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/tg/ - Traditional Games

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Long ago, /tg/ would occasionally have 'Fluff Creation Threads' where people would come together to write fluff for photos or artwork OTHER anons posted. Let's engage in some idle creative writing and have another one!

>Thread Rules
The idea of these threads is to flex your writing muscles and try to write a short stint of interesting lore or short story based off a photo that *you did not post*
To keep new pictures coming in however, if you write some lore, provide a photo for a different anon to try his hand at writing on.

If you do not have anything to contribute in terms of writing, feel free to post a few pictures but please be aware of the image and bump limits. No spamming photos without writing.

Don't be afraid to write lore for a photo someone else has already written some for, as nothing is set in stone nor are we trying to create a setting from this.

As for topic, other threads in the past held fast to a theme, but in this post anything you've got. Character artwork, items, enviroments, hell even scenes of action will work just fine. Fantasy, Sci-Fi, whatever.

This is NOT a request thread.

Have fun, and keep it civil and constructive.

For context and an example of how previous threads went down, have a link to a pretty successful 'Wasteland' Themed thread.

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I'll post some random pictures to push the boat out, and wait on contributing writing until other people do so. Wouldn't want this thread being one mans writing circle-jerk.
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Noble Dead, once wild rebels, now lounge about their necropoleis as their old creators once did. Rather than seek power or fame, they are sated by greed and sloth, hoarding vials of the grim radiation that brought them back to the world of the living. The oldest of the Noble Dead were the instigators of the rebellion and possess grim radiation to last them for millennia.
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When we first went to colonize other planets we were worried about military conflict. Turns out we were a little overprepared. The first habitable planet we found had a dominant species more than willing to let us set up farms and settlements, so long as they get the occasional farm animal in exchange it was all good.
>collaborative worldbuilding
Inb4 This thread was moved to >>>/qst/
Banning quests from any board to >>>/qst/ was a mistake.
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>Vile Barony

In the city-state of Stradelhalge, the nobility control every-level of society through a corrupt police force and carefully-planned assassinations.

While the cities neighbors are well-aware that the leading members of the city are not to be trusted, the traditionally isolationist Stradelhalgens have done much to hide the true depravity of their nobility. Nearly every level of the culture, industry, and the entirety of the church is geared towards the production of ever-more twisted means to artificially extend the lifespan of their necrotic masters
Through steel, alchemy, and magics too foul to fathom the upper-crust of the City-State march ever forward towards immortality, and have long-since passed such petty, needless things such as morality and humanity.
The leaders of the kingdom of Ipsoon have devised a cunning way of making sure that those punished by being stripped of their rights and possessions (a common punishment for defiance there) receive no aid. Their alchemist created creatures of all shapes and sizes which hide in the guise of beggars, thus ensuring such people are given a wide berth by the general populace.
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forgot pic
It begins
She smoking glitter?
Shadow Weepers

An urban pest of unknown origin. Carnivorous and deadly. It feeds on those who venture into the dark alleys and empty streets of the city late at night. The victims will often find their attentions grabbed by plaintive sounds not dissimilar to a woman's weeping, a high pitched whine created by vibrating air through tiny air holes in its exoskeleton. If the victim decides to investigate the noise, they will find what at first glance appears to be a woman on all fours, crawling and weeping. This is, in fact, its natural camouflage. Although the illusion doesn't hold up in bright light, it hides itself away in dark corners and poorly lit areas to facilitate its disguise. As the victim approaches it will impale its victim with four long, sharp chitinous claws that spring out from where they are folded on their underbellies. Often they aim for the victim's trachea, sternum, head or feet, in any combination to ensure their prey's death and/or exsanguination prior to consumption.
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The thing most people don't consider about magic is how incredibly easy it makes breaking the law. For every wizard the city hires to create their wards and detection spells, a better wizard can be hired to find cracks in the armor and create backdoors for whatever activities you desire. This has led to the rise of a certain kind of store: by day a respectable, if quaint shop for simple enchantments and magical baubles, and by night, a sort of mage's speakeasy, where all manner of illicit spell components and dark artifacts can be found, along with more mundane vices, of course.
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Mulburrow Street Watcher and his dogs.

Nobody knows where it came from, only that it's been there as long as Mulburrow has been. My nan said she remembered its slow dark walk when she was just a toddler.

The Watcher and his dogs aren't bad, they keep away the Lurkers in the Leaves. If it wasn't for him, Mulburrow would be gone, and the Lurkers would be closer to the City.

I put out dog food and some fruit for the dogs and the Watcher every full moon. It's always gone by morning. I think they appreciate it.
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It'd been tough to find her. Getting the trust of The Backalley Baron wasn't easy. Finding the place even less. But he'd done, and as if she were expecting him, she gave a coy little smile.

The sorceress was centuries old. She'd apparantly slain an ancestor of his during the American Revolution, over a business matter. No harm, no foul, really. Her magics kept her like a cariacture of youth and beauty. A nauseatingly cute face, attached to a skinny, thin-waisted, buxom body, with a massive rear end. She flaunted it with revealing clothes, and unlike other girls, didn't have to worry about the ill effects hedonism.

"Looking for something?" she purred.

"Someone," he replied.

"Did you find them?"

"That depends," he said. Strange. Everything had come to this moment. Years of searching, favors, and toil, all coming down to this little meeting in the back of magically-ensconced den for the mystical n'er-do-well.

He strode over to take a seat next to her, and slapped a photo from his pocket down on the table. It was a very old photo - an aged sepia color had tarnished the normal black-and-white. In it was a pretty woman, for the period, in a conservative sundress.

"You're the only diviner I know who can find people through photographs. Can you find her?"

She gave a wicked smile, and squeezed her breasts together with her elbows, presenting them.

"That depends," she cooed back.
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Commander Wilson's suit was as haggard and weary as he was. The Commander was the sole survivor of an alien strike against his exploration craft that killed his crew and left him stranded on the alien space defense platforms. Hiding among them he scrounged all he could to survive and repair his suit. Using what little equipment he had, he became a ghost to the creatures as he struck from the shadows. The story of "NASA the Faceless Butcher" had already spread and demoralized the alien garrison by the time actual military forces of Humanity showed up. After recovery and debriefing, Commander Wilson was awarded the Sol Cross for his determination to survive and his impact upon the alien forces.
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Wizened, dirt-crusted finger pads brushed deftly away from the charcoal smudges on the page; the shape of the placid creature in front of Niles Hawthorne had begun to form together as a detailed sketch on the page of his closely regarded journal of all flora and fauna on Boz-Ago.

"Slimy.. like some sort of amphibian, but completely clammy and dry along the anterior portions of the tendrils - amazing!"

Dark eyes, rich eyes, almost humorously both pinched in scientific ecstasy, and magnified by the sheer prescriptive power of his glasses - held snugly onto his head with a trusty safari strap, of course.

Heather, far from the animal interested sort, let alone alien animals, furrowed her brow as she inspected the spiny, verdant billowing mass. Her vision traced over each plume of mock-leaves, zig-zagging mindlessly until she met eye-to-eye with the cooing and gurgling critter.

Something.. clicked in her, in that brief moment, the innocuous demeanor of this lap-pet of an invertebrate, the way its camouflage swiped back and almost gave it a sense of style, of personality. The way it favored a specific position caught her eye the most; comfortably wrapping its stubbier fore-tentacle about the tree branch, as if obstinately claiming its little place in the world. It reminder her of her cat, actually - what'd she'd do to see that little baby again.

Wait.... Baby...

"Is this.. fully grown, Dr. Hawthorne?" Heather asked hesitantly.

"Hrm.. I'm not sure, actually, none of the other team has run into one of these little guys! They sure are cute though! Probably don't get any bigger than that, I would wager."

Heather breathed in to reply, when the air soured. A piney musk filled the air, a primordial, sonorous, rumbling hiss throttled not far behind them.

Dr. Hawthorne's eyes widened even further than Heather figured possible, he quietly closed his notebook, glanced at the creature, and then to her.

"I.. think.. you might be right, Ms. Laureaux."
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Kaal ventured into the farbark only by desperation, the winter months grew closer and the herds thinner. The cold bade him welcome into the new growth as he felt the damp air of the inner groove thin, the only thing adverting the biting glare of the ice old nans charm fastened around his neck the old bark held close by thread so bright he could swear it seared his skin and kept the cold from his heart. Three days walk is what he promised his mother, three days without a bounty and he would return in shame. It had been seven when he found the first sign of the hunt. Faint, buried under the mornings fall. His heart pushing him foreword, he felt himself press closer to the ground. His breath hampered by the heavy furs felt like sharp bliss to his frozen cheeks. He barely felt the pull of cord as he notched the bow, he scanned the horizon, forcing his eyes to push past the glare of the snow and wind. He stumbled forward his feet pressing deep into the freeze though he no longer felt them. His mind focused blurring the white around him until his thoughts were only of the beast. He had not the kin for nans gift but his father had taught him everything he had known, which was much. His mind drifted numbed by the embrace of the moon and his sons. He remembered the better years of yewling bows with his siblings. When deer ran like the river. Though in time, he knew them both to dry. It was the crack of the dead wood which snapped him back to the senses. He nearly missed it. A feeble thing half dead wandering alone. Kaal through the freeze on his brow could see its matted coat splotchy and without health. He raised his shoulders, as his father had taught him. Pulling the string back the frozen wood protested, red as bright as charmstring weeped along the cordage and darkened the snow. He felt his arms waver as he found his eye on the fawn. His breaths becoming more labored with each second.
He loosed the arrow, its feathers shedding their ice and sailing through the air with the grace of those that had been born with them. Though like its blood before it, fell. Landing with a thud that echoed through the newwood. The deer turned and lept thought farther into the brush as Kaals fingers struggled to loose the next arrow. As it dipped out of sight he fell to his knees. His arrows scattering the snow as they fell from his quiver. With every breath he felt his strength leave himself. He pulled away the hide from his hands and grasped nans charm too weak even too weep for himself and his village. He had failed. He felt himself whisper a prayer to the old gods. To Braccus the wise to Kul the skillful to all those of the stories told to him in bedridden nights by nan. His breath wavered as his mind drifted and he soon found himself once again in better times. He had come low with wood lungs and nan had kept him safe in those sleepless nights. There was one story that was his favorite though nan never told it without him asking. He raised his frozen eyes to the stars and found the star which nan had pointed out from his bedroom window. He pulled the sting loose from his neck and began to tell the story a story nan had said was older than even her. A story older than the new gods she had said. He told the story of the trees and of the birds and of the first hunter and his promise to the wood. As he felt himself slipping in the dark he struggled to finish the story. The hunter made a promise so great that the wood had to accept. Kaal felt the cold grip his heart as he lost the strength to stay kneeling, he closed his eyes waiting for the embrace of the snow.
Intstead if he had the strength to be surprised he felt a warmth. His face covered in musk and hair. Like the hides that lined the great hall that he would throw over his shoulders to retell hunts of old. He raised a hand to his lips and pushed himself away as they came back red. Landing on his back. He looked for his arrows and bow but could not find them in the white. He felt the string of nans charm pulled away from his hands. His eyes drifted away from the blood stained hide at his feet. Upwards across the sinew and red, across the bone across the wood across the beast at his feet and at his mind. “Partake child” the voiced blew across his eyes and found their way into his mind.
Since the creation of the net and it’s been evolving over time. As data has been passed around more than the neighborhood slut mega corporations have been wanting in on it. Creating AI that will take the data will take and keep the data. Being able to sort the bullshit from the real deal. The legend goes that there is an oracle of some sort that has all the information that you could ever want. My team has been jacking in for years, exploring the net, searching for this thing that people in cyberspace would call a god. Going through every nook and cranny to find places that will lead me closer to him. Gathering all the information I could. Hacking all the corps pulling heist on there data to find him. My team has finally hit the jackpot. Meeting something that does not look human like most AI but just a machine on a lonely plane with the moon and the sun behind him. It asks in his Microsoft Sam voice “What do you wish to know?”
Love this one
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The early morning sunlight carried little warmth, serving to do little more than make the man have to screw up his eyes to see as it reflected off the snow. Some of the drifts he’d forged his way through had come up to his knees, and his breeches and boots were soaked, moisture squishing between his toes, but he paid the chill no mind.

Instead, all his attention was focused before him, on the small, run-down buildings of the shanty-town. Calling the collection of snow-covered hovels a town was being charitable, he’d seen pig farms that were bigger and more prosperous than this place. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the first corpse, little more than an impression under a covering of pink snow. Slowly he looked around, counting the bodies. Some had fallen outside, like the first, and been covered by the snow, whereas others had been halfway in or out of their hovels when they’d been cut down.

The man exhaled a cloud of hot mist slowly, and saw something move inside one of the hovels. It was looking at him, slit-pupil eyes narrowed and hackles raised. The reflected sunlight glittered off glistening white teeth as it snarled at him, stomping out of the hovel and into the daylight. He could smell it already, a pungent animal funk overlaid with the coppery odor of dried blood. His hand went to the strap across his chest and yanked on it, the sword on his back almost seeming to leap from the scabbard into his hand.

Later, when the day’s work was done, the man sat back with a groan on a tree-stump, propping the bloody sword against his leg. Four parallel cuts across the left side of his chest were his trophies for today, not deep enough to be serious but enough to hurt like buggery.
Rummaging around for his pipe in the pouch strapped to his belt, the man mumbled to himself.

‘I fuckin’ hate Mondays…’
I need more of this
Then I'm afraid you might have some trouble, because I wrote that for an assignment in university ages ago and remembered I had it on my pc when I saw that pic.

I basically ripped it off from the Witcher, which I think is the point.
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A necromancer known only as the "Iron Lich" has seen that magic and technology can be combined to create something, more powerful than both could ever be
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The deadly leaf squid is well known for its deadly venom and ability to camoflage himself seemlesly with the enviroment, making him practically invisible
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>ITT we parasitise
>Sussiphant the Lovable Flesh-Golem's shrill cadence carved into Veril's ears as the ugly un-thing hobbled ever closer.
>Ever since they'd acquired the cursed sword to purify, Veril had noticed... THINGS. Out of place things. Grating things. WRONG things.
>Like the way Sussiphant screamed whenever he spoke. Or how he never bathed, and stenched so. Or how he always wore that vacuous grin stretched over his corpulent, bloated visage.
>Or the way he'd been eyeing the sword for the past few miles...
>No, something's definitely wrong. Terribly, vastly, deeply, horridly wrong.
>Sussiphant was different. Veril knew not what exactly plagued his lifelong companion, but it could only be the work of the Dark Ones his priest warned him about.
>He remembered what Father Grigor had said of evil: "That apple which rots in the barrel, so spoils the barrel."
>Gods Above, poor ol' Suss was too far gone to even notice. There was only one thing left to do for him.
>Yes, make it quick. Leave him in no pain. Then it's off to the Well, to slay the sorcerors who did this to him.
>Sussiphant's grin slowly faded into a worried wrinkle. The blubbery beast wavered, "Uh... V-Veril? Why are you whispering to the sword? Wh-what are you doing?"
>He tightened his grip and readied the ill blade.
>"What must be done, old friend..."
>Strident shrieks of agony and hot moisture greeted the tail end of his assail.
>"...what must be done."
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Great contribution, anon!
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>The Ferryman

In the endless rivers and valleys of the Eastern Kingdoms, there is but a single Legend that is shared by each and every culture there.

The Legend of the Ferryman.
Said to glide across the surface of the water effortlessly on a threadbare and exceedingly simple raft, he rides past the communities that cling to the waters edge, wordless and seemingly oblivious to the world around him. His twin bird companions constantly squawk, call, and carry on as if having a boisterous debate, laughing and taunting all the while, but it isn't them you should be worried about.

The legends insist if he ever as much as glances at a village, or gods forbid, a person, that great change is coming. Good or ill, it cannot be determined, simply that great change is coming.

The legends insist that if he speaks, that wisdom and knowledge will pour into all who hear him.

The legends insist that he carries an impossible power inside of him, and carries on an endless journey, meditating, reflecting, and most importantly fleeing from the effects his interactions have on the world.

And the legends insist that if he ever steps on to shore, no deed of his matters, for change of such cataclysmic significance will come and erase all he would effect.

"Welcome Welcome! I'm not one to dwell on long winded introductions or mysterious explanations. Time is of the essence of course so let's walk and talk shall we?"

"You see, I, or we I should say are the Hours of the Ministry of Space and Time. To put it simply you've been a bad boy trying to encroach on that which you have no business. I'll have to look over your file again when we get to my desk but I'll just give the genereal spiel that looking to far ahead, or worst, trying to go back are grave offenses and worst still with the methods you use."

"That said, myself and the other Hours are in something of a curious mood. You dun fucked up, but not enough to warrant erasure. Besides, there are worst things that can be done. How would you like a job? We have excellent dental plans and Tuesday is lunch day."
>Sensory Blight

Long ago, a great ritual was performed.

It was performed on a common man, chosen and doomed to die. The ritual would use him as a focus to channel incredible magics into the world.

But at a key moment, a ripple in reality passed through the ritual.

In that moment, the painstakingly intricate lattice of spellwork and ritual was shattered, the magical signals they carried split and rendered into chaos, miles and miles of parchment holding binding and safety runes were altered, and hundreds of acolytes aiding in the casting found an alien tongue replacing their careful chanting.

All of this occured in a mere instant, followed by a single moment of horror, not enough even to scream, before reality itself fainted.

The man, doomed to die, is still there. His nature changed impossibly. His being irrevocably altered. His every thought, and every fiber of him wholy and unknowingly alien.

He is still a focus. For something beyond the veil.

To look upon him is to suffer as your eyes shift and twist into a shape and function as to better understand his presence.

To hear his ceaseless muttering is to suffer as your ear canals attempt to squirm away down your spine, convinced it is better to mutilate itself than be forced to process the sound.

To smell him is to suffer as the sensation of smell is struck from you, your body being incapable of percieving anything but his scent, unwilling to subject itself to lesser sensation.

To taste his presence is to suffer as your tongue betrays you, tying itself into knots in a feeble attempt for revenge.

And to touch him is to suffer.
For you draw his attention.
And hear him beg.

He is locked away, perhaps by the wizards who first cast the ritual.
He is trapped in a chamber deep beneath the world. All across the room the mouths of the acolytes still mumble. Still chanting the ritual, others cursing their fate.
Some pray.
Some rage.
Some laugh.
Our motley crew dove - in perfect avoidance with The Horde - into the dingy tavern. A skittish, ashen-brown critter, decked out in obscure and, frankly, snake oil accouterments, jumped a clear six inches from his stool. His head ticked nervously about, surveying our band.

"Aw, cheeese!" the hooded rodent bemoaned. His voice was strange, the R's stressed, and raised - sharp, nasally, confident - nothing like his skittish personality, " heh, geddit -- no, seriously, you guys are the soldiers they said was comin'?" He peered up and down again, skittering out of his seat and impatiently tapping his foot, all within the span of a few moments. This miscreant seemed to think, to move, a little faster than the usual pace.

Our de-facto captain wheeled upwards, trailing a soon-to-be waggling finger, though his premeditated retort was almost clairvoyantly smothered.

"Well, you-"
"Quiet, nakedskin! Jooo-wee, buncha real "big stick no big talk" folk!" The strident ratman twitched again, grunting in hyper exasperation, scratching at his nose repeatedly and shooting both of his hands out to point, "look - look look, look. Whatever! You'll have to do! Listen, we gotta get to that dock, and as of right now, there's about six thousand flesh eatin' mutts out there!"

Our captain scoffed, stomping over to the window and flitting the shutters, pointing to the abnormally large, and abnormally angry undead stomping about in the central courtyard, "that's the least of our problems, what do you say we do about THAT?"

A faint wink could be seen through the emerald lenses of the ratrogue's goggles, a coy turn of the cheek splayed about his face as he patted at a boiled leather knapsack at his waist - which, with further attention, hummed ominously.

"Oh ho ho, don't worry, I got somethin' for him."

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