Continuous CYOA: The Road to Free Roller

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Lord Haitos's throne room was cold and bare, offering not much more in the way of luxury and comfort than his prison cells had. It was, however, much richer in lighting, and the burning torches along the rough stone walls revealed an audience that, encouragingly, seemed to consist mostly of young, moderately well-dressed human men and women.

This boded well for the fairness of his trial. Those who spent their lives making themselves of use to the metal overlords typically had a shared goal in mind: to one day, after proving their loyalty over decades of service, be chosen to 'Ascend', and join the Vrykals in immortality themselves. The young ones still had a sense of conscience, and long lives ahead of them. The old ones, however, saw death staring at them in every reflection, and a lifetime of work well behind them. Such men would burn entire cities to the ground without the slightest hesitation, if the metal men commanded it. They'd gone too far to back out now.

Moments later, a chill went down Soren's spine as he realized why there were so few of the elderly in the room today.

"Soren, called Lorasson." Lord Haitos sat alone in the large wooden chair at the fore of the room, bearing no decoration save for an aged, massive bronze scepter. His armor was noticeably larger than that of Dollos, who stood guard by the steps below, and the blue light shining from it was a great deal darker by comparison. Nobody moved or spoke, and the air went still with the oppressive silence of a great many people all trying not to breathe too loudly. Soren was one of them.

"You are charged with diverting military resources to the open market in a time of war - a grave offense for a subject of the realm, who lives under its great and most esteemed protection. To do so deliberately is no less than an act of treason; and even unknowingly, of actionable recklessness. To be punished with thirteen lashes and a fine equal to no less than twice the losses of the state." Soren's palms broke out into a cold sweat at the thought, his heart racing with panic.

"Have you anything to say in your defense?"

Soren struggled to focus.

...

Well?

- Nothing. [RISK: -1 / SPIRIT: 0 / PROFIT: -2 / SYNC: +2]
- Plea bargain. [RISK: 0 / SPIRIT: +1 / PROFIT: -1 / SYNC: +1]
- Argue the case. [RISK: +2 / SPIRIT: +2 / PROFIT: 0 / SYNC: 0]
- Demand trial by combat. [RISK: +3 / SPIRIT: +3 / PROFIT: +1 / SYNC: -1]


CURRENT STATS:
RISK: 4
SPIRIT: 2
PROFIT: 3
SYNC: 1
 

coolpool2

Savage AF
The Original Gangster
- Plea bargain. [RISK: 0 / SPIRIT: +1 / PROFIT: -1 / SYNC: +1]

I mostly want to get that sync up so we can bring out the big guns later.
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Take the plea bargain. Trial by combat, despite the bonuses to spirit and profit, adds too much risk and results in a loss in sync where he's already low. Arguing the case just gonna get him btfo.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Soren’s mind ran back and forth across his options with such alacrity, that surely anyone trying to follow his chain of thought would have been struck with motion sickness on the spot. Soren the Smith was sure that his future prospects were directly tied to his present resources, and that thirteen lashes was a seriously large number of them, and that the sentence could be crippling to an average man’s body such as his own. And behind that knowledge, there was also that fundamental part of him, seemingly stronger than ever as of late, that was simply a weak little crybaby bitch. Between the combined influences of these two, his conscious mind and his subconscious cowardice, the turbulent clash of reason and panic was immediately clear on one thing above all: He must not accept the sentence as presented.


Yet, as much as his forceful impulses told him to argue the case, he fought that instinct, forcing it from his mind. This wasn’t a real trial. Fairness was not a factor. With public opinion having swung so far and so suddenly against the Vrykal lords in recent times, the only way it made sense to judge a commoner like himself so harshly over a set of kitchen knives would be either as a show of power, or of mercy. His own testimony wouldn’t make a difference either way.


In a brief moment of inspiration, he seized on the idea of demanding a trial by combat. Haitos would have to allow it, and no doubt Dollos would be his champion. Soren himself would have the right to supply his own armament, and was a quick and precise combatant in his own right. Affix a prototype exploding bolt to a light wooden haft, and with one well-timed thrust…


...but no, it was too risky. The metal men were fearsome warriors in their own right, and Soren was of the sort with some training and rather little actual experience. Not only might injury or death await him in the arena, but even in victory, he’d be acquitted in name only. From then on, they’d be watching him day and night, without rest, waiting for the slightest pretense on which to extract Lord Haitos’s revenge. Which meant he had to speak. Now. “My lord,” he began, bowing his head and dropping down to one knee. “What you say is entirely true. I have been careless. Seeking only my own wealth and profit, I have made use of both materials and skills most greatly needed by the realm, for her proper defense and security. I can only assume that his Lordship’s anger at having learned of this is as great as my own regret and sorrow, having passed the moment of realization myself.


“My lord, I do not ask for mercy. Even granted, my conscience would not bear it. What I seek is atonement for my failure - what is the transient pain of a mere thirteen lashes, and the paltry sum of a pair of golden ducats, against the betrayal of my sovereign lords, firstly, and just as surely, of my own valued convictions? Nay, I would gladly pay ten - no, a hundred times the sum! If not in coin, then in value, through the work of my hands and the fruits of my labor. Only spare the lash, my lord, lest it harm the ability of this weak and fragile body of mine to do so! Asking nothing more than the meager payment required for bread and water to sustain me, I would gladly work through all hours of the day to shape any materials my lord can provide into the product of his desires. That is what I have to say in my defense.”


It was a well-structured piece of begging. With this, he’d cut to the chase of what Lord Haitos really wanted - cheap access to the labor of a master smith such as himself - and structured it in such a way that he’d look just and benevolent in taking it, or cruel and vindictive for refusing. Which, of course, was rather less important than the fact that it would be against his own interests to. Lord Haitos spent a long moment in silence for effect, as if carefully considering the offer before him, and then said what Soren had always known he was going to:


“Very well.” Even with that disembodied and unearthly voice of his, it had to be admitted, the Vrykal did a very good impression of reluctant acceptance in his tone. “Truly, the law is the law. But the law is made for its subjects, not the other way around, and far be it from a civil guardian such as myself, entrusted with the protection of his people, to deny the virtuous wishes of such a true and honest patriot. Rise, Soren Lorasson. You are free to return to your workshop and remain there. You will be hearing from my quartermaster in the morning.”


“Thank you, my lord.” Soren bowed once more, at the waist, before the guards showed him out. They stayed beside him all the way home, drawing brief stares and mild interest from his fellow pedestrians, and took up post on either side of the door when he arrived. He decided not to question it. In any case, they didn’t follow him inside, where he found that most of his belongings had been thrown around one way or another in a haphazard attempt at searching them. Taking a moment to light a candle, he looked at the murky suds of yesterday’s bathwater, and sighed; partly in relief at making it back safe and sound, partly as a tribute to longing for the luxuries he’d given up to do so. Well, maybe he’d work out something else later. For now, he went up to his room and collapsed on the bed, falling asleep almost before he’d even hit the sheets.





In the sim-pod, Thunderclaw’s eyes shot open and he gasped for air, coming awake with a start.

CURRENT STATS:
RISK: 4
SPIRIT: 3
PROFIT: 2
SYNC: 2


To be continued...
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
"W-what were you thinking!? I could have died in there! Over a - over some stupid game!" Thunderclaw's hands were shaking too badly to hold the teacup steady, so he let it rattle back down against the saucer atop the counter, back in the Fantasy Nations lounge.

"Well, firstly don't let Tirin hear you say that. He'll chimp out. And get a grip, would you?" Druby waved dismissively at the wild-eyed man, seated in an armchair and, (it seemed like the thing to do), huddled under a blanket. "Pretty sure nobody on the forum's been killed more than me, and that's lasted like, a few months. Tops."

"That doesn't mean I want to! You should have told me earlier!" TC waved his arms about dramatically, with the added effect of throwing off the blanket, which knocked over the teacup along the way. "Like oh, hey, I'm dead now, but at least there's gonna be a clone of me walking around pretty soon, so I feel so much better about it! Fair trade! Works for everyone but me!" "Yeah, that's the other thing." Druby sighed, eyeing the seeping tea puddle in disappointment. "I made up that thing about dying with your character. Hey! Hear me out" he added, seeing his eyes widen in shock and anger. "It was your first time in, right? And you were trying to learn how to act like a badass.

"Well, if I'd let you go in there thinking you could take all the risks you want, no problem, there wouldn't be any point to it anyway. You don't need any spirit to do that. Spirit is nutting up and taking the dangerous path when there are real risks and consequences to it, because it's the right thing to do - whether it's for yourself, or for others, or for your principles, or whatever. I was watching your progress." He casually threw a plain manila folder across the counter at TC, spilling a few sheets of paper out in the act.

"While you were in the sim world, you had a stronger body, a broader skill set, and a lot more intelligence, no offense, than you've got right now. And the whole time you were in there, you nutted up twice. Of that, one of them was retroactive, where the sim and the character did all the work. And the second time was only a little bit braver than just standing there and doing nothing. But it's still progress. That was actually your decision, in there. It was you taking action. The person you were before walking in here wouldn't have had the stones to try negotiating with an immortal, super powerful, monster overlord. You'd have choked up. I guarantee it."

There was a lapse of silence, while TC processed this. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice, eyes downcast and not meeting Druby's gaze. "So what do I do?" It was barely more than a murmur.

Dragonruby shrugged. "That's up to you" he said. "Take a break if you want, do something else. Or go back in. Your call. I'll go refill the stocks, check on Zapy while I'm at it."

...

- Test of Spirit, Ep. 2.
- Train another stat.
- ???
 

Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
This bitch baby's spirit is still weak as fuck. If it weren't, he wouldn't be afraid of Fantasy Nations death, but delighted to have played a role in something far greater than himself.

Test of Spirit, Episode 2 - Electric Boogaloo.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
For a long time, Thunderclaw said nothing. A very, very long time. Dragonruby was starting to wonder if he hadn't suffered some kind of brain damage in the machine, when suddenly, without a word, he simply stood up and strode briskly past him, directly back to the hall with the machines. In fact, he still said nothing until minutes later, when he was finally strapped in and waiting for the synchronization sequence to kick in. "You think that was ballsy?" He mused, seemingly to himself. "Just wait. That's nothing compared to where I'm going next."

"Oh, uh, yeah. Great." Druby's voice crackled over the intercom. It would have been easy, with this kind of technology, to make an intercom that didn't crackle. Top-tier remotely transmitted audio quality was entirely achievable. Therefore, it would have been totally unimpressive to provide it, whereas crackling, static-filled voice comms lent an atmosphere of venerability and style to the setup. Or so the SKT sales rep had said, anyway.

"So... about that," Dragonruby went on. "Thing is, I was lying about that maybe-dying thing not being true. I just didn't want you to flip out and give up on the whole thing." Thunderclaw snapped back to reality in an instant. "WAIT A SE-"

End of Chapter One
 
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Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Intermission

The Fantasy Nations RP Application Room

"So..." Coolpool said quietly, from the corner. Dragonruby had kept him waiting for hours, after abandoning him to deal with TC. "Can you finally have a look at my sheet, now?"

"Huh?" Druby looked up from the screen, where he'd watched as Thunderclaw cut off in the middle of shouting again. "Oh, Coolpool. You're still here? What do you want, again? I'm kind of busy here, you know" he lied.

"My sheet. You said you'd look at it after you had a talk with Thunderclaw. About five hours ago." He added, with a hint of reproach. "So, can you tell me if I'm accepted yet? He's gone now." "Ugh. Fine, whatever." Druby hardly spared him more than half a second, snatching the stack of paper from his fellow Aisan's hands and turning back to the screens without giving it so much as a glance.

"Now, why don't you go make another three-post CYOA or something? I'm working, here." He turned his back without waiting for a reply, signaling that the conversation was over. Annoyed, but unable to argue, Coolpool simply turned his own way, and left.

Progress Towards Coolpool's Explosion:
...6%
 
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Tirin

God-Emperor of Tealkind
Moderator
Man, and there you go breaking my suspension of disbelief. As if Coolpool's ever gonna have a sheet ready for Fantasy Nations.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Man, and there you go breaking my suspension of disbelief. As if Coolpool's ever gonna have a character sheet ready for Fantasy Nations.
Fixed.
 

Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Intermission

The Fantasy Nations RP Clubhouse
Groovy music played in the background of the player's lounge, where Tirin, Easy, Stoney, and Riyant shared drinks and laughter together. It played rather quietly, mind - at least three, of these four, really loved to hear themselves talk. Of these, at least one was no longer a real factor, because Riyant and Stoney looked very nearly on the brink of unconsciousness already, and had hardly said a word or moved a muscle for more than half an hour now.

The drink of the day was Easy's Pure Polish Potato Vodka, it being his turn to provide. This was technically of questionable legality, given Poland's dubious status as part of The Internet, but nobody in the room really gave a damn. Besides, the Right Honorable Justice Easy Rider was more than willing to pay any fines he might sentence himself with, if it ever came to facing charges over it.

"Sssso then, ha, then," Easy's face had been plastered in a perma-grin for several minutes now, and he leaned inadvisably far back in his chair and waved a hand sloppily around for emphasis. Tirin swiftly grabbed hold of his fedora, as the wind generated by this motion nearly blew it clear away. Since his coordination was well off by this point, he ended up crushing it right into his head. "Fuckin' idiot Polack," he grumbled. Riyant and Stoney's eyes went wide open, for the moment, as the breeze swept over their faces.

"Hah!" Easy chuckled. "Thass' what... what'chew get f'r wearin' th' stuupid thing inside. Idiot. Anyway, what...?" He thought for a moment, and then remembered where the conversation had been taking him. "Oh, rright! Yeh. So, so... so then I get Druby to tell 'im, tell 'im he's gon' die too, if his charc'ter does! Hahahaha...!" There was overwhelming laughter for a while - more than a reasonable while - accompanied by a fair amount of swaying and general red-facedness from the last two to speak. Even Riyant and Stoney joined in with a bit of a chuckle, after a few seconds of processing.

Eventually, though, the laughter quieted down, and Easy reached out to pour another round. The bottle shattered in his hands, unfortunately, spilling the last few hundred milliliters of precious surgical disinfectant all over the table. Well, whatever, he thought. 's about time t' open another one, anyway. Other one was getting old. Oxidizing, sorta thing. Yeah. Makes sense. Gotta drink 'em fresh. He tossed it with the others, and absentmindedly twisted the neck off of another bottle, thinking this, as Tirin chimed in with a response.

"Fuckin' kek." He snorted, waving his glass in Easy's direction to showcase its emptiness. He kept going, as Easy, with great care, leaned over to top it up. "Tho... hey. T'be fair, 's not like it doesn't hurt sometimes, w'n that happns. Plus. 'm. ...'m pretty sure Req got hurt pr'ty bad. From when Golden Lore. When that happened. R'member?"

"Yeh. Tru." Easy nodded, and took a swig. Oh yeah, definitely much fresher. "'e was dead f'r a while, after that. But, like. 's like the way Droobee said it, might'a happen'd an'time, like, somethin' yer controlling dies. Fuckin'. Teeesee was scared shitless. Hehe." He smiled some more, and drank, relishing the recollection.

"Well. That, yeah."
Tirin answered. He'd just taken another swig of his own, and was eyeing the rest of his glass contemplatively. Actually not too bad. He hadn't been a fan of it at first, personally, but he was starting to see the appeal. That, or maybe this bottle's just fresher. "Shit, 'f that was how it worked, you 'n me 'd be p fuckin' dead already. Buncha times. Hah!" He reached out with the glass, chuckling.

"Hah!" Easy laughed along, reaching out to clink his own glass against the other, and drank up before continuing. "Well, you would, anyway."

Just then, with singularly poor timing, the jukebox went silent. A sudden tension swept over the room, taking all mirth and relaxation away in the passing, and the two casual drinkers on the couch both sat up and prepared to intervene. Only Easy seemed oblivious to the change in mood, smiling happily to himself and drinking up, in a self-containing island of peaceful ignorance. "You fuckin' wot, mate?"

"Oi, that's my line," Stoney objected, more or less automatically, but nobody heard him.

"You would," said Easy, momentarily looking surprised by the question. "Be killed. 's what we were talkin' 'bout. Remember? Id'a killed th' shit outta you, man. 's no way I'd be lettin' you kill my stuff all the time 'f it was like that. Hell, no. I'd wreck the shit outta you. Over. Finished. Donezo. Fuckin'. Deader Than Disco, mate. Arr Eye Fuckin' Pee. You'd, hic, man, you'd all just not e'en stand a chance. Hun'd percent. Bet on 't. Trufact."

"Huh. Funny. Tirin turned fully to face him, after a moment of contemplation, and leaned back with a sneer. "I don't remember askin' some bitch-ass stinkin' faggot Czech baby bastard for permission to kill nothin' he's got, and 'm pretty sure you're one of those."

"Okay now, whoah!" Riyant sat up like a shot, holding an arm out desperately. "Tirin, you're going too far, man." But Tirin went on, talking right over him. "I don't see why uppin' the stakes 'd really make that much of a difference f'r you. 'cept you'd lose harder. But, Czechs gonna Czech, I guess." He finished, smirking, with a taunting edge to his tone.

"Wait!" Riyant called out in desperation, as Easy's smile disappeared and his shoulders went stiff. "Wait! Hang on! He didn't mean it, man! He's just messing with you! It's just Tirin being Tirin!"

Easy didn't even look at him. Slowly, steadily, he drained the rest of his glass down in one go, and then carefully leaned forward to set it down on the table. Nothing in his face or his movements belied anything other than perfect deliberation and control as, just as calmly, he looked Tirin dead in the eyes, and then leaned over and slapped him full in the face.

It wasn't a particularly hard slap. Well, given that it was Easy who was doing the slapping, it wasn't. All it did was knock Tirin's head aside a bit, jostling him, and cause him to spill most of what was left of his drink, as he caught his balance.

It wasn't particularly loud or noisy, either. Just a bit of a sharp crack, like a piece of deadwood breaking. In the heart-stopping moment of silence that followed it, though, it seemed to resonate throughout the room and come back, more than once, as if from an echo. Like a piece of deadwood breaking in the mountains, say, in the late of winter.

The kind that kicks off an avalanche.

To Be Continued...
 
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Easy

Right Honorable Justice
Member
Tirin got out of his chair and rubbed the side of his face. His cheek stung, and one ear was ringing. It was the only sound that broke through to him, now, with everything else frozen in time like this. He gave it a few seconds to subside, then carefully walked over to where Easy sat, one arm still extended, palm out. Good shot at his face, from here. He curled a fist and threw one, two, and then another three punches, right under the cheekbone. Then he rubbed his stinging knuckles, and thought for a bit. All perfect hits, but...

See, the problem was that moving time around made him faster. It didn't make him stronger. Oh, sure, there was relativity and all that - him doing the same thing, but sped up, should be stronger, right? Wrong. If that was how it worked, he'd be breaking the floor he stood upon with every step he took, right now. And his legs, along with it.
So, the question was: would five solid punches really be enough to teach Easy the error of his ways, for throwing hands against a god-monster like himself?

Decidedly not. So, as long as he could keep going for a little bit longer, before he had to take a break from this...


Stoney shot to his feet, horrified, as the scene in front of him went from the relatively clean, controlled sense of hostility of before, to the bloodshed before him now. In an instant, Easy had gone from seated and slapping, to sprawled and still, blood smearing the majority of his skin and all other surfaces around him. Meanwhile Tirin stood over him, breathing heavily and swearing just as much so, as he kicked at the unresponsive body. Stoney focused on the latter and, carefully, put together a series of words that seemed appropriate to this situation.

"Tirr'n" he slurred. "You haff' t' stohp attackinn' Polan', mate. Orrelse. Else w'r gonna be at war."

Tirin stopped kicking the fallen man, more out of shock than anything else, and gave the drunken Brit a look of total and utter incredulity. Then, almost offhandedly, he stepped over Easy, swung, and knocked Stoney out with a single blow of his fist.

Before Tirin even had time to react, without warning, Easy shot to his feet behind him, grabbed his arm, broke it, and then threw him bodily overhand into the far wall. Bricks and mortar rained down around him as he toppled to the floor, and Easy slowly advanced, wiping off his face with the back of one hand.

"Now I'm angry" he growled, pausing to spit a heap of blood out to one side. "I'm going to tear you to shreds." He paused, just before reaching the other man, as a glow of teal-colored light enveloped him, and his broken arm started reforming. "Wait, what-?"

"Surprised?" Tirin sat up and grinned at him, his wounds closing rapidly as he reset the space-time configurations of all his previously constituent particles. "That's not all, you know. Also, I can fly." With that, he shot forward, grabbing Easy by the throat, and propelled him further and further upwards. He smashed him through the ceiling and kept going, the sounds of their struggle fading into the night sky, leaving Riyant to stare disbelievingly at the mess they'd left behind. "I'll probably end up having to clean it all, too...
was his last thought, before finally succumbing to his intoxication and passing out.

The next day, he woke up to find the place swarming with investigators, most of which had something or the other to ask of him. That was also how he found out about the bounties.

Chlegyr, AKA Stoney: 100 Likes. Wanted for vigilantism, obstruction of justice, and refusing to cooperate with law enforcement authorities.

Steal Thy Kill, AKA Stealthy: 500 Likes. Wanted for destruction or theft of forum property, including, but not limited to, one communal-use cloning machine.

Tirin, AKA Tirin: 1000 Likes. Wanted for the murder of The Right Honorable Justice Easy Rider.

End of Intermission I
 
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