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Post by icon on Nov 23, 2018 19:41:23 GMT -5
I grip my spear tighter, twisting and swiveling, throwing my balance to keep upright against the tremors. With some difficulty, I use one hand to loosen another stilt-spear from across my back, and jab it into the water as another point of contact. This stilt acts as a second leg in the thickening seawater, and provides some stability—but my bundle is looking fairly thin now.
I wait.
The magical rainfire overhead has died down, replaced entirely now the rumbling of the ground. From my vantage point above the water I can see small crevices spring up and slowly fill with water. As water trickles in, a fine steam rises from the cracks, turning to mist as it mixes with the cool air.
I see a crab scuttle out of a crevice in the now-hardening water, then another. The Shallow Sea appears to be terraforming itself, land becoming water, water becoming land. If I can wait out this strange and magical reconfiguration, soon the sea will return to its natural state, and be once again safe to cross.
I continue to wait with finely-groomed patience, clinging to my stilts. Am I in further danger up on these poles? If I am, from what? Anyone may answer.
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Post by Fraze on Nov 25, 2018 10:55:56 GMT -5
A wave-walker hunts on the water's surface.
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Post by icon on Nov 26, 2018 1:21:57 GMT -5
I have never seen a wave-walker myself, but I have heard accounts from other wanderers. Some dart quickly, skittering in ravenous schools that break and dance across the surface of lakes. Others are massive, shambling spirits of creatures that dwelled in the deepest fathoms of the ocean, untouched by light. Others still writhe and dance in dangerous, serpentine patterns, swerving like the rivers that they once inhabited.
Every story, though, corroborates a few consistencies: the ethereal pale translucence of their bodies; the misty, wisplike residue that they impart; and the fatal danger of getting caught in their hungering miasma.
The wave-walker in the distance is solitary, a slender and stilt-legged thing; I probably only come up to its shoulder. It appears to be quadrupedal, but sometimes I can see only three or two legs, and sometimes more. Its head swings up, swivels, darts, jabs the air—as if looking for prey.
I take a gamble, dropping from my stilts, and find that the water-ground beneath me has hardened enough to support my weight. Overhead, it begins to rain.
Can I make a break for the Gold Cliffs without catching this wave-walker's notice? Anyone may answer.
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Post by Gelquie on Nov 27, 2018 23:38:35 GMT -5
Not without caution, for the vibrations from your running will catch its attention.
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Post by icon on Nov 28, 2018 23:13:06 GMT -5
The steam rising from rifts in the ground obscures my visibility to this spirit, but it makes little difference; wave-walkers hunt through the ripples of the water beneath them. Even by standing still I cannot avoid its detection; it has already sensed my presence. I find solace in stillness; until I move, the creature might only mistake me for a rock or a piece of driftwood.
Frozen in place, I wait.
The rain continues to pour from above, cutting through the air, adding to the swirling miasma of steam and mist. Pools of water have already reformed at my feet. The rainwater blends with the seawater trickling from these fissures in the ground as the sea continues to rise, kissing my ankles. If the water level once again reaches my thighs, or even my knees, my running speed will slow to my detriment—perhaps fatally so. It is time to make a choice.
The wave-walker behind me, I steel myself and break into a sprint, settling in for a long, hard run. Can I outdistance it? Anyone may answer.
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Post by Fraze on Dec 3, 2018 6:20:32 GMT -5
You should barely make it to a small cave in the cliffs, just above water level.
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Post by icon on Dec 5, 2018 1:46:55 GMT -5
I scramble, practically tripping over my own legs, as I feel the spectral form of the wave-walker gliding towards me. Leaping over rifts in the ground, I can feel the spirit bending the steam and mist pouring out, the seawater pouring in, the daggers of rain falling from above. The storm is still coming down heavy, but I sprint screaming-muscles towards the Gold Cliffs, their shadows overtaking me from this angle. I feel the journey getting easier—the sea around me is getting shallower. Or rather, the ground level is getting higher; the ocean-rock in front of me rises up from the ground, newly reformed. Water runs slick down the giant shards, but they are not slippery or dangerous—they rise at a steady incline, one that my feet find safe and familiar traction on. In the dark shadow of the Gold Cliffs, I see outcroppings, alcoves, and the vestiges of support structures that once allowed others to scale these walls with ease. Dangling ropes and strange metal hooks dot the cliff faces intermittently. I feel the mist beginning to fade as I spot a small alcove in the wall up ahead, hidden by more shards of ocean-rock; feet pounding, I slip past the puddles covering the ground and clamber past the boulder face. I take one look behind me before I slip inside the cave. The wave-walker, seeing me pass the water line, has ceded its chase. The magical storm overhead is beginning to die down, the reconfiguration of the ground settling into place. The interior of the cave it is cramped and dark. I fumble for only a minute or two before my hand comes across something jutting from the wall; tugging on it gives way to an unexpected hidden passageway. I have made it out of the Shallow Sea safely. What lies upon the next leg of my journey, only time may tell. — Thank you for playing this game of The Sundered Land: A Doomed Pilgrim in the Ruins of the Future! I hope you enjoyed it.
I will leave this thread open-ended in case other people would like to use it to run Sundered Land games of their own…
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Post by icon on Feb 23, 2019 21:05:41 GMT -5
Please take note of the rules clarification in the opening post—anyone is welcome to respond to questions, even if a response has already been posted! If multiple people respond, I'm welcome to pick and choose/merge multiple answers as long as nothing is contradictory. I'm a wanderer seeking peace and an end to bloodshed. I'm on pilgrimage across the Sundered Land to the Temple to No Gods in the distant City of Gulls. My pilgrimage has brought me to the Scrapyard Forest, inhabited by dangerous scavenging beasts, mechanical and organic alike. My goal is to pass safely through and continue my pilgrimage.
You all play the world. Your goal is to see me to my doom, instead of safely on my way. You're allowed only to directly answer my direct questions, though, so you might not be able to do it.This is my second week in the Scrapyard Forest. I have grown accustomed to these woods: the strange, towering machines half-buried in the dirt, covered with moss and ivy; the gnarled, sprawling trees overtaken with metallic lichen and synthetic bark; the dappled sunlight through the leaves mingling with the soft glow of screens and diodes emitted underfoot. This forest pulses and hums with energy—with life, certainly, but also with an energy that exists independent of life. The foliage above me is dense, but through pockets I can see a cloudless sky. It is nearly sunset. I have a walking staff, old and worn, littered with carvings, and an assortment of flasks and vials tucked into pouches along my waist. Something warns me of approaching danger. What warns me? Anyone is welcome to answer.
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Post by Fraze on Feb 24, 2019 8:35:33 GMT -5
An old screen, formerly a defense system, flashes a warning.
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Post by icon on Mar 3, 2019 0:33:09 GMT -5
The flash of a screen built into a nearby panel is enough to give me pause—though many of the mechanisms here have released gentle whirs or pulsing hums, the sound of this siren is unfamiliar and startling.
I make my way over the half-sunken display, scanning for information. A green crosshairs flashes at the center, indicating this station. I can also see three red dots approaching quickly from the east, and another one from the southeast.
I clutch my staff, glancing around the forest. What is my best line of defense against these approaching threats? Anyone is welcome to answer.
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Post by Gelquie on Mar 8, 2019 18:08:37 GMT -5
Your best lines of defense are the very half-buried machines with which to hide behind.
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Post by icon on Mar 11, 2019 23:02:46 GMT -5
My eyes scan the treetops and the ground, looking for a visual on the red dots as they begin to move closer. I look, but I see and hear nothing, except for the rustling of leaves and the familiar, constant hum of the machinery that I already know. I spy two large, mechanical frames not too far off. One of them is buried at a sharp angle, almost entirely upright; another leans against it, made of broad and flat panels. A fallen tree trunk juts out at an angle. Combined together, the frames and the tree form a kind of makeshift lean-to.
Not bothering to wait for the arrival of this threat, I slip past the defense panel, making my way through the underbrush. There's just enough space in between the machine panels for me to squeeze through, though my staff fits in at an unwieldy angle.
Once through the hole, I see that the space inside the machine walls opens up enough for me to move in here comfortably. If forced to confrontation, I could wield my staff easily enough to defend myself. I swing a few practice strokes before noticing another panel in the floor of this space, partially askew. With caution, I pry my staff into the hole, dislodging the panel.
Can I see anything underneath? If I can, what do I see? Anyone may answer.
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Post by Fraze on Mar 12, 2019 6:39:15 GMT -5
A family of cordless mice has made a nest amongst tangled wires.
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Post by icon on Mar 16, 2019 18:31:09 GMT -5
The snarl of cables and wires is residence to these small machines—they grumble their displeasure at my disturbance with soft clicks and squeaks. Perhaps there is a tunnel or a passageway underneath these cables, that I could use to sneak through—but to do so would damage this home. I softly lower the panel to its original position.
The sharp snap of a tree branch outside arrests my attention. I can hear the groan of heavy metal underfoot, the creak of danger outside of this buried machine.
With silent but steely resolve I glance through the hole in the frame, keeping my body to one side so that I am not visible myself. What do I see? Anyone may answer.
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Post by Fraze on Mar 18, 2019 7:20:08 GMT -5
A biomechanical harvester drone picks through rubble.
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