[Loaka of the Wind]

I CAN TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB, MORTAL, JUST AS SOON AS I BREAK THIS MAGIC-BIND.

The sword rattled and shook in place, the little chicken bone holding its own against the flotation ring. Every shake sent the sword slightly closer to the ground, nearing the point where the blade would merely crash through the floor and keep going to whatever was below. Turmkligne reconsidered its options.

OR I COULD GRANT YOU … GREAT POWER, RICHES, ANYTHING YOUR MORTAL MIND COULD DREAM OF … ALL YOU MUST DO IS TO HOLD ME ALOFT IN YOUR HANDS! YOU WOULD BE THE GREATEST … WHATEVER IT IS YOU WANT TO BE THE GREATEST OF.

[Loaka of the Wind]

Chicken bones! The fools throw their wasteful scraps at the deadly blade, one bouncing off the harsh metal and the other wedging itself in the psychic flotation ring–
CURSES!

The spinning ring on the sword’s hilt stops, chicken bone wedged cleanly through the centre in what many would identify as the greatest chicken-bone-throw in history. The sword dropped to the ground, embedding itself halfway through the floor.

ACCURSED ONE! YOU SHALL PAY FOR YOUR INSOLENCE! WHICH OF YOU MORTAL FOOLS DARES TO– YOU! AND YOU SIT SLEEPING? I’LL BURN THIS WHOLE PLACE DOWN!

A dark circle surrounds the blade, eldritch whispers at the edge of hearing filling the minds of all those in the area. The room grows warmer, warmer, the blade seeming to glow from within, until-
pssshhhhh

Sparks fizzle along the edge of the blade, the heat in the room dropping back to a fine room-temp. The eye on the blade spins around, full of rage.

CUURRSSEEESSSS! it shrieks. The blade slides slightly further down into the floor. Any further and it’s likely to crash straight through.

[Loaka of the Wind]

With a noise like tearing cloth, a jagged rift of light crashed open in the middle of the room. The swirling vortex, making a sound like a whirlpool of tortured souls, issued forth a myriad lights of all colours, an intense blast of air filling the room with an unearthly heat. Emerging from the chaos, a grand longsword of blackened steel hovered up and out. The rift closed below it with a crack, leaving behind naught but the sword and a black scorch-mark across the floor’s surface.

The sword was long, a thick, heavy thing closer to a slab of metal that would have taken even a strong warrior both hands to lift. It was carved with magic signs and gave an ominous air, hovering in place tip-down. A strange eye opened in the cross-guard, a diamond of exceptional quality with a cat-like pupil in its centre. It swept this way and that, surveying the mess of this new world. Fresh faces meant treacherous ground, fertile ground. The sword regarded all with scrutiny, taking deep note of each amd every one.

<b>WHO DARES SUMMON ME, TURMKLIGNE, THE TOWER BLADE, ANCIENT WIZARD-WEAPON OF LEGEND?</b>

A voice boomed across the minds of all in the room, a telepathic message heard as a voice most impressive to its beholder. A pressure surrounded both the blade and its voice – it held power, that much was certain.

[Loaka of the Wind]

Eh, you sayin’ Loaka likes girls?

 

Ye’d be right, eh. Loaka likes ’em pretty ones all. Loaka likes touchin’ and bumpin’, ya? Ye wanna touchin’ Loaka? O’ course ye do, eh.

 

Loaka don’t get why fellas make big deal of it, eh? Ones what like the same and not, all of ’em make a big deal. Some’a dem say is very good, tell everyone, other say very bad an’ y’goin’ ta be in trouble wit’ someone, eh. No one really needa care what make ye loins happy, eh? E’cept for ’em what is makin’ ye loins happy, heh heh heh! Likin’ those bits or dese bits ain’t makin’ ya different or special, no more t’an likin’ ye meat burnt or bleedin’, eh?

Is impurrtant ye rememb’rin’, ya.

[Loaka of the Wind]

Name:

Turmkligne, “Tower Blade”

Age:

Claims to be of ancient make, really only about 20 or 30 years old.

Height:

1.313 metres from tip to tip.

 
<p style=”display: inline !important;”>Appearance:</p>
In all regards, a massive sword. 13 centimetres wide, 1.3 centimetres thick, crafted from meteoric black-steel that gives it the look of burned metal. Its blade is inscribed with 13 words of power and the numeral XIII. It is long and straight, not sharpened to a tip at the end, leaving a flared end with two small hook-like parts. The handle is designed for a two handed grip with extra room, made of a soft yet oddly warm white leather. The crossguard is long and straight, inset with a large eye-like golden crystal that stares intently at all who cross before it with a cat-like black pupil. The hilt features a strange, spinning spherical device that seems constantly in motion.

Personality:

Grandiose and verbose, with a penchant for foreboding words. Cruel, callous and generally with little love for the living, it still seeks to get what it can get out of those around itself. It offers tempting deals, with short term rewards and long term consequences. Ever seeking power, it will do anything to gain strength over others. Sarcastic and mean-spirited, really kind of a terrible person all-around.

Backstory:

A last-ditch effort for a peevish wizard’s apprentice to finally gain one-up on his master. Attempting to gain access to his master’s forbidden knowledge, he destroyed himself along with his master and the tower they resided in. The sword, ordered at great expense to someone else, did what it was meant to do and captured his soul before it was sent to the afterlife. Now known as the blade Turmkligne, he adventured in the hands of others, manipulating them to his own gain until he could create the means to move by himself.

Finally free of loathsome living, the wizard-blade earned itself a reputation as a wicked and cruel creature. So cruel, in fact, that some noble deity or chaotic force sought to send him away from the realm of his birth, and into a far-flung future populated by those obsessed with a teenager’s webcast.
<p style=”display: inline !important;”>Favorite on the cast:</p>
Having no actual knowledge of the cast or their intentions, Turmkligne has shown a remarkable progression towards equality, loathing all in equal measure by default.

 

 

 

[Loaka of the Wind]

The contract is sealed.

[Loaka of the Wind]

You take the OPTICAL INPUT DEVICE from your inventory and INSTALL it into your face region. Arcane mechanical processes allow this to occur, and now you have a third eye fixed squarely in your forehead.

As impressive as the awakening of your third eye is, you’ve gained very little. It turns out your new eye can judge distances up to several meters away, which is nice. No psychic powers … Or are there?! (spoilers: you have not gained psychic powers. you checked.)

Combining both hilarious shenanigans and superior robotic jumping skills into one, you attempt to leap up the couple of meters into the air to reach the grate.

Your new attachment delights you by informing you of your maximum jump height of 6.3 centimeters. You are too heavy, and equipped with some basic LEG SERVOS LV. 1. You were clearly designed without basketball in mind.

Welp, there goes that plan. Where to next, pardner?

[Loaka of the Wind]

This is a good idea. Loaka normally just complains to the hat-wearing head honcho over Skype, but this works too.

Complaint: Spambots, everywhere.

What’s happening: They’re trying to sell me things, and/or give me viruses (virii? virodes?)

Where are you finding this: Global feed reports their appearance, group creations and spam posts. Also sometimes get PMs.

Any suggestions?: Kill ’em all. Or captcha for sign-up. Or a written competency test, which might filter out people who can’t spell either. That might be nice.

[Loaka of the Wind]

You look inside, and find that the room is FAIRLY EMPTY

Well, except for that massive something-stain on the floor. The floor’s got a huge puddle right in the middle of this weird, triangular room. There’s nothing in here but the stain, with any features on the wall merely being extensions of it. Something is still dripping into the puddle of something, so you turn your lights to the ceiling.

There’s a grate up above, with the liquid trickling from it. There’s a suspicious gouge on the side, but that could be from anything at all.

[Loaka of the Wind]

There doesn’t seem to be any doors immediately ahead, or to the right, so you turn left towards the T-intersection.

Along the ground is this weird little trail of RED, like someone dragged a huge bristly BRUSH over the ground, or pulled a DEAD GUYinto a hiding place. You judge the odds of either of these things being true as roughly equal. Being the only interesting thing ahead, you continue, turning to look down to the right of the hallway.

Without the light of your room at your back, you’re relying a bit more on your own lights here. The corridor seems to end here as well, at least for the right turn. There’s a PURPLE DOUBLE-DOOR to your left and an OPEN DOORWAY to the right, where the curious trail leads. Both have terminals next to them, logically for opening and closing said doors, but neither are receiving power. The unyielding metal of the purple door makes that a dead end until you can retrieve some manner of PRYING tool.

There’s a dark, forbidding room ahead, or an entirely unexplored path behind you. Or you could just give in to madness, though that will likely achieve nothing, given your COLD, LOGICAL ROBOT MIND.

[Loaka of the Wind]

You pop your head module back into its socket and trot on over to the door’s terminal. The door glares at you, as though trying to communicate the fact that, if it were capable, it would try to hurt you. However, being a door, and being bound by the laws of door-kind, it is compelled to give way to the bearer of mystic passwords.

Some idiot left the username in. Some other idiot likely left it as something generic like ‘admin’. It’s like the movie Hackers or something. You enter the password and click the button. The door opens with a heavy, grinding screech. Sounds like the door hadn’t been opened in a while, or was just attempting to display its malice towards you. Either option is just as likely.

 

Holy heck it’s dark out there! Was it always like that? You have no idea, what with having no memory. It’s probably safe to assume that it’s not meant to be dark. At the same time, it’s also safe to assume the sky is green and the moon is actually a space station. You have no idea. The memory thing again.

Stepping out into the darkness, your back-lit eyes crank up to max to light the way. If this were on your phone or something, you might be worried about power consumption. Unfortunately, you have no idea how much power you have left, whether you need to recharge at all, or what a phone is. Shucks.

Anyway, you scan the area. It seems you were at the far end of a corridor. To your RIGHT is a blank white wall. To your LEFT is a hallway, that seems to possibly come out into some manner of T-section. AHEAD is also a wall. BEHIND is the room you left.

INPUT COMMAND

[Loaka of the Wind]

You head over to the note. It’s in that gobbledy-gook you saw before. Well, at least until your AUTO-EQUIP feature goes through the necessary steps to install that LANGPROC chipset you just got. Just pop open your head and … there! You can read. Congratulations!

The note says …

COMPATRIOT

CODE.DOOR

==”030201″
CODE.TERMINAL1

==”funbags”
GOOD LUCK
COMRADE.SIGN

 

Well, thank you, Comrade. Assuming this information is useful in any way, that is. All this tomato sauce is creeping you out, though. The note is discarded, its contents memorised.

 

Oh, that just pops right off, does it? That’s where the chipsets go.

Now what?

[Loaka of the Wind]

Recalling that the word ‘robot’ has its roots in the Russian word for worker, you employ a traditional dance of your ancestors as a means of celebration. The dance also gives you a good chance to finally look at the final remaining thing in the room you haven’t stared at: the door.

Oh crap, it’s looking this way. Menacingly.

 

What do?
>FIGHT
>RUN
>DIPLOMACY
>WRITE_IN

[Loaka of the Wind]

You approach the speaker with malicious intent. The speaker tries to convince you not to dismantle it but, alas, you do not understand. Without mercy or really any emotions, being a soulless robot, you begin to take apart the speaker. In a matter of seconds, its constituent parts are available and are placed into your INVENTORY, leaving behind only the mounting bracket that held it to the wall, which appears to be part of the wall itself.

 

TARGET DEFEATED!

You receive:
1x OPTICAL INPUT DEVICE

2x SPARE METAL (STEEL?)

1x CHIPSET – LANGPROC

1x AUDIO OUT DEVICE

Chipset Recieved!

The chip in your hand suddenly draws to mind a few important tidbits on it, including relevant data on installation and use. It sure is helpful, knowing things you didn’t know!

 

Input command.

INVENTORY –

1x OPTICAL IN

1x AUDIO OUT

2x SPARE METAL

1x CHIPSET – LANGPROC

1x SCREWDRIVER (INTEGRATED)

[Loaka of the Wind]

 

You reach down and TAKE the object, identifying it as some kind of SCREWDRIVER.

//PROCESS.A.E.ACTIVE

An event occurs.

Part of your hand opens up and engulfs the SCREWDRIVER as you go to pick it up. By some process, you are now equipped with a SCREWDRIVER, thanks to your AUTOMATED EQUIP. You can choose between EMPTY HAND and SCREWDRIVER at will.

Now what?

>NEW COMMAND UNLOCK: CHANGE_EQUIP