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File: 1545015454796.png (1.23 MB, 2750x1885, The Drifters.png)

 No.706639[View All]

The Drifters have made their escape from the town of Braildorn, having been made outlaws by their new nemesis Lysander. Once an adventurer like themselves, Lysander has fallen victim to his own hubris and greed, desperate to be seen as a true dragon. The party's first encounter with him led to him becoming crippled, and the party taking his ship for themselves. To make things more complex, the egg they discovered in the vault deep in the Shifting Sands is a seal preventing an entity known as the Cuckoo from awakening, an event which would result in the decimation of the Echoes as they know it.

Not only has Lysander joined forces with a mysterious being named only the Oneiromancer, but he has also discovered the location of the Cuckoo's egg. He, the Oneiromancer, and several others seem to be part of a collective that seek the egg, though for what purpose is unclear; indeed, Lysander seems blind to the egg's true nature, coveting it as a rare and valuable treasure. Seeking to oppose Lysander are a blind wanderer called Dawn, her partner Carabas, and their missing friend Etrigan.

The long term goal the party have made is clear from this: stop Lysander from getting to the egg, however possible. This is an even more pressing matter due to what the party discovered when they visited the vault: not only is the Cuckoo's egg there, but Discord, the primordial god of chaos, is sealed away there, turned to stone but still able to speak. If Lysander were to reach the vault, he would surely make an alliance with the Draconequus, making him an even greater threat. However, Lysander's whereabouts are unknown, for now; until the party can gain some insight into this, they cannot do much to stop him.

For now, the party's goals are twofold:

They have heard of a place to the north called the Dreaming Spring, where Hermodur got some of his Dreamwater from. Lilies from this spring are one of three components needed to liberate a spirit held captive by the swamp druid Black Pudding. Visiting this spring would not only help them in liberating the spirit, but also in acquiring more of the water, which has the unique quality of showing whoever the user thinks of when drinking it.

They have also caught wind of an upcoming event in the Echoes called the Swap Meet, a gathering for drifters from all over the land to come and buy, sell and trade all manner of goods. This event is unique in that while it is held, it is forbidden (by whom it is unknown) to harm anyone. Essentially, this means that everyone who attends a Swap Meet is under truce. This time around, the Swap Meet is being held in a distant place called the Weeping City, so called because it never stops raining on the abandoned metropolis.
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She simply nods and, with a bit of reluctance, offers you a drink from the healing potion. "I did not realize there was nothing beneath. This place is full of the vengeful dead. I wonder what happened here?"

She looks at the remains of Sir Bastion's armor. "Not that I am in the market for bartering, but some of that may fetch a good price at the Meet. Don't you think?" She gazes idly at the cathedral entrance, waiting to see what you do.



Hermodur declines the healing potion. "Let's not use them so cavalierly. Save it for when it will help me more."

Hermodur stares at the armor for a moment. "I suppose it is probably safe for now. The helm appears to be in good condition."

>appraising the helm to see if it has any special properties [1d10]

Roll #1 9 = 9


While you're not an expert, you can't sense any magical energy coming from the helmet. It is a frogmouth helm made of golden metal with a red plume. The type worn by knights in traditional jousts. The borders are decorated with a tasteful dark leaf pattern filigree. While it may not be enchanted, it is an extremely sturdy piece of armor, protecting from even the toughest of blows. It is also a striking piece of craftsmanship, making for quite an ornament.



Hermodur nods with satisfaction at the money he imagines he will make from this.

"Then, let us move on," he says as he takes the helm with him.

Hermodur looks around the entrance room to get his bearings. [1d10] perception

Roll #1 9 = 9


The cathedral interior consists of a a vast structure of light stone, with a black and white marble floor with several rows of perfectly straight pews. Great pillars reach all the way to the top of the incredibly tall building, atop which you can see rafters connecting each pillar in a complex network. You think you can see shadows moving on the rafters themselves, but it is difficult to be sure from so far below. Ahead of you lie two sets of stairs, one on each side, while the pews are set facing a stone archway, beyond which lie a pair of great wooden doors, which appear to be locked.

There are many rooms adjacent to the main hall of the cathedral, accessible from the aforementioned flights of stairs. From the left you can hear what sounds like the ceaseless banging of an anvil, while on the right you think you hear something scrabbling about, rat-like.

The decorations of the cathedral grab your attention; instead of being dedicated to the wroship of Twilight, the Holy Twins or even any of the Saints, the stained glass windows and bas reliefs all depict a great dragon, bigger than any you've ever seen, from the size comparison. It is shown torching entire armies, razing cities, but also apparently teaching ponies something, or bestowing them with great gifts. "Dragon worship," Marisol muses as she follows your gaze. "How peculiar. What do you make of it all?"


Forgot to add:

There are many rooms adjacent to the main hall of the cathedral, accessible from the aforementioned flights of stairs. From the left you can hear what sounds like the ceaseless banging of an anvil, while on the right you think you hear something scrabbling about, rat-like. Apart from this, however, the cathedral is completely silent. You feel like you are being observed by some unseen, hostile force, wanting nothing more than for you to leave this city.


>The Herald:

The constant rain of the Weeping City's exterior pours down on you as you converse with Marisol. She gives you a quizzical look. "…I see," she says simply. She seems perplexed by your change of heart, but doesn't question it for now. "…Well, how will you find them?" she asks. "They could be anywhere by now. And with Lysander on their tail, I can imagine they'd be taking every precaution to not be found."

She turns her attention to the lifeless body of Principo, looking him over and pouting a little as she sees nothing of value on his person With a noncommittal shrug, she moves over to the corpse's legs, struggling to lift them. "Grab his arms, would you." It's not a request.



Hermodur lets out another laugh-cough. He pulls out the last of the needles stuck in his body. "Seriously?"

"Well, alright," he shrugs, then slowly struggles to his feet. "What could you possibly be planning?" He grabs Principo's hands, one in each hand.


Humor isn't her strong suit. "Unless you have some master plan, I don't see what you could really do to find their ship. In case you haven't realized by now, the Echoes are extremely big. Even assuming they've gone towards the Sands, that's still an entire desert to traverse. So. What's your plan?"

"We can't just leave him out in the middle of the road," she explains matter-of-factly. "What if someone comes looking for the body and tries to resurrect him, or something?" She nods towards the nearby treeline. "I did a bit of scouting before. There's a waterfall not far from here."

The dragon is obscenely heavy, befitting his great size. Both of you have to pause to catch your breath at periodic intervals. Marisol struggles with it more than you do. You slowly make your way towards the treeline, following a recently cleared path presumably left by Marisol into the wilderness. You can hear rushing water nearby.



"Good thinking," Hermodur nods. "A body as big, durable, and strong as this is sure to have plenty of people who would love to have it under their control."

He continues to do his best to lug the dead body to the waterfall.

"As for what I will do to find them… I don't know very well. I know they are likely to head back to where the Cuckoo egg was in the desert. In general, if I follow wherever the most chaos is, I'm sure I'll find them," he chuckle-coughs.


"Exactly. I wouldn't want a zombie dragon on my tail. This one was bad enough when he was alive."

She tilts her head to the side. "I don't think you get the scope of what you're proposing. You're at least a month away from the Sands on foot. Where will you get the resources to survive that trip? Not to mention it might be for nothing. By the time you reach the Sands, your friends may be long gone. It's suicide. But by all means, go ahead and run off into the blue."

You keep struggling to haul the body on the path through the woods, following the sound of running water. You eventually reach a stream, which, sure enough, opens up into a large waterfall. With a loud thud and a splash, Marisol drops his legs, letting the corpse fall into the stream, lying on the edge of the waterfall. She looks over to you. "Care to do the honors?"



"Let's do it together," Hermodur says with a grin. Then, they shove the body into the water together.

"If you have a better idea, do share," Hermodur says as carefully lays down on the ground to get some rest.

"If not, I'll be walking."


You both shove the body over the edge. It makes an anticlimactic little splash as it sinks into the creek below, vanishing amidst the rapids. "Good riddance," Marisol comments, dusting off her hands.

You sit down under a tree to convalesce for a moment, taking shelter from the soft patter of the rain. Marisol isn't as exhausted, leaning against an adjacent tree with her arms crossed.

"I'm only needling you about it because you might be useful in the future," she answers defensively. "Even if you are an idiot. …If you're that hellbent on finding them, your best bet would be to secure some sort of transport. Perhaps joining a convoy headed in that direction, or getting a skilled sorcerer to transport you there, or even getting yourself a Sanctuary of your own. Not that that would be easy. You'd need money. A lot of it… Hm…" You notice her subconsciously fingering the Tears in her pocket as she mulls over your options.



"If I joined a caravan, I'd be putting them in danger. Do you know of anyone who could teleport me such a distance?"

Hermodur eyes her hand as she talks. "When are you going to destroy that?" he asks.


She shakes her head. "Lady Grosvenor, perhaps. But that's not an option, is it. If you could make a lot of money, you could buy yourself a Sanctuary, but again, that's going to cost you a lot. And going on foot just isn't feasible for what you want to accomplish. I hate to say it, but you might want to consider another option."


She pulls out the Tears and places them on a rock. They are a set of three completely see-through tear-shaped crystals, plucked from the skull of an Archdragon. They are small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She looks at them grimly, then without further hesitation, takes a rock and brings them down on the Tears.

They remain intact.

"What?…" She stares at them with consternation. She tries to smash them again. Nothing happens. "Gods… Of course it couldn't be simple, could it." She curses under her breath, looking to you with a scowl. "Why don't you try?" she asks, her voice higher than usual out of dismay. "Maybe your hammer…"



Hermodur grimaces as the Dragon's Tears don't break. "Sure, I'll try…" he says as she lifts Mjolnir up and drops the hammer on it as hard as he can.

>Hunter's Eye on Tear

[1d10+2] [1d10+2]
>DC-1, take the larger roll

Roll #1 1 + 2 = 3 / Roll #2 10 + 2 = 12


You raise Mjolnir high above your head and slam it down on the Tears with as much strength as you can possibly muster. The rock they rest on cracks and splits in two under the tremendous blow, leaving a tiny crater in the ground. Several roosting birds rustle and take flight, startled by the sudden loud noise.

Yet the Tears remain completely unharmed.

Marisol looks like she's been force fed the world's sourest lemon. "Well. That's going to be a problem, isn't it." She trembles slightly as she stares at the tiny crystals, which continue to lie there almost mockingly. She clenches her hand in frustration, then puts the Tears away, slumping down against the tree defeatedly, knocking the back of her head against it. She lets out a heavy, resentful groan. "Well NOW what."



"I have two thoughts," Hermodur says, not having given up yet.

He opens up the front of Mjolnir to try a magic blast instead.

[1d10+2] [1d10+2]
>DC-1, take the larger roll

Roll #1 8 + 2 = 10 / Roll #2 4 + 2 = 6


Being exposed to magic seems to rattle them ever so slightly, but not enough to damage them significantly. Marisol perks up at this. "That seems to do the trick. I might just have to hold on to them until I can find a stream of raw, powerful magic. That or just bury them in the middle of nowhere…" She seems to have another thought on her mind, but she doesn't voice it just yet, waiting to see what your other idea is.



"Obviously, whatever is done to use these in the formula to create immortality must also consume them in the process, yes? If so, you could just do everything up to the step that destroys them."


She nods. "There lies a problem, though. Lady Grosvenor only told us of the two ingredients: the Tears of a Divine Archdragon, and a tongue from the Eternal Flame, somewhere in the Forests of Silence. She spoke nothing to me of the process, just that she needed both ingredients. Elaina may know. She was always the favored one. An educated guess would be that the flame will dissolve the tears? Hm…"

"This isn't the way I thought this would go. Truth be told, I don't even know what I'll do from here… I suppose I'll have to hide somewhere," she muses, speaking more to herself than to you. "Giantscairn, maybe… Or perhaps…" She shoots you a glance, but doesn't voice what's on her mind, silently weighing her options.



"You could come with me," Hermodur shrugs as he lies back down on the ground. "You need somewhere safe and I need someone who knows how to get around this world. It makes sense to me."


She gives you an odd look. "…Well, if you're offering, I suppose it would be mutually beneficial. I only hope your friends will be able to have me around. …Thank you." Her expression softens for a brief moment, but it passes as she takes the Tears and puts them away.

"Though. That doesn't solve the question of how to get transport to the Sands. I don't suppose you'd have anything you'd be willing to part with for money at the Meet? We might be able to buy a wagon if we have enough…" She checks herself, taking off her ornate blue cloak and her golden dagger. "This should be able to cover some of it, at least. It'll make me less recognizable too."



"Do you think the Tiger Clan could transport us there? They still owe me one more favor," he says, fishing the Tiger Clan Token from his pocket to show it to her.


Her eyes widen at the sight of it, and she shrinks away from it a little. "Where did you get that? …Never mind, I don't want to know. They might be able to. Maybe. They don't have much pull outside of Braildorn, though, but it's worth a shot. You'd have to find someone from there at the Meet first, and… Well, you might be able to sort something out from there. Maybe. I try to stay away from the Clan, so I'm not sure how that'd work out. It's worth trying, though."



"Right," Hermodur says, getting up and dusting himself off. "Then it's back to the swap meet."

He seems uncharacteristically cheery.


She simply nods in assent.

With that, you trek back through the woods and back into the Haventunnel, where the Swap Meet is still ongoing. The great market is busting as ever; you narrowly avoid a group of permanently flaming kirin who burst through the throng urgently, observe a giraffe with a tiny little lump of a Diamond Dog clinging to its neck, and stay well away from a stand ran by a pompous, powder-faced unicorn in a curly wig who appears to be selling slaves. You had almost forgotten how raucous, noisy and overall chaotic the Meet is; everyone is buying something, and everyone is selling something. You can barely hear yourself think over the constant shouting, chatting and peddling, and the air is thick with the smell of a hundred different exotic foods being offered by merchants of bizarre species.

Marisol pulls you out of the way as a finned, hooded saurian bustles through, pushing a cart with a gigantic fish tank containing half a dozen kelpies. She holds up her cloak and dagger. "I'll go try and sell these, gather some money for the trip," she half-shouts over the din of the crowd. "You go try and find a Clan representative. Let's meet up back here at sundown." She points out a landmark at the entrance of the Meet where you are now, in the form of a shop labeled Old Bailey's Birds and Information.

With that, Marisol nods goodbye for now, and effortlessly vanishes into the crowd, leaving you to your own devices.





Hermodur silently nods to Marisol, then looks around for the nearest thing that looks like a tavern. If they're going to have set up "shop" anywhere, it would be in such a place.

[1d10] to find the way

Roll #1 4 = 4


You start exploring the Meet, spotting a number of oddities as you do so:

A group of earth pony clowns, are performing a juggling routine with flaming batons, much to the awe and concern of a small crowd. One clown stands to the side, happily accompanying the show with intense accordion music. Backstage, you can see a jaded looking clown smoking a cigarette.

A tiny, furry ape-like creature with a crafty look to it starts tailing you. You get the feeling it's going to try and pickpocket you. When you give it a warning glare, it slinks off into the crowd, returning to its owner, a grubby-looking griffon who eyeballs you greedily.

A nervous looking Dog urgently bustles by, straining his back carrying a comically tall tower of boxes with air holes haphazardly punched in them. One of the boxes growls at you eerily.

A pair of twin hippogriffs are furiously arguing over a broken bottle which appears to have contained milk. The crowd give them a wide berth. They seem to almost be in tears over this.

Eventually, you follow a random alley to a small, rather seedy looking place labeled only as "The Hovel". Seems to be some sort of inn, but it's rather quiet this time of day. An immensely fat black cat is resting placidly on the entrance mat, forcing you to step over it in order to enter. Within, the Hovel is a dingy little establishment, with a smattering of tables and chairs in alcoves, a central firepit that is barely glowing with the embers of last night, and a gangly looking griffon bartender slumped over the bar, snoring loudly.



"I'm looking for an associate of the Tiger Clan," Hermodur says to the obviously sleeping bartender.


He doesn't hear you at first, and you have to repeat it two more times until he wakes up. The bartender stirs with an unhappy frown, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. He's obviously hung over. Something wild happened last night, clearly. He looks you up and down, taking a good five seconds to process your words. "…I don't know nothin'," he simply grunts. He's not a good liar.



Hermodur rolls his eyes and shows him the Tiger Clan Token.


As you show him the coin, he changes his demeanor instantly, as if transforming into a completely different person. He straightens up, cracks his neck and looks you over with narrowed eyes. Despite his disheveled appearance, he gives the impression of a shrewd, cutthroat businessman. He sits up straight on his stool and clasps his talons together. "So. What're you after, then?" he asks, even changing his slurred speech. "Didn't think I'd run into one of ours out 'ere." He cocks his head to the side slightly.



"I need transportation to the Shifting Sands," he states. "Are you able to help with that?"


He frowns. "…You're not really one of us, are ya. Doesn't matter. Favor's a favor. I think I can try and find someone heading in that direction." He nods for you to follow him into a back room, where you find a dingy little office with several shelves of paperwork piled up. The griffon starts rifling through one of these shelves, taking a stack of papers and quickly perusing them one by one.

"Let's see 'ere… Aha. 'Ere we are. There's a convoy of slavers traveling eastwards, towards the Last Hearth. Chanticleers, they call themselves. Probably seen 'em around. Powder faced wankers. Nasty pieces of work, the lot of 'em, but they'll be able to help ya. You just tell 'em old Jellon Swain sent ya. They'll give you the transport you need, free of charge. Well, not to the Sands, but they'll be able to drop you off at this abandoned fort… Verigan's Hold… Hm. Never 'eard of it meself but it's as good a stopping point as any. Gives you passage right into the desert. Have fun dying in there though. Heard it's a real shithole."

"So what do ya think? Good enough?"



"It is certainly a terrible place to be," Hermodur nods. "I've been there before. I'm not excited to go back."

"Thank you for the help," he adds, dropping the coin on the bar.

Hermodur turns to leave to find the Chanticleers. He's not exactly excited that the help he got was a caravan - the exact thing he wanted to avoid since he'd be endangering them. But, if he was going to endanger anyone, it might as well be despicable people.


Jellon takes the token with an unpleasant grin. "'Ave fun. Remember, tell 'em I sent ya, or they won't even consider ya."

With that, you leave the Hovel, making your way back through the Meet. You soon come to the stall you noticed earlier, with the powder-faced unicorn slaver. There are five slaves of varying for sale, each looking even more miserable than the last. There is a small, disinterested crowd gathered, with the unicorn forcing a toothy grin as he tries to keep their attention.

"Any bidders on number three?" he calls, forcing enthusiasm. "The Carpathian is the strongest in our whole catalog! Ideal for manual labor of any sort! Starting bid is 500 bits! Do I hear 550?"

The way up to the stage is blocked by a burly Dog bodyguard, most likely a slave himself.



Hermodur walks up to the Diamond Dog. "When he gets a chance, I need to talk to him," he says to the seeming bouncer. "Jellon Swain sent me."


He doesn't seem to be allowed to speak, but simply nods imperceptibly.

You wait a while. Only one of the slaves ends up selling before the Chanticleer has to wrap up the auction. As the crowd disperses, he immediately loses his false demeanor, scowling and stalking off. "Idiots," you hear him grumbling furiously. "…Idiots!…" He shoves some of the slaves out of the way and yells something to the people backstage. Soon enough, the slaves are forcibly taken away by more Chanticleers.

The Dog timidly approaches the unicorn and whispers something to him, not daring to make eye contact. His gaze shifts to you, and he immediately puts on his unctuous, showy demeanor again, adjusting his wig and bowing dramatically. "Well hello, esteemed customer! Such an honor to have one of your clan among us! I'm Ersatz, the appointed leader of today's Swap Meet operation. I hear you're seeking transport among us? It would be our pleasure!"



"So you can help me and my associate get to the Shifting Sands?" Hermodur asks for confirmation.


He blinks. "Well, not to the Sands themselves, but we do pass by a fort guarding the way… If I may ask, though, why in the world would you want to go there? Why not accompany us to the Last Hearth? It's much more lucrative there than it would be in the desert. Of course, I won't pry if it's a private matter. I'm sure you have your reasons, sir!"



"It's where I need to be. I don't have anything else to say," he says, crossing his arms.


"Of course, sir. A friend of Jellon's is a friend of ours! Our convoy is just outside the Haventunnel. All our caravans are painted with our logo!" He flashes a pin on his lapel, depicting a crowing rooster. "I hope you have a safe travel with us! …Er. If I'm not being too forward… would you be interested in purchasing some of our stock?…"



"I've already spent as much money as I should at the Swap Meet," he answers sternly. "I'll be heading to your caravan, then. My associate is a female felid. I trust she'll get the same treatment as me. Thank you, I'll see you soon," he turns to find the caravan before this odious salespony can say anything else to him.


"Of course, sir," he says with another exaggerated bow. "I do hope we get to speak again s…" He trails off as you just up and leave.

Leaving the Meet, you find the convoy fairly easily. It consists of a series of about a dozen caravans, each adorned with the same emblem of a crowing rooster, and pulled by two earth pony slaves. A burly Chanticleer with a flail at his side is overseeing a group of slaves getting shunted into one of the caravans. As you approach, he moves to stop you.



"I've spoken with the on selling in the Swap Meet," Hermodur says as he is stopped. "I'll be traveling with you a ways. It's a favor from Jellon Swain."


The name of Jellon Swain seems to carry some weight; the Chanticleer, burly yet powder-faced like the rest of them, nods and waddles off, presumably consulting some of the others. After a while, he returns and shows you the transport you'll be taking. It is a lavish cabin with a red curtained interior separate from the rest, pulled by a single mute earth pony slave.


Marisol is less than pleased with the transport arrangements, but you both agree it is better than the alternative. Her own forays proved quite fruitful; she has ditched the distinctive golden dagger and blue cloak, having sold it for a hefty sum. She now totes a steel dagger and a roughspun hooded cloak, a copy of which she gives to you to use as a sort of disguise. She also acquired 400 bits, and, more importantly, two valuable objects for your trip: a set of flares, to signal the ship when you see it, and an ornate wooden compass with a gold trim. You recognize it as a rare Compass of Want, much like the one the party has. This will help guide you towards the ship.

The trip begins the next day. It is slow, and extremely uncomfortable; not because of the pretentious accommodations, but because of being in the company of slavers. Marisol seems to detest the Chanticleers more than anything, at one point threatening one of the slavers with maiming him if he so much as talks to her. It isn't hard to see why; too many times you see them beating, mocking and generally brutalizing the slaves they peddle, or "stock" as they call them.

On the journey, you pick up wind of what their plan is: They are delivering a huge cargo of slaves to a town called Last Hearth, for an event known as the Night of the Hunt. What this entails, and why it requires slaves, is unclear. Part of you doesn't want to know why.

After what feels like an eternity of slow, grueling travel, you arrive at your destination, being escorted away by a trio of Chanticleers before they rejoin their convoy. The fort known as Verigan's Hold has seen better days; nestled amidst the arid red rocks, facing a yellow windswept plain, the crumbling old ruin is hardly a suitable place to set up shelter. Yet it will have to do, for lack of much better options. Between the two of you, you set up a small campsite within one of the watchtowers, consulting the Compass for the party's location. They seem to be north of your location, somewhere above the Sands. With the watchtower as a good vantage point, you have little left to do but sit and wait for them to pass.

One morning, Marisol nudges you awake, having taken the night shift in watching for the ship. "It's time," she whispers, with a hint of excitement.

Sure enough, you can see it. The black silhouette of the party's airship is on the horizon, getting larger by the minute. Without hesitating, Marisol takes one of the flares and climbs effortlessly onto the roof of the watchtower, lighting it and waving it about as she calls at the top of her lungs in an animated effort to get the ship's attention. She encourages you to do the same, however you can.



Hermodur opens up Mjolnir and puts his robotic hand inside to create a large flame for the ship to see from far away.

[1d10] for noticeable light show

Roll #1 3 = 3


You fling a fireball up, joining the flare. For a while, you don't think they're going to land; then, as they draw nearer, the ship gently sets down outside the fort. The ebony junk is in a bad way; much of it has been reduced to splinters, haphazardly patched up with spare wood, and the sails are littered with tears and holes. Emblazoned on the bow is the name Fate's Fortune.

Marisol wordlessly gestures for you to follow as she nimbly sprints down the stairwell, emerging outside to greet them.

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