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“There you are. I was starting to wonder.” There is darkness around you. Darkness, total, uninterrupted, and absolute, empty save for the Voice. No, you realize, that’s not quite right. There is a light above you, glowing, shining, a lightbulb, gleaming with the electric brilliance of the modern age. As you focus on the bulb, its light spreads outwards, pulling a ceiling, then a room into shape around you. The walls are white, and for a moment they seem to shine from within, a light as blinding as the preceding darkness, but it soon resolves, and you quickly realize that they are entirely blank, unmarred by decoration, door, or window. With a sudden surge of panic, you look desperately for an exit, your gaze casting this way and that, passing over the figures lying prone on the floor, your own face among them. Wait— You stop, and look closer, desperately searching for the flaw that reveals this to all be some strange trick, that makes everything make sense. No, that’s definitely you, lying on the floor… unconscious? But… how? How did you get in here? Why are you dressed in some kind of robes? Why do you look older than you remember? You remember. It’s been a while since you’ve been you. It’s been a while since you’ve been anybody. As the pieces fall into place, you finally see, finally feel, the motes of light surrounding you, surrounding all of the prone, now-stirring figures. The other motes of light. “Hurry it up. Free ride’s over. And as much as I’d love to stay and watch what happens next, I’m a busy man. So let’s cut to the chase.”  The smoking man—was he always there?—takes a long drag from his cigar, and though he has nothing even approaching a face, you can feel his gaze upon you—not the body you no longer inhabit, on you. The dark, thick smoke that billows forth from him stretches up to the ceiling, yet somehow doesn’t fill the room with its choking taint. “You’re bound now. Whatever fates you were facing before, you can forget about them now. The failure of any one of you is a failure for all of you, for however long you decide to care about that particular distinction. The same goes for success, not that I’d bet on that happening. No, I expect you’ll have torn yourself apart within the week.” The man reaches a gloved hand into his pocket and produces a golden watch, pondering it for a moment—at least, insofar as it’s possible to tell what he’s looking at—and returning it to its place. “Three questions. That was the deal. Make them count.”  Welcome to The Pallid King’s Climb, a cult CYOA set in 1920s New York. It’s going to be a bit different in structure from past CYOAs, and a little similar as well. So it goes. This is the first CYOA I’ve run, so I’ll certainly appreciate any feedback and encouragement in the  Discord channel. Also, while I’ll attempt to do art where I can, I’m not particularly quick (or good) at it! Also, while I will be doing my best, there will doubtlessly be a bunch of little details that are not factually accurate to our world, because I have never been to the 20s (or New York). This is a *different* 1920s New York, okay?You’ll be playing as Monads, the ritually incarnated memories of the presently-nameless cult’s members! You might be something like “Dad’s Funeral”, or “A Minor in Latin”, or “That Street Fight Where I Broke A Guy’s Nose”. It’s both your name and the entirety of your being! Monads of all colors can interact with each other freely. You cannot, however, directly affect the world. That is the job of the actual Acolytes. Character Creation Name: As I said before, this is both your name, and what you actually are—it’s a (short) description of the memory you’re an incarnation of. Over time you’ll likely adopt nicknames amongst yourselves, but for now, you are what you are. The Acolytes are largely up to you to define, but there is one limitation: you do NOT remember anything related to the Cult from before you woke up hereColor: This is an indication of which Acolyte you ‘belong’ to. To kick things off, we’ve got Blue, Yellow, Green, Purple, and Red. More on the Acolytes shortly! Clarity: How clearly you’re remembered. This is essentially your HP. If your Clarity runs out, you fade away, forgotten. Try not to let that happen! To start the game, you’ll all be at 3/3 Clarity. Or CP, if you prefer. Clarity can also be spent as Essence, in a pinch. Essence: This is what you use to influence the Acolytes, or to bargain among yourselves if you so choose. As with Clarity, everyone will be starting at 3/3 Essence. Each turn that you’ve posted in, where you didn't spend essence, you recover one essence after your post—if you start the turn at 0, you won’t have any essence to spend that turn. Fanart gets you an additional essence recovered. Essence is used to get additional votes, to boost roles, or to establish people or places your Acolyte remembers. Backstory: You *are* backstory! Give us a little vignette about yourself if you feel like it. Conflict Resolution Monads cannot affect the physical world. As far as it’s concerned, you guys don’t exist. The Acolytes barely know you exist—they can see you, if they focus, but otherwise you’re a vague presence felt in their minds, but they are inclined to follow your guidance. All actions will be determined by vote, but if you want to throw your weight around, you can spend essence to make your vote count additional times, unless a vote is presented as [Locked] When an Acolyte takes action, they’ll be rolling their stat in that action. As with forum all-star game Wrecking Crew, unless otherwise stated, the target number is 4. The more that you surpass that success threshold by, the greater the narrative impact of your success. Beyond the Acolyte’s base stats and any helpful tools they acquire for the task, Monads can spend Essence to upscale the die rolled by two stages. That is, to change the die from a d4 to a d6, d6 to a d8, to d10, to d12, to d14, and so on (Yes, there are dice with odd sides, because non-Platonic solids are spooky) The costs and limitations of boosting a roll will be listed in the Status post. The Acolyte stats are Strength, Observation, Influence, Will, and Lore. The number in a stat corresponds to what die they would roll—a 6 would indicate a 1d6, for example. Strength is a measure of overall physical prowess. It’s brute strength, yes, but also fortitude and agility. Observation is a measure of how good the Acolyte is at noticing subtleties and incongruities. Influence is a measure of the Acolyte’s ability to sway others to their cause. Will is a measure of the Acolyte’s mental resilience, and their ability to reconcile the paradoxes that are inherent to magic. Lore is a measure of the Acolyte’s ability to research and understand the world’s deeper secrets. The Walkers in the Garden   Mack Campbell has been all over the city’s streets and alleys for his work. He understands Ambiguity. STRENGTH – 7 OBSERVATION—8 INFLUENCE—6 LORE—6 WILL—4   Professor Walter Brandt has had a long career in academia. He understands Complexity STRENGTH—4 OBSERVATION—6 INFLUENCE—7 LORE—8 WILL—6   Isabel “Izzy” Barnes moves through society like a fish through water. She understands Multiplicity STRENGTH—6 OBSERVATION—7 INFLUENCE—8 LORE—4 WILL—6   Molly Zhong has long ceased paying active attention to the switchboard—she doesn’t need to. She understands Connections STRENGTH—6 OBSERVATION—6 INFLUENCE—4 LORE—7 WILL—8   Jesse Owens has worked long and hard to make it to where he is. He understands Struggle STRENGTH—8 OBSERVATION—4 INFLUENCE—6 LORE—6 WILL—7 And here's the Discord channel for the game! And with that, the first orders of business are your Three Questions and The Name of the Cult [LOCKED VOTE] The Lord of Hats fucked around with this message at 18:15 on Feb 9, 2019 |
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Feb 6, 2019 05:11
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Monads Mack:      Walter:      Izzy:       Molly:       Jesse:       Rituals Rite of the Mahaligyon Within the one, the many. From the many, one. Allows Monads to Take the Boost Action COST: Same Color, Related Aspect (that is, what you're boosting relates to what you are): 2 Essence Same Color, Disparate Aspect (You're boosting something unrelated to what you are): 4 Essence Off-Color, Related Aspect: 4 Essence Off-Color, Disparate Aspect: 6 Essence Maximum Boosts Per Roll: 1 Resources None The Lord of Hats fucked around with this message at 04:32 on Feb 14, 2019 |
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Feb 6, 2019 05:12
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As the smoking man finished speaking, the swarms of monads explode into activity, shouting, arguing amongst themselves, each one struggling to be the voice that stood out, to be the one most satisfied, the one who received the answer to their own particular inquiry. In their midst, blind to the pandemonium that surrounded them, the acolytes rose. One of them steps forward—Mack, who was no stranger to having questions answered. “Now what—“ The smoking man moves sharply, hand raised to silence the inquiry. “Silence, Garden-walker. My obligations to you are over. Know your place.” The smoke billows outward suddenly, enveloping the entire room, filling it with a darkness, total but for the dull, distant red of some smoldering core. Just as quickly, it cleared, the room the same as before, save for the fact that Mack was once more spread out on the floor, still, but breathing. “Now. If there are no further interruptions… Your questions, if `you will.” The debate resumes, with a rather subdued intensity this time. Soon, a concordance was reached, a delegate chosen. A proud mote, this one, for how could it not be? The Taste of Victory posted:What is our Objective? The man chuckles darkly. “So fresh to the world, and yet already filled with such a sense of purpose. So eager. Perhaps this will be worth watching after all. What is your “objective”…? What is the objective of a bird? Why does a mouse crippled and half eaten by a cat, still attempt to crawl away? Why does man craft so many lies for himself?” “Do not be mistaken. Your are not here on the behalf of some higher order. You are called forth the same drive and goal as everything else on this Earth. You are here to survive. Perhaps, once you have become secure in that objective, you will find yourselves with a greater purpose. But that’s hardly something to concern yourselves with now.” Molly and Brandt stand with focused attention, as utterly lost as the others, but both quick on the uptake. Whatever this is, it is important. Every detail precious. Izzy kneels on the floor, clumsily bringing Mack back to the waking world. Jesse paces the outer edge of the room, looking for the exit that must be there, but find nothing. It is curious—he makes the full circuit, multiple times, and yet not once does he pass behind the smoking man. No further answer forthcoming, another monad speaks up. Yellow this time, as patiently observant as its progenitor. A Crisp Sense of Wonder posted:How do we prevent tearing ourselves apart? “A practical question. Good. You are learning. A practical answer, then. Already, you are slowing. Decaying. It will be imperceptible at first. Perhaps you will feel it at the end of your vision, a swimming. A slipping. Truthfully, I cannot tell you how you will perceive it. But it is there. And unless you find the energy to push yourself up, well… I suppose you’ll have failed your ‘objective’.” “There is an order to this. A method to be followed. You have lost it, but I am certain your dear professor can work it out again, crude though his understanding was. And once you have bought your further time, you can dig further. Refine your process, correct the glaring errors in your transcription of the Rite. Perhaps you will discover deeper secrets. We shall see.” Mack has awoken. This time, he remains sitting, one hand raised to his aching temple. But he remains vigilant, practiced eye plucking out details where he could. An old habit, comfortable in its familiarity. The smoking man rises to his feet, circling the room in the opposite direction as Jesse. Still, they somehow never seem to meet. One of Molly’s monads speaks up, its ‘voice’, insofar as such a thing exists, tinged with a hint of the strange clarity of terror. The Nightclub Fire posted:What's your deal? “My deal is the bargain we struck. You had the Rite, yet lacked the power and conviction to perform it on your own. Yet you could also not give it up. And so… you came to me. Negotiations were made, and an agreement reaches. I have extracted my payment.” For a moment, there is a decidedly bluish cast to the smoke that rises from the man’s collar. “And now, that deal is fulfilled. Now, you will excuse me—“ Anticipation posted:Tell us, what do you know about the pallid king? The smoking man pauses with a jolt, dropping his cigar, and then reaches across the room. His arm does not extend, does not change in any way. He is clearly on the other end of the room. And yet, he reaches out, across the intervening space, and plucks Anticipation from the air, pulling it closer for examination.  Anticipation loses one Clarity! “Some things are best forgotten.” Once more, the smoke swells forth, filling the room. When it vanishes, it reveals the room once more, the man gone. No, it’s not the same room as before, is it? The floorboards are not so cleanly cut as before. The walls not in so neat a state of repair. And importantly, there is a door, cheap and nondescript, and windows, looking out onto the city you know so well. Mack rises once more, bending down to retrieve the cigar butt. He turns it over in his hands, sniffs experimentally, and then takes a drag. “Chesterfields. Not the cheap kind, either.” There are no introductions. There is no need for introductions. The figures do not know, do not remember each other, but there is the overwhelming sense of familiarity between them. They knew each other once. That is certain. And while the memories they once shared are gone, they now share far more than they ever could have before. It’s Izzy that breaks the silence, and even then with great hesitation. “So… um… now we…” She gestures vaguely. “That was… a thing. What are we even doing? Now what?” "I think," Brandt replies "That we have a lot that we need to figure out before we do anything else." "We've got a lead on that guy. It's not much, but it's something. I can start asking around tobacconists, see what they've seen." "What, ask if they've seen a guy with smoke for a head?" Izzy asks. "Well--" "We do not want to find him," Molly interrupts. "He is powerful. He is dangerous. Even if we found him, what then?" "Whatever we do, we need to start doing it." Jesse has opened the window, and is taking deep breaths of the hot city air. "I'm not about to sit around letting the clock run out." Now what? The Lord of Hats fucked around with this message at 01:05 on Feb 10, 2019 |
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Feb 10, 2019 00:00
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“Alright. I’m heading out. Gonna follow this trail before it goes cold.” Mack was out the door before anyone else had the opportunity to speak up, out the door and into the hallway—in even worse repair, he noted as he carefully made his way down the creaking steps. It was clear from a glance that it had been a long time since this building had been occupied, and even longer since it had been safe to occupy. The windows on the ground floor were all boarded up, as was the front door—it took a few minutes to find the exit in the basement, pried-up boards neatly stacked next to it. Whenever it was that they’d entered, they’d clearly been planning to cover their tracks. Not that Mack needed evidence to tell you that much. This wasn’t about tracking down the Smoking Man, Mack reflected as he headed down the streets, getting his bearings—they were way the hell up in the Bronx it turned out, he could see Van Cortlandt Park from here—it was mostly about getting the hell away from… from… from whatever that was. poo poo! How had everyone else been so drat calm about it? Why had they called that thing up, anyways? Why had he called it up? Why did he know he was going to go back to all of it? The smart thing to do was to leave. The whole situation was bad news. And while Mack Campbell hadn’t survived the Great War by being a coward, that didn’t mean he didn’t know when to cut and run. And that time was now. But instead of doing the smart thing, here he was falling back into old familiar habits, asking questions he didn’t want to find an answer to. And when he found that answer, he knew he was going to go back to that drat rotting tenement and tell those familiar strangers what he’d found. Well, if he was going to fall on old habits anyways… Vice: 1d4 2 A furtive glance, a furtive swig, and Mack was feeling a lot better about the situation. God bless Tennessee and its extensively talented backwoods. The first shop was a bust—no English, though he did get a good price on a pack of Camels—second wasn’t about to answer questions about customers, and the third had the same policy, although they’d made it clear that money might clear up their sudden amnesia. Mack didn’t bother paying—the guy clearly didn’t have the right kind of stock anyways. Four was, once again, no English. And on, and on, and on. This was the life. Lots of walking, lots of getting turned away. But it was all worth it when— Checking Tobacconists: 1d8 4 “Hey, Tony! TONY! C’mere!” the shop’s owner was burly and balding, his hair apparently fleeing the top of his head for the safer pastures between his eyebrows. “I want you to get a long look at this!” “I’m coming, I’m coming” the shop’s tall, gawky assistant replied as he came in from the back room. “Alright, Bruno, where’s the fire?” “The fire, Tony, is right here!” Bruno replied, waving the cigar stub in Tony’s face. “Tony, you tell me what the sign out front says.” “That if you can smoke it, Bruno’s got it.” Tony replied listlessly. This conversation clearly wasn’t a first. “That’s right! ‘Less it’s a reefer. Now, this man here comes in, askin’ after his buddy’s brand! Because Bruno, he’s got it all, right? And so I tells him of course we got it, I’m Bruno, I’m a man of my word. ‘Cept I take a look, and we’ fuckin’ don’t! Not a single drat one of these things! Not even an empty fuckin’ box! We’re not just out, we’ve never had one of these things!” “So what—“ “You’re the one in charge of inventory, Tony! I trust you with that responsibility, and this is what you do? You make a liar outta me?” Tony finally managed to snatch the butt away from Bruno. “Chesterfields… but that’s a cigarette brand. They don’t make cigars.” “I got a cigar and a customer right here that say otherwise! You callin’ them liars?” Bruno was, at this point, quite thoroughly red. “We just got a fresh shipment yesterday! You think they wouldn’t be yelling at us to carry their cigars if they made them? They aren’t, because they don’t! It’s not a thing!” Tony threw his arms out in exasperation, flinging the cigar out into the storefront, where Mack retrieved it before heading out. He wasn’t going to be getting more of an answer from here any time soon. But then, he’d already gotten something good. Now if he just had any idea what it meant. (With our first separation of Acolytes, the Monads learn an interesting fact! They can’t get too far away from the Acolytes in general, but the space separating the Acolytes doesn’t seem to exist for them—right now, for example, Monads can freely move from Mack’s orbit to one of the other Acolyte’s) ---------- A silence hung over the room after Mack’s abrupt departure. “Should we go after him?” Izzy asked. It was good to start off with a question when this kind of thing happened. People liked easy questions. It made them feel smart. Comfortable. Like they had a grasp on the situation. “Nah, he’s gone. Guy needs some space. Sounds pretty good to me, too.” Jesse replied. There. The silence was broken. “I’m sure he’ll be back, once he’s calmed down. But… Jesse, correct? I’d ask that you stay a minute. I think we should all stop and get our bearings one the situation before we split up any further. Like you said, we’re on a clock right now. We can’t afford to waste time here.” Professor Brandt reached into his pocket and withdrew his pipe, only to discover he had no matches. He continued to hold it in his hand regardless. “We’re going to be working from first principles, here. What facts do we have to work with?” “Well…” “We knew each other.” Molly finally spoke up. She’d been staring at the floor for a while now. “We must have. I do not—“ she paused, hesitant. “We do not remember how. But we knew each other. We must have. And we worked together. On this.” “What, you’re saying we did this to ourselves?” Jesse asked, incredulous. Molly shook her head. “No… We weren’t able to. We lacked something. Power. So we contacted… summoned the Smoking Man, somehow. And he did it for us. And in return we gave him…” “Something.” Brandt concluded. “That’s worth some thought. We were working together as… a fraternity of sorts. Well, I suppose that’s not quite the word. A society. “ “The Garden-Walkers. He called Mack that, right?” Izzy noted. “I believe so. But we are verging into detail. Let us refocus. We were associates. The Garden-Walkers, perhaps. We created a ritual that tied us all together. We called that man to perform it. He took his payment, and put the process in motion. And now it is up to us to keep it going. Somehow. Have I missed anything critical?” Silence. “Well then. The portion that stands out to me is that we either created or discovered the ritual in the first place. And I cannot imagine that it was a simple thing. And that means there was work involved. Research. And while I cannot say so for certain, I believe that is a task that would have fallen to me.” “Seems fair.” Jesse said. “And if I did that, there must be notes I left behind, in my study. It only makes sense. So with that in mind, I intend to see what I can discover. If the rest of you have any avenues to pursue, I suggest you do so. Perhaps there are still clues to be found here. In the morning, we shall reconvene here, for lack of a better option. Is this acceptable?” There was a general nod of assent. “Good. Let us begin, then.” ---------- Izzy: Searching Surroundings: 1d7 3 Molly: Searching Surroundings: 1d6 2 Jesse: Searching Surroundings: 1d4 3 There were not, it turned out, clues to be found here. They weren't carrying anything out of the ordinary besides the robes they'd been wearing. The room was empty. No candles, no chalk circles, no anything. Just shabby walls, messy floor, lightbulb. And the same was true of every other apartment in the drat building. Well, one of them had a collapsed floor, which was another’s collapsed ceiling, but that wasn’t a clue towards anything but the entire place being an old dump. Jesse had headed out early, when he’d started to get a headache from staring so long at nothing. He was restless, anyways. Energy to burn. Good time for some roadwork. That always calmed him down. Centered him. Sure, his vision was going kind of funny—flashes of red dancing across his field of view—but he could deal. He knew this neighborhood, after all. ---------- Brandt’s apartment was tidy. He was very particular about that with his housekeeper. A tidy house meant a tidy mind, and a tidy mind was a mind that was operating smoothly. He slipped off his jacket—they’d all left those robes back at the tenement—and slung it over his shoulder as he retired to his study. His study was tidy as well, after a fashion. The piles of ashy sludge on his desk were all quite neatly arranged, some still folded between heavy, illegibly scorched cloth-bound covers. It was quite a prodigious amount of work. It had to have been. A single piece of paper didn’t amount to that much ash. And there was a lot of ruin piled upon his desk. How many days? Weeks? Months? Did that mound represent entire years of labor, all reduced to nothing? My Work! My Work!: 1d6 6 Brandt stood quietly for a moment, then quietly pulled a volume at random from his shelves. It was untouched. Pristine. This was not the work of random chance. No, this was just another point of data in a long, long trend of his work being rejected and thrown away. He had coped with this before. He could cope with it again. He sucked on his unlit pipe—there’d been enough fire in this room already, he wasn’t about to add more—and then began his search. The ash was a lost cause, he confirmed quickly enough. The Smoking Man had been thorough in that regard. But the Man, powerful and alien though he might be, was in some strange manner a man all the same. He walked, he spoke, he thought. And that meant there would be errors. Searching My Office: 1d6 4 It was a break from the search that proved fruitful, in the end. He had eaten his dinner, taken his customary evening constitutional, and checked on his mail. And it was there, right there in his mailbox, that he found the invoice. “BEDROS KELJIK AND SONS” the letterhead read. “RARE BOOKS AND ANTIQUITIES” Brandt smiled. There was always a flaw. Sorry if there's things I didn't address, but this was getting long as it is, and I'm still figuring things out. You’ve got a lead. Two, in fact. To narrow things down a bit for you (and because scenes with all of the Acolytes talking to each other take a long time to write (who’d have guessed?)), Who does Professor Brandt bring with him to Keljik’s?, What to make of Mack’s lead?, What does Jesse notice during his roadwork that's unusual? The Lord of Hats fucked around with this message at 03:10 on Feb 14, 2019 |
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Feb 14, 2019 02:58
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Also, have a new Monad picture
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Feb 14, 2019 04:32
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