something you can work with.

«Because you're so good at reasoning with people.»

Yes. Shut up.

>[A1] Be straightforward. You have no idea what he's talking about, but you're the real one, Madrigal sent you, you're here to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. And yes, you can prove you're the real one… (How? Write-in.)
>[A2] Be forceful. This is unbecoming. He takes responsibility for the welfare of how many people, and he's out there acting like this? Seriously? He needs to straighten up.
>[A3] Be concerned. Of course you're real, and to see him in this state is worrisome. This is so unlike him. Is he okay?
>[A4] Be inquisitive. Sorry, he just saw you? When? Where? Was he hallucinating? Why's he all the way out here, anyhow?
>[A5] Write-in. It's ok to combine approaches, just specify how

>[B1] Attempt to explain Gil. (How? Write-in.)
>[B2] Attempt to pretend you thought Gil was Ellery. (Tricky roll.)
>[B3] Don't explain Gil at all. Dodge any questions. (Roll.)
>[B4] Write-in.

>[C] Write-in.

>>4601385
Yes! This could've gone very badly.

>>4599806
Realized I never got around to answering the senses thing, so here it is OOC: Richard can't 'use your senses' personally unless he's possessing you, in which case he can do whatever he wants. He could temporarily boost your senses, but not above the level of a very sensitive human; temporary superhuman senses would probably take time in advance to prep. Permanent improvements would again require him to possess you. Even if he did, eg., temporarily boost your sense of smell, you'd probably have a hard time processing the new info and you don't actually know what Monty smells like.

>>4601867
>A2
I think this will do more to convince him we're the real deal than anything dedicated to it.

Maybe throw in a bit of
>A4
because if there's a gooplicate of us running around from our factory stunts we're gonna want to kill it.

>B4
Admit that Gil isn't Ellery, and tell him there's a totally reasonable explanation for why he looks just like Ellery that is also quite long and should wait for a less hectic time.

>>4601867

>[A2] Be forceful. This is unbecoming. He takes responsibility for the welfare of how many people, and he's out there acting like this? Seriously? He needs to straighten up.

Being brash and inconsiderate is fairly in character for what Monty knows of us. Being concerned for his well-being, while pleasant, almost serves to be signs of a trick.

>[B4] Write-in.

Using the write-in here >>4601998 . Ellery's weird, Gil's weird, we're... eccentric, and things are always weird down here. Monty would know that better than anyone.

>>4601866
Ooh, fancy new art.

>[A2] Be forceful. This is unbecoming. He takes responsibility for the welfare of how many people, and he's out there acting like this? Seriously? He needs to straighten up.

Channel our disappoinment in ways only a Noble could. This is deriliction of duty, Monty, unbecoming of your position.

Charlotte being an ass? Must be the real one.

>[B1] Attempt to explain Gil. (How? Write-in.)

It's something Ellery came up with to help a friend of ours who needed a body. It isn't working out very well, but anyways Ellery is fine and Gil came out here to help despite his teeth melting so Ellery should be nice to him, or at least more polite than jumping him.

>>4601867
Also C.

> Internally thank Richard for having faith in our plan and us even if he didn't think it would work. Call him secretly nice.

>>4602770
>>4601867
Also D

> Internally secretly wonder if our dad would have been like that for us if he wasn't dead.

>>4601998
>>4602411
>>4602767
>>4602770
>>4602771
>Be forceful w/ a touch of inquisitive
>Vaguely introduce Gil, but put off a full explanation
>Thank Richard
>Contemplate your daddy issues

Called, though I won't be able to start writing for a while yet. (Why call early? Means I can start planning the update structure.) If anyone has minor additions along the lines of these >>4602770
>>4602771, you can still toss them in.

>Tactical bitchiness

Anyhow, you're not intending to 'reason' with him; long experience with States has proven that's useless at best. You used to attempt it with your mother.

She'd be holed up in her room, convinced she'd single-handedly figured out some fundamental truth of the universe, or on better days some conspiracy at the heart of government: you'd sneak in, bearing some token of goodwill (a snack or drawing or trinket you'd discovered), and plead with her to take her medication or change her mind. You considered it a good result when she was merely snappish. It was worst when she thought you were an agent of the conspiracy, here to silence her, and then she'd scream and you'd cry but not too loudly lest Aunt Ruby was in earshot. You were not supposed to speak to your mother in States.

But you kept trying, fueled by pure optimism, until one day you opened the door and she had in her hands a broken bottle, and she called you unspeakable things, and said one day you would kill us all, and only she could stop you from killing us all—

You remember Aunt Ruby sitting you down after and telling you it was your fault. Not your mother's illness, which was God's will, but your disobedient mollycoddling of it, which certainly was not. By speaking to her, placating her, you only allowed it to fester— and look where it got you. You can show no weakness. You must allow her no quarter. You must look her in the face and demand—

You were eight.

«What a charming encapsulation of your wonderful family.»

That wasn't the— the point was, even if Monty's not coming at you with a bottle, you can't indulge his— and excuse you, he was part of it.

«Was I.»
«I was under the impression that you disavowed that.»

No, you didn't— it was— well, look, you— you were drunk.

«Don't worry. I know how you struggle with even the basics of consistency.»
«I'm quite happy being disavowed. I have no interest in being your father.»

…What does he have interest in being?

«…»
«You're being stared at.»

Damnit. That you are: Gil's eyes are wide, imploring, and leaking silver fluid. He jerks his head towards Monty, who is signing forcefully (if no more intelligibly) at him. "—if this is another one of his cock-ups, I'll—"

"Whose?" you interject.

He looks at you with abject surprise. "You're still here."

"Yes?" You straighten up. "Why would I go? Just because you said so? That's—"

"I stopped looking at you." He shakes his head and turns back to Gil. "So you—"

"Hey!" You dodge in front of Gil. "Hey! Dickhead! There's this thing called… I forget, but it means things don't vanish just because—"

"Object permanence." Monty is smiling vaguely.

"Yes! So that's—"

"It's not all that relevant down here, Charlotte, if you haven't noticed."

(1/3)

File: monty.png (2.3 MB, 1923x2073)

2.3 MB PNG

The longest sentence you've got from him so far. Progress. "It's relevant for me, but I guess you'd rather pretend I'm— what, a figment of your imagination? Astounding. Remarkable delusion."

He drums his fingers on the shaft of the trident, but says nothing.

"Actually, I've just come to tell you you're a piece of work. What the hell is this? A vanity suicide mission? You're going to flail about at a weather event until a tree comes by at 30 MPH to bash you senseless?"

"It's not a weather event. Or vanity." You've extracted an arch of the eyebrows. "But I'm sure you know that."

Sure, you're 95% sure it's not just weather, but you don't know how he knows that. "Not really! Seems like weather to me! And—"

"You can't feel it?" He flips the trident around and stakes it into the ground, then licks his thumb and forefinger and holds them up. "There's a quickness, Charlotte."

"That's called 'water moving,'" you say. (You believe him, though you dislike the idea of him sensing something you can't.) "And anyhow, it's absolutely vanity. You come out here, shirking your sacred duty—"

"My sacred duty to stand there and shout at people. Ramsey is very capable at that, Charlotte, the camp's in good hands."

"—your— no! People depend on you, and— not me." You feel the need to clarify. "I don't depend on you. But other people do, and they're twisting in the wind while you go running around with a pointy stick— what if you died?"

He gestures to his arm stump. (Actually, this is the first time you've ever seen it without the sweater. The bandages look fresh, though there's already a black stain seeping through them.) "I'm good at not doing that. I appreciate your concern, though— I believe that's the first time you've ever expressed any?"

"It's not—" He's getting too comfortable. "What's your plan?"

"Pardon?"

"What's your plan. Wade into the Fen, follow the current, hope there's something on the end you can kill? That's it? That's moronic. What if the origin of all this is miles away? What if it's coming straight off the Edge? What if you get there, and there's something a little outside the power level of a one-armed… old-ish…"

"I'm 35."

"…old-ish normal guy? Are you just gonna slink back and pretend you never left? Or are you gonna attempt it anyways and get vaporized? And what for? What's it for? So you can stroke your ego. I'm sorry, but that's pathetic, that's—"

"Why are you here, Charlotte? And— whoever he is."

Gil is intently examining his fingernails. You turn back. "That's— uh, that's Gil, he's— it's very complicated. Um. He's friendly."

"Most things with Ellery wind up very complicated." Monty tilts his head. "But don't dodge the question. You're also running around here with a pointy stick."

"Y-es— so you do believe it's me?" You feel vindicated.

(2/3)

"You have a unique temperament." The corner of his mouth is quirked up. "My mind alone couldn't replicate it this faithfully. But do continue. Is it ego?"

"…Madrigal."

"She worries too much." Madrigal? "But that's very sweet. So you came to get me, then."

"Um, yes."

"And you decided the most effective method to coax me would be insults?"

"Well, it's working, isn't it?" You cross your arms. "And anyhow, I don't care if you go back. I'm going with you."

It takes a moment for him to process, and then he guffaws. "What!"

"I'm going w-"

"You spend all that time picking over the— and you don't even believe it? You were just saying it to— what, fill the air?"

"Well, I— no," you say. "No, I just— you were acting weird. You're still acting weird."

"You don't actually care what I do. You're here to help my vanity suicide mission."

You feel as though you've stumbled into some kind of well-hidden pitfall. "I-I think you're looking at this… wrongly."

"Why the hell not, Charlotte. Why the hell not? It's not like I'm directly responsible for enough people's safety. And you've gotten this far unmaimed, so…" He throws out his hands. "Welcome aboard, I suppose. You and Ellery. You know nobody's ever offered to tag along?"

"Maybe they were scared of you," you suggest. "Maybe you should start acting… normal."

He laughs darkly and privately. "Maybe I should, Charlotte, when it's not 3 in the morning. Let's get a move on."

>[1] Get a move on, directly against the current. (Roll.)
>[2] Get a move on, diagonal to the current— less resistance, but you're treading more ground. (Roll.)
>[3] Hold it. The people you sensed earlier are almost certainly still around— you should see where they are now, and where they seem to be going. It may be taxing, though. (-1 ID)
>[4] Write-in.

Daddy issues/thanking Richard/gooplicate discussion in future update pleasu understandu

>>4603896

>[2] Get a move on, diagonal to the current— less resistance, but you're treading more ground. (Roll.)

Tempted to go against the current, but we're rather petite, and Gil is in a copy of Ellery's body, not exactly the peak physical specimen. May as well play to our strengths, and if we're going at a diagonal, there's possibly less chance of getting dummied by drift in the current.

>>4603896
>[2] Get a move on, diagonal to the current— less resistance, but you're treading more ground. (Roll.)

It's sort of like a Rip isn't it, as long as we don't run out of energy we should be fine.

One of the qtg / Valen Anon's checking in, managed to make it through the archives, it started a bit slow since I haven't read the original (yet, just need to make some more time)

>>4603896
>[2] Get a move on, diagonal to the current— less resistance, but you're treading more ground. (Roll.)

>>4603896
>[2] Get a move on, diagonal to the current— less resistance, but you're treading more ground. (Roll.)

really ruining my image of you here Monty

>>4603914
Cheers! Welcome! I know what you mean about the beginning-- back then my target audience included most of the people who'd read the original, so in retrospect I didn't (re)introduce the setting as well as I could've. I'm glad you stuck with it, though. Do you have any comments or questions?

The original is mainly useful for a deeper understanding of Ellery (he's the former MC), as a recap of the basic setting w/ more focus on blood and its properties, and for catching inessential references I've thrown into Redux. If those things interest you, you're welcome to give it a shot... just know I redid it for a reason :^)

>>4603896
>[2] Get a move on, diagonal to the current— less resistance, but you're treading more ground. (Roll.)

But if we believe it will be quicker, then it will be, no?

Also we can catch up Monty on the pod people corporation and ask what he knows about Ellery's weirdness since we almost assuredly know both more and less about Ellery than he does.

Maybe clue each other in on what we can do, since that could quickly become relevant.

Rolled 2 (1d16)

>>4604222
Checked.
>But if we believe it will be quicker, then it will be, no?
To some extent, but you can't take full advantage without a physical destination in mind, and you don't know where Horse Face is other than "probably at the other end of this current." It works by shrinking the distance between points A and B, not by literally making you faster.

>>4603912
>>4603914
>>4603915
>>4604078
>>4604222
>Diagonal

Calling it here.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s vs DC 55 (+5 Minor Resistance) to forge ahead.

Spend 1 ID for +10 to all results? You are at 4/9 ID.
>[1] Yes
>[2] No

[Since you're going off the beaten path, I'm rolling a random encounter regardless of result. Success or failure on this roll may modify how exhausted or surprised you are, as well as if you do get bludgeoned by anything.]

Rolled 31 (1d100)

>>4604281

Dice away!

>[2] No

Rolled 14 (1d100)

>>4604281
>>[2] No

Rolled 66 (1d100)

>>4604281

>>4604349

N

>>4604281
Exhausted, surprised, and bludgeoned it is.

>>4604290
>>4604294
>>4604290
>31, 14, 66 vs. DC 55 -- Mitigated Success

>>4604355
You guys still pulled out a success in some form, so I'll say no on the bludgeoning. Surprised and exhausted, very possible.

Not writing yet, but the update will be out any time from now to 3 AM.

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>Cattycorner
>31, 14, 66 vs. DC 55 -- Mitigated Success

"I'm serious," you insist, even as you trail after Monty. "This isn't— it's not funny. It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion."

"To act normal?"

"Y— yeah." You wish he wouldn't put it like that. It sounds worse like that. "You can't just say it's 3 AM, which— I'm acting normal, aren't I?"

"Very much so."

"So why can't you—"

"It's not that I can't, Charlotte." He pauses to pull a long strand of vegetation from his face. "There's a time and place for everything. That's all."

"Oh," you say, "so because everything's flying to pieces, you get a free pass? You know what that is? That's a flimsy excuse, that's— Gil! You agree."

Gil does not respond. You turn to discover he's attempting to keep his nose from sliding off his face. You turn back to Monty. "He agrees."

"Alright, Charlotte." Monty plants the trident squarely into the ground. "You're not going to let this drop, are you? That would be tactful." You watch uncomfortably as he fumbles at buttoning up his shirt, fixing his collar, and arranging the cuff of his sleeve. He runs his hand up his face and through his hair, then drops it and looks right at you. "Are we satisfied?"

He's raised his eyebrows, widened his eyes, put on a mild, disarming smile. (Were his teeth always so white?) It's possible he's softened his posture a fraction. Is that all? Because he seems somehow sanded down: anything rough about him shaved off, anything unsafe made regulation-compliant. Nice and inoffensive and bland as flour paste.

And you ought to prefer this, but him standing there like he's about to sell you a house, juxtaposed with the sheer shrieking tumult of your entire surroundings, is making you anxious. He just doesn't belong.

"Can we talk about those letters you were supposed to get, Charlotte?"

"What?" You tug at your collar. "Now? We really— I-I don't think it's the right— I did get them, um, actually, I—"

"I'm joking." He loses the expression, and you're grateful for it. "Can we go?"

You go.

Though your decision to cut diagonally to the current is making forward progress much less painful, it's still a slog. Several times, you discover that the path ahead is gummed with branches or whole fallen trees; twice, you nearly swallow a mouthful of krill; once, you slip on a patch of mud and have so much issue getting up that Gil has to lift you by your collar. You do not thank him.

Eventually, you find the courage to strike up conversation with Monty again. "So," you say. "I'm just thinking. You should probably tell me what your secret powers are."

He tilts his head but keeps walking. "They're secret to me as well, I'm afraid."

"Sure. You expect me to believe that?" You scoff. "I'm sorry, I'm not an idiot."

"No, but a little off target, maybe." He smiles benignly. "Not everyone's Ellery, Charlotte. In fact, I'd wager most people down here are profoundly average."

(1/4)

File: ellery - @entuzjastaszczurow.png (1.55 MB, 1864x2200)

1.55 MB PNG

"Yeah, but we're not talking most people. We're talking you. You're telling me you're profoundly average?"

Is there subtext in the smile? You can't tell. "I'm above-average at boxing, if you'd believe it."

"With one arm."

"Well, at one point I had two." He lifts his bandaged stump. "But life happens. I suppose I'm also above-average at… poker? And I'm told I have very good handwriting."

"That's not what I mean," you gripe. "I meant, you know, special… like, for example, I'm imbued with magyckal energies."

«I see we're just telling everyone about this now.»

"Are you?" Monty raises his eyebrows. "Good for you."

You squint. He does not appear sarcastic. "Thanks. So if there's anything like that about you, then…"

He shakes his head. "Sorry."

If he won't own up to it, there's nothing you can do. You lack any leverage. (Or proof.) "…Okay. So what's the deal with Ellery?"

"Ellery?"

"You keep mentioning him. I mean, I know about him already, but not what— not what you think of him."

"Not what I think of him, eh." Monty looks over his shoulder at Gil. Gil waves back weakly. "Well, I'd be lying if I said he made my life easier. But he means well, usually."

You nod. When an elaboration doesn't come, you hug your arms against your chest. "Um, okay. But what does he do that's so—"

"Nothing. He does hardly anything." (Another glance at Gil.) "Things just happen to him. I don't know why. I've asked him, he doesn't know why. He just attracts… complex situations. With collateral damage."

"And you don't just kick him out?"

"On what grounds? I can't kick people out for being inconvenient." He rebalances the trident. "He's not malicious. He complies with the rules. He's pleasant enough company, if… exhausting. And Madrigal likes him."

That you know well. "Yeah."

"Or liked him, at least. It's hard to keep straight."

It's not, at all, but okay. You're not getting anything useful here. "Yep. So, uh—"

You inquire about the other Charlotte he saw. Monty grimaces, a little. "Looked just like you, but in a sort of… poncho. I must've been seeing things."

Or alternately, you propose, it's your dastardly poncho-wearing clone, and then you have to explain that you're not joking or even exaggerating— has he not heard yet? You thought Eloise would've spread it around by now. (God. It really must be serious.) Anyhow, yeah, so there's these sewers, and— wouldn't Madrigal have said something? Oh, she's bedridden. Anyhow—

You're so caught up in reexplaining the whole ordeal that you're almost able to ignore the physical aspect of fighting the current: it's just walking, isn't it? Well, no, it's walking while enormous ropes are dragging you backwards, and a crowd is flinging random garbage at your head, and there's no end in sight. But none of it hits you until you stop for a breather.

(2/3? 4?)

It was Gil who asked to stop, so you blame him. (He protests something about his hands peeling off. You ignore that.) Your calves feel gelatinous. You really need to sit down.

>[GAINED: Ow Your Legs — -10 to movement-related actions until resolved]

«Or you could just let me help.»

God, you almost forgot about Richard. Imagine that. Forgetting about Richard.

«Believe it or not, I appreciate it when you don't require constant micro-management.»
«Regardless, this is well within my skillset. I could even give them a tune-up, while we're at it.»

This is very helpful. Suspiciously helpful. But then, he was suspiciously helpful earlier, with the whole rushing in thing.

«On some occasions, it's more efficient to ensure your success at a cockamamie plan than to attempt to convince you of a sound one.»
«That's all.»

Still. You guess you should probably thank him. You lift him off your shoulders and hold him up to your face.

«I'm just performing my assigned duties. Let go of me.»

You hold him for a few seconds longer, until he begins to have the 'I will bite you' look on his snake face, then let go. He bobs in midair, black against the blue glow. It's hard to remember there's a person in there.

«Charlie.»

Not your father, necessarily. Not a human person. Just a… person person. He can't argue with that.

«…»

You wonder if you father would've helped you with cockamamie plans— ow! A brief shock at your neck.

«We're not doing this.»

Well, you think he could be more civil about it— okay, Monty's whistling for you. You hasten over. "I think this could be a good place to hunker down," he says. He sees your look. "Not for long, but… whatever's at the end, it'll be better to be rested. Even if it burns some time."

He's pointing under the roots of an enormous tree— easily thrice your armspan around. The bark is deep brown, blackened in places by a thousand-year-old fire. You'd be surprised if this wasn't a landmark of some kind. "This should hold, from the looks of it," Monty continues. "And it's out of the current. That's something."

You nod brusquely.

"Okay." He ducks underneath. You follow, as does Gil.

(3/4)

File: outskirts of the roots.jpg (70 KB, 828x512)

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It is cool, dim, and still among the roots of the tree. It is not quiet. There is an odd, persistent sucking noise, quite distinct from the sound of the current outside. Monty furrows his brow and raises a finger to his lips. The sucking continues.

In the light of Monty's glorb, you sign a suggestion: split up, make sure it's nothing major. You're all competent, except maybe Gil, who's disintegrating anyhow. And it's not a large space.

Monty shrugs. Gil has no comment. You declare victory, and two minutes later are picking your way over protruding roots and trapped floatsam. The sucking is louder here, you think. Some horrific tree parasite? It could be worse, you suppose, it could be—

There are a lot of surprises packed into five seconds. The first: you round the corner to discover two people. The second: they are in the busy process of making out. The third: one of them is you. Or someone who looks very much like you. Or your gooplicate. Probably that. The fourth: the other person, the man, looks dimly familiar. Where do you know him from?

«That appears to be the one who chased me with a javelin.»

With a— oh. The museum. It's your pursuer, the Wind Court man who let you go. That does not help explain any of this.

The fifth, the surprise that eclipses all the rest, is the fact there's a sword resting in a scabbard on the far side of the two people. You know that hilt. That's your hilt. That's The Sword, in the… steel. You're positive. You're dead certain.

And the sixth surprise (pale in the face of #5) is that your gooplicate opens her eyes, sees you, whispers something in your pursuer's ear, shoves him aside, and lunges for your throat.

>**Please roll me 3 1d100s to react!** Modifiers will be determined by the below choices, which should be made in addition to rolls.

>[A] What do you do?!?!? (Write-in any sort of plan. Optional — your default is 'dodge.')

ID: 4/(9)
>[B1] Now's a GREAT time to make your legs feel better, Richard! (Spend 1 ID to remove the -10 malus.)
>[B2] Now's an EVEN BETTER time to give your legs a tune-up, Richard! (Spend 2 ID to change the -10 to a +10 until Charlotte sleeps.)
>[B3] GO CRAZY GO STUPID, Richard! (Spend 3 ID for a permanent +10 to leg days. Other things may occur.)
>[B4] You are a strong independent woman who don't need no snake. (The -10 remains.)

>[C] Write-in.

Okay so "3:09 AM" is really close to "3:00 AM," if you squint, so I'm not late... ;_;

Rolled 21 (1d100)

>>4605255
[A] Swing mace to meet the assailant and hopefully manage to keep them away from our throat, then procced to reclaim our Birthright (The Sord?).

>[B4] You are a strong independent woman who don't need no snake. (The -10 remains.)

>>4605255
>[A]. Not exactly cry for help, but produce some sounds that could attract whatever allies we have who could, hypothetically, impose their unwanted assistance on us of their own volition. Also stab the impostor with the sword we have.

>[B1] Now's a GREAT time to make your legs feel better, Richard! (Spend 1 ID to remove the -10 malus.

Rolled 39 (1d100)

>>4605255
>[B3] GO CRAZY GO STUPID, Richard! (Spend 3 ID for a permanent +10 to leg days. Other things may occur.)

CRAZY CRAZY

>Kick her in the tummy with your new super legs

Rolled 94 (1d100)

>>4605255
>[B1] Now's a GREAT time to make your legs feel better, Richard! (Spend 1 ID to remove the -10 malus.)

>>4605255

>[A] What do you do?!?!? (Write-in any sort of plan. Optional — your default is 'dodge.')

Duck to the side, and swing the mace, aiming for centre of mass. Even if it's not as good in our hands as The Sword, the chest is a big target. If the Gooplicate made internals, it could also fracture the fake bones into it's equivalent of organs too, If not, an impact weapon isn't great against goop, so it won't really matter where we hit it.

>[B1] Now's a GREAT time to make your legs feel better, Richard! (Spend 1 ID to remove the -10 malus.)

Rolls were already done, but we've got afight on our arms. Probably gonna use some ID in the next round though to boost arm strength.

File: charlotte - @sourdough.png (131 KB, 616x808)

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>>4605261
>>4605266
>>4605417
>>4605502
>>4605823
>21, 39, 94
Cool.
Bad news, folks: got some RL obligations, can't update today. Vote remains open. Modifiers and DC will be set when I officially call it tomorrow.

>>4605261
>>4605823
>Mace
What the hell is a mace? You're wielding a weirdly top-heavy sword.

>>4605255
If we're fixing our legs, brace and stick the sword we have in the gooplicates centre of mass. We can also shove her off, and drop the stand-in sword to lunge for and grab OUR sword.

Nothing can stop us from getting what is ours.

Rolled 49, 91, 41, 75, 12, 23, 55, 87, 47, 83, 20, 80 = 663 (12d100)

>Had post mostly written
>Cat stepped on keyboard, clicked on bookmark, when I come back to this tab all progress is deleted
The plight of a QM, folks.

Anyhow, I come bearing more bad news: the thing I wanted to finish yesterday did not get finished, so I'll have to keep working on it today. If I'm lucky, I'll still be able to publish a short update, but I can't guarantee it. Sorry guys.

That being said, I'm calling the vote here.

>>4605266
>>4605502
>>4605823
>B1

>>4605417
>B3

>>4605261
>B4

>>4605261
>>4605266
>>4605823
>>4606521
>A: Dodge, whack it in the chest, call for... no reason, gun for Sword

Your modifiers are as follows:
>3 1d100s + 10 (+10 Good With Swords, +10 Highly Motivated, -10 Surprised!) vs. DC 50
>31, 49, 104 vs. DC 50 -- Mitigated Success

I'm also rolling for everyone else involved. Modifiers and DCs in spoilers below.
Your Gooplicate(?): 3d100 + 5 (+5 Bloodlusty) vs. DC 45 (-5 Acted Fast!)
Your Pursuer: 3d100 - 10 (-5 Dazed, -5 Shoved) vs. DC 40 (-10 Within Reach)
Monty: 3d100 + 15 (+10 Fit, +5 Nearby) vs. DC 50
Gil: 3d100 - 15 (+5 Nearby, +5 Long-legged, -5 Preoccupied, -5 Uncoordinated, -15 Literally Melting) vs DC 50

>>4607115
>Enhanced Success
>Mitigated Success
>Enhanced Success
>Success

As always, higher degrees of success beat lower degrees when goals are conflicting.

>>4607115
oh fugg our gooplicate
monty pls help

>>4607409
Can't Richard outright melt gooplicates?

>>4607409
On the other hand, imagine how fulfilling it will be to kill ourself but not really.

Work out some of that self hatred.

>>4607421
He did explode Lester's gooplicate, but that was under unusual circumstances (he was in unreality, was currently possessing you, and didn't actually mean to explode him... it was on accident). He wouldn't be able to do that again here.

>>4607432
Well. Can we attack her mentally by bitching about the shitty job they did copying us?

Snogging some random guardsman in a storm? Has she no standards at all?

>>4607459
You can attempt that, sure! (Next round.)

Terribly, terribly sorry, folks. Tomorrow for 100% certain. I'll try and compensate for these missing updates at a later date (Monday?).

>>4607622
>>4607622
"sall good

File: your pursuer.png (527 KB, 668x966)

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>Fight!

You want desperately to react in a cool and stylish way to this, for example diving under the gooplicate's legs and plunging Ixelbraith into the small of its back, or doing something involving a somersault, but you mostly stand there gaping until the muscles of your legs relax against your will and you crumple to the ground.

>[-1 ID: 3/12]

«Hm. May have overdone that one.»

He's trying to make your legs feel better now?

«No time like the present, Charlie. Focus.»

You blink. The gooplicate is struggling to regain its footing: it overextended on its initial lunge, having failed to predict your strategic collapse. Idiot. There is something metal and spiked newly in its hand— grown out of its hand?

«That's a mace.»

It's clearly not, but you can argue later: you are busy staggering to your feet, busy trying and failing to loose Ixelbraith from its scabbard (why is it so difficult?), busy succeeding in the nick of time— you meet the gooplicate's downwards blow with the flat of your blade.

The judder goes up your arms so fast and shaky you drop it, you nearly drop it, you would've dropped it if you could but you have a death grip on the hilt courtesy of Richard. And the sound! A tinny screech so close-sharply terrible you'd almost rather be bludgeoned. But God! You refuse to die to yourself, that would be a level of dramatic irony too severe to contemplate.

So you drag your sword out from under the gooplicate's weapon—

«Mace.»

—its undefined weapon, with another prolonged screech, and before it can react or defend slam it directly into its stomach. It buckles, with a splorch, and you seize the opportunity to hurtle past it— for your goal isn't the gooplicate, you don't care about the gooplicate. Your goal is The Sword, and the only thing now in the way is Your Pursuer, who in his own plodding way has rolled to his feet, and is— no!!!!! You scream something incoherent that intended to be "GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF THAT," and put on a burst of speed, but it's too late. He levels The Sword at you like he owns it.

It is glorious and beautiful in person (not that he'd appreciate that) but you are more preoccupied with skidding back to avoid his swing. It was a warning, a 'back off': you'd be stuffing your guts back in if it wasn't. You were wide open.

"Halt, fiend!", he says, or something dumb like that. You aren't listening. How to disarm him? Can you hit it out of his hands? Or will you have to pry it from his stiffened fingers—

«Behind you.»

You turn, belatedly, to discover two things: Monty is here! Or arriving, anyways, sprinting full-tilt up out of the darkness, face pale and trident clasped overhead. He skids a little when he sees you, and manages a constricted "LOOK OU—"

(1/2)

The second thing is that the gooplicate's weapon is gone. Huh. And also that it has recovered, and is slinking up behind you, and you only have a fraction of a second to process this before it's too late— it has seized you by the shoulder and plunged a syringe into your neck. "Sorry, sweetheart," it hisses in a voice not your own, and withdraws.

You are pleased to hear a subsequent gargle as Monty rams the trident into its back, but that does nothing to help your situation. Which is— you don't know what it is. Have you been poisoned? You don't want to be poisoned. Who wants to be poisoned? Not you. Ahaha. Oh, God.

«Calm down. I can't focus when you're panicking.»

You're not— you're not panicking, and also, maybe, this isn't about you, Richard, this is—

«Let me put this another way. Calm down or I won't be able to expel the catalyst from your system.»
«You don't want to degrade into undifferentiated semi-conscious sludge, do you. Because that is what's happening. To you. Right now.»

You don't want that.

«That's better. I'll accept 'scared stiff.'»
«You may experience minor symptoms. Do not complain to me about them. This is normally fatal.»
«You are, as ever, incomparably lucky to have me around.»

Yep.

>[GAINED: New Sympathy For Gil's Degrading Body — Symptoms will occur over time. Modifiers may vary.]

You are standing still. You feel okay, a little dizzy, though that might be from adrenaline or stress. Monty's trident is buried in the side of the gooplicate, who is oozing blood behind you. You can taste it in the water. Your Pursuer is slightly crouched, watching uncertainly: he seems unsettled by the addition of Monty, or just by the presence of you. You can't tell.

You can't just stand here and wait to die.

>All options will require rolls, excepting possible write-ins. Please select options in the manner of [1A], [2B], etc.

>[1] You need The Sword. That's the start and end of it. Attack Your Pursuer.
>>[A] Rely on brute strength. Knock The Sword clean out of his hands.
>>[B] Rely on cunning and dexterity. Cut him in other places, so he has no choice but to drop it.
>>[C] Rely on your natural, er, charm. He seems reasonable, or at least not immediately psychotic. Negotiate. (What do you say? Write-in.)
>>[D] Write-in. (You may elaborate on any of the above if desired.)

>[2] You need *revenge.* Monty has made a great start, but a side wound isn't exactly fatal. Attack the gooplicate.
>>[A] Just go to town on it. You want it to die.
>>[B] Keep it alive, if injured. You need to interrogate it.
>>[C] Write-in. (Attack strategies, etc.)

>[3] Write-in. You are low on ID. You may consider attempting to gain some back.

>>4608677
>>[C] Rely on your natural, er, charm. He seems reasonable, or at least not immediately psychotic. Negotiate. (What do you say? Write-in.)

WHY DO YOU HAVE MY FAMILY SWORD!!!

WHY WERE YOU WITH A GOOP PERSON.

If you're here to fight fiends, you picked the wrong side, for more reasons than just the fact that if you fight us you're gonna get beaten.

>>4608677
>>[C] Write-in. (Attack strategies, etc.)
Brag about beating their previous boss, and their snake, and now them.

Mention that this time, death won't be the escape they hope for it to be.

>>4608677

>[1]
>>[B] Rely on cunning and dexterity. Cut him in other places, so he has no choice but to drop it.

We are a nimble maiden, not an over-muscled brute like Madrigal. This is the most appropriate action, since the time for words has passed.

>[2]
>>[A] Just go to town on it. You want it to die.

There's only Charlotte in this stretch of ocean, and that is us!

>[3]
Shit-talk them relentlessly about failures of the previous facility. Plus, that goo-plicate doesn't even look the slightest thing like us! It's hair is an absolute mess, and you certainly are nowhere near that lanky and unkempt! If it was just a hair more drawn-out and taller , it'd be like a female Ellery, and that's practically more insulting than the fact that it turned over The Sword to it's associate!

>>4608683
Before I go to bed: You can only pick one option between [1] and [2], not options from both [1] and [2] (that's why they're number-letter, not letter-number). Let me know which one you'd prefer between 1B and 2A.

>>4608685

Going with [1] [B] then. Monty can handle the Gooplicate, we need to take care of the malcontent who's holding The Sword.

>>4608677
>1C

That's mine, gimme.

>>4608677
1C for me

File: charlotte - @solaestial.png (1.45 MB, 1640x1417)

1.45 MB PNG

>>4608680
>>4609105
>>4609109
>1C

>>4608686
>1B

>>4608681
>>4608683
>Miscellaneous taunting

Called for 1C-- since >>4609105 >>4609109 have nothing about what to say, I'll go with >>4608680 plus the additional write-ins.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s vs. DC 70 (+20 His Hookup is Being Stabbed to Death Right Behind You, +10 No Negotiation With Terrorists, +5 That's His Sword, -5 Law and Order, -5 Rattled, -5 ???) to attempt to convince the guy to give you The Sword back!

Spend 1 ID for a +10 to the results? You are at 3/9 not 3/12 that was a 2 AM typo ID.
>[1] Y
>[2] N

Everyone else will be rolled for after these are in.

Rolled 62 (1d100)

>>4609169

>[2] Y

We're probably going to need Richard's help for this one.

Rolled 50 (1d100)

>>4609169

>>4609188

[Y] forgot ID

Rolled 43 (1d100)

>>4609169
Y

>>4609169
Whelp. Hopefully our convo detains him at least for long enough that Monty can kill the gooper.

Would it have helped to tell him that he was probably actually making out with a man using our body? And that we don't appreciate anything about this.

Even though it's nice he thinks our body is attractive, We guess.

Rolled 19 (1d100)

>>4609169
yea spend

>>4609217
>Would it have helped...
Helped him give you The Sword? No,
he has no reason to believe you. You'd have to either convince him you're not the gooplicate and that you needed The Sword more than he does, or scare him shitless
, in order to get The Sword back.

(You're kinda-sorta accomplishing the latter, but only thanks to Richard.)

As a reminder about Wind Court motivations, since they haven't come up in a while: they want life to be how it was on the surface, and therefore shun and loathe all manner of weird shit.

Give me a while to write up the rest of the rolls.

Rolled 20, 80, 75, 34, 79, 83, 37, 8, 90 = 506 (9d100)

>>4609185
>>4609188
>>4609212
Sorry about the delay, had to deal w. my family.

>72, 60, 53 vs. DC 70 -- Mitigated Success
>Spend

Rolling for everyone else. Your Pursuer is not taking an action that requires a roll.

Your Gooplicate(?): 3d100s + 0 (+5 Bloodlusty, +5 Pissed, -10 Moderately Wounded) vs. DC 55 (-5 One-Handed Grip, +10 Trained For This)
Monty: 3d100s + 20 (+10 Trained For This, +10 Responsible For Her Safety) vs. DC 60 (+10 Slippery Target)
Gil: 3d100s + 15 (+15 Insectoid Nature) vs. DC 65 (+10 LOTS OF YELLING, +5 Who Dareith Disturb Me)

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>4609325
>Success
>Success
>Mitigated Success

Rolling to see who wins out between Monty (1) and the gooplicate (2). Writing shortly.

>p-pwease give me my sword back mr. guardsman :3c
>72, 60, 53 vs. DC 70 -- Mitigated Success
>Spend ID

From the sounds of it, Monty has your gooplicate thoroughly handled. Good. You hope it dies. Meanwhile, Your Pursuer is still standing there. You hate him for his inaction. He should be killing you.

You lurch forward, and he again levels The Sword at you. "I said halt, fiend!"

"I'm not a fiend!" It comes out more shrieky than you intended. "Shut up about fiends! I— if you want to fight a stupid fiend, there's one right there! Go get it!"

"I-I will not fall for your trickery, fiend." He is blinking rapidly. "Just because you have assumed the form of my—"

"I've assumed the form? It's the— and you're the real villain here! Whoever you are! You're a rotten thief! Why do you have my SWORD?!"

"You- you gave it to—" He blinks harder. Is he afflicted with a highly localized seizure? "Drop your weapon!"

You stare at Ixelbraith. "What? Why would I?"

"Y-you're under arrest! Drop your weapon!"

He's not making any sense. "But you need me to drop my weapon in order to arrest me. And you're not— could we stay on topic? Why are you, pardon my language, necking with— with me! But a— a goo person?!"

The long pause that follows is punctuated by Monty's sharp exhales and a single cry from your gooplicate. Your Pursuer tightens his hold on The Sword. "She's not a— she's not a goo— you are."

"No I'm not," you say. "And it's not a she, it's a it. Or a he, possibly, if it were a—"

«I am preoccupied for all of three minutes and the situation immediately devolves into complete inanity. Typical.»
«If I stopped to choreograph this for you, you would experience a complete loss of skeletal integrity. So take this quickly and be useful.»
«Please.»

>[-1 ID: 2/(9)]

"—a, a—" Your voice is stuck fast in your throat. "—a... a person. Oh." It has not emerged unchanged: there is a new slick quality to it, like you've slugged a bottle of castor oil. "Mmm. Alright."

"Fiend!" Your Pursuer seems to have composed himself. "I am immune to your— to your powers of persuasion! Do not attempt—"

«He can't just shut down his snap judgments. Do attempt.»

"Would you stop with the 'fiend'?" you say. "I— we went over this already. It's stupid. It looks nothing like me."

"What?" he manages. "Yes it—"

"No it doesn't. Its hair is all… gross, and matted, and stuff." (You will have to double-check your own hair when you get back.) "And its— I mean, its fashion sense is atrocious. A poncho?"

He is grimacing. "If you do not drop your weapon, I will be forced to engage you in- in single combat."

"Well, okay then!" You spread your hands. "Do it!"

«Please, Charlie.»

"You'll lose, but it'd be better than— I mean, losing is all you guys ever do, isn't it? You nab a snake, then you lose it. You have a whole fancy facility thing, and you lose that too—"

"What?"

(1/2)

Not ringing any bells. Damn. You thought he might be a double agent, or something, given his association with the gooplicate (currently shouting something muffled). "It— nevermind. The point is that I'll kick your ass, okay? So just try it. Bitch."

«You are the worst.»

Your Pursuer wavers. He's obviously unmoved by the content of your speech, but something in your tone of voice has struck a nerve. "I-I will try it."

"No you won't," you say. "Because you're a bitch. And you know that if you tried, I'd cut out your eyes. And then I'd cut out your intestines, and I'd shove them into your gross bleeding eye sockets, and they'd come out your nose."

"It doesn't work like that," he mumbles. He's telling it to himself. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Or you could give me my damn sword, and I'll leave you alone. Huh?"

He shakes his head feebly, but takes a step forward. You got it! Wow! Look at you. And Richard barely even contributed, that was all your brilliant—

"JESSE!" The gooplicate is finally unmuffled. "STOP TALKING TO THE SHITTY—"

Your Pursuer (Jesse?) blanches, shudders, and seems finally to come to a decision. He turns and runs.

You feel pretty good about this.

>[+2 ID: 4/(9)]

And then you realize he still has The Sword. "HEY!" you scream at his rapidly receding back. "HEY! THAT'S NOT ALLOWED! YOU CAN'T JUST—"

Monty cuts you off with his first noise above a grunt: a sharp strangled yell. You whip around. The gooplicate is prone, a trident sunk partially into its chest— blood is gelling around the entry wounds. Something twines around the trident's handle. Tentacles? Like a jellyfish? Monty has fallen to the ground, his hand on his ankle.

You try to imagine the situation. Monty managing to pin the gooplicate, maybe muffling it with his foot — attempting to withdraw his trident, to find it glued in place, by the goo's flesh or its tentacles(?) or both — meanwhile, the gooplicate creates a knife, and slashes at his tendons —

Or something like that. Well. Well, there was definitely a knife involved: the gooplicate, still prone, is bringing one to its lips. It licks Monty's blood off the iron.

And then it gasps, and ripples once all over, and it is Monty— not quite entirely Monty, its hands and neck are still feminine, and it's still inexplicably in the poncho, and it has two arms— but very close. The trident remains in its chest, but it grasps it, the tentacles unwind, and it pulls it out quite easily.

The real Monty has yet to stand.

>[1] You should intervene.
>>[A] You need to keep it on the ground! Tackle it before it stands!
>>[B] You need to get it away from Monty! Bait it towards you!
>>[C] You need to finish the job! Just bash the damn thing's head in!
>>[D] Write-in. (Feel free to elaborate on any of the above.)

>[2] Damn Monty! Apparently he's a competent boxer, and Gil will come by eventually to help. He'll be fine. Chase after your fleeing Pursuer.

>[3] Write-in.

>>4609817
>>[D] Write-in. (Feel free to elaborate on any of the above.)

Grab the Trident with our two good arms and use that to pin the gooplicate down so that Monty can finish the job.

Running after the sword itself doesn't mean a damn thing if doing so requires us becoming unworthy of the sword.

We know now, about this *Jesse*, and he won't get away forever.

>>4609988
>>4609817
Wait, no, I thought that the Trident was still in the chest for some reason.

We still have our lower case our sword, yes? Rush up while it's got a shitty grip on the trident still and get in its range, and then cut its hand (hopefully plural) off.

Sure, it can pull itself together, but I bet dismemberment is harder to fix.

Channel all our burning rage into the strike, and also try to set the gooplicate on fire with our mind at the same time. It stole our fucking sword, and then gave it away. To a bitch.

>>4609997

+1

This. Cut a bitch plz.

>>4609997
Just to be clear: you're welcome to try really hard to set people on fire with your mind, that's a very Charlotte thing to do, but it's not going to work. You're not a wizard, and you don't have the benefit of dream logic right now. (Also, you're underwater, which does count for some things.)

>>4610023
(I put this because it was unclear how serious you were being-- if you meant it as a futile in-character gesture, by all means carry on.)

>>4609997
And you do still have your lowercase sword (Ixelbraith), yeah.

>>4610023
>you're welcome to try really hard to set people on fire with your mind, that's a very Charlotte thing to do, but it's not going to work. You're not a wizard, and you don't have the benefit of dream logic right now. (Also, you're underwater, which does count for some things.)

Pretty sure that we can start a fire with our hands after we beat the gooplicate up and burn it that way.

Oooh, wait, can we enter the Gooplicates manse and set it on fire in there?

>>4610030
>>4610030
Also if possible can we try to kick the Gooplicate in the junk now that they have one? Really stomp and grind, until Monty feels uncomfortable about it.

>>4609817

>[1] You should intervene.

>>[C] You need to finish the job! Just bash the damn thing's head in!

We didn't come all the way out here to find and say Monty's ass so the he could die to a pile of gunk pretending to be him. Tackling it is just asking to get trapped in it's gooey embrace, so do a cut to it's face. Maybe it'll catch a concussion?

>>4610074
>Start a fire with our hands
Like, shooting fire out of your hands? Because no, you're not a wizard, no matter how much you want to be. Setting a fire with matches or a lighter? ...Also no. It's just too implausible. The Wind Court can do it [Your Pursuer/Jesse had a lit torch back at the museum], but they use special methods you don't have access to.

>Can we enter the Gooplicate's manse...
Almost certainly not, for a number of reasons. One is that, if it is a gooplicate, it doesn't have one. It's not sapient. Two is that if it's not a gooplicate, and it is sapient, not everyone has one: you have to either choose to create one or choose to get one installed. Three is that most manses are, by default, guarded from direct entry: Ellery was a weird exception. (It might be worth following up on that.) Four is that you'd need Richard to do that, and he's very busy making you not die.


>>4610077
Sure, you can do that. It's not a perfect copy, though, so you can't guarantee it has junk to kick, or that kicking the hypothetical junk will be excruciating.
Worth a groinshot, though.
(1/2 lol)

>>4610074
And an additional tangent on the way baseline weirdness works underwater, which has been touched upon but not thoroughly exposited. In bullet points so I can keep it all straight. Read legal as "possible in normal reality."


- In short, It's all a confidence trick: you are violating the laws of reality, but pretending that you aren't.
-You may or may not do this consciously; it doesn't matter.
-This is possible to do because the laws are inherently weaker underwater.
-The easier it is to pretend you're doing something legal (and/or the closer to legal it is), the easier it is to actually pull off.
- The laws, though not sentient, are to some extent 'trickable'-- if you really believe in something, it's more likely to come across as something you're supposed to do, and therefore legal. Ditto for visualizing something in great detail.
- The above only works for things close to being legal in the first place, though. Things like (but not limited to) "I will find this small ordinary object in my pocket" and "I will arrive at X destination" and "this gun is loaded" and "I am certain something is following me."
- As a rule of thumb: the more small/simple/mundane/plausible an action is, the more likely it will work. "A matchbook will appear in my hand": no, unless you're very talented. "I have a matchbook in my jacket pocket": sure. "I have a blowtorch in my bag": no, unless you make a habit of carrying around blowtorches. "This match will light underwater": yes, until it gets pointed out that's impossible, in which case the law kicks in. "This blowtorch will light a campfire underwater": no.
- Things unreal by nature have an easier go at all of the above.

>>4609817
>1C

At least we know where the real Sord is now

>1A and 1C
First we jump it, Then... we bash it's skull in. It's more productive and secure this way.

>>4609988
>>4610006
>Cut its hand off

>>4610123
>>4610299
>>4610364 (+ tackle)
>KILL MODE

Called. I'll say you get the hand if you roll high, and I'll toss a groin shot in too. Buy one get one free.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 10 (+10 Good With Swords, +5 AAAAAA, -5 Dissolution) vs. DC 65 (+10 Slippery Target, +10 Fit, -5 Still Wounded) to murder this thing dead.

Rolled 37 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4610432

Get some ya gooey devil!

Rolled 84 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4610432

Kill time!

Rolled 40 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4610432
I feel like we'll need Monty to recover quick and help out

wtf is gil doing? he can't even say he's dissolving as an excuse because now we are too

Rolled 45 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4610432

>>4610432

How do dice work here again?

One person needs to pass for a pass, or average has to be good?

>>4610446
Degrees of success, so as long as one of the three rolls passes the DC we succeed if more pass, we succeeded better'er.

>>4610446
Dice rules are in the OP: >>4598690
In short, it's degrees of success: the # of rolls that pass the DC determine the result.

>>4610435
>>4610436
>>4610437
>47, 94, 50 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success
Forgot to ask for ID spending, whoops, but since it won't change the result I presume nobody wants it.

Give me a hot second to write up the rest of the rolls.

Rolled 92, 35, 59, 42, 70, 96 = 394 (6d100)

>>4610450
Whoops, was beaten to it. (This is what I get for mobileposting.) This anon is correct.

Other rolls (Gil is not rolling):
The gooplicate(?): 3d100s + 10 (+10 Fit, +5 Bloodlusty, +5 Pissed, -5 Still Wounded, -5 Kicked in the Ambiguous Genitals) vs. DC 50
Monty: 3d100s + 5 (+10 Trained For This, +10 Responsible For Her Safety, -15 Crippled) vs. DC 60 (+10 Slippery Target)

>>4610464
>Success, Success
Once again flipping for it, then writing... in a while. I have a TTRPG in about 3 hours, so it's possible this will be published late at night my timezone.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>4610467
Fug.

>>4610467
I think your system doesn't hold up well in case of opposing rolls.

>>4610474
I wouldn't even call it a system, it's a hackjob slapped together because I don't have the patience or willpower to create actual rules for combat. (If it wasn't clear, crunch is not my thing.) Maybe I'll streamline it and say highest bonuses wins out, who knows.

>Just murder it
>47, 94, 50 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

What are you doing? You can't just stand here and let Monty die— you'd never hear the end of it from Madrigal. 'Oh, I sent you to get him back safe!' 'Oh, you're so irresponsible!' All in that same smarmy tone. You could never live it down.

So you tense, and duck your head: you'll just bull-rush the gooplicate, you think, it can't possibly be expecting that. Before you can take the first step, though, your chest seizes. Something rises in your throat; you clutch your neck. "Ghrk."

The gooplicate, stepping over Monty's crouched form, stops to look at you. "To tell the truth, I thought you'd be dead already."

Your response is to double over and purge a quart of pale blue phlegmy goop onto the ground between your feet. It feels like you've been socked in the stomach.

"Must have a hardy constitution," it says thoughtfully. Its voice is very close to Monty's. "But that there's a good sign. Another few minutes, and that's all that'll be left of you."

You make a rude gesture at it. (You feel somewhat unclean for doing so, but you're breathing too heavily for speech.)

"You can't stop it, sweetheart. I don't carry an antidote." The gooplicate prods Monty gently with the trident. "If it's any consolation, you'll be put to good use, okay? I'm Human Resources, this is my job. You won't rot in a vat."

What is it about evil people and talking so much, you wonder. You kick some rocks over the goop. Is it because they have nobody else to talk to? They resort to their victims? You can't imagine having to stoop that low.

«…»

"Of course, we don't have vats anymore. Some kind of freak accident, or I don't know what, brought the whole thing down— but, hey, I should take care of this sap, sweetheart. Sit tight."

She prods Monty less gently with the trident, and that's when you commit to a bull-rush: you raise Ixelbraith above your head, brace your shoulders, and barrel straight towards the gooplicate. You stop short just before you ram into it, and feed your momentum into an overhead chop it barely dodges. The graze on its cheek heals over before your eyes.

"Why go to all the trouble?" it forces out between slashes of your sword. "You're well on your way already. Feel the injection site."

Against your better judgment, you do. The skin there is soft and sunken, and when you press it with a thumb it caves further. Whatever's under it isn't muscle.

"See? It— aghk!" You have taken the time to drive a pointy boot into its crotch. To your disappointment, it only produces a momentary distraction, not complete debilitation— but still, you press your advantage, scoring hits on its arms and slashing away at its poncho.

(1/3?)

It takes little notice of your efforts, though, and finally— when it sees Monty stand in its peripheral vision— sighs and delivers a stunning blow to your head. You teeter, but don't fall, and it follows up with a thrust to your gut. Your clumsy twist is not enough to evade it, and the trident punctures your side.

When it withdraws the trident, you fall, and watch sideways the gooplicate stalking over to Monty. He is unarmed, and leaning noticably on his good foot, but still assumes a combat stance.

"You let him die to what?", future-Madrigal says in your head, and you groan. You're definitely bleeding— you can feel it, sticky down your side. "That's not an excuse," she snaps, at the exact right frequency to get on your nerves.

You groan harder, and push yourself up. The gooplicate's back is to you, but Monty sees you and furrows his brow. He smiles slightly, as if to say 'maybe it's time'—

—and this is enough to really get you riled. Ungrateful prick! You're going to save him, and then you're going to shove that in his stupid long alive face. You shoot all the way to your feet, grasp Ixelbraith's handle with two hands, and charge—

But it hears you and turns, trident poised to run you through—

—and then Monty punches it in the back of the head. It falls face-first, the trident bouncing out of its hands and rolling all the way to your feet. You pick it up, weigh it in your hands, then offer it back to Monty.

The gooplicate is unconscious. Easier to kill that way, you suppose. You raise your sword and aim it at its neck.

"Hey. No." Monty's voice is raspy. "You're not going to kill them, Charlotte."

You gesture emphatically at the rips in your coat, the deep cut at his ankle, back at the goop you vomited up. He shakes his head. "It's not right."

"What, are you a pacifist?" Why did you stick your neck out for him, again?

"No, I just…" He rubs his scalp and smiles, all teeth. "Take my word for it, okay? I've been around a fair bit longer than you have, if you don't mind me saying. If nothing else, it's worth at least talking to them."

You snort. "Yeah, okay. That—" Something is gnawing at you. "Where is Gil?"

As if on cue, a gunshot rings out, loud enough to make you clap your hands over your ears— then the shockwave follows, blasting water up your nose and into your eyes and mouth. You sputter. "God!"

Monty glances between you and the gooplicate (or whatever the hell it is). "Are you—"

(Choices next.)

>[A1] Fine! Go see if Gil's in mortal peril or whatever, leave Monty with the thing. Hopefully it doesn't wake up before you get back.
>[A2] Gil self-described himself as being bad in fights: if he has any sense at all, he'll be sprinting in your direction after firing that shot. Stay here.
>[A3] Write-in.

IF [A2] OR EQUIVALENT WRITE-IN IS PICKED ABOVE:
>[B1] You're 'glad' to see Monty reverting to his traditional cramp in your style, but you'll have to make the most of it. You have questions for the gooplicate. (What are your question[s]? Write-in. If none are written in, Monty will lead the interrogation.)
>[B2] This is nonsense. This thing attempted to murder both of you, and would've succeeded if you didn't have Richard to patch you up. Kill it while it's out, whatever Monty says.
>[B3] Write-in.

REGARDLESS OF CHOICE OF [A]:
>[C1] They're not mortal wounds, but the punctures in your side may impede you in future fights. Have Richard divert some of his attention towards patching them up. (Future malus removed, but your symptoms will worsen.)
>[C2] No, he should focus on ensuring you don't melt, even if it hurts. (Future malus in combat, should there be more of that.)
>[C3] If you give enough of yourself, maybe he can cover more ground. (Future malus removed, symptoms remain as is. -2 ID)

>[D] Write-in.

>>4611432
>[A2]
>[B1]
>[C2]

>>4611432

>[A1] Fine! Go see if Gil's in mortal peril or whatever, leave Monty with the thing. Hopefully it doesn't wake up before you get back.

Gil's shit in a fight, but he's also kind of melting, and won't be able to run too well.

>[C2] No, he should focus on ensuring you don't melt, even if it hurts. (Future malus in combat, should there be more of that.)

We already have one person melting away, better deal with it first.

>>4611432
>A1
We can't abandon our project

>C2

>>4611432
>[A1] Fine! Go see if Gil's in mortal peril or whatever, leave Monty with the thing. Hopefully it doesn't wake up before you get back.

Stab the Gooplicate dead first though. It's nice Monty wants to get info, but time and place make that a luxury we can't afford. His opinion has been noted, and disregarded.

>[C2] No, he should focus on ensuring you don't melt, even if it hurts. (Future malus in combat, should there be more of that.)

>>4611639
>>4611438

+1

Gonna give it 10 more minutes to see if anyone else is for or against the new write-in (murdering the gooplicate and skedaddling) >>4611639, then calling it.

>>4611438
>>4611595
>>4611639
>>4611649
>A1 (+ stabbing)

>>4611436
>A2

Unanimous: C2

Called. No rolls required. Writing... soonish.

>Fatality!

You nod curtly, but you don't go. You linger by the body. "Charlotte—" Monty says.

What right does he have to stop you? What does he know? None and nothing. You'd be doing the world a service by killing the thing. You'd be doing him a favor. It's not even killing, really, it's extinguishment. Stamping out a bug.

You thrust the point of your sword deep into the gooplicate's exposed neck, and lean on the hilt until it pierces the spine. For good measure, you cut around the neck, too, and watch the blood waft away in a single great cloud. Then you slice through the cloud, too, breaking it up. You have no use for ghosts.

Monty watches silently, neither helping nor trying to stop you. He looks tired. There is blood on your hands, on your sleeves, smeared across your face where you tried to wipe it off. You'll be horrified by it later, you're sure, but right now you just feel numb.

Finally, you leave, turning on your heel without a word. You walk, then run, somewhat mechanically.

You're unsure where Gil is, but the space under the tree is only so large, so after a minute of slashing through dangling roots you bump straight into him. He starts, and raises his pistol, but lowers it when he sees it's you. "You're bloody!"

"It's not my blood." You squint through the gloom. "Where'd your lower jaw go?"

He touches the roof of his exposed mouth. "…I-it fell off."

"Ah." Stupid question, stupid answer. "Bummer. Are you— okay otherwise?"

"What?"

"Are you in mortal peril? At all?"

"Uh…" He blinks. "Maybe- maybe normal peril? Um. There's a big spiky rainbow worm. I don't know how else to put it. And it— um, I either scared it off or... pissed it off. A couple minutes ago."

You pause. "The gunshot."

"Um, yes. It doesn't like sound, or light, or… it kept wanting to eat you guys, and I had to convince it, um, to not… I sound crazy."

"I've heard worse." You scratch your forehead. "But you're not in excruciating pain or anything?"

He shakes his head. "But we should, um, leave fast. I don't want— it had big jaws."

>[1] Set off again, directly against the current. [Harder roll, but random encounter only on failure / mitigated success.]
>[2] Set off again, diagonal to the current. [Easier roll, but guaranteed random encounter.]
>[3] Hold on. Jesse the Sword thief is still out there, along with all those other unknown people. If you use your ~*~super radical earth powers~*~ (Richard is too busy to complain about your naming), you could track them down? (-1 ID)
>[4] Write-in.

>>4611936
>[4] Write-in.

Chase down Jessie. We got Monty, now we need our sword back, then we can fix whatever is going on here.

>>4611944
It's been a while since he fled, and with the current messing everything up there's unlikely to be an obvious path to follow. If you want to find him again, your best bet is [3], or else hoping you get lucky with random encounters.

>>4611936
>2
We're low on ID, we're wounded, there's still the current to deal with. It super sux but I think we should get the Sord back another day. We know who has it now so we're closer than we were.

>[3]
I don't even want the sword back, I just want to kill jessie.

>>4611996
>2

>>4612038
>>4611944
>3* (*and a write-in that wants to accomplish the same thing 3 would -- in the absence of a clarified vote, I'm going with this)

Called. This will not require a roll.

File: underground.jpg (67 KB, 700x1003)

67 KB JPG

>Down & dirty

"Leave fast," you say, crouching. "Yeah. Yeah, we'll do that, just as…"

Gil peers down at you. "This doesn't look like leaving. Um. …I-if you don't mind me saying."

"We'll still leave fast, just not… immediately. Give me a minute. Gee." You bury your palms in the mud. "You're so picky."

He cringes. "It's not that, I-I-I just—"

Whatever. You attempt to focus. God, your side's really starting to hurt. Can't Richard—?

«Busy.»

Right. Right, okay, so you'll just have to live with it. Good. That's—

«I implore you to shut up.»

Well, you implore him to— you shudder at the crackling energy up your spine and fall limp.

>[-1 ID: 3/(9)]

Back under the ground. You have to admit, some of the mystique is lost after twice in one day, but at least you can't feel your wounds. In return, though, everything's sort of cold and slow and sludgy. Is that always how it feels to be out of one's body? Or have you sort of become the dirt? (Ew.)

Whatever it is, it's an unusual break from form. Richard is always messing with your body, always monitoring your blood pressure and tinkering with your tooth enamel and seizing control of your legs and whatnot. That's all fine— you've ceased to care. (Were you really so worried about it, such a short time ago?) But this is not that: this is weirder, more abstract. More loosey-goosey. More… okay, more magyck.

«You know I can still hear you.»

Yet curiously he is not denying it.

«I am denying it.»

You don't believe him, frankly. It is Magyck, it is Earth Magyck, an established type (though not one you'd fully understood, for much of your childhood, being suspended a good couple miles above the earth's crust). And you are going with that until you recieve a better explanation.

«Perhaps the smiling man is right. We are actually in hell.»

Anyhow, there is a stupidly large worm just under your feet. Gil wasn't kidding. From your impressions of its movement, it's the height of a man, and the length of fifteen. Is it gearing to attack? That you can't tell: it's just squirming in place.

Farther out is Monty, who is pacing back and forth, all his weight on one foot. And then there's others: the hurried footsteps now circling in place, the heavy footsteps coming to meet those of someone slowing out of a run. Jesse's.

So there you have it: location pinpointed. Easy. You pull yourself back towards your body with little interference, but hesitate when you once again sense the worm. You are having a good idea.

«A stupid idea.»

A good idea. What if you, like, talked to it? (Spiritually.) And convinced it to burrow in the direction you wanted? You could just walk along, undeterred by currents above. It's brilliant. It's genius.

«I assure you it's not.»

(Choices next.)

>[1] Attempt to establish contact with the worm. [Roll.]

OR

>[2] Okay, Mr. No Fun Allowed, you'll just go the normal way.
>>[A] Head directly for Jesse and the person with the booted footsteps. [Roll.]
>>[B] Head directly for the person with the hurried footsteps. [Roll.]
>>[C] Now that you know where everyone is, make sure *not* to run into them. Head into or diagonal to the current as normal. (Please specify direct or diagonal. You will be guaranteed not to run into people, though you may have other types of events.) [Roll.]

>[3] Write-in.

>>4612212
>[1] Attempt to establish contact with the worm. [Roll.]
If we ever have to build another body we can build it out of worms!

Rolled 30 (1d100)

>>4612225

+1

>>4612212
>1
What could possibly go wrong?

>>4612225
>>4612228
>>4612238
>Reject Richard, embrace worm
Okay! Time to do this good idea that cannot possibly go wrong.

>Please roll me 3 1d100s + 5 (+5 ???) vs. DC 65 (-5 Ingested Blood, +5 Agitated, +15 Unknowable Mind) to successfully and safely contact the worm!

Richard can't help with this, and would refuse to help regardless, so no option for +10.

Rolled 23 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4612248

>>4612251
I have no idea if you'll be around, but if you are and nobody else rolls in the next half hour or so, feel free to get the rest.

Rolled 14 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4612248

Rolled 47 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4612254

time to not fail!!!

Rolled 82 (1d100)

>>4612248

>>4612287

DON'T COUNT MY ROLL COUNT THIS GUY ABOVE

>>4612287
You can't roll twice while I'm here m8

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>>4612296

Hooray for not failing.
Also linked back to wrong roll. Link to >>4612293

You guys are lucky bastards. You're right, I prioritize rolls by new IPs.

>>4612251
>>4612260
>>4612293
>28, 19, 87 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

Update within five hours or so. (I'll write right before I go to bed.)

>>4612308
>[-1 ID: 2/(9)] >>4609815
>[-1 ID: 3/(9)] >>4612207
I sense a bookkeeping mistake somewhere

>>4612337
You went back up to 4/9 here: >>4609817

>>4612339
Imagine all the ego we're gonna get from getting our sword back.

>>4612370
Don't jinx it

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>Oh, worm?
>28, 19, 87 vs. DC 65 -- Mitigated Success

Well, you assure him he's wrong. You're going for it.

«Charlie, I'm not kidding around.»
«I don't have the bandwidth to pull you out if it goes south. I'm stretched thin as is.»

He won't need to pull you out, because you- you're capable. You are independent and capable and you don't need him for— okay, you might need him for not turning into goo, but that's it. And this is basically communing! You're good at that.

Yeah. Okay. You're going in. You are pressing — your consciousness — against the —

— the —

—

— the woRM'S — the W O R M ' S — the ʍoɹɯ's — the W Y RM's — against the — against —

— you are pressing your consciousness against the worm's own. There is much to admire about the creature. Long and streamlined and singleminded and predatory. At home in the heavy earth. But stupid, terribly stupid, and disorderly. Knowing no law or master or God.

A perversion, then? A mockery? Well. You cannot blame this specimen; it was birthed long after the offspring choked. And it is already frightened. Of deathbright and deathwave. Of your kins who traitored you—

Careful! It is relaxing, blithesome, to bleed between the twines, to allow still puddles to lap at your oceans— if you may be so distasteful. But you must remember that you are small. You are a pinprick in the vast silken fabric of the universe, not its weaver. You are small, and just burdened with limbs, and you— you—

You spaced out there. For how long? Richard is buzzing frantically in the back of your head, which by coincidence is throbbing.

>[-1 ID: 2/(9)]

Do you even have a head? Whatever you have is throbbing, at least.

«…I suppose you have your idea of a head.»
«Are you— you're unharmed.»

Yes? Obviously? You're disembodied, it's not like there's anything to harm. What's this here, again? (You give it a metaphysical prod.) Right. The worm.

It's not producing any coherent thoughts, as far as you can tell, but neither is it empty: here's some kind of inner life, you just plain don't have access to it. Did Gil? Is that how he talked to the thing? You should've asked him more before you went— no you shouldn't've. Don't want him getting a big head, or whatnot.

It's not clear that you need to have a big dialogue with the thing, either. Mostly, you just have to convince it to move in the right direction, and the rest will take care of itself.

But how?

(All options require rolls. Write-ins with more specific arguments may provide significant modifiers.)
>[1] Scare it into compliance. Intimate that there will be many more deathbrights and waves and so on if it does not do what you say.
>[2] Appeal to its nature. Persuade it that fattening prey just so happens to lie in the direction you want it to go.
>[3] Assert your dominance. You are Queen: it will bow to your irrepressible will.
>[4] Perhaps you're too high of a life-form to *really* understand a large worm. Attempt to think more on its level.
>[5] Write-in.

>>4612451
>[3] Assert your dominance. You are Queen: it will bow to your irrepressible will.
I'm sure that absolutely nothing will go wrong.

>>4612452
>[2] Appeal to its nature. Persuade it that fattening prey just so happens to lie in the direction you want it to go.

>>4612452

>>[2] Appeal to its nature. Persuade it that fattening prey just so happens to lie in the direction you want it to go.
>[4] Perhaps you're too high of a life-form to *really* understand a large worm. Attempt to think more on its level.

Try to project very base thoughts. Danger. Hunger. Prey. Stuff like that. It won't react to concepts like queen and authority probably, but everyone knows what hunger is.

>>4612569

+1

>>4612452
>[3] Assert your dominance. You are Queen: it will bow to your irrepressible will.

>>4612569
>You cannot blame this specimen; it was birthed long after the offspring choked. And it is already frightened. Of deathbright and deathwave. Of your kins who traitored you—

I think presenting ourselves as a new mommy, with the connotations of protection and care, would hit the basic needs of this beast better.

You ever read the experiment of the monkey baby with a metal mother and how it just gave up on life because of the lack of care despite having food and such?

>>4612725

I don't think worms have social structures that complex, or ANY social structures at all. I feel like we should boil everything down to the very basics, "hungry" is something even unicellular creatures feel to some extent. "Danger" too. Protection and care are actually kinda complex needs if you look at maslow's pyramid of needs. I say we keep it as simple as possible, it is a literal worm after all.

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>>4612479
>>4612569
>>4612716
>2 (+ 4)

>>4612456
>>4612723
>3

Called. It's for the best -- [3] would've incurred a large "No law or master or God" malus.

>I need two sets of rolls, or 3 2d100s.

First set:
3 1d100s (+5 Fragile ID, +5 A Noble Endeavor, Winnowing, -10 Clinging to Humanity) vs. DC 65 (+15 Unknowable Mind) to shift into worm mode...
Second set:
3 1d100s + 5 (+5 Instinctual Appeal) vs. DC 70 (+5 Agitated, +15 Communication Gap) to convince the worm what to do!

Succeeding on the first set will retroactively add a large bonus to the second set.

Good luck!

Rolled 58, 92 = 150 (2d100)

>>4612928

Rolled 21, 49 = 70 (2d100)

>>4612928

Rolled 69, 46 = 115 (2d100)

>>4612928

WOOOOOORRRRRMMMMM

mKAY. What happens if one person succeeds on one part of a roll and another succeeds on the second?