You are an experiment gone right. You are a paradox; magic proof to magic. Lightning is your soul, and steel is your flesh. You are a golem with the soul of man
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As you approach the border, the land becomes more and more rocky; you're forced to slow down. Soon enough, you're down to a walk by the time you're at the hills. The ground is notoriously treacherous here, with fissures opening up at random (most of them small enough you can step over) and storms even more common here. There's one about an hour to the left of you right now, and it's coming this way. You don't mind, though. You're water- and rust-proof, and lightning can't hurt you.
Ahead of you are the other countries across the hills; the land is barren and grey, whistling with magic that dies as it crosses to your own.
To the left, as mentioned, is that storm. There's a chance of the lightning striking you- that would recharge you handily, even if it would hurt like a bitch. To the right is one of the broad, paved roads that carries merchants further in, to one of the crossing-gates. Few people using those, now.
The storm is a great big one- like all storms in your country. With the discovery of magic across the barren lands, the leading theory is that the storms ARE the magic in your land. Or the way magic reacts to all the metal in the earth, something like that, you're not sure. The rain streams down your armored shell, cooling you off a bit. It's getting to the hot months, so you're thankful for any sort of cooling these days. The thunder rumbles overhead, and you raise your hands in supplication, praying to the Emperor of the Sky that you'll get struck.
(the other place I am doing this named you Jefferson Koolaid, for there are MANY WALLS TO BE SMASHED)
You start crawling best you can away from the storm, and end up in the barren lands. You groan a little as you pull yourself to your feet, and instantly feel better. In fact, you've /never/ felt this good before.
The barren lands are just that: Barren. They're empty of any sort of significant life. The largest thing living is a type of grackle, and there's a few over yonder, picking at bugs. The land is craggy and grey; traditionally, the North East has been the direction the Devil of the Stars comes from. And now you're in the thick of it. There's no clouds, no sun, no sky. Just grey.
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Okay.
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As you approach the border, the land becomes more and more rocky; you're forced to slow down. Soon enough, you're down to a walk by the time you're at the hills. The ground is notoriously treacherous here, with fissures opening up at random (most of them small enough you can step over) and storms even more common here. There's one about an hour to the left of you right now, and it's coming this way. You don't mind, though. You're water- and rust-proof, and lightning can't hurt you.
Ahead of you are the other countries across the hills; the land is barren and grey, whistling with magic that dies as it crosses to your own.
To the left, as mentioned, is that storm. There's a chance of the lightning striking you- that would recharge you handily, even if it would hurt like a bitch. To the right is one of the broad, paved roads that carries merchants further in, to one of the crossing-gates. Few people using those, now.
>wat do
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You are now a thaumavore. You require magic to live. Luckily, you are also capable of processing lightning.
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The storm is a great big one- like all storms in your country. With the discovery of magic across the barren lands, the leading theory is that the storms ARE the magic in your land. Or the way magic reacts to all the metal in the earth, something like that, you're not sure. The rain streams down your armored shell, cooling you off a bit. It's getting to the hot months, so you're thankful for any sort of cooling these days. The thunder rumbles overhead, and you raise your hands in supplication, praying to the Emperor of the Sky that you'll get struck.
>Roll 2d50
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bottommost box.
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And the lightnin' strikes!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=siWmOSByIOg#t=1m27s
You are struck by a bolt! You fall to the ground cursing from the pain, but not before another bolt strikes.
You feel that, perhaps, laying here on the ground isn't a bad idea.
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CRAWL, MAN! CRAWL LIKE THE WIND!
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You start crawling best you can away from the storm, and end up in the barren lands. You groan a little as you pull yourself to your feet, and instantly feel better. In fact, you've /never/ felt this good before.
The barren lands are just that: Barren. They're empty of any sort of significant life. The largest thing living is a type of grackle, and there's a few over yonder, picking at bugs. The land is craggy and grey; traditionally, the North East has been the direction the Devil of the Stars comes from. And now you're in the thick of it. There's no clouds, no sun, no sky. Just grey.
>Roll 2d7
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