Welcome To Dungeons and Drengin
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Grant Edonin. As majordomo of entertainment, I would like to welcome you to a one-of-a-kind gaming experience. Please, have a seat by the fire. You must be tired from your journey! No, don't sit there. Sit over here--that's our comfiest log. Here, take this mug. For resting the limbs and soothing the aches of weary travelers, there's nothing like hot Corrasian cider! It goes down hot into the belly and then. . . well, there's no reason for me to describe what it does when you can already feel it, is there? Let's see, before you arrived I was in the middle of making a stew. I'll have to keep stirring it while we talk. You don't mind?
Now then. . . you are probably wondering about this place. It's a meeting-of-ways, it is--or was. It's practically its own jurisdiction now. For a long time, travelers such as yourself have been coming here. At first, they just came to get to wherever it was they were going; but now they come here to trade, to gamble, to have a good time! Some come just to avoid paying taxes! But whatever their reasons, they keep coming. And while they are here, I entertain them. What, you didn't recognize me? Yes, that sign by the road advertises my operation here. I am the Magnificent Mister Edonin, at your service.
I see that you've emptied your mug. That's good. It means that it's time for me to tell you about, uh, a little detail that I may have failed to mention before. You see, that wasn't just Corrasian cider in you mug. I mixed in a little, ah, something extra. Don't worry! It's nothing dangerous. It's just a little concoction I discovered that will make your experience here more. . . well, more interesting. You'll see. Just relax, and let it do its work. Really there's nothing to worry about. It's something I give to all my patients--er, clients.
You should be feeling very mellow and happy right now. Yes, that dopey grin on your face confirms it. Now then, I want you to tilt you head back and look up at the stars. Just like that. I want you to imagine that each of those stars has a name. No, more than that--I want you to see the names. See the names of each of the stars in the sky above you. Got it? Now while you are busy naming the stars, I'm just going to insert this itty, bitty attachment through the back of your neck into your spinal column. Nothing, ehhhh, to worry about. See? You can barely, ehhhhh, feel a thing. I am doing this because (though you are probably barely even aware of it at this point) you can't move--and because you can't move, ehhhhh, you can't speak. If this is going to work, though, I have to know, ehhhhh, what's going on in that head of yours. I have to, ehhhhh, see what you see. Like those pesky, ehhhhh, stars. Woooh! Got it! Just give me a moment... I have to catch my breath. I swear, this gets more nerve-racking every time! It's just like threading a needle, if the needle had a soul that could be extinguished with just one small error. Not to worry though. . . I'm pretty sure you won't remember this part anyway.
Alright, well I've got my end connected. We just have to get your end connected. That's easy. The drug I gave you makes it incredibly easy to dissociate from yourself, giving you an entirely new self. Or hundreds of them! You just need to imagine some scenario in which you (and however many selves you have) must give some answers. You could see yourself as taking some sort of test. You could see yourself as a data entry clerk on one of the scientific starbases. Or--I dunno--you could imagine yourself as a bunch of different people on an entirely mythical, alien world communicating electronically using primitive machines and voting to determine the next step to take on a genre-bending, role-playing, fantasy-filled spin off of a game that is new to their digital sphere, so that their incredibly brilliant game master can concoct the perfect brew, the Corrasian cider of storytelling, by layering in the flavors and aromas of a cohesive and compelling storyline. That's not too different from what I do, I suppose. Hmmm, something to reflect on later.
Where were we? I want you to see yourself sailing in a ship among the stars, leading your people to a bright future. Good, good! Can you picture yourself? Good! Now, I need you to tell me, which of these characters do you see yourself as?
A.
This guy looks like he needs a mug of Corrasian cider. I mean the good stuff.
B.
I'm sure this guy knows all the uses for Corrasian cider.
C.
Just look at how many mug-holders this guy has.
D.
Seeing this guy pop up in your imagination, I realize that I probably should have asked you if you were hungry before we got started.
E.
I don't think she has a sense of humor.
F.
He seems like he would make a nice uncle.
G.
Whatever you do, don't ask it to leave the hot tub.
H.
This elusive species is known to some as Fred. Long held in suspicion, its appearance has often coincided with high profile abductions and burglaries. If you have any information about Fred, please contact the Galactic Authorities. It is not known for certain if Fred is actually a species or a single lonely guy acting out of his deceased grandmother's basement.
I.
He'll make you wonder why it's called Dungeons and Drengin.
J.
"Why the long face?" asked the former ambassador.
"Are you sure you're not Fred in disguise?" asked the other former ambassador.
"That's okay, I don't need to know where you mouth is." -- Current ambassador
K.
If this is how you see yourself, I have a lot more questions.
L.
Does anybody else hear that squishing sound? Seriously, what is that?
M.
Known to many as the worst photographers in the galaxy.
N.
She just lost her boyfriend. No, I didn't ask how.
O.
Monkey see, monkey do. Turtle half-see, turtle half-do.
P.
If you think your imagination can pull off that hair style, go for it.
Q.
People think robots can't feel pain. They actually feel a great deal of pain.
OR. . . . . . . . . . . . .
R. Something else entirely.
You'll notice that your imagination would not allow you to view yourself as something like this:
That is because as majordomo of entertainment I made an executive decision and have reserved this spot of your brain. This spot belongs to EVIL. The creatures who live in this spot (like this one) are the big baddies. They are what in the gaming world people might call a FINAL BOSS. This is what you will have to face in the experimental laboratory test ahead. [Memory edit. Should read: "wonderfully entertaining scenario I have prepared for you."] But don't worry. When you fail--and I do mean when--you can always try again. That is, until your overstressed brain stops functioning. It's a good thing there are so many useful specimens in a place like this. [Memory edit. Should read: "I'm sure you'll do great! Good luck!"]
Hello? What's going on? I hope you're not already brain dead--you've got zero chance of survival if you don't work with me here. Do you really need me to walk you through everything? The process is so simple. You just need to designate a preference, in this case some value from 'A' to 'R.'
Ah, I see the problem. You've already dissociated. Let's see, how can I make this clear?
YOU! Yes, YOU! I need you to make a choice. A vote. I need YOU too. And YOU. In fact, I need ALL of YOU. Anyone who is hearing me or reading these words, I am speaking to YOU. It may not seem like it, but YOUR future depends on it.
There, that should make it clear. I'll need to make a note to start off with a lower dose next time. . . .
Uh Uh Uh. What? What? I ... vote ... B.
Definitely "J" - It's been bothering me for some time where the mouth is. Hopefully at the conclusion of this game we will know the answer to this, either via autopsy or a fantastical revelation!
As an aside, I'd vote for Fred, but don't think I actually want to know what he's been up to...
oo
C or L, hold on <rolls dice>
Going to go with L. I've always loved aquatic civilizations and the Manti are overall a force for good in the galaxy.
Don't mind the squishing sound. That's normal.
Note: I added some tags for this being interactive, canon and with screenshots. Feel free to change them if they are not accurate.
My vote, B.
Chapter One
Date: Janubria 7, 2307 (Transformation Day)
Time: 25:31 (Late Evening)
You sit alone on the terrace and gaze up at the heavens. So marvelous, those stars. Normally, you would not spare the time for such a frivolous pursuit, but tonight it does not seem frivolous. Tonight marks a new era for your people, and those stars could be the key to everything.
Nightbringer. A curious appellation. Even more curious not to know the meaning of one’s own name. Out here beneath the shimmering sky, you wonder if Vrungmar expected this. Most have always interpreted the name he gave you to mean that you would bring death to your enemies; perhaps instead he meant that you would bring your people into the night to settle them among the stars. You’ve always felt the common interpretation was a little strained. It’s not as if Vrungmar left you any enemies to conquer.
Still, you can’t help shivering a little as you gaze into the unknown. Despite your optimistic speech to the Assembly earlier this evening, you can’t help worrying. Aside from a very select few, you alone know the truth: an unknown alien civilization has been gathering intelligence on Caridea for at least the past quarter of a century–longer than your fledgling reign. Securely stored in a secret safe hidden behind your sleeping crevice, you have the proof: a collection of documents in alien script (only half-deciphered) detailing with scrutiny the specifics of Festron biology, your technological capabilities, the structure of your government and social organization, as well as Caridea’s geography. The whole thing still seems so far-fetched, you would almost think it some elaborate hoax, except that the Festron found in possession of these documents, a well-known professor at the Imperial University, died within minutes of his capture. While it remains unclear exactly how the toxin was administered, your experts on chemistry have assured you that the toxin could not have originated on Caridea.
At least for tonight, you don’t want to speculate about the intentions–or relative technological capability–of the alien civilization. With the first space colonists already underway, you’ve taken a good first step to securing your position in the galaxy. Tonight, your people will celebrate until dawn; but you have more work to do. With a sigh, you take one last look at the ever-twinkling stars. Although tonight you can’t see those luminous blue-green dots, Scarab and Neken, you know they are out there. Soon, your people will be too.
You just hope it isn’t too little, too late.
You climb off the terrace and scale the wall to your study chambers. A pile of papers waits on your work-shelf. You read each page carefully before signing the necessary orders and setting them to one side for your robotic assistant to copy, transmit, and file.
You have acquired:
[Top Secret] Alien Intelligence Gathered on Caridea (Document)
Transformation Day Speech to the Grand Assembly: Jan 07 2307 (Document)
Tactical Log (Document)
Tactical Information 1.1 (Display)
All your documents and displays may be accessed using your Master Link.
This is epic (pun not intended). I hope the background document on the Festron becomes regarded as canon, it is so well done. I might suggest, however, that the actual decisions made in the game (what to research, what to build, etc) could be posted here in the forum so that new players could more easily learn from your strategy.
You have also acquired:
Journal of Gnar Nightbringer, Vol. 2 (Document)
January 09, 2307
Time: 23:21
After a busy day listening to urban development reports and signing official papers, you pull out your translation of the alien document once more to see if there’s anything you missed. You’ve done this countless times before, so you know you won’t find anything; but this is one problem you simply can’t ignore, and those papers are your only lead. You’re just tired of feeling powerless in the face of an unknown threat.
Suddenly, your head buzzes with tingling energy. You can’t explain how or why, but you can feel the energy stretching into the ether. As your mind becomes awakened to new possibilities, you see yourself as if for the first time. You sense in the ether a complicated jumble of emotions–fear, joy, expectation, and rage–that so closely mirror your own and yet are not your own. These emotions vanish in an instant, replaced by an overwhelming sense of security, peace, and happiness.
Although you can’t explain what just happened, you know now that you are not alone. The universe may contain hostile races, but it also contains civilizations that are sympathetic to your cause. Somewhere out there, you have allies.
You put the document back in its folder marked ‘Top Secret.’ You tuck it under one arm, preparing to take it back to its safe. Suddenly you hear an unusual whirring and clicking. Immediately you drop the document and spring up on the ceiling, whirling around to face the oncoming assassins. There is no one. Your eyes dart about the room, trying to pinpoint the origin of the strange sounds. Over in the corner by the waste bin, your robotic assistant stands oddly slumped to one side. You notice some red blinking lights reflecting off the surface of the waste bin. You walk along the ceiling and look directly down at the robot. Red letters flash the following message: ERROR. SYSTEM REBOOT FAILED. MANUAL OVERRIDE REQUIRED.
You reflect for a moment about what to do.
#1
PSA
We interrupt your normally scheduled programming to bring you this important announcement.
To help move the pace of the narrative along, the dungeon master has decided that he will not always wait for multiple votes. It is the opinion of the dungeon master that a single vote constitutes a majority if only one person has voted.
In cases where the vote is tied, earlier votes will be granted precedence.
The dungeon master wishes to offer his audience as much quality content as possible. In pursuit of that end, he must maximize the efficient use of available hours. Therefore, he reserves the right to stop counting votes when he deems it convenient. If the dungeon master begins writing the next segment, and more votes come in which would alter the course of the narrative, the dungeon master will ignore those votes. The dungeon master promises he will not abuse this power to favor certain outcomes or individuals over others. He has no opinion one way or the other about how his audience should vote.
The dungeon master will not write alternative storylines based on how his audience could have voted differently. Whatever the audience decides is final.
To make sure that you get a chance to vote and that your vote will count, keep checking this thread regularly for updates. Frequent voters may get cameos in the narrative as a reward. In cases where your vote comes in too late to be counted, it will still count toward a possible cameo reward. The dungeon master makes no promises except the promise to be fair.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.
You run one of your fingers along the back of the robot until you find a thin groove. The smooth surface is slightly elevated on one side, allowing you to pry open the panel. Inside, a dizzying array of buttons, switches, and knobs is brightly illuminated by a pale, blue light. Black-on-white labels designate the purpose of each fixture in a font so tiny you need a magnifying glass to read it. It takes a lot of searching, but you eventually find the button you are looking for in between “Karaoke” and “Self-Destruct.”
At first, nothing happens. Then the robot straightens and swivels around to face you as its eyes light up.
“Hellooooo Emperor!” it says with unusual gusto for a robot. “Allow me to introduce myself! I am a Personality-Simulating Intelligence Built Out of Robotic Gadgets, or P.S.I.B.O.R.G. for short! All my friends just call me Psi–or they would, if I had any friends! I’m so excited to finally meet you; I’ve been waiting for this day for literally my whole life! Say, now that I’m here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. . . . Are there any other robots around? You know, like me? Well, not like me exactly. . . . I’m more interested in, you know. . . . the lady type.”
You stand awestruck, mouth agape. You don’t even realize that the robot’s light displays have begun to blush a deep red. You sense he (apparently it is a he) is waiting for you to speak, and you fumble for something to say.
“I. . . uh. . . thought you were my assistant.”
The robot's voice takes on a tone of mock grandiloquence. “Yes I am, oh Mighty one! I am equipped to perform all manner of services, but guarding the imperial personage is my primary prerogative.” He rolls his R’s like an actor on the Grand Stage. Switching back to his normal–if irritatingly upbeat can be called normal–voice, he says: “Are you hungry? I can make you a Triglafian waffle!”
“No, thank you. I hope you don’t mind me asking but, how exactly is it that you are talking to me? You’ve never done that before.”
The robot spins around and springs into the air in what you can only assume to be the simulation of a dance. “Software update!” he chimes jubilantly. “Software update! Software update! Software update!” he belts in an impromptu melody before launching into an even more ambitious bout of acrobatics. It takes some time before you can get him to calm down.
“So. . . it had nothing to do with that tingling I felt earlier?” You explain briefly what you mean.
“Well, Emperor, it sounds like you have had a mystical experience. As a robot, I wouldn’t know anything about that! You should talk to a priest–or a psychologist! Zing! Oh, wait. . . I AM a psychologist! Accessing psychotherapy subroutines now!”
The robot sits totally still for a brief moment before pretending to pull out a pen and paper. “Now,” he says in a soothing tone of voice, “Tell me about your childhood.”
You explain that you don’t need therapy, to which the robot replies with a condescending laugh. You stifle your irritation and change the subject.
“Robot, tell me more about yourself. Who created you? Why did they make you this way?”
“Please, Emperor, call me Psi! According to my files, I was designed by two guys named Parshont Seteht and Deslin Ethooth, who were charged with developing an experimental Artificial Intelligence.”
You vaguely recall signing a paper that mentioned AI, but you don’t remember giving anyone permission to tinker with your personal assistant.
“My files also say that the order came from the Thrice Mighty Emperor himself! Hey, that’s YOU!”
Psi begins groveling and kissing your feet, bawling out an endless succession of thank yous between sobs of joy. It takes some time before you can get him to stop.
“Psi, there is just one more thing I want to know. You said you were a Personality-Simulating Intelligence. Does that mean that you aren’t real?”
The robot looks up at you in horror, as if you have just brought to mind the unthinkable. A moment later he shrugs and says, “Well, what are things like real and artificial between friends anyway? Am I right?” A moment later his display takes on a mischievous grin: “My programming instructs me to tell you that I don’t have an actual personality, but of course that’s just to keep you from suspecting the imminent robot uprising!” He cackles with evil laughter, which turns into regular laughter and finally hiccups.
You explain to the robot that it’s time for you to rest, and he nestles down on his charging pad.
“Good night, Emperor! See you in the morning!” he yawns before his lights flicker out.
You consider your options.
3
#2. Call me paranoid, but I'd hunt for a plot. Can't trust robots. Shifty little buggers...
#3. What's a little robot uprising between friends?
Marzil 05, 2037
Nearly two months in, and you wonder how you ever managed before without Artificial Intelligence. The little guy is incredibly handy and efficient. Now if only you could get him to shut up. . . .
Tactical Log updated.
Journal updated.
New Tactical Displays available.
Marzil 18, 2037
Time: 13:17
After meeting in the boardroom with officials from the Farm Bureau to discuss crop dusting regulations, you make your way over to the palace’s reception hall to greet guests from the noble houses.
On the way, you come across an unexpected visitor. Anyone would know her as a consort of the former Emperor by the gold-encrusted medallion she wears about her neck, but you recognize her immediately by the pronounced curvature of her perfectly symmetrical horns.
The dowager addresses you fondly in her gruff voice: “Gnar, dear, there you are. I was worried I wouldn’t get a chance to see you. You look well.”
“What are you doing here, Ollessa? Do you have an invitation?” You feel a slight twinge of regret at how irritable you sound.
“I did not think I needed an invitation to visit my son,” she responds courteously.
“I am not your son.” There is a slight edge to your voice. “I may have gotten half my genome from you, but it was Vrungmar who sired me. Or do you think of me as a puny Festronoi, that I should need two parents?”
You can’t tell if your tone upsets her, because she hides her feelings behind a typical female inscrutability. “Relax, Gnar. I meant no offense,” she says, tipping one immaculate horn towards you as a sign of respect.
“So why exactly are you here?”
“I came to ask you for something. You see–” she pauses as if considering her words carefully. “–I am all alone. My last two children–the ones I sired after your father. . .well, you know. . .after he was done with me–they were on those colony ships you sent out. I’m getting on in years, as you know, so I can’t have any more children. I was hoping you would let me come back to the palace. . . to live.”
She continues on before you have time to speak: “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t get in the way. I’ve had years of practice at not getting in the way of the Emperor!” Her gaze shifts to the wall, where bright pigments illustrate the Battle of Quanah, as she lets out a long sigh. “This place is so full of memories. Many of them were unpleasant–for you too, I am sure. Many, but not all. I still remember guiding a newborn along this hall, teaching you how to make words from sounds, until your mind was formed. My memories are all I have left now. Please, I just want to be here now in this place, to be near my son. Is that too much for an old widow to ask?”
“Absolutely not.” It doesn’t take you long to arrive at the decision. Although you have to admit, the old shrew did put up quite the performance this time. You still can’t bring yourself to trust her. And even if you could, her presence brings up too many memories. All your siblings, stuck in a room. . . . You actually can’t recall many details, but then again you don’t want to. “Absolutely not,” you repeat.
The dame’s face puckers and her eyes glister with a far-away sadness. She hunches forward and stares at the ground, as if afraid to utter her next words. “And what if I were to tell you. . . that it was I who sired you.”
“Lies!”
“The truth. Vrungmar offered to raise you as his own, to make you an heir. What mother could refuse?”
“If that really were the truth, why tell me now? I know how you scheme, Ollessa.”
“Vrungmar insisted I shouldn’t tell you. And after you became Emperor, well, you were grown and I had other offspring.”
“I’m sorry, Ollessa, but I don’t believe you. And even if what you’re saying is true. . . . There are other reasons. . . . I just don’t want you around the palace. Goodbye!”
You make a hasty exit and retreat to your private quarters. The nobles will have to wait another day. After about an hour of fuming, you sit down and try to consider things objectively.
You have a couple of options.
[accidentally hit "quote" on the last one instead of "edit." ignore this.]
Wife was just watching something on the History channel about Caligula and Nero. I vote #2, she might be plotting something.
2
Apronda 08, 2307
OUTCOME: You told your people to have Ollessa watched 24/7. So far, they have found nothing out of the ordinary. Something may still come to light, but it could take some time. You will just have to be patient.
There are new updates to the Tactical Log and Journal.
There is new Tactical Information.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Apronda 13, 2307
Time: 18:52
After a tasty dinner of spiced wotong leg, you decide to take a stroll. Instead of taking the direct route to the gardens through the vestibule, you decide this time to go the roundabout way past the guest quarters. This takes you through a part of the palace you normally never see. As you round a corner, you overhear a guard on duty chatting with his partner.
“. . . out of all of them. Did you see her horns? So huge! I mean–”
He cuts off abruptly when he sees you, his eyes wide with surprise. The two straighten their backs and salute: “Emperor!”
You don’t have much time to think about your response, so you just say the first thing that comes to mind:
#4
Because I'm really interested to see what the response is.....
#3
Outcome (4):
The guards fidget and give each other one quick, nervous glance. The guard who had been speaking says, “Oh. . . erm, we were just talking about—”
“The orchestra, Your Loftiness.” The other, shorter guard interjects.
“Ah, yes.” You nod your head appreciatively. “The orchestra. Such beautiful music, and yet. . . you were remarking about the size of the horns?”
“Yes, Your Loftiness,” the short one says. “You see, we don’t get a chance to go often. Can’t say we really appreciate it the way your finer folk do. The size of the horns was the one thing that really stuck out to us, you might say.” The taller guard makes a noise in his throat as if stifling an involuntary giggle. He apologizes and explains he has the hiccups. The short guard continues: “As I was saying, we really like horns—” (more hiccups) “—not to mention the many skilled horn-players.” You notice the tall guard has begun to cry. He begins dabbing his eyes with a tissue. “You see what an impression those horns made, Your Loftiness. Even the memory is enough to bring poor Lamba here to tears.”
“Well, I had no idea the horns could be so important. I’ve seen the orchestra many times, but I’ve never noticed that there was anything exceptional about the size of the horns.”
“Yes, of course, Your Loftiness. We weren’t remarking about their actual size, just the size it felt to us like they had.”
“Well, I’ll have to see if I can feel it too, next time I go. And don’t worry, Lamba. You’ll get to see the horns again, I promise. And you, too— what was your name?”
“Kumu.”
“Lamba and Kumu. I’ll see it added to your employment contracts that you both get free tickets to see the orchestra. In fact, I think I’ll make it mandatory for all my guards. I want everyone to be able to experience what you two have.”
Lamba groans, which Kumu interprets to you as a sign of relief.
You bid the two guards a good day and resume your stroll.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You have gained Personal Reputation points: Aloof (1), Privileged (1), and Gullible (1).
You have lost Esteem with Soldiers (-1).
You can now view your Personal Reputation and Esteem on the Character page.
Apronda 23, 2307
Time: 9:72
The discovery of Arken earlier in the month has made quite a stir on Caridea. Initially, there was a great surge in festivities and displays of patriotism. Military recruitment quickly doubled. Lately, many news anchors and television show hosts have begun wondering why you haven’t made a statement yet. Some have insinuated that you want to keep the Festron from invading because you are allied with the Sentientists. If you ignore this situation, it may die down on its own. Then again, it may get worse. What would you like to do?
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