024
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[FinalityCYOA]Orphanmaker Draft
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Ancient History
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Ancient History
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- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
033
You awake with a painful throbbing lump on the back of your skull, and you have the sensation of being half-dragged, half-carried along down a wide corridor, supported on either side by brawny figures that are hard to focus on. The floor hums with the reverbration of thousands of feet, and drifting in through the walls comes a cacphony of alien language, too muffled to make anything sensible out of it save for the irregular scream that seems to punctuate the constant chatter. The smell is like a slaughter pen or zoo, animals squeezed together, until every surface smells of piss and blood and fear...
The captors holding your arms stop, and you know you have arrived. In front of you is a greybeard with a ragged hole where once his eye had been, wearing a dark purple robe. Bands and rings of iron encase his spidery hands and long thing fingers, cutting tightly in to the pale flesh. In one hand he holds an iron-spiked wand.
Without a word, the one-eyed sorcerer-magistrate touches your cheek with the rod; pain wracks your body, and the smell of the prison is temporarily overwhelmed by the sweet reek of your burning flesh. Even through the haze, you can feel him carve line after line on your flesh, spelling out a number...
"Prisoner 1013616," the wizard says. "Welcome to the Slab."
The Slab. One of the city prisons of Finality, normally reserved for humanoid monsters and the weakest of fiends. They say no human has ever survived more than three nights there. You grit your teeth as the guards - a pair of city-bred ogres whose muscles are buried under layers of sweaty fat - carry you to a trap door in the floor. Without ceremony, they drop you in.
You land on your feet in the midst of a crowd, who have parted to get a look at the new arrival. Your weapons, money, spells, and even your clothes have been stripped from you - though if you have a vial of poison, it is still stashed away somewhere even the guards of the prison did not think to check. What do you do?
If you pick the biggest, ugliest bastard in the crowd and attack them, bid 4 to 10 and turn to 069.
If you pick the weakest prisoner and pick a fight, bid 2 to 6 and turn to 039.
If you take a moment to assess the crowd, go to 022.
You awake with a painful throbbing lump on the back of your skull, and you have the sensation of being half-dragged, half-carried along down a wide corridor, supported on either side by brawny figures that are hard to focus on. The floor hums with the reverbration of thousands of feet, and drifting in through the walls comes a cacphony of alien language, too muffled to make anything sensible out of it save for the irregular scream that seems to punctuate the constant chatter. The smell is like a slaughter pen or zoo, animals squeezed together, until every surface smells of piss and blood and fear...
The captors holding your arms stop, and you know you have arrived. In front of you is a greybeard with a ragged hole where once his eye had been, wearing a dark purple robe. Bands and rings of iron encase his spidery hands and long thing fingers, cutting tightly in to the pale flesh. In one hand he holds an iron-spiked wand.
Without a word, the one-eyed sorcerer-magistrate touches your cheek with the rod; pain wracks your body, and the smell of the prison is temporarily overwhelmed by the sweet reek of your burning flesh. Even through the haze, you can feel him carve line after line on your flesh, spelling out a number...
"Prisoner 1013616," the wizard says. "Welcome to the Slab."
The Slab. One of the city prisons of Finality, normally reserved for humanoid monsters and the weakest of fiends. They say no human has ever survived more than three nights there. You grit your teeth as the guards - a pair of city-bred ogres whose muscles are buried under layers of sweaty fat - carry you to a trap door in the floor. Without ceremony, they drop you in.
You land on your feet in the midst of a crowd, who have parted to get a look at the new arrival. Your weapons, money, spells, and even your clothes have been stripped from you - though if you have a vial of poison, it is still stashed away somewhere even the guards of the prison did not think to check. What do you do?
If you pick the biggest, ugliest bastard in the crowd and attack them, bid 4 to 10 and turn to 069.
If you pick the weakest prisoner and pick a fight, bid 2 to 6 and turn to 039.
If you take a moment to assess the crowd, go to 022.
Last edited by Ancient History on Mon Sep 30, 2013 10:38 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Ancient History
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- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
034
The Wine and Drum is a cabaret on Paradox Lane off of Box Street. You fortuitously ask a passing Ibixian whether you are on the right path and he laughingly explains that you are not, because Paradox Lane is actually two streets that both leave at ninety degrees from Box Street and then cross each other. Whatever, you still have plenty of time to get there. The streets are filled with laughter and meriment. Or possibly just laughter, there are a lot of Gnolls here and it is difficult to tell whether those hyena headed beast men are enjoying something funny or simply filling space with sound. The beastmen of the neighborhood are shaggy, but not unkempt for the most part. They are generally speaking physically large, and you feel somewhat small. Dress code for the area seems colorful, with patches and sashes of red and yellow and blue on almost everyone. Your drab, military attire must look decidedly out of place here – though probably no more so than your human face.
The club itself is recessed slightly into the ground, requiring you to walk down a flight of brick steps from street level before reaching the door, which is large enough for a Minotaur. The analogy practically makes itself, because the bouncer standing next to the door is in fact a Minotaur. He snorts at your arrival, but apparently there is no cover.
The inside is musky and stuffy, but no one is smoking anything. Borba is waiting for you at one of the room's twelve tables with half a glass of wine in front of her. Her attire has changed dramatically, with the uniform of the city guard replaced with a yellow sun dress that does nothing to hide the considerable size of her thews or her breasts. The menu is written in chalk on a tablet, and even the cheap drinks cost a silver note each. You order the titular wine (losing one silver note in the process), and find that it is not terrible. You decide it would be best to sip it slowly while sitting with your date.
The stage is little more than a row of crates with some plywood on it, but it is enough that you can see the capering of an Armand comedian. Many of the jokes are about the perceived hypocrisy of the Muse of Belphegor, which is presumably a local group of some kind. Borba finds it amusing and so do most of the other guests, but it largely goes over your head. The comedian's badger-like physique is well suited to physical comedy, and you do enjoy his pantomime of himself being taken hostage using his own vicious claws.
Borba is making what until you met the bouncer you would have referred to as “cow eyes” at you. Now you don't know what to call it. She begins telling you about her job and the “big case” opening up in Precinct 11, when there is a loud commotion outside. The fizz and whoosh of magically created fire and a dozen voices barking and squawking in confusion...
If you would like to go outside turn to 048.
If you stay with Borba, turn to 037
The Wine and Drum is a cabaret on Paradox Lane off of Box Street. You fortuitously ask a passing Ibixian whether you are on the right path and he laughingly explains that you are not, because Paradox Lane is actually two streets that both leave at ninety degrees from Box Street and then cross each other. Whatever, you still have plenty of time to get there. The streets are filled with laughter and meriment. Or possibly just laughter, there are a lot of Gnolls here and it is difficult to tell whether those hyena headed beast men are enjoying something funny or simply filling space with sound. The beastmen of the neighborhood are shaggy, but not unkempt for the most part. They are generally speaking physically large, and you feel somewhat small. Dress code for the area seems colorful, with patches and sashes of red and yellow and blue on almost everyone. Your drab, military attire must look decidedly out of place here – though probably no more so than your human face.
The club itself is recessed slightly into the ground, requiring you to walk down a flight of brick steps from street level before reaching the door, which is large enough for a Minotaur. The analogy practically makes itself, because the bouncer standing next to the door is in fact a Minotaur. He snorts at your arrival, but apparently there is no cover.
The inside is musky and stuffy, but no one is smoking anything. Borba is waiting for you at one of the room's twelve tables with half a glass of wine in front of her. Her attire has changed dramatically, with the uniform of the city guard replaced with a yellow sun dress that does nothing to hide the considerable size of her thews or her breasts. The menu is written in chalk on a tablet, and even the cheap drinks cost a silver note each. You order the titular wine (losing one silver note in the process), and find that it is not terrible. You decide it would be best to sip it slowly while sitting with your date.
The stage is little more than a row of crates with some plywood on it, but it is enough that you can see the capering of an Armand comedian. Many of the jokes are about the perceived hypocrisy of the Muse of Belphegor, which is presumably a local group of some kind. Borba finds it amusing and so do most of the other guests, but it largely goes over your head. The comedian's badger-like physique is well suited to physical comedy, and you do enjoy his pantomime of himself being taken hostage using his own vicious claws.
Borba is making what until you met the bouncer you would have referred to as “cow eyes” at you. Now you don't know what to call it. She begins telling you about her job and the “big case” opening up in Precinct 11, when there is a loud commotion outside. The fizz and whoosh of magically created fire and a dozen voices barking and squawking in confusion...
If you would like to go outside turn to 048.
If you stay with Borba, turn to 037
Last edited by Ancient History on Wed Oct 02, 2013 10:29 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
040
You kneel before your fallen foes, and begin to loot their bodies. You immediately notice that each have a roll of bills, but beyond that, your thorough search only reveals the valueless personal effects of the working half-orc.
Cursing in frustration, you rise to escape the growing commotion, only to see that a small platoon of guards has already arrived. You draw your weapon to confront them, but pause when they part ranks to reveal… something.
It is like nothing you’ve ever seen before… an ogre-sized metal man, hissing with the release of steam from various parts of its monstrous body. Glowing red eyes stare at you impassively, and the thing’s arms terminate in blunt pincers that seem ready for some titan’s task: moving earth or bending girders, perhaps.
Before you can react, a guardsman slaps the creature’s iron flank and yells a strange word: “Svoboda!” The metal man barrels forward and clamps its pincers on your arms, and your sword drops from your hand. You struggle in vain, and within a moment a mephitic exhalation pours forth from its mouth into your face.
Coughing and choking, the last thing you see before you pass out is one of the guardsmen, shaking his head in mock sadness. Go to 033.
You kneel before your fallen foes, and begin to loot their bodies. You immediately notice that each have a roll of bills, but beyond that, your thorough search only reveals the valueless personal effects of the working half-orc.
Cursing in frustration, you rise to escape the growing commotion, only to see that a small platoon of guards has already arrived. You draw your weapon to confront them, but pause when they part ranks to reveal… something.
It is like nothing you’ve ever seen before… an ogre-sized metal man, hissing with the release of steam from various parts of its monstrous body. Glowing red eyes stare at you impassively, and the thing’s arms terminate in blunt pincers that seem ready for some titan’s task: moving earth or bending girders, perhaps.
Before you can react, a guardsman slaps the creature’s iron flank and yells a strange word: “Svoboda!” The metal man barrels forward and clamps its pincers on your arms, and your sword drops from your hand. You struggle in vain, and within a moment a mephitic exhalation pours forth from its mouth into your face.
Coughing and choking, the last thing you see before you pass out is one of the guardsmen, shaking his head in mock sadness. Go to 033.
Last edited by Ancient History on Tue Oct 01, 2013 10:38 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
042
You look down at the beast that you have put down like a rabid dog. The body is covered with abrasions in addition to the puncture wounds from your katar. However, you also notice that these wounds are sealing themselves. That will not do. Rather than risk the Araton's return, you pore a single drought of puffspider poison into its open wounds. The paralytic effect seals its fate, as the corpse smothers on its own tongue. This fiend will never return to life.
You may take the brazier if you wish. It burns continuously and can be used to start fires. If you have the Appraise skill, turn to 066 and then return to this section.
You may also take the scimitar, which is an ordinary weapon. Someone shouts that the guards are on their way.
If you wish to return to the Wine and Drum, turn to 059.
If you wish to wait for the police where you are, turn to 083.
If you wish to flee the scene, turn to 020.
You look down at the beast that you have put down like a rabid dog. The body is covered with abrasions in addition to the puncture wounds from your katar. However, you also notice that these wounds are sealing themselves. That will not do. Rather than risk the Araton's return, you pore a single drought of puffspider poison into its open wounds. The paralytic effect seals its fate, as the corpse smothers on its own tongue. This fiend will never return to life.
You may take the brazier if you wish. It burns continuously and can be used to start fires. If you have the Appraise skill, turn to 066 and then return to this section.
You may also take the scimitar, which is an ordinary weapon. Someone shouts that the guards are on their way.
If you wish to return to the Wine and Drum, turn to 059.
If you wish to wait for the police where you are, turn to 083.
If you wish to flee the scene, turn to 020.
Last edited by Ancient History on Wed Oct 16, 2013 4:41 pm, edited 4 times in total.
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
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Ancient History
- Serious Badass
- Posts: 12708
- Joined: Wed Aug 18, 2010 12:57 pm
048
You tell Borba to wait where it is safe and turn to leave. She seems slightly offended and points out that she is in fact a guard in this city. You tell her that you're aware of that, but that at the moment you are armed and she is not. Your weapon springs to your hand to underscore the point. Her small tusks barely bite back a retort and you stride to the door alone. The bouncer has drawn a large battleaxe, but makes no move to stop your progress.
As you pass the doorway, you can see that the night street is illuminated in the reds and oranges of things being on fire that probably shouldn't be. Quickly you take cover in the stairwell, allowing your eyes to barely rise to ankle level, giving you a rat's eye view of the proceedings.
People of a dozen races are running for cover, or just running. Some of them are on fire, but most are not. Harsh winds blow sand and grit at skin flaying speeds. Several Gnolls lay quivering on the ground, and one of them is on fire. In what appears to be the center of the storm is a bleeding devil holding a flaming brazier and a scimitar. You recognize this beast as an Araton, a being from one of the sweltering waste layers of Baator.
It laughs maniacally even as another savage gust sandblasts its cheeks, sending a fine mist of its own blood into the air. The monster holds aloft its brazier and the fire winks out for a moment only for the fizz-whoosh of conjured fire to take hold on the clothing of one of the fallen Gnolls.
If you would like to fight the Araton, bid a number of hit points between two and ten and turn to 074.
If you wish to stealthily follow the Araton's path of destruction, turn to 044
If would like to flee the scene, turn to 020.
You tell Borba to wait where it is safe and turn to leave. She seems slightly offended and points out that she is in fact a guard in this city. You tell her that you're aware of that, but that at the moment you are armed and she is not. Your weapon springs to your hand to underscore the point. Her small tusks barely bite back a retort and you stride to the door alone. The bouncer has drawn a large battleaxe, but makes no move to stop your progress.
As you pass the doorway, you can see that the night street is illuminated in the reds and oranges of things being on fire that probably shouldn't be. Quickly you take cover in the stairwell, allowing your eyes to barely rise to ankle level, giving you a rat's eye view of the proceedings.
People of a dozen races are running for cover, or just running. Some of them are on fire, but most are not. Harsh winds blow sand and grit at skin flaying speeds. Several Gnolls lay quivering on the ground, and one of them is on fire. In what appears to be the center of the storm is a bleeding devil holding a flaming brazier and a scimitar. You recognize this beast as an Araton, a being from one of the sweltering waste layers of Baator.
It laughs maniacally even as another savage gust sandblasts its cheeks, sending a fine mist of its own blood into the air. The monster holds aloft its brazier and the fire winks out for a moment only for the fizz-whoosh of conjured fire to take hold on the clothing of one of the fallen Gnolls.
If you would like to fight the Araton, bid a number of hit points between two and ten and turn to 074.
If you wish to stealthily follow the Araton's path of destruction, turn to 044
If would like to flee the scene, turn to 020.
Last edited by Ancient History on Tue Oct 08, 2013 10:52 am, edited 2 times in total.