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A Quest about hunger, youth, and the dark. May your thirst be sated.

>>5699236
>A new restaurant opened up a couple blocks away from your apartment. It's a steak place, apparently. You've only had that once before.

>>5699236
>A new restaurant opened up a couple blocks away from your apartment. It's a steak place, apparently. You've only had that once before.

>>5699236
>A new restaurant opened up a couple blocks away from your apartment. It's a steak place, apparently. You've only had that once before.
I love a nice brazilian steakhouse

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>It's a steak place, apparently. You've only had that once before.

You're starving.

As night falls and streetlights flicker on, that's all you find yourself thinking of.

The hunger is a vibrant, vibrating sensation that starts within your very marrow, rising up in veiny tendrils to poke through your skin and snare you in its grasp. Each breath and every movement seems to leave behind trace echoes of that hunger, lagging memories that make you ache all over.

You want to hurry home and eat.

Rubber soles pad softly against blacktop and concrete, light steps leaving no trace of your passing. You duck into a nearby alleyway, the gap between a high-rise and a smokeshop yawning open to let you through.

It seals itself in your wake.

The moon hangs low in the starless sky, a motherly, pockmarked thing. Glancing up, you can catch a glimpse of it every so often, lighting your way where residential windows and stray bulbs don't.

It's comforting.

It's protective.

Lunar light guides whispers of danger into your ears, sending a chill down your damp back despite the summer weather. Guttural, gruff Latin reaches you from around the corner.

"--sightings of a Coven in the area. Keep an eye out; we don't need a repeat of last week."

You take a breath, hidden behind the bulk of a thankfully-empty dumpster. The stench of cheap incense and cheaper cologne stings your nose, however faint, though it's soon followed by more characteristic scents. Motor oil, animal blood, and ink, respectively. A mechanic, a butcher, and… possibly a librarian? Your senses aren't quite sharp enough to tell for certain.

Three men of the cloth. You should keep your distance.

>...Though, maybe a quick look can't hurt. It's best to know their faces, pass the word along.

>Simply hunker down and wait for them to pass. Quickly, quickly. Just a few streets from home.

>>5699324
>Simply hunker down and wait for them to pass. Quickly, quickly. Just a few streets from home.
They’re keeping an eye out

>>5699324
>Simply hunker down and wait for them to pass. Quickly, quickly. Just a few streets from home.

>Simply hunker down and wait for them to pass. Quickly, quickly. Just a few streets from home.

Yes, best not to risk things. Your mother would know if you got yourself into trouble. Having her fuss over you would be unpleasant.

Another few minutes pass as you crouch hidden in the dark. Before long, the men finish speaking, breaking apart to continue their patrol. As the sound of boots crunching in gravel fades away, you let out a long-held breath; luckily, none of them came anywhere near your hiding spot.

You catch the barest whiff of sulfurous blackpowder as you leave, stepping through the intersection. It's a more pleasant scent than the incense, by far, though it still sets you on edge.

Bullets hurt, even if they can't kill. You've seen - or rather, heard - your mother dig enough silver out of the neighbor's backs to know that it's nothing you want to be hit by.

The twisting paths of the city's veins open up to let you through once more, bricks and detritus shifting aside with eerie silence and depositing you before the unassuming back entrance of your apartment. Raising an arm, you take a quick sniff to check for any hints that you took a shortcut.

Springwater, grass, and supple skin. You're in the clear. Mother won't notice anything amiss.

The weight of your keychain settles in your palm, teeth of cold steel pressing lightly into the flesh. It clinks as you slot a purple-banded key into place, jiggling slightly and twisting just-so.

The heavy metal door squeaks as it opens, revealing a narrow hall behind its painted-grey exterior. It swings shut behind you with an echoing thud, loud enough to make you wince.

Off to the side, the apartment's laundromat hums with electricity. Though a few of the washing machines are lit up and active, there's no one around. You suppose they'll be back later in the evening.

>Take the elevator. It's a bit slow, but you could use some time for yourself.

>Eh, you live on the second floor. Just take the stairs. It'll be faster, by far.

>>5699686
>Eh, you live on the second floor. Just take the stairs. It'll be faster, by far.

I'll leave votes for another hour or two before closing. Ties will be decided by 1d2. Thanks for dropping by.

>>5699686
>Eh, you live on the second floor. Just take the stairs. It'll be faster, by far.

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>Just take the stairs. It'll be faster, by far.

You don't trust the apartment's elevator to hold your weight, truth be told. Besides, you're hardly lacking in energy. With all that said and done, you find yourself flying up the steps, taking them two at a time with your stubby little legs.

One day all the milk will pay off, and you'll grow big and tall. Then no one will be able to ruffle your hair!

Hopes in your breast, you let your momentum swing you around the bannister, skidding to a stop before the unassuming dark-green door of Room B2, home sweet home. The elevator dings behind you - someone's in it - but you push the idle observation out of your mind, too busy fiddling with the keys. A hasty sweep of the hand marks a futile attempt to brush your bangs back into place, only for B2's door to click and swing open.

A warm orange light washes over you, interrupted by the slim silhouette of your mother.

She looks you over in silence. A beat passes with neither of you speaking.

Then she sighs and steps aside, allowing you in. As you pass her, she folds your messy collar back into place, sending you off with a pat on the back.

A light blush dusts your cheeks as you head for the bathroom, a fresh set of neatly folded clothes already sitting on the sink. You're not quite sure how, but she definitely knows you took the shortcuts. Thankfully, she's decided not to mention it; keeping your nose out of trouble has saved you a lecture.

Still, as much as you may complain, your mother does her best by you, you think. The showerhandle squeaks as you turn it; it'll take a minute for the water to get hot.

As you strip and get ready, you take a moment to think. It's a brief, blessed reprieve, the reward for a timely arrival.

>You'll miss your friends from middle school. Maybe you should find a way to keep in contact with them.

>Those men in the alleyway. You've got an inkling as to who they are - or rather, what they're from. Time to review.

>Your mother is rather young, all things considered. No one's ever said anything to your face about it, but you know they gossip. Even if they don't mean anything by it…

>Those men in the alleyway. You've got an inkling as to who they are - or rather, what they're from. Time to review.

>>5700116
>Your mother is rather young, all things considered. No one's ever said anything to your face about it, but you know they gossip. Even if they don't mean anything by it…

>>5700116
>Your mother is rather young, all things considered. No one's ever said anything to your face about it, but you know they gossip. Even if they don't mean anything by it…

Closed and writing.

>Your mother is rather young, all things considered.

The water runs hot against your skin. Too hot, almost. Pale steam billows, fogging the mirror over the sink and gradually filling the room as soap bubbles slowly swirl around your feet.

The drain was always a bit on the smaller side.

Your thoughts invariably drift to your mother, the supplier of this comfortable life. The encounter in the alleyway is of far less importance to you; the lives of Bookburners are wholly different to yours.

Even if your father had been one of them.

This wasn't something your mother had ever told you, of course. Making use of your penchant for being where you shouldn't, you had pieced things together yourself, the strange truth taking shape from a patchwork of gossiping whispers and behind-the-back rumors. Though people spoke carelessly, you doubted they meant any real harm by it; by and large, the prevailing sentiment seemed to be one of pity.

Your mother was young, after all. The young were allowed to make mistakes.

Well, at the very least, you know your mother doesn't view you as one. Sometimes, when she thinks you don't notice, you catch her glancing at you with eyes of sorrow - but not regret. Never regret.

One day. When you're older, and he's weaker, when you've crossed that mysterious threshold which made one a respectable adult - you'll meet your father.

Thus resolved, you squeeze your eyes shut and plunge your head beneath the near-scalding stream, scrubbing out the foamy shampoo in your hair. The showerhandle squeaks as you shut it and step out, soft skin boiled to a light pink.

The towel is pleasantly soft and warm, with a light scent of camellias.

Getting dressed is a quick affair.

>Luckily, it seems a relatively casual outfit is fine. You've never been particularly ostentatious.

>The traditional robes and all-concealing cloak are in favor tonight. Looks like your mother is splurging.

>>5700651
>Luckily, it seems a relatively casual outfit is fine. You've never been particularly ostentatious.

>>5700651
>Luckily, it seems a relatively casual outfit is fine. You've never been particularly ostentatious

>>5700651
>Luckily, it seems a relatively casual outfit is fine. You've never been particularly ostentatious.

Update will be up soon. Apologies for the delay, had a dentist appointment.

>>5701677
No worries. Get well soon!

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>Luckily, it seems a relatively casual outfit is fine. You've never been particularly ostentatious.

Not for the first time, you sigh in relief at the fact that a simple short-sleeved button-up is all you really need. You're quite alright with the heat, but the heavy fabrics of formal wear are a bit too much in the summer.

The roads are empty as you escort your mother - or rather, as she escorts you. Burning streetlamps flicker out with her passing, only to be relit once the two of you have drawn far enough away.

It's painfully distinct, to say the least. However, no one is around to notice, their attention guided away by threads of gentle suggestion.

Still, such actions leave a trace, however faint. It's a good thing the restaurant is only a few minutes away; walking about like this always leaves you a touch embarrassed, if only because you think the nighttime view is something to be shared.

The first sign of the steakhouse is a chalkboard easel set out on the sidewalk, proudly proclaiming Seabrook's. You make a little face at the stylized bat drawn onto it; of course your mother noticed this place. She's always had a strange fondness for little clichés like that, though you yourself fail to understand the appeal.

The restaurant itself is fairly typical for an establishment catering to the nightlife. A windowless brick building, perhaps a bit squat, seamlessly melded into the more mundane buildings bordering it. Boring in an ugly way when compared to the rest of the city's architecture, but really, that's just business as usual.

Beyond the signboard, the only other nod to maintaining appearances is a leafy potted plant sitting outside the door, reinforced with a steel grid painted all in black. Opening it reveals a dimly-lit hallway, carpeted in red. You'd take the time to question the rather tacky tastes of the proprietor, but the whitewashed walls are narrow enough that you struggle to stay standing by your mother's side.

You make the effort anyways, of course.

[1/2]

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At the other end of the hall, a tall, swarthy man in a black vest nods in wordless greeting, his bowtie bobbing with the motion. Your mother takes the lead; as she approaches, he steps back and opens the door behind him, a handsome affair of varnished wood that puts the one outside to shame.

It swings shut once he lets you through, noiseless save for a muted click.

Though you stand in the foyer, what you can see of the restaurant's interior is far livelier than its outer appearance would suggest. The indistinct hum of comfortable chatter and clinking silverware buoys you somewhat; you have high hopes for the food, though admittedly, your current hunger would make just about anything taste good.

You don't have to stay standing for long. Almost as soon as you enter, a brightly-smiling receptionist accosts the two of you.

"Good evening. Table for two, or are you waiting on anyone?"

"Two, please," you mutter. She nods, glancing at your mother, and her dazzling smile goes up a few watts.

"Right this way. I'll get a server to your table shortly."

The background hum rises in pitch as you cross the threshold, enabling you to catch some snippets of conversation even as you're directed to a table near the center of the room. Stout, darkwood supports and privacy walls break up the open space, providing the illusion of a snug, secure atmosphere.

"-awful school zoning-"

"But of course. Look–"

"-tax brackets-"

–and that's where you tap out. It's remarkable how adults can go on and on about the most boring things.

You direct your attention to the menu, a folded pamphlet made of some stiff, heavy paper. Across from you, your ever-silent mother does the same, head lowered in thought.

Drinks are in the first column, but you don't even make it halfway down the selection before pulling a face at the prices. $70 for a bottle of Type O is absurd, and the less said about AB, the better. Thinking of all the games you could buy with that kind of money makes you squirm, and the rest of the selection is meant for different species. Silvervine isn't to your tastes - too grassy - and ever since you learned about what goes into Royal Jelly…

Yeah. You'll be fine with just water.

>You've suddenly lost a bit of your appetite. Take another look around the room and peoplewatch for a bit; at the worst, you'll just get whatever your mother is having.

>No, no. Focus! Food is important, and besides, tonight's a night for celebration… Even if it feels odd for you to say that about yourself.

[2/2]

>>5701716
>You've suddenly lost a bit of your appetite. Take another look around the room and peoplewatch for a bit; at the worst, you'll just get whatever your mother is having.

>>5701716
>No, no. Focus! Food is important, and besides, tonight's a night for celebration… Even if it feels odd for you to say that about yourself.

It's important to develop our own tastes sooner or later, we'll just have to get used to this. Games will come sooner or later, the money is being spent tonight either way.

>>5701716
>No, no. Focus! Food is important, and besides, tonight's a night for celebration… Even if it feels odd for you to say that about yourself.

>>5701716
>No, no. Focus! Food is important, and besides, tonight's a night for celebration… Even if it feels odd for you to say that about yourself.

Woah, another player! Glad to have you all aboard. Gonna start writing in a bit, just have to fill out some forms first. I'll be taking a flight overseas soon so the next update might be a little delayed, but I'll try to keep you guys updated and get it out as soon as I can.

>>5702382
Take your time QM, RL comes first and all that.

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>No, no. Focus! Food is important, and besides, tonight's a night for celebration…

You let out a quiet sigh of self-deprecating exasperation. You've got to pull yourself together; it won't be long until you're a real high-schooler, and letting something like this shake you up is poor form.

A quick scan further down the menu reveals an interesting mix of classic roasts and unfamiliar cuts. There's a couple obligatory fish dishes too, but anyone who comes to a steakhouse for salmon is in for a disappointing night.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a waiter moving towards your table with purpose. Not one to keep people waiting (for too long, anyways), you quickly narrow down your options. The sweetbread sounds like it'd appeal to your tastes - though you're a bit lost as to why it's an entree and not a dessert - but you're in the mood for something simpler.

Some twenty minutes later, a delightfully tender-looking thigh roast is placed before you. Across the table, your mother dips a spoon into the marrow of a carefully plated pelvis–a woman's, judging by its width.

Your knife parts the pink flesh with ease. The skin is bubbly and crisp, the rich flavor of melting fat spreading across your tongue only to be cut through by a refreshing hint of citrus and spice.

It's lovely work, which makes it all the more disappointing when you find yourself unable to finish it.

After all, it's a bit hard to keep eating when a man nearly twice your height is sent crashing through the ceiling and straight into your table.

[1/3]

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Sheer reflex and no small amount of luck is what saves you from getting your clothes stained by spilled sauces and pumping blood. The human projectile spills off the table, yanking the tablecloth with him and slumps back. His shaved head hangs twisted at an angle that informs anyone watching of his broken neck.

That, and the fact that his spine is coming out of his throat. Eurgh.

A brief, momentary silence falls over the restaurant as everyone turns to look at the cause of the sudden commotion. Adrenaline helps you ignore their stares, and you manage to tear your gaze away from the corpse to check on your mother.

Rather needlessly, as it turns out; she's as calm and unruffled as ever, though her own gaze is directed to the newly made skylight. Following her vision, you crane your head upwards as well, peering into the night.

"Hate to be a partycrasher," says a faraway voice. It's thick and grating, a smoker's lungs but made of boulders.

The moonlight shines through the hole. Step back, it whispers.

"But scum like you are an exception to the rule."

You obey, of course. It saves you from being crushed beneath the giant that comes tumbling through the hole. Unlike the corpse, though, his landing is far more controlled

The sturdy wooden floor practically explodes beneath his weight, shattering the silence.

"What in the goddamn–!?"

"It's a hunter–!"

Screams and shouts echo throughout Seabrook's, but you're deaf to the pandemonium. Something about the man before you has absorbed all your attention.

Glass and ceramic splinters beneath his boots, old-fashioned things with well-shined buckles. Though a thickly padded trenchcoat conceals most of his figure and a cloth mask hides his facial features, the overall impression of the man is so striking as to be impossible to keep secret.

The burning cross embroidered upon his broad back is the final nail in the coffin. This is a Bookburner, and unlike those you stumbled across in the alleyway, it's clear he works full-time.

He glances down at you. Behind the obscuring glasses, you feel a gaze that makes your blood run cold.

Pinned in place - taken apart - a butterfly on the operating table.

He snorts dismissively, turning to face your mother instead. The spell is broken, forcing breath back into your lungs.

Around the edge of his bulk, you catch your mother's eye.

[2/3]

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Her expression seems blank. Unchanging. It's always been like this, for as long as you can recall; speaking rarely, her emotions concealed. But as her own flesh and blood, you know better.

Your mother has feelings like anyone else. She simply isn't very good at expressing herself. Thankfully, you've long since learned to read between the lines–and right now, she's telling you to run.

With a snap of her fingers, the lights go out, plunging the restaurant in comfortable darkness.

The Bookburner laughs, echoing, and the faraway moon sings in your ears–

>Follow her unspoken order. You're worse than dead weight here, and she won't be fighting alone. Half the patrons have fled, but the other half are getting ready for a fight. Community is such a wonderful thing.

>What kind of son abandons his mom? The journey to adulthood begins with a single step, but you're looking to take a plunge. You have nothing if not family.

[3/3]

>>5702774
>Follow her unspoken order. You're worse than dead weight here, and she won't be fighting alone. Half the patrons have fled, but the other half are getting ready for a fight. Community is such a wonderful thing.

>>5702770
Damn, was about to say that maybe we should have reported those hunters from earlier, but if they aren't related to this guy then I guess it was for the best that we stayed out of trouble and avoided attracting attention specifically to our family. Shame we didn't choose to wear the formal wear though, might've saved us from being IDed in the future.

>>5702774
>Follow her unspoken order. You're worse than dead weight here, and she won't be fighting alone. Half the patrons have fled, but the other half are getting ready for a fight. Community is such a wonderful thing.

Mother knows best...

There may be more of them outside prepared to catch the runners.

>>5702797
The clothing choice was actually rather important. It helped determine whether you were more of a traditionalist or preferred a lifestyle adapted to modern times, and also set the scale of the restaurant conflict. One with a dress code would've been a bigger target with more Bookburners, but also would've had more combat-capable patrons.

Good catch, this guy isn't working alone - the strength of humans is best shown when they work together - but since Seabrook's is a small place, rather than a crack squad of elites, it's just... Well, you'll see!

God don't let this IP be blocked

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>Follow her unspoken order.

You run.

What else can you do?

With your eyes not yet adjusted to the dark, the edge of a table or chair clips you in the ribs as you turn and flee. Though it stings something fierce, you don't have time to waste. Each step feels both leaden and light, adrenaline fueling the beginnings of some paradoxical disassociation. Your heart, that woeful thing, has climbed up to nestle somewhere in your throat, turning each shallow breath into a tight gasp.

Through the walls and beyond the boundary, the crash and thump of violence makes itself known. With your vision cut off, your ears pick up the slack, and for the first time in your life you find yourself resenting the keen senses you've been gifted.

Screams and shouts spark in the void, and though none of it carries your mother's distinct voice, you can't help but imagine otherwise.

Despite it all–you don't stop running.

You refuse to let your mother's feelings go to waste. Not a sacrifice. It can't be. It never will be.

A prickle of some primal instinct is what keeps you from slamming headfirst into a wall. Faltering slightly from the shock of narrowly avoiding a nasty concussion, you reach out hesitantly, palms scraping across the harsh texture of exposed brick as you grope for an exit. Before long, you feel the edge of oiled steel - a doorhinge, your mind supplies.

Anticipating some degree of resistance, you take a step back, bracing for a runup to plow straight through the door. Unexpectedly, though, it swings open quite easily, leading you to stagger forward a couple feet before you manage to catch yourself.

Heart pounding, you quickly straighten, surveying the room you've just found yourself in. Several large pots set on trolleys prevent you from seeing much, but the array of ladles, knives, and spatulas hanging above a stainless steel prepping table and the fleet of refrigerators against the wall tell you all you need to know.

Well, at least no one was around to see you make a fool of yourself.

"Oi, kid! You're not supposed to be back here!"

…Nevermind.

[1/4]

The witness to your clumsiness is a gruff-looking man with forearms as thick as your head and a potbelly that his chef's apron can't quite hide the curve of. Leaning out from behind the pots, he shoots you a glare, but soon takes his eyes off you to glance through the doors you just bashed through, still swinging from the momentum.

No longer blocked off by a barrier, your mother's unnatural shadows seep across the floor and into the kitchen, laughing in the face of light and physics.

You swallow. She's still fighting, then. Good news, of a sort; it's proof that she yet lives.

A baffled grunt pulls you out of your thoughts. The chef stares at the adjoined dining room - what little of it he can see, anyways - and the aggravated frown on his face takes on a touch of wariness.

"...Hell's going on out there? Did the lights blow out or summat?"

He's lowered his voice, you note. Has he picked up on the danger of the situation?

Well, even if not, he'll know soon enough.

"--Bookburner raid," you spit out. His eyes widen as an interesting variety of expressions flash across his face, but he ultimately settles for muted annoyance.

"You're kidding," he mutters, tone flat. There's no real conviction behind the denial, though, marking it as nothing more than the dear wish of someone who can't bring himself to deny the reality he's confronted with.

Move aside.

Though her voice grows fainter with each passing moment, you follow the moon's advice, leaping away from the doors - and not a moment too soon. Just as they've settled, a black-and-white cannonball hurtles past, drawing a yelp from the chef as he ducks and narrowly avoids getting clotheslined.

Knocking aside a row of pots like bowling pins, the two-tone mass smashes into the row of refrigerators with a mighty bang, echoed by a visceral, stomach-churning splurch that adds a splash of red to the palette. It takes you a moment to recognize the mess of gore as the bouncer that greeted you at the entrance.

Limbs askew and bent at angles they definitely shouldn't be, he stirs slightly, attempting to rise. The reward for his efforts is a nasty-sounding snap, accompanied by a miserable groan and something slurred in an unfamiliar language. With that as his last will and testament, the bouncer slumps and goes vaguely runny around the edges, his vest and uniform deflating.

"...Right then. Can't ignore that," says the chef. He side-eyes you, then grimaces at your pale expression. "Drew's gonna be fine. His grandad was a slimefolk."

[2/4]

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Not much of an explanation, you feel, but you doubt he's interested in wasting time by speaking further. Rooted to the ground, you watch as the chef rolls his shoulders, unhooking a sizable cleaver from a nearby rack before making his way towards the encroaching dark.

Just before he leaves, though, he pauses and lets out a weary sigh.

"Cold storage is further back, boy. There's an emergency exit through there opening into the alleys. Lift the latch."

Duty fulfilled, he departs without looking back, stepping out of sight with a cry of "I ain't even paid the mortgage on this place yet, damnit!"

…You'd guess he's Mr. Seabrook, then.

Following his words, you gingerly step around the probably-not-a-corpse of the bouncer, careful not to get any of his fluids on your shoes. Once you're in the clear, you take off running again, passing by a cramped break room and a closet-sized office.

Surprisingly, "cold storage" is easy to find. Whitewashed walls give way to insulated steel, and the hum of electronics can be heard as you approach. A nearby thermostat informs you of the below-freezing temperatures in the room beyond the heavy, thickly reinforced door.

You struggle to push it open, but it eventually gives way, scraping against the floor. A blast of chilled air hits you in the face, a stark contrast to the warmer, less-ventilated kitchen.

The enormous walk-in freezer is dimly lit. A bare couple of naked, flickering bulbs struggle to illuminate an area roughly twice the size of your apartment's living room. What little light they manage to give off is further broken up by column after column of hanging flesh, left in various states of processing.

Pigs. Cows. On a table sits what looks like a lamb's head. There's even a couple of large goats, hung by the hindlegs with their throats slit to bleed out and dry. The whole floor is marked by deep grooves, channels that lead into heavy-duty drains purpose-built for operations like this.

Despite the situation, a part of you finds the time to appreciate the dedication that Seabrook must have towards his craft to build a full-on butchery within the restaurant.

You press through the walls of flesh, pushing aside racks of ribs and curtains of curing meats. Where you brush up against them, a vaguely gritty, tacky sensation is left stuck to your skin; a curious lick reveals the faint taste of salt and cinnamon, among other spices. You set the matter aside and press onwards, shoving aside yet another–

"Guh-!"

[3/4]

A girlish, choked scream escapes you–but even after you clamp your mouth shut, the agonized sob continues, accompanied by the clinking rattle of chains that want to thrash about, but are held too short and too taut.

The source of the noise is a young woman, lithe and shaved bald, though stray locks of blonde hair not yet swept away give a hint as to her original appearance. A slipped gag reveals the reason for your splitting headache and aching eardrums, though the blindfold wrapped around her head remains secure.

Propped up by a combination of meathooks sunken into her back and cuffs locking her in place, it's a wonder she's still alive. Granted, she looks reasonably fit and not at all emaciated; considering her liveliness, she must have been sourced this very night.

Turning your head, a look further down the line reveals others like her, though not in the sense that they're alive. Last you checked, humans couldn't come back from being cut into quarters.

"Ah–"

Faint, raspy groans leak from the woman's throat. She gulps, a trail of drool spilling down her jaw.

"N-no more…"

>...Take her off the hooks. Food is food, and that won't change for you, but… The Bookburners won't spare her.

>Ignore her. You're nearly there. Just keep running. The night is still young.

>...Fresh blood is a source of power. Real power. This might be a chance.

[4/4]

>>5705370
>Ignore her. You're nearly there. Just keep running. The night is still young.
Run boy

Sorry for the delay with the update. The network I was working on had a blocked IP, and it took me until this morning to find the time to get a new SIM card. Been sitting on this post since my flight.

I hope I'm conveying the atmosphere of the setting well enough so far. I want to portray the "unnatural" aspects that we'd be unfamiliar with as bog-standard humans as something relatively unremarkable in the context of the MC's life. It's not a particularly unique setting - supernatural urban fantasy - but it's always been more about what you do with these things rather than what they are, right?

If you're still reading--thanks for sticking around.

>>5705370
>...Take her off the hooks. Food is food, and that won't change for you, but… The Bookburners won't spare her.

Hard choice. So far we've chosen to keep out of trouble and be quite obedient to mother, but it'd be interesting to see where we deviate from her protective guidance.

Do we try and help this girl out of morality? Or just as a hostage for a temporary distraction if we run into a hesitant foe? Maybe just food for later? Either way, I'm down to take this plot hook. If taking her off the hooks gets us caught then frankly they weren't that far behind us anyway and would've closed the net on us eventually.

Wonder if she isn't in fact fresh, but somehow special. Maybe that is how she is still alive, or maybe not.

I'd also be down to drink her blood, get that youthful rebelliousness going, do something stupid and think we can help out mom or the other patrons once we are powered up, however that works. Only reasons I don't is because I think this is leading somewhere, and because I don't know if drinking fresh blood in this universe has a "euphoric daze" effect where we lose awareness while having an orgasm/trip or something weird from drinking fresh blood.

>>5705374
At first I just thought you were hung over or something from 4th of July celebrations or something. Then I thought you were waiting for more votes and were one of those QMs who won't start writing the next update unless they get a minimum of three votes. Thought about asking and encouraging you to at least continue until the thread got a couple hundred posts before deciding to throw in the towel if there wasn't enough votes for your tastes. Was thinking this was another dead quest but I remembered you were going overseas and may just be busy.

As for the writing and atmosphere...the writing is plenty enjoyable and the setting seems flavourful enough so far, don't know if it'll be coherent going forward, but with what has been written so far it is as least fun enough. Don't have much to say on it yet.

>>5705428
It's a bit disappointing that I didn't get as many players as I'd hoped - the hook was probably too vanilla and mundane - but at least part of the reason I write is to serve as an outlet for my own creative impulses, so as long as I get a response I'll try pushing something out.

Granted, I can't promise it'll last forever, but if I do end up dropping the Quest for whatever reason I'll make sure you guys know. Sucks to check in on a thread over a week or three not knowing anything and have your hopes slowly dwindle until it drops off the board proper.

Appreciate the compliments. This is indeed an important moment for characterization going forward, but nothing is ever truly set in stone. Time and effort can change many things, circumstances willing - but there's no retreading decisions already made.

For now, just think about the picture painted by helping her and the opportunities it opens and closes. A gentle reminder that this isn't a solo raid, but neither is it a big, official thing with everyone expected to follow the letter of the law. What kind of story do you want to see?

>>5705370
>...Fresh blood is a source of power. Real power. This might be a chance.
Caprisun power pack

Three way tie, whew. I'll check back in... Eh, 5-ish hours on account of timezone differences and if there isn't a consensus I'll roll a breaker.

Actually, no, I'm kind of amused by this, so if nothing changes I'll just go with the option that'll be the most fun and reflavor the results to account for the conflict of interests. This should be entertaining.

>>5705493
I'll switch to drinking her blood to break the tie. I was also fine with that as well, after all.

>>5705493
>>5705708
Though if it is possible to free her but also drink her blood without killing her then I'd be more than happy with that as a compromise.

>>5705443
I could go on for a little while about player count and voter retention and yadayadayada, but I'll spare you and just sum up part of my opinion as basically "just stick with it for a while before deciding to quit to see if you get more voters". A big part of lack of investment in new quests from players is their frequent sudden death after all.

As for thinking about helping her...I personally don't think we know enough about the setting or her in particular to know the potential consequences or opportunities she offers. We don't even know what blood does for us yet or if she is important in any particular way or how often it is required that we drink blood.

As for what kind of story I'd like to see...I honestly don't know. I was just in a mood for an urban fantasy. Usually I'd just see what a QM would make of a setting and zero in on what I like. Not all urban fantasies are the same, so I can't choose a theme to focus in on without knowing how yours is like.

But to avoid giving you nothing to go off of I'll say that I'm interested in how the supernatural adapts and clashes with modernity and vice versa. (Modernity in the generic sense of time period rather than the sense of modernism vs post-modernism) If the supernatural is some sort of secret society, or subaltern, or oppressed demographic then why is that and how did that come to be? If they are the oppressors, is that openly or secretly? How do they live their lives in a modern world? How do such beings or magic (if it exists in some generic sense) affect the world and make it different from our own? Also is this some alt!Earth or another world entirely? Have the supernatural always been around or are they relatively recent thing, and if they have always been around then how is history different?

As for some specifics of the type of story I'd like...as I said, I don't know. Using what has been written so far as a jumping off point I'd say I guess meeting our father could be cool. If he's an asshole and kills our mother and we get a revenge story, fine. If he's cool, fine, we can have slice of life or reconciliation . If he tries to pull us into his world and away from our mother, that'd be a cool story opportunity. Aside from that, I guess what happens with this girl could be another plot hook that could lead to something as simple as a friend or could direct where the story is going if she is somehow special.

Finally, I guess I'd say I prefer a relatively small scale story, no world saving/ending for me. Something either personal, small group, maybe community sized story. City scale politics and scale at max for me. Also don't care about avoiding cliched stories (not to say I want them either) , if you are novel, cool, if not then as long as the story is decently written and the choices keep coming, that is fine with me.

Alright, closing. Bloodsucking wins, though I might not be able to write until much later since training starts for me today. I'll have to see.

>>5705723
Thanks for the feedback. This is where I admit that I've yet to flesh out any hard details for the setting beyond the basics; a couple of big names, some cultural details, your typical spread of organizations, and larger-scale conflicts running in the background that you're not expected to ever really participate in but should help flesh out the world.

When I asked "what kind of story do you want to see," I probably should've written "what kind do you want to TELL." I want to give you guys the chance to do something interesting and character defining; are you a risk-taker? A good samaritan? Stuff like that.

I was anticipating this Quest to be relatively low-stakes as well; being the modern era, all sorts have adapted to human sensibilities somewhat, so even among the populace of the nightlife it's a bit hard to justify tossing a 13 year-old into the fray. Like I mentioned before, a big part of what I want to portray is the day-to-day of a nonhuman and their slightly-alien mentality, so you can look forward to that when school starts.

Just for a simple worldbuilding details... Well, I mentioned Latin being spoken before which automsticslly means it's alt-Earth (unless I want to be even more of a hack than I already am kek), but it's mostly 'cause I really don't feel like shaking a dozen-odd names for places out of my brain. On an unrelated note, the biggest shift in the tug-of-war between the supernatural and regular people was the spread and evolution of electronic surveillance.

Great writing, good job QM. Archived.

I
FUCKING
LIVE

IT IS SO FUCKING HOT IN THIS COUNTRY
FUCK
WRITING
SEE YOU IN A BIT

>>5705854
honestly i thought this was a vampire the masquerade setting because of how similar it is

Terrible fucking news. I wanted to finish the update tonight but I've got to wake up in 5 hours and get my luggage packed. Then I've got a presentation after that. As an apology, here's the draft I had written out for the shower scene if the Bookburner option had won over thinking about your mother. I was sitting on it for a rainy day, and now's as good a time as any.

-------
>>5700116
>Those men in the alleyway. You've got an inkling as to who they are - or rather, what they're from. Time to review.

Naturally, the first thing that comes to mind is the most recent event of note; your brief encounter with the trio of exorcists. Because that's most certainly what they were - nightstalkers and demon slayers, out on a personal patrol.

There's no Church in the area large enough to support their kind. Judging by their scents, you'd call them volunteers. A kind of personal militia.

An internal conflict within you rises at the thought, struggling over whether to inform your mother of their presence or to simply stay quiet. As lone agents, they'd never be able to do any real damage to you and yours, but it'd be awful if any innocents got caught up in any conflicts.

Exorcists, as you understand, tend to shoot first and ask questions later.

That's why you only live with your mother.

…Maybe one day she'll let you meet your father. When you're stronger, and he's older and weaker.

You fidget for a moment, torn, then abruptly decide to push the matter off.

The towel is soft. It smells a bit like camellias.

Getting dressed takes no more than a minute.

Fuck. Hate to throw in the towel, but I promised I'd say something if I couldn't continue. I've sorely underestimated the difficulty of teaching and the language barrier, so I'm afraid I have to focus all my efforts on coming up with working lesson plans. I have no clue when I'll be able to actually give you guys the update. Apologies for my inability.

If there's anyone interested in picking.up the story, feel free. The setting is very fluid and free-form still; it can be adapted to a number of things, World of Darkness among them. May we meet again one day.

>>5714622
See you around QM. Sorry to see you couldn't continue this. Thanks for the heads up though, I hope to see you return one day.