>go on one last adventure
Because that's how adventurers work goddamnit.

Use it to purchase land far away from any civilization. Our children shall inherit a country.

>>109724
>>109729

Back me up buddy.

Don't make this a drawn-out tie.

>>109724
>>109729
>Called and combining these choices. Writing.

>>109745
Nope. I've already imagined this adventurer trying to relive his glory days with one last adventure. He lived by his sword and he shall die by it. It's all poetic and shit.

>>109745
>>109760
Never mind looks like we both get what we want

File: swordQuestOldProvost.jpg (358 KB, 600x900)

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>>109760
Your gaze flicks down to your hand upon the pomel, and your grip steadies. You're not as fast as you used to be, or as strong, but there's iron in your bones yet. You draw a deep breath through your nostrils, the faint tickle of your beard having long ago stopped bothering you. The hold is your first stop; Your signature graces several parchments - the life you had built here, in Rossville. You sign the modest house to your wife alone; The rest of your properties, your earnings, your titles you sign to the Dukedom for a good sum.

And then it's time to tell your wife of your plans; She knew that you could not rest forever. It was never in you to stand still, even now. She is not surprised, and quietly agrees to remain in Rossville until your children are ripe - and then to move deeper to the west, towards the coast. In the plains there are centaurs, but to the south lies giants and to the north lies the main roads, always a source of bandits. It was safer out there, to raise children in quiet and peace, so that they would never come to find their spirits drawn to glory and treasure as yours has been.

Perhaps, when you're gone, something will be left of you. Something with your last name.

Then you head to the market as the evening begins to set; You are not famous, but you are well known here. There is no question of your qualifications, even with your age. You may have lost a step, but wisdom and wickedness out do honor and youth everytime. The question is, where to start?

>Sign onto a caravan going north to Karlsbad - long travel, bad sleeping conditions, but more than enough to coin and battle to fill a man's craving. Bandits ahoy!
>Sign with a troupe heading south, to the broken peninsula. Giants galore, and rumors of bigger: Titans. Plus the treasures of a lost city, and what loot is left.
>Sign with a force heading east, to the fortress city of Mire. Swamps, orks, and undead - but treasures, magic, and madness.
>Head west with your family; Ignore the call, but risk the curse.
>Other? Write-in

>>109832
>Vote called in fifteen minutes

>>109843

Set sail. Find somewhere new.

>>109867
>Called and writing.
>May take a break tonight and pick back up during a busier time, but we'll see how far we go.

File: SwordQuestAnatomy.jpg (24 KB, 576x230)

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You've been about the small continent that houses all that humanity knows in the world. And you know that what lays beyond the shore's sight; Titans and worse swim in the deeps, where the water can hold their enormous girth. You've seen orcs and the walking dead, centaurs and devil roots, dwarves and the Tower of Miracles far to the north. And, once, you saw the distant glimmer on the ebon scales of the black dragon of the Mire Swamp, circling about in the stormy air.

But your heart aches to know what lay beyond even that. Where no creature has gone and returned - at least, none that are willing to speak of what they have seen. And as you look down to your sword, your mind is made up; Perhaps, if you die beyond the lands you know, your curse will finally pass to another rather than finding its way to your children. You decide to head west, once your children are ripe enough to harvest from their tree. The closest direction to the coast. You can at least see your wife safely settled before you leave her, like you've left so many others - dead or broken hearted.

Your first and only love has always been the call of the unknown.

Weeks pass in a blink; Time means so little to you now, like dirt trickling through your scarred, spotted hands. The less in your palm, the faster it all seems to run away. You check often on the tree in your back yard, where your children ripen in their fruit; Wizened old eyes hunting for any sign of corruption, any sign of rot. You've heard of truly rotten children, born bad - you know what evil they can bring to the world. At last they are ready; Your wife plucks the fruits of your love from the tree, and you are given two healthy children. One boy, and one girl.

With the memories of the quiet celebration still warm in your mind, you and your wife head out in the morning. You travel west, with a good couple of donkeys to pull the cart upon which your wife sits, and your two children sleep amongst the pillowed canvas of your belongings. You trod slowly but steadily through the tall plains grass, striking out where there will be no one else; Blazing your own trail through the plains towards the distant memory of the coast. But even as Rossville slowly disappears behind you, up ahead you see a disturbance of scavenger birds.

>Investigate?
>Go around?
>Other? Write-in
>Votes called in thirty.

Investigate. Make sure to tell my wife to watch the kids

>>110060
>Investigate

>>110076
>>110073
>Called, writing from tablet. We'll see how this goes.

Maybe I missed it. How old are the kids?

File: Hill_giant.jpg (132 KB, 819x1000)

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You halt the cart, settling the pack animals with a press of your hand to their snout. You then look to your wife, eyes drifting to the sleeping babes. You two have been together long enough that speech isn't required. Wordlessly she nods, lips a tight white line as she looks ahead to the circling birds.

Trusting her - as you must when you finally leave her at your destination - you creep slowly forward, loosening your sword from its loop upon your belt. Like a lovers sigh, you hear the soft whisper of the wrapped pomel. You fan your hand slowly ahead of you, parting the grass as you travel. There are worse things than snakes after all.

And there, beneath a shriveled shrub tree, is a giant. Stupid, loutish, but more than one good man has found themselves in the belly of the bloated, ungainly beasts. They are far quicker than they look. It appears to be sleeping, face and leathery skin smeared with gore. A few former centaurs, as you survey the splintered remains of cadavers while the birds feast. Gluttonous thing is likely sunning itself in nap. But giants, like magpies, love shiney things; Perhaps if you were quick and quiet, you could slit its throat....? A bulging sack at its hip jingles quietly as it snores in slumber.

>Slit it
>Creep away
>Wake it for glorious battle
>Wake it for talking..?
>Other?
>Votes called in thirty. Roll d20 for Action.

>>110321
Newly born. As you may have gathered from the bit about being ripened and "born" from fruit, humans here are not humans you know for Reasons. Not enough to throw off your decisions. In terms of normal human growth, put them at two months.

Rolled 1 (1d20)

>>110329
>Slit it

>>110355
I knew this would happen. ;_; Please, someone roll better than me.

>>110358

I'm amused. Calling in twenty.

>>110386
Excuse me, ten not twenty.

Rolled 6 (1d20)

>>110355
>Called, rolled, writing.

File: sword_throw.jpg (7 KB, 300x173)

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>>110417
Your eyes are drawn to the jingling pouch once more, but theres more to your wanderlust than greed; Should the giant awake, your sturdy pack animals could not outrun it. You need to make sure this threat is dead before it causes you or yours any harm.

Your thoughts briefly turn to how odd it is to see giants this far north, but mystery can wait. You creep up to the snoring behemoth, and draw your sword in one smoot-

CRAMP!

Your arm jerks away and up from the sudden seizure in your midback, arcing low and forward towards the beast.

>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

You are Aognus the giant, and someone has just thrown a tiny stabbing thing at your forehead. The sharp prick of pain wakes you from slumber, and you pinch the offending implement up from where it lies against your nose. You catch the whiff of your own blood from where the thing nicked your noggin, and your eyes blearly focus on a small two legger backing up rapidly from you as you rise.

First the stupid four leggers rip up the gourd your child was growing in - and you caught them for that - and now this. Faintly you smell more than the scrawny creature before you; four legged meals and another two legger somewhere close, the faint exotic scents from two legger standing stone protections clear as a bell to you. Bellowing your displeasure, you..

>Squish
>Crush
>Splatter
>Rip
>Tactics...?
>Other, write in

---------------

OOC: Good time for a nap. You've learned a rule - This is Sword Quest, not old man quest. Who holds the sword is our protagonist, and death will come quickly to the foolish. Vote extended until much later, if thread is alive. 1d20 for Actions.

Rolled 9 (1d20)

>>110486
>Crush

Rolled 5 (1d20)

>>110486
>Rip

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>110486
>crush

Rolled 12 (1d20)

>>110486
>throw the sword back at him like a dart

Rolled 5, 13, 15, 6 = 39 (4d20)

>>110515
>>110523
>>110549
>>110588

Called, rolled, writing delayed by job until lunch. Unless I can find a proxy that will let me view 4chan AND respond to the captcha, and doesn't have the word 'proxy' in the webpage name. teleport.to came close.

>>110486
Nice! Didn't expect that.
That old hero, his wife and the babes are toast, I guess.

File: SwordQuestEngageUponTitans.jpg (42 KB, 400x342)

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>>111143
>>111765
>Remember - the protagonist is who holds the sword. In this case, for these rolls? It was the giant.

All of your days until this point have been an unremarked blurr. You eat during the day, you eat during the night, you sleep when you are tired and babies grow when you find a suitably strong mate. You've had no inclination to look at the stars as anything more than a dizzying array of lights, and no curiosity about when and how the rains come, though you are aware that it gets colder and then warmer, over and over, as your life is lived.

If there are gods in the skies above, you do not know them; You and your kind are the top predators in this place, larger than anything living beyond the deep waters. And yet as your oversized foot crashes to the earth - throwing up huge clouds of dust and shaking the small tree that you took your shade from - you find, somewhere in a strange new place in the darkness behind your eyes, that you wish you knew what a god was so you could curse it. The tiny, scrawny two legged pest is quicker than your foot; It fails again and again to be a proper red smear of broken white bone and yellowed tallow upon the ground. In point of fact, you are rewarded for your endeavors by a sharp pain to the back of your ankle that makes you stagger backwards. Howling your rage, you endeavor to kick the stupid two legger through the air - you feel the tight, heavy pull of the earth as you swing your oversized leg, nearly spinning yourself around. You've done it enough times that your eyes blearly search the sky, waiting for the many pieces of scrawny two legger to go splashing into the tawny grass.

Instead, another sharp pain on the other side of your foot, and you yowl distress as you step back. The pest has another sharp, tiny thing in its hand; Barely more than a thorn, and it'll never hurt you, but it STINGS. And then something clicks in your thick skull - an idea you've never had before. You mimic. Your large arm winds back, and you fling the sword that was thrown at you back at the two legged thing. Perhaps - just perhaps - it'll pin it long enough for you to rip it in two.

>Cont'd

File: SwordQuestGiant2.jpg (9 KB, 230x394)

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>>113325
>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

You are Platon Provost, and a giant has just done something you've never seen one do before; Tactics. They were fast, these beasts, and strong, but prodigeously stupid. You expected the stomp, and draw a small pearing knife for the express purpose of neddling the monster. You had little hope of survival, but if you could hold it off just long enough, perhaps it would give your wife time to turn abandon the cart, and head back to Rossville with the children. You only pray she thinks of it, as you don't have time to call out instructions - it's all you can do to avoid being crushed or ripped by foot swinging by. You can feel the current of air tugging at your jerkin as you move - a sour scent like spoilted milk - you midback still twinging like an overdrawn bow with the sharp pain of muscle cramp. It shortens your breath, leaving you panting.

And then the giant threw your sword back to you. The maneuver caught you by surprise long enough that the edge catches you on your side. You feel pain blossoming there as you are knocked prone; For all the ungainly nature of that throw, there was no denying the force behind it. Something sharp jabs at you from beneath your clothing, pressing against your lungs; You spit red aside, and claw for air. It comes, but slowly, and painfully as you clamber back to your feet. Hands are shaking again as you regain your sword, its putrid sweat still clinging to the pomel, squaring off with the monster once again. Its loud, tremulous roar cutting through the early day air, thick muscles bunching beneath the layers of fat. It's preparing to kill you again, and you're running out of air.

What to do?

>Dodge
>Parry
>Counter
>Flee
>Other? Write-in

>Votes called in fifteen. Actions require a 1d20 roll.

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>113334

Climb up it Colossus style.

Rolled 2 (1d20)

>>113334
Throw sand or any kind of debris in his eye?

Rolled 3, 5 = 8 (2d20)

>>113527
>>113698
>Sorry for the delay, RL interjected.
>Called, Rolling, Writing

>>113859
We're gonna die aren't we?

>>113334
>Lead it away, maybe ambush it if it can't find you.

Rolled 9 (1d20)

>>114024
Rolling.

Rolled 16 (1d20)

>RL FUBAR contained once again. Due to inconsiderate OP, I'll include the votes post call.

>>114024
Inevitably, all things die. But what will you accomplish before that?
>>113889
Counter rolled, writing fot real.

File: rackham_giant11.jpg (28 KB, 405x450)

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Acting on instinct is a young man's game, where reflex and luck could see you to victory. No, you've long since passed the point where you could call what you do as anything less than necessary, vicious, and practiced.

You scoop clods of dirt up as you pre-emptively charge the lumbering mound of fatty muscle. You toss the dirt up, breath hitching in your throat, hoping for an easy pass. Alas, the dirt merely clatters against the giant's chin as it rushes forward, an open palm aimed to slap you down - and crush what life you have left.

You sway back, drawing the cruel pearing knife once more. And as the creature over extends, you sink the gentle curve deep behind the elbow, twisting to insure it bites.

The monster squeals, warm blood gushing over your arm as you are yanked from your feet. Distantly you hear your shoulder strain as you let momentum carry you around. A moment of hanging in the air, the giant's back twisting before you, and you grab the greasy locks of hair behind it. You dig your heels into back blubber and pull taut, as if trying to heel a crazed mare. But the giant will not be lead, stumbling towards the dead tree. Moments- only a heartbeat left to decide. Your lungs are on fire, a bloody froth in your beard. Black begins to hedge your vision with a lack of air. But your sword arm is free.

>Finish it.
>Get off before it crushes you.
>Catch your breath.
>Other?

>Votes called in thirty

>>114794
As always, 1d20 for actions.

>>114825
Time up, no votes or rolls. Vote extened past nap time. See you when its busier.

Rolled 10 (1d20)

>>114794
>Finish it

Rolled 12 (1d20)

>>114794
>Finish it.
Even out of breath and hurt, this is what we missed: adventure, life on the edge. It's exhilarating. We have to finish the giant, to protect our family - but really, you just want to kill it, hack it to pieces, feel alive.

>>114936
Timezones suck, true

Rolled 20 (1d20)

>>114794
>Finish him

Rolled 14, 3, 13 = 30 (3d20)

>>115566
As long as you're here with me, I'll be here with you - in time.
Heart.

Good rolls all around this time. Lets see if I can kill you.

>Called, rolled, writing.

File: SwordQuestGiant4.png (68 KB, 160x200)

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You draw in what may be your last bubbling breath and hold, the muscles in your legs burning; Your whole body shakes, but it is not fear. Your teeth creak in your jaw as you twist your shoulders, lining up your accursed sword for one last strike - even as you feel the giant heave, preparing to roll itself atop you. And you shove forward, hard, ignoring the flare of pain from your wrist as the point clips off a rib harder than old oak. And then you jam it in further, the motion suddenly eased as the sharpened point squeezes into the giant's softer organs.

The creature shudders, a sqwak of indignation passing through her - its lips. It staggers, thick and chubby legs having lost all strength as it paws weakly at its own expanse of breast. Fingers grasp emptily at the air over its shoulder, and you can feel the over sized heart jerking at the edge of your sword; A good strike. You smile, grimly, and - for just a moment - you are twenty once more, riding high on andrenaline as the giant crashes forward. You are thrown from your mount, tumbling into the dirt; Your head turns, watching the struggles of the beast as they grow fainter and fainter - until only the faint tremble of your sword hilt is left, from just to the side of it's massive midback. There is surprisingly little blood - only what manages to squeeze out from where the giant's blubber grips the fullers of your weapon. The faint glimmer of inlaid gold along the strange letters that mark the blade's sides finally stills.

You turn your head back to the blue sky above, and close your eyes as your chest hitches. And suddenly? Suddenly, you are an old man again. And you have just killed a giant on your own.
>Cont'd

File: SwordQuestProvostWife.jpg (58 KB, 443x685)

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>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

You are Julina Provost, and you are pushing your husband's sword deeper into the giant's back. Your first instinct was to rush to your husband, laying still upon the earth; But if there was any life left in his foe, then turning your eyes from it would be fatal. Your husband did not marry a stupid nor weak woman. Your eyes flick to your husband once more, a tight twisting beneath your heart that draws your fingers to your lips involuntarily. You force the motion down, and refocus on the giant beneath your feet. You shove down hard on the sword, feeling the faint tremor as tallow and softer flesh releases its death grip upon the weapon; The beast does not move. Relieved, you place both hands upon the pomel and pull upwards, freeing the blade - blood flows sluggishly, like a gentle river crook's source. Dark, nearly black, lightening to crimson as it traverses the former creature's sides.

You carry the stained blade back to your husband, using it to hold you steady as you kneel down. Fingers flutter briefly over your husband's face; So familiar to you, now stained with blood and froth. "..Platon?" You murmur. And then you still yourself, your fingers wet with the blood of your husband's foe. At last? The gentle wheeze of breathe bubbles from his lips, chest barely moving. You sigh in relief, and straighten back up. He's badly injured; You'd seen wounds like this before. Something broken on the inside. He could mend on his own, of course - or he could simply fade away.

Press forward or go back? Follow his desire and take him to the coast, even if it means he would inevitably leave you? He never fooled you, never let you think this was forever. And forever isn't what you wanted; But maybe this wasn't long enough yet. You are strong and wily, you could survive with a good start - and the wagon represents that. But maybe that longing of his will hold while he heals? Maybe the curse will leave him rest, at last..?

You look down at the sword in your hand - his curse. The curse of his line. But for all that you hate what it is, somehow you cannot hate it. It just feels ... right.. in your grip.

What to do.

>Press forward, let him mend on his own with you.
>Head back, sell supplies for a healer
>Take a trophy from the beast?
>Other?

>Called in thirty.

>Vote extended.

>>120388
>>Press forward, let him mend on his own with you.

>>take a trophy from the beast

Rolled 5 (1d20)

>>120778
>>120654

Called, rolling results, and writing.
>Rattle the bones
>Hope to hell
>You make it home.

File: SwordQuest2ndEDice.jpg (14 KB, 218x232)

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>>120845
You curl the edge of your dress around the gored blade, and clean it; An ugly, brutish weapon. It never held a sheen that you can remember, edge pitted with use, yet it never lost what keen sharpness was left no matter how your husband abused it. Still, it was all you had between you and a hostile world, beyond the protections afforded by Rossville.

You bring the wagon around again, quietly heaping your husband upon the canvas of your belongings and supplies - drawing a weary, pained groan from him, and a sharp crack from your back as well from the weight of him. You return to the cooling cadaver of the giant, and quietly rifle in it's jingling pouch; Bones and beads, a few iron arrows. But near the bottom glimmers coin; Smeared with muck and smelling foul, likely taken from some poor unfortunate journeyman or adventurer some few months ago.

Not enough to trade your husband's health for, but if it was money that called him he would have been sated long ago. But you are simply too tired with fretting to be angry at the blade in your hand, as grind the blade next against the giant's neck. Sawing it back and forth, until the pits in the edge bite and take hold. And then chopping and worrying at the growing wound. It's long, and hard work, but in time you have freed the head of the monster; A warning to other giants, perhaps, and other beasts that your family is not easy prey. The 'trophy' dragged behind your cart as you travel westward, towards the coast - stopping every few hours to proffer your husband drink and food. You bite your lip as he takes with fever, but you are confident in his strength. Old, but not weak.

In the night, he seems more lucid. The two of you share a look over the low, green bough fire - more smoke and heat than light. His eyes seem troubled, but he smiles to comfort you. ".. No death for a Provost, this." He quips weakly, and you return the smile with a weak one of your own as you feed him small strips of jerky. In time, he lapses back to unconsciousness, breath wheezing softly - so very softly.

>cont'd

File: SwordQuestGraveStone.gif (681 KB, 768x1024)

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>>120961
When you awake in the morning, his body is still and cold. Your tears are short, and bitter - you'll never know the drive that ate at him, kept him moving forever forward. Unable to rest, unable to be satisified in a life of peace. His curse, and soon to be that of your children, if one of the many bastards you husband gave fruit too aren't drawn to you first. Not to you - to the accursed sword. You bury him, and give no words to the Gods who would do this to the man you loved, and all who share his blood. If there is anything in the sky, you do not wish to speak to it.

Seaons pass.

>You are the Son, and you will inherit the curse. It is the son's duty to bear past burdens.
>You are the Daughter, and you will inherit the curse. It is the daughter's duty to carry the future.
>You are the Thief, drawn by stories of an enhanted weapon and a soldier's grave. Greed is only sharpened ambition.
>You are the Mother, and you will not yield to time or wilds. All that will be depends on the strength of your arm.
>You are the Scholar, and you follow an ancient prophecy. Everything is for naught if you do not succeed.
>Other?

>Votes extended for nap time. I'll be up and down, so Q&A until morning and job if wanted.

A bit early in a quest lifetime, but:

http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive/109699/

>>120972
>You are a priest. Hearing of a "cursed" sword, you decided to have a good look at it and ease its owner's fears. That or exorcize it.

>>120972
>Going with daughter.

>>120972
>>Other?
How about a blacksmith looking to research the swords construction/materials?

>>120972
>You are the Mother, and you will not yield to time or wilds. All that will be depends on the strength of your arm.


Awww yeah gonna teach our chillen to be adventurers n shieet

>>120972
>You are the Thief, drawn by stories of an enhanted weapon and a soldier's grave. Greed is only sharpened ambition.

Time for dickass thief

>>120972
>>122002
This! The sword whispers its wishes without sound. Noone can escape its power!

The mother is ours to play with. She shall abandon her children and go on an adventure, sword in hand.

>>122235
>>122145
>>122002
>>121564
>>121505
>>121221

Hm. Priest and blacksmith sounded interesting. I'll keep those in my back pocket for later. For now.....

>Votes called, writing..

File: SwordQuestEngraving.png (666 KB, 1186x761)

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>+NDXOXCHWDRGHDXORVI+

You pause after the last swing, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from your brow with your forearm. You leave the point of the sword buried into the bit of drift wood you were busy chopping, and squint up towards the unforgiving sun. It had been several years since your husband passed away; You had survived, as you always did, by your wit and your head. You used the wood of the wagon to build a modest lean-to for you and the children, near the coast. A day's walk from your husband's final resting place, as it so happened. And between the occasional drift wood and the yearly trip to Rossville, you had managed a respectable life of it.

You lift the heavy weapon once more, and - reaching down to grip the bit of wood you managed to chop off - begin dragging it along the sandy banks and up the slow slope. Sand eventually gives away to dirt, and then to grasslands once more as you look upon your domain. A roof, four walls, one door - and mud from the beach, long ago dried to tap between the planks. The lean-to had long ago been taken down and made into a rough fence, from which you raise the few game hen you've caught. Fresh eggs, good water hardly an hour away by foot - less by donkey. Your children were raised on boiled grain mush and tallow gravy until they lost their chubby fat and began to walk under their own power.

And yet, you could not say you were happy or even content. The family curse; The sword. You'd tried, at first, to simply throw the sword into the ocean - inevitably, it washed ashore. It might take weeks, but always it would return. You rolled it into a skin, and buried it in the earth. The rains came, washing away your meager crops, drowning half your hens and unearthing the weapon once more. Vindictively, you'd taken it to stone, smashing it again and again in fit of piqued rage.

Never a new notch or pit along the blade, never did it once lose what keeness remained. It was not pernaturally sharp, but for all your efforts all you had were chips of rock and that sword, old and cruel - but unbent. As a fit of revenge, you used it for all the meager parts of your life - you dug furroughs with it when a small spade would do just as well. You chopped wood with it. You used it to strip the shriveled bark of shrub-trees for snares. But never did you butcher with it, never let it taste blood. It was your own form of revenge, but the thing remained blithely inanimate.

Just a sword. A horrible, cursed sword.

>Cont'd

File: SwordQuestPlainHouse.jpg (5 KB, 330x220)

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In time your anger faded to a brittle ember of its former self, and you settled into the task of raising your children; Platon's children. They were both quiet, the son often watching the chickens with the deep intensity of youth, while your daughter was oft times found staring north along the ocean shore. They grew strange to you, but you loved them still. Even on the nights you found them out at night, quietly holding the sword between them and staring at the stars. On those nights you loved them - but you feared for them too.

The curse would not wait forever. Tonight is no different, as you hear a rustle beyond the thin tapping that marks the walls of your dwelling. The gamey hens, clucking in alarm as something rustles in the grass. But when your eyes track in the dark, you find two dimunitive lumps where your children usually sleep. There and well, their soft snores in the night. But then, what lies outside...?

>Investigate
>Start a fire
>Remain quiet
>Ignore it and sleep
>Other?

>Votes called in fourty five.

>>125365
>>Remain quiet

>>125365
>Remain quiet

and be vigilant

>>125544
>>125371

Apologies, qsters, I drifted off before the fourty five minute mark. I may have to begin undersigning all time limits with 'unless RL intervenes or I fall asleep'.

Called, rolled and writing.

Rolled 5 (1d20)

>>127123

>>127123
Heh yea that happens to the best of us

Perhaps you wanna make a new thread because this one is auto saging?

>>127297
An excellent point.

>>127388

Rolled , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , = 0 (25d99999999999999999999999999999999999999999)

rollan