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The soft sea breeze whips at your golden locks as you stand upon the docks. Cinching your over-sized crimson coat tighter about the shoulders, the rustling of coarse fabric contrasts with the squawking seagulls that are a veritable source of noise pollution in this small port town.

Despite your efforts to stay warm, a shiver travels down your spine. Cold winds are rising. Winter, or at least autumn, will soon be upon the shores of Westeros. And all your hopes for some sort of . . . salvation, lay half a world away in the hands of a man who managed to get himself wrapped around the finger of that red shei –

You startle at a revelation brought about by a causal glance to your left.

“Ahh, fuckin' hell!” you curse. You adopt a more dignified posture once more after the initial fright passes. “Scared the shit outta me.”

She stands there, garbed in fire. Truth be told, you first noticed her presence by the sudden onset of warmth heating your left side ever so slightly. Heat emanates off her at all times, like she's a brazier filled with burning hot coals. It's disturbing and unnatural.

“The Lord of Light grants us an auspicious omen on this day,” Melisandre whispers conspiratorially in your ear. Your eyes flick up to that red comet barreling through the sky, bright and clear to anyone with working eyes. Some men pray and avoid looking directly at it when they notice its presence. Others pray and thank R'hllor for its mere existence. Regardless, there's always a lot of fuckin' praying involved with that comet here on Dragonstone.

“Perhaps if he could grant us a victory in the field instead?” you pose the idea to her bitterly. News of another loss at Riverrun has not been improving the King's mood.

“King Stannis has yet to truly take the field.”

“King Stannis has three thousand men,” you retort.

“No matter,” Melisandre ignores your concerns with the certainty of religious prophecy. “King Stannis triumphs over his enemies. I have seen as such in the flames.”

“Well, why are you here?” you turn to face her fully now. As far as you are aware you were ordered to receive Davos and his . . . passengers, alone.

“With the Onion Knight's return comes a sign from the one true God. Despite that man's reluctance to let go of his old faith, it seems he is blessed by the God of Flame and Shadow.”

“So, what?” you ask rounding on the red priestess. “You're here to greet them too? You realize a Kingsguard is made up of seven knights anointed in the oils of the Seven.”

“I thought the King's brother entitled them the 'Rainbow Guard',” she points out humorously.

You shake your head. What a stupid fuckin' name. “It's still the same thing. These men follow the Seven. Not R'hllor. Perhaps it would be best if you weren't the first person they met, stepping off onto these dreary shores.”

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Melisandre brings her hands together and chuckles. “Do not worry, Mannis. I do not desire to sabotage your duties. I simply seek your counsel with regards to a . . . hypothetical.”

You frown. “Ask your questions.”

“Suppose thousands more do not have to die,” she begins. “If this war could be ended with the taking of a single life. Perhaps two at the most. Who do you believe should die?”

. . . You have a strange feeling this isn't purely hypothetical.

>Joffrey and Tommen
>Tywin
>Cersei
>Littlefinger
>Jaime
>Someone else? (write-in)

>>540526
>>Tywin

>>540526
> all of them except Jaime
But seriously, although it would be funny to see miras perspective after ghosting cersei I think that would be meta gaming soooo
>Tywin

>>540526
>Cersel

>>540526
>Joffrey and Tommen
No claim, no war

>>540526
On second thought.

If you can time it right and Tywin gets assassinated right before or during a crucial battle you annihilate his forces or rout them which wins the war as well.

So if you can get the timing right
>Tywin

Otherwise
>Joffrey and Tommen

>>540526
>Joffrey and Tommen

>>540526
>Joffrey and Tommen

>>540546
>>540564
Tywin

>>540547
>>540566
Cersei

>>540578
>>540579
>>540585
>>540599
Joffrey and Tommen.

Writing!

>>540526
>Tywin
The Lanisters will begin too fracture.

>Little Finger
The snake caused all of this

That would leave only Cersei... Who are you sacrificing...

Rolled 74, 57, 34 = 165 (3d100)

This roll is important

>>540794
Well snap

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“Joffrey and Tommen, if I'm allowed two deaths,” you answer the red woman. “Without the claimants, Stannis Baratheon is legitimately next in line – whether one believes the claims of incest or not. The Lannisters could back Myrcella, but supporting a female claimant will hemorrhage their support like nobody's business.”

Melisandre considers your words carefully before nodding astutely at your explanation. “Very wise, Mannis. Thank you for your counsel. The King will appreciate it. I'll leave you to your . . . diplomatic enterprises.”

Melisandre turns on her heels and strides away from the docks, leaving you alone and in peace once more.

. . .

The Black Betha anchors at port and you wave politely to Ser Davos, rigidly standing at the ship's prow.

You clasp hands with the former smuggler once he makes it down onto the pier.

“Good to see your trip was relatively successful, mate.”

Davos grimaces slightly. “Don't know if I would call it success. Ten thousand men have been raised as levies from the Stormlands, but they travel and fight under Lord Renly's black stag banner. Although . . . I hear he and the Reachmen have been 'skirmishing'. Keeping the Tyrells at bay and out of the fight.”

You chuckle. “You say skirmish like –”

“A mock war with mock combatants,” Seaworth clarifies. “It's clear to everyone with a lick of common sense. Renly and the Tyrells were friends before all this. The Tyrells hate the Lannisters, only siding with them to keep Loras's head on his shoulders. And if Joffrey does win, Margaery will be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Men may die on both sides, aye. But neither Lord Mace nor Lord Renly will be crushing the other's armies. They'll both bide their time for a victor to emerge.”

Davos shakes his head, exasperated. Seems spending time among Renly's court has brought him no peace. “The boy was hosting tournaments when he should have been marching on King's Landing or raising more fighting men. Well,” Davos comments, clutching the bag of finger-bones that hangs around his neck tightly, rubbing them for luck, “At least Lord Renly sends us his seven best fighters. The RAINBOWGUARD. Let me introduce them.”

Davos moves to your side as sailors begin to disembark from the ship. Among them you spot Mathis, Davos's thirdborn son. Also interspersed in the arrivals are seven armed and armored knights. Knights of Summer, garbed in fancy multi-colored plate.

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Davos points them out to you one by one. “Lord Bryce Caron, the Orange. Ser Emmon Cuy, the Yellow. Ser Guyard Morrigen, the Green. Ser Robar Royce, the Red. Ser Parmen Crane, the Purple. Brienne of Tarth, the Blue. Now, she's a woman – I know. But I saw the melee myself. One hundred and sixteen knights and she bested them all. Not by being sly either. Defeated a dozen men herself, at least.”

You nod your head. “You don't need to sell me on her skills.” Unlike Davos, you're keenly aware how badass Brienne of motherfucking Tarth is and can be. “So, is she the Lord Commander.”

Davos shakes his head. “No. The man who came in second in the melee would be the Lord Commander.” Davos points at a blond-haired, blue-eyed man. “Ser Mills of the Three Hills. Calls himself 'The White'.”

You frown. That name sounds . . . unfamiliar. Huh. Maybe it's some minor book character you forgot existed.

>Greet the Rainbow Guard
>Ask Davos if anyone else important was brought along
>Something else? (write-in)

>>540878
>Greet the Rainbow Guard
Formalites, pleastries, etc.
>Ask Davos if anyone else important was brought along

>>540878
>>Greet the Rainbow Guard
>>Ask Davos if anyone else important was brought along

>>540878
Right, time to go and be Australian.
>Greet the Rainbow Guard

>>540878
>Ask Davos if anyone else important was brought along

Writing!

>Greet the Rainbow Guard
Let's meet these knights and this.. Ser mills

>>540878
>Ask Davos if anyone else important was brought along
>Greet the Rainbow Guard and Mills the Aryan fokkin rapist

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“You bring anyone else important along?” you ask Davos.

“Indeed, actually. His Grace ordered Renly to send Edric Storm along with me on my return trip.” The Onion Knight points out the bastard to you, black of hair with deep blue eyes. He's a handsome lad – a spitting image of his father, Robert Baratheon, when the late king had been a youth. “Stannis believes the best proof against Joffrey's claim is an image of what progeny from his elder brother truly looks like.”

“The best proof we're like to get. Alright, guess it's time I met Stannis's kingsguard,” you clap Davos on the back and stride down the docks, approaching the Lord Commander as he fixes his longsword to his hip.

The knight smiles broadly at you. You notice emblazoned on his shield is a depiction of an armored man pissing out a flaming sword. The words “Fuck off with that Shit” are scrawled beneath the image in fancy golden script. You squint down at it and Ser Mills notices the subject of your confusion.

He chuckles. “Right. I was knighted recently and got to pick my own sigil. Nice, isn't it.” That bloody, wacky accent . . .

“Oi!” you declare. “Mate, are you South African?” you ask.

“Fokkin' hell. Are you Australian, mate?” he answers your query with a question of his own.

“Bloody oath I am! You're from Earth then, mate?”

“Yeah. Small fokkin' world," He puts his hands on his hips as he takes in your form, sizing you up. "So uhhhhhh, Stannis then?” he attempts to sift for your allegiance.

“Too right. Renly?” you fire back.

“Ehhhh, Elinor Tyrell really.”

“Who?” you rack your brain for exactly who that is. Some girl from a minor branch of House Tyrell?

The South African waves away the question. “Eh, doesn't really matter, mate. So,” he gestures around to his six subordinates who have been half-listening in on your conversation, befuddled. But the type of befuddlement they display appears . . . commonplace and accepted. As if this is not the first time they've found their superior speaking and acting strangely. “This is my Kaffir Cleanup Crew.”

You chortle. “Your Abbo Annihilation Association?”

“My Fag Stag Bag and Drag team.”

“Your Detest the Incest Fuckfest squad?”

“Fokkin' on the money, mate!” he commends your improvisational rhyming skills.

“Right, right,” you humbly accept his praise.

>Welcome to Team Baratheon
>Something else? (write-in)

>>541032
>>Welcome to Team Baratheon

>>541032
>Welcome to Team Baratheon

>>541032
Ask him if you really have to be gay to be in Renly's power ranger squad.

>>541032
>Welcome to Team Baratheon

>>541083
I'll second this

>>541083
+1

>>541032
>Kaffir Cleanup Crew.
>Abbo Annihilation Association
>Fag Stag Bag and Drag team.
>Incest Fuckfest squad
Fuck Velo and the Lannister bitch, these two are the greatest protags /qst/ has ever seen.

>>541083
Seconding. Would be Aussie otherwise.
>Ask him if you really have to be gay to be in Renly's power ranger squad.

>>541032
>>Welcome to Team Baratheon

Writing!

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“So,” you speak as you formulate the wording to your bantz. “Is it a . . . requirement that you have to be gay to join Renly's power ranger squad. Or is it just a coincidence?”

Mills laughs as the two of you stroll down the docks together. “Implying I'll bite such low tier fokkin' bait.”

“I'd expect you'd make a much less enjoyable companion for Renly if you were known to bite low.”

He pushes you, hard, causing nearly knocking you off the docks as you stumble.

“You mad?” you ask once you've regained your balance, the both of you chuckling.

“Y'know,” Mills replies. “I had some concerns about traveling to some godforsaken Island filled with nutjobs who were slowly attempting to convert the local inhabitants to a weird religion with an emphasis on killing infidels. . . But then I realized I was going to Dragonstone and not Australia.”

“Welcome to Team Baratheon, Ser Mills.” You exhale a deep breath, clapping your new cobber on the back. “Welcome to Team Baratheon.”

>>540606

People, seriously? Any two off the board, and you choose Joffrey and Tommen over Cersei and Tywin?

Tommen and Joffrey lasted on the Iron Throne because of Cersei and Tywin power-brokering like crazy- it's the only reason they didn't "hemmorhage support" while Joffrey was running around and being a sadistic little fuck to his subjects.

You off Tommen and Joffrey, and Tywin and Cersei will just plant Myrcella on the throne one way or another and continue doing their business as usual, because that is what Lannisters DO to keep themselves in power- they sit their insipid puppet children to keep the Throne warm, just so that they can have an ostensible legal basis to be in charge over all the skullduggery they do to solidify their rule.

>>541337
Well, by law the Iron Throne can only be inherited by male heir.
Still, I think it's stupid idea to off the Joff.
The longer Joff is alive, the easier it is to win the war.

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“The boar's great tusks/

they boded ill/

for good King Robert's health/

and the beast was every bit as fat/

as Robert was himself./

For our brave king cried 'do your worst!/

I'll have your ugly head!/

And nowhere near as murderous as/

the lion in my bed!'/

King Robert lost his battle and/

He failed his final test/

The lion ripped his balls off AAAAAND/

The boar did all the rest!”

As the young singer – Marillion – finishes his rendition of King Robert's Final Thrust, you note that not a single person at court dares make a peep. Dozens, if not hundreds of courtiers line the walls and the Great Hall is as silent as a crypt. Marillion gulps audibly, picking up his harpsichord.

He's quite the singer, you admit inwardly. King Joffrey begins to clap for the man, spurring many of the dumber buffoons in fancy gowns to mimic the King's obviously ironic support like a herd of sheep. Some measure of . . . pride, bestirs in your breast when Ser Jacelyn beside you sees through King Joffrey's obvious game.

“The singer's dead,” the valiant knight mutters, his voice downcast.

“Perhaps not . . .” you whisper in reply, letting your voice trail off as you watch.

“Very funny!” Joffrey declares with feigned upbeat enthusiasm. “I wish I had heard it at the tavern.” Reluctant chuckles escape the crowd. “Now, let me see . . .”

As Joffrey 'ponders' what to do, you lick your lips. Suddenly, he turns to his uncle, Tyrion Lannister – his badge of office glinting in the refracted sunlight that streams through the stained glass windows.


“Nuncle. He's a skilled singer, but the song does, unfortunately, insult my late father and my Queen mother. What do you believe I should do?” Joffrey taps his lips absentmindedly with his finger. You sigh in relief.

And now the game is played. Tyrion crosses his stubby arms across his chest, glaring sternly down at the singer – made a giant by the chair he sits upon. It is not as grandiose as the iron throne, but upon a raised dais it allows the dwarf to look out over the crowd with the stern judgment worthy of the Father.

“I've never liked singers,” Tyrion comments derisively. “I've had a bad history with them of late. Slit his throat and be done with it.”

As Marillion's eyes bulge and the court sets to whispering at the harsh punishment, King Joffrey raises a hand. “Now, my Hand: I believe your stature – which has earned your immortality in song for its legendary quality – skews your opinion.” Tyrion rolls his eyes. That was Joffrey getting an honest jab in – not part of the plan. His cruel side manifests even at a time like this. “Mother. As Queen Regent. What punishment do you believe is worthy of this slight?”

Cersei adjusts herself before speaking. “Give the singer a choice. His hands for playing the music or his tongue for providing the lyrics. Both preferably.”

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The King stares chidingly at his mother. “Now, mother: I believe your dear love for my father has skewed your opinion as well.” The King stares forward at Marillion, causing the man to shrink, wishing to disappear before Joffrey's gaze.

“At the risk of going against the wise counsel of my trusted advisers – I've decided to be lenient upon you. Let's see . . . a week in the black cells! How about that?!”

Joffrey claps once and two goldcloaks step forward and grab Marillion by his arms.

“THANK YOU YOUR GRACE!” Marillion shouts, literal tears of joy streaming down his face in reverence of the man who has ordered him to rot in jail for a week. “THANK YOU FOR YOUR MERCY!”

Joffrey laughs as one hand lazily squeezes an iron armrest. A feeling in your gut makes you believe Marillion will unfortunately pass away in his cell. Heh. Just like . . . never mind.

Next comes Ser Lancel, knighted for his secret service to Queen Cersei in helping eliminate her fat oaf of a husband.

“Cousin Lancel!” Joffrey declares in a tone of joviality. “What news do you bring us from the war front?”

Lancel summons himself to his full height, his chest puffed with the authority of a glorified messenger. “Your Grand Uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister, bested Ser Edmure Tully beneath the walls of Riverrun, Your Grace. Three thousand foeman were slain, another two thousand forced to route and Ser Edmure himself was captured along with dozens of his knights. Lord Tytos Blackwood retreated inside the walls of the castle with perhaps the last two thousand remaining men of the Riverlands host and it is only a matter of time before the heart of the Riverlands is ours!”


Joffrey nods in sadistic glee. “Good. Good! What of my grandfather? My uncle? My bride?”

Lancel clears his throat. “Due to . . . interference from the rebel Renly Baratheon, Lord Mace Tyrell feels it would be unsafe to send his daughter through enemy lines to King's Landing, in fear she will be captured and held hostage. Your uncle, Ser Jaime, has succeeded in his mission and brings a host of 5000 soldiers to join with your grandfather. And Lord Tywin has managed a string of successes across the Riverlands. He has taken Raventree Hall in Lord Blackwood's absence and has captured Darry in Lord Raymun's absence. His bannermen put the lands of the Pipers and the Brackens to the torch. And Lady Shella Whent yielded Harrenhal without so much as a fight. Half the Riverlands is practically ours already, your Grace.”

“Ah, good news then!” Joffrey announces. “Lady Towers! Ser Bywater!”

Jumping out of your skin at hearing the call of your names, Ser Jacelyn and yourself quickly squeeze out from the crowds and present yourselves before the King.


“Your Grace.”/ “Your Grace.” you both answer dutifully.

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“Lady Whent has been ousted from her castle. She did not come before me to swear allegiance and as such has declared her fealty to the rebels forces by omission. As such I am deciding to strip her of her rights to Harrenhal as of this moment, hastening my gift to you by regal means. The two of you are free to take up residence whenever you feel ready and able to leave King's Landing. War plagues my Kingdom from greedy usurpers who believe me weak, but loyalist forces are in control from here to the Twins. And I thank you both once again for your bravery upon the Gullet. Pirates, rebels, traitors and thieves sent to a watery grave in one swift action. In reward for your service I am awarding you one sword arm from the goldcloaks for every life you preserved. How many men survived the Battle of the Gullet?”

"Three hundred and fifty, your Grace," Ser Jacelyn answers dutifully.

"Good! Then hand pick three hundred and fifty of your men, hopefully leaving an able-bodied second behind to captain the Gold Cloaks after you."

"Your Grace," Ironhand begins protesting. "Those men would be better served protecting the -"

"Accept my nephew's gift, Ser Jacelyn," Lord Tyrion interrupts your fiance. "We have over 5000 remaining even after granting some to safeguard your journey."

>I wish to remain at court, Your Grace
>We will leave posthaste, Your Grace

>>541825

masterbate

>>541825
>>We will leave posthaste, Your Grace

>>541825
>We will leave posthaste, Your Grace
We'll have less influence during all the KL intrigue but it honestly might be best to put some distance between us and it for our own survival.

>>541825
>>We will leave posthaste, Your Grace
time to bounce

>>541825
>We will leave posthaste, Your Grace
Time to fuck off

>>541825
>We will leave posthaste, Your Grace

>>541832
>>541833
>>541836
>>541839
>>541841
Seconding these cunts

Also this fuckerv>>541337
We really made the wrong choice here.

Say we'll make it a strong forward base.

>>541850
Don't say anything of the sort. Do not commit to this war in the slightest. Just use those soldiers to defend the lands.

If Stannis or Renly takes over we don't want to have helped their enemies so overtly.

Just keep quiet and leave KL.

I wonder which option won?

Hmmmmm

Switching to Mills Quest. In like a half hour.

B-But if we leave we won't get sexually assaulted by Tsundere Cersei anymore. I thought that was Mira's whole reason for existing?

>>541825
>I wish to remain at court, Your Grace

I want to see this oven dodger experience the fallout when Joffrey and Tommen dies.

>hurr durr, Cersei, if you listen to me your children won't die
>Joffrey and Tommen gets BTFO anyway.

>>541447

"By law" Joffrey's an inbred piece of shit who has no relation to King Robert and everyone knows it. Cersei and Tywin are the only reason no one acts on that knowledge. You remove Cersei and Tywin, you remove two of the biggest obstacles to peace in the kingdom.

Ugh.

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“We will leave posthaste, Your Grace.” Your answer is stilted, but projects reverence. You know this is the smartest move, getting out of King's Landing while you can. Tyrion will be forced to find himself a new spy, but that's on him. The King practically ordered you to take up your position at Harrenhal. But . . . Cersei.

No, there isn't much more you can do for her at this point. Things have changed so drastically with Renly and Stannis allying that you have no clue how or if the Lannisters can make it out of this war intact. Things are hanging on by a thread and at some point you have to think of your own survival. Cersei can flee. Tyrion can talk himself out of being executed. Daenerys should be dealt with by now and if Stannis wins he can deal with fucking Aegon.

Mira is exiting stage right.

. . .

Outside the Great Hall after the session of court, linking arms with Ser Jacelyn, you plan your journey to Harrenhal.

“How long will it take you to gather the men and supplies for our trip?” you inquire.

“Well, if I'm picking the men myself plus enough supplies to feed them . . . Shit!” he curses under his breath. “With Renly blocking the road to High Garden and the Riverlands running red with blood this city will soon starve.”

“Best then if we leave as soon as possible, my Lord.”

Bywater rolls his eyes. “I'll require a week. At least. I need to leave behind a competent command structure. I'll probably elect . . Humfrey Waters to take over command once I permanently step down." Bywater takes in a deep breath as he ponders on something. "You do realize . . .” he trails off.

“What?” you ask.

“There's no excuse to not go through with the wedding anymore,” he informs you like he was reminding you of a terminal disease or chronic migraines. Oh wait. Nope. That's just actual chronic migraines setting in.

You bite your lip, drawing blood.

>>543610
>Mira is about to suffer insanely from her illness and will finally need to actually succeed in a high DC healing roll in order to survive


YESSSS

>>543832
One can only hope

Rolled 76 (1d100)

Rolling to see if someone has a very bad day.

Rolled 84, 68, 76 = 228 (3d100)

Rolling to see if someone's bad day might have silver lining.

Rolling for memes

Rolled 86 (1d100)

>>544079
forgot dice lel

Rolled 34 (1d40)

>>544061
>>544068
rolling for miras breast size

Rolled 29 (1d100)

>>544085
Rolling for ass size

Rolled 47 (1d100)

Rolling for Tinfoil Obelix appearing

Rolled 1 (1d12)

Rolling for Ob's dick size

Rolled 35 (1d100)

Rolling for Mannis doing something typically Australian

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>>544118

Rolled 2 (1d4)

>>544118
Give me girth

Rolled 7 (1d12)

>>544061
rolling for mannis dick size

Rolled 10 (1d12)

rolling for Othello dick size

Rolled 2 (1d4)

>>544150
Girth time

Rolled 1 (1d4)

>>544132
rolling for maniis girth

>>543832
>Wanting Mira to die yet
We're gonna capture her, get Mills to rape her then burn her.
This question will be called THE REVENGE OF VELO

>>544214
*quest
Autocorrect is retarded

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“Captain . . . Captain? . . . Captain!”

You sigh and flick your eyes from where they stare off into the distance to meet the gaze of Kojja Mo – Captain of the Fleet's Red Archers.

“The wind favors us again, blowing northwards. Our ships can fly upon the Narrow Sea once more,” she bows deferentially.

“ . . . I thought,” you speak with careful deliberation, glancing at the black, braided head bobbing up and down in your lap. Grasping a lock of hair attached to the woman servicing your member you slowly pull up to inspect her. No, this girl's face is much fatter and rounded than the slender figure of your unofficial second in command.

She stares up at you, eyes shining in fear that she may have drawn your ire with unsatisfactory service. “I was mistaken,” you state simply, dropping the woman's braid and letting her return to her dutiful worship.

“Are you still in one of your moods?” the marskwoman inquires, cocking her hip and resting a hand upon it.

“Moods?” you repeat with a distant whisper, sounding out the quality of such a word.

“Yes. The smallest of slights causes you to rage like a summer storm. And here you sit, the only man I have ever seen brood while his cock is sucked. You are a strange man and an even stranger Summer Islander, Othello.”

You shrug. “To lose a battle is to be spurned by a lover a thousand times over,” you delicately weave the words like woven fabric for the winds to carry across the seas to silently kiss the shores with tender kindness.

Kojja sighs, her gaze downcast. “Our three most useless ships. No cargo lost. Sixty dead at most – many of whom were untested and unproven members of the fleet. The winds were against you and you could not have imagined the enemy would employ wildfire. No man wins every battle.”

“Othello is no mere man,” you inform her. “I will never forget this tragedy. CURSE YOU FOUL WIND! INCONSTANT ALLY!” At your proclamations of fury towards the weather, the woman fellatiating you halts her task and scurries off to hide from your wrath. You stand with livid passion and storm towards the prow of your majestic Desdemona. Raising your muscled, sweat-streaked arms to the sky, you goad fate to take another stab at your heart – since it did not strike true with the first thrust. “YOU ABANDON MY CAUSE WHEN I NEED YOU MOST AND ATTEMPT TO SLINK BACK INTO MY GOOD GRACES LIKE AN ERRANT LOVER!? DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU AND ALL YOUR SERVANTS!”

Behind you, you can feel Kojja folding her arms to accompany her sigh. “Captain, we have spotted three large Pentoshi trading galleys pursuing the Argo into the Bay of Myrth. They are far ahead, but if we hurry we may catch the one trailing furthest back. Perhaps two, although we will be much more in risk of encountering or alerting Myrish sails to our presence. Should we engage them or move on?”

>Pursue!
>Let them be
>Bring me the Fire priest!

>>544297
>>Pursue!
we ride!

>>544297
>Bring me the Fire priest!

>>544297
>>Pursue!

>>544297
>Bring me the Fire priest!
Who dares bring the fire too me!

>>544297
>Bring me the Fire priest!

>>544297
>>Bring me the Fire priest!
Fight fire with over dramatic speeches, er I mean with fire.

>>544297
>Pursue!

>>544297
>Bring me the Fire priest!

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“BRING ME THE FIRE PRIEST!” you command, pulling out a Myrish fareyes from the pocket of your breeches – a battered and well-used piece of brass.

“You called for me, Othello?” a deep, rumbling voice inquires. You chuckle softly as you unfold your telescope, Kojja gasping at the slave of R'hllor's sudden appearance – almost immediately after you called for him. You give credit where credit is due – the man appears a seer in all but this one folly.

Bringing the tool to your eye you scan the horizons for the trading ships your men claim to have seen. Sure enough, a huge trading galley sporting two decks and two hundred oars paddle the frothy, blue waters in a mad dash to escape your clutches. The words Summer Sun emblazoned green on the ship's tan, woody hull.

“Moqorro,” you sound out, elongating each syllable to chew upon the rich consonants interspersed throughout the name. “I am currently debating whether to slit your throat and throw you overboard or simply set you alight to spit in the eye of R'hllor. Which do you believe I should do?” You pose the question as if pondering what to have for lunch, busy multitasking, searching for anything traveling the seas that might be pertinent to your next decision.

“I believe you will do neither,” Moqorro answers solemnly with the certainty of a man who has not seen his death yet in the flames. You turn round to finally grace him with your domineering glare.

Skin as black as pitch. White hair framing his face like a lion's mane. Flame tattoos of red and orange inked upon his forehead and cheeks denoting his status as a slave. Scarlet robes embroidered with satin flames. And an iron staff as tall as the man himself, the head carved into the visage of a snarling dragon's head, green flame crackling in the carving's eyes and mouth whenever he brings it down upon the deck of the ship.

Moqorro cuts the figure of a seer, but that simply makes him a more convincing charlatan. “You told me a skull would lead me to a dragon. I found your skull and all it did was bombard my fleet with wildfire. I thought R'hllor was the god of fire? Why did he not favor you and instead our enemies?”

Moqorro shrugs. “Tell me, Othello. Had you bested this skull ship, what would you have done?”

You frown at the hypothetical. Kojja elects to answer while you find yourself at a loss concocting the tale of your never-to-be triumph in your head.

“We would have enslaved some of the crew, dropped them off at Tyrosh and then returned to the Stepstones.”

Moqorro turns towards your second. “And would we be far from this location by now if that had happened?”

“Yes.”

Moqorro looks back to you. “There is your answer, Othello.”

>Pursue the galley farthest back
>Pursue two of the trailing galleys

>>545465
>Pursue two of the trailing galleys

>>545465
>Pursue two of the trailing galleys

>>545465
>Pursue the galley farthest back

>>545465
>Pursue two of the trailing galleys

Writing!

File: Summer Sun.png (151 KB, 608x391)

151 KB PNG

“Kojja, signal the Iago and the Cassio to move forward as fast as possible. I want them to catch the middle trading galley! Inform your father to follow the Desdemona with his Cinnamon Wind! Our prey seem to lack siege weaponry, but warn the captains to be careful! We cannot suffer a repeat of yesterday's blunder.”

With your command, Kojja gets to ordering the sailors into their positions. In a few moments your grand swan ship lurches into motion.

You howl with laughter as the moment of acceleration hits. So rapid is your transition from repose to movement you're actually forced to grab a nearby hanging rope, hanging on as the inertia in your body yearns to throw you backwards. The itchy hemp bites into your blackened skin, sure to leave a faint red mark upon your palm as you refuse to be jostled by she who you command. Desdemona is your faithful wife and any treachery from her will be met with cruelty.

Your flagship glides across the sea like a water fowl skimming the waves, looking for a fish to pluck for dinner. And pluck you plan as the Summer Sun grows larger and larger in your sights. With a quick glance to your right you spot Quhuru Mo at the helm of his former trading galley. He prepares to break off from your flank so you can hit this Pentoshi target from both sides.

You spy two hundred oars paddling furiously in the vain hopes they may outspeed you. Working themselves to death, their bodies in futile disagreement with the truth of their situation. Sure, their actions will prolong their lives and freedom a few hours at best. It will at the very least keep them out of range for a short while longer, but the time they waste solely aids you. The enemy crew exhausting itself on retreat rather than readying themselves for your inexorable assault merely makes the important bit of commandeering a ship smoother.

In a few scant minutes - the other swan ships in your fleet distant dots on the horizon as they pursue the second galley - the Cinnamon Wind has fully eclipsed the Summer Sun.

“We're in range, Captain!” Kojja Mo informs you. You laugh boisterously as you view dozens of sailors lining the top deck via your telescope. They hold longbows, crossbows, even a few Myrish crossbows with their three loaded bolts – but none of them possess the goldenheart longbows of the Summer Isles. The best material which make the best bows – their range second only to dragonbone. The enemy are in range – but you're not.

>Grab your goldenheart bow and rain death upon your enemies
>Grab your spear and signal your archers to loose

>>545933
>>Grab your spear and signal your archers to loose

>>545933
>Grab your spear and signal your archers to loose

>>545933
>>Grab your spear and signal your archers to loose

>>545933
I like this guy already.

Writing!

File: Naval Combat.png (1.39 MB, 1363x739)

1.39 MB PNG

As your second-in-command lines her red archers up along the port side of the Desdemona, you take a brisk walk to the helm of the ship and grab your goldenheart spear from where it lies propped against the wheel.

“DRAW!” Kojja cries to her men upon you return. A row of dark-skinned men reach back into their quivers and draw their golden shafts.

“AIM!” she continues as a stiff breeze rustles the carmine feather-capes that grace the shoulders of your elite archers. They pull back their drawstrings, taut muscles prepared to unleash a barrage of arrows.

You stand before them, locking eyes with your female archer captain. She nods once. They're prepared.

“LOOOOOOOOOOOOOSE!!” you bellow, lifting your spear and bringing it down to signal the opening salvo.

A hundred quarrels FWOOSH simultaneously, soaring up into the sky before pattering upon the grandiose, lavish galley. Up close you notice the exquisite carvings upon the vessel. A projection of status oozing off the exquisite carvings on the ship. This belongs to somebody important, you realize with an inward smile.

Iron shafts sink into the deck of your enemies, but even more find yielding flesh to sheathe themselves in. Dozens of men drop – felled by arrows fired by your own archers as well as the equally competent bowmen loosing death from the Cinnamon Wind on the other side.

Screams of pain and anguish are uttered by the defenders, more prepared for a fair fight or a boarding action than such sudden slaughter. Some duck for cover fruitlessly while others rush below deck. You feel a pang of sadness for the men whowere wounded but not immediately slain with the first volley.

Some begin to crawl across the ship, bleeding and moaning for help.

“LOOSE!” you command again when your archers have prepared themselves. This second volley thankfully puts most of the wounded out of their misery as well as adding a few more of the lucky survivors from the first volley to the list of the deceased.

The third volley most likely kills no more than five unlucky sailors – but the significance of the gesture accomplishes your aim. There are no men above deck attempting to return fire by the time you're in range of a potential counterattack.

Kojja orders her men to start choosing their own targets now that you're much closer. Summer Islander soldiers begin picking off random sailors. Those climbing the nets or hiding behind cover are felled easily. The helmsman takes an arrow to the back of his skull, slumping into the wheel. The only uninjured, living man is probably the look out up in the crow's nest, hunkered down for safety. A dozen arrows stick in his protective surroundings. You note to yourself that if the coward survives the battle you will enslave him.

File: Othello Portrait.jpg (281 KB, 600x800)

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Close enough now to board, your sailors lay the planks across to connect your ships. The archers cover their actions to ensure you encounter no resistance or difficulties.

You are the first man across, your spear at the ready to slay any man still remaining on the top deck that your archers might have happened to miss. You doubt they have, however. They possess the eyes of eagles and the reflexes of tigers.

You come across a dying man littered with a dozen arrows, from his ankles to his neck – but he still lives, gurgling for . . . something. His terrified eyes fall upon your form and you grant this enemy the mercy of a swifter death, sinking the iron head of your spear between his eyes.

“The top deck is ours!” Xhondu Dhoru, 1st mate of the Cinnamon Wind, informs your boarding crew. A quick cheer And other than one man who lost his balance boarding – probably tipsy from heavy drinking the night before – you have suffered no casualties.

>Search the officer's cabins
>Search below decks

>>546305
>A quick cheer

A quick cheer rises from the many voices of your men, elated at this first victory.

>>546305
>>Search the officer's cabins

>>546305
>Search the officer's cabins

>>546305
Check the cabins

>>546305
>Search below decks
fear wildfire

>>546305
>Search below decks

>>546324
Changing to this

>>546305
>Search the officer's cabins
There is no wildfire.

>>546324
switching

>>546305
>Search the officers cabin

>>546317
>>546332
>>546388

Search the cabins

>>546324
>>546325
>>546326
>>546335

Search below deck

Writing!

File: Strong Belwas.jpg (39 KB, 300x462)

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“Dhoru, check the officer's cabins. I'll go below deck!” With that order given, you gather twenty Summer Islanders armed with spears to follow you down into the belly of the ship.

No resistance initially bars your path as you search the lower decks. The galley rocks back and forth under the ministrations of the ocean. It smells of man sweat and spices down here. Good, this haul might make you a fair bit of money if you choose your markets wisely. The energized rush of your men causes a cacophony of stomping boots to echo throughout the confined space. But with practiced ease your trained men keep their footing, watching out to make sure the stairs are sturdy.

Eventually you come to where the oarsmen are meant to reside, rowing the ship along to whatever destination this Pentoshi galley had set out to trade with. Most of the rowers have fled further down, deeper into the holds of the ship to hide from your unstoppable pirate crew. But a few of the more courageous ones remain, either still sitting at their stations or standing with makeshift weapons raised, prepared to face oncoming attackers.

All of these potential enemy combatants, however, pale in comparison to the colossus of a man who stands at the forefront of their impromptu gang.

He's fucking huge. Tall and fat with a broad chest and a massive belly. Baggy pants cinched with a yellow, silk, belly band adorn his nut-brown skin. He wears a tiny leather vest with iron studs that fails to protect much of his scar-streaked body.

His gleaming bald head and double chin widens as he smiles a gapped tooth smile, laughing in a much higher tone than you'd expect a man of that size to utter.

Your eyes quickly pinpoint the curved arakh clenched tight in one massive meaty fist and the small, worn buckler he holds in the other.

“I am Strong Belwas!” the true blue warrior declares in . . . French? Holy shit this guy is speaking French! “Veteran of the Fighting Pits of Meereen. Who seeks to die upon my blade today?”

>I will face you!
>Send your men forth to pacify the combatants
>Will you die for your enslavement or live for your freedom?!
>Something else? (write-in)

>>546578
>>Something else? (write-in)
"wait are you french?"

Taking a shower then switching to Mills Quest

>>546578
>Will you die for your enslavement or live for your freedom?!
>>546587
This too

>>546587
+1

>>546578
>Will you die for your enslavement or live for your freedom?!

>>546578
>>546587
French?

Roll me 1d100, best of 3.

Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>548291

Rolled 11 (1d100)

>>548291

>>548296
No, but the discord is great

Rolled 19 (1d100)

>>548291

File: niggawhat.png (46 KB, 987x954)

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>>548291
wut

File: A Twist of Fate.png (10 KB, 364x138)

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You squint your eyes as you stare at the big, bald, brown man. Your confusion seems to extend to your troops, as they wait for your orders with bated breath at what they believe will be bloodshed.

“Wait!” you shout, every man in the room fixes you with a stare of either fear or prepared loyalty. “Are you French?” you interrogate the lead enemy combatant.

The large fighter frowns. “ . . . Frehnch?” he asks, sounding the word out. “What is this 'Frehnche'?”

“The language you're speaking. It is French, is it not?” you seek to confirm.

“No. I speak the Common Tongue of Westeros. As you are speaking right now. . . Are you not all there, Bird-man?” Belwas questions.

. . . what? . . . You're speaking Westerosi? . . . Westerosi is French?! But you've been speaking English this whole time! Whatever, you'll file that away for now then. The Summer Tongue is English and Westerosi is French. You shake your head and ease back into the situation at hand.

The pitfighter idly spins his arakh, bouncing quite lightly on his feet for such a massive man, antsy for a fight to far surpass the previous verbal exchange. “So Bird-man. Shall you be the first to leave a mark upon my flesh before I send you to your gods?”

“Are you not a slave?” you clarify.

He nods his head in acknowledgment of his status. “Sold from Meereen to Qohor to Pentos. My current master is Magister Illyrio Mopatis and it is my duty to defend his ship.”

“We outnumber you 5 to 1. You will die,” you point out as a fact rather than an attempt at intimidation.

Belwas chuckles that high-pitched laugh. “Perhaps. But I will bring down many of you Bird-men with me.”

You gesture to your crew. “Or you could join us. Join my crew and live with freedom rather than die for your slave master today.”

Belwas frowns. He becomes quite silent, pondering your words. The paler men of the Free Cities turn their gazes upon the still form of their best fighter, panic-stricken expressions on their faces as the slave actually contemplates defecting to their enemies. Time to pour it on.

“You are a veteran of the Fighting Pits! A Meerenese Legend! Is this what you wish to be the end of your legacy? Dying in the belly of some rich merchant's ships because he bought you and expects you to die for him? Who will know your name? Who will care? I suppose you've heard your name cheered by thousands of adoring fans. People whispering of your prowess as you pass them in the streets?”

Belwas slowly nods his head, his face seemingly lost in some nostalgic memory.

“I swear to you, Strong Belwas. Join my crew and you will hear your name sung in legends long after you have passed away. And it will not be as a martially proficient slave, the credit falsely given to some indolent master. No! You will be cheered as a free man.”

Strong Belwas lowers his weapon and sighs, meeting your gaze. “I will join your crew, bird-man.”

File: Viserys and Daenerys.jpg (129 KB, 800x566)

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Immediately upon Strong Belwas's defection, the rest of the Summer Sun's sailors throw down their weapons and raise their hands in surrender.

You chuckle as you approach the giant, slapping him jovially upon his thick meaty shoulders. “I believe this will be a lucrative friendship for us both.”

He snorts. “That depends on the contents of your food stores. Do you keep Ghiscari fare on your ship, Bird-man?”

“Othello,” you correct him. “And I promise you: We soon will.”

. . .

Well this is . . . interesting. Xhondo Dhoru, large and imposing in his feather cloak of black and scarlet, throws the priceless treasure before you.

Landing in a heap at your feet, he whimpers.

“I present to you Viserys Targaryen, Captain. Last of the dragons.” The silver-haired, gaunt young man raises his gaze to meet your eyes, trembling with fear. His lilac irises on the verge of crying, shining with burgeoning hysteria beneath the surface.

You look over your shoulder, silently imploring Belwas to explain.

“We were pursuing a trading galley owned by a Westerosi,” Strong Belwas expounds in stilted French. “This Westerosi was pursuing Daenerys – Dragon-boy's sister. Daenerys married a Horse-man – Drogo. Drogo has an army for dragon-boy to take his throne in Westeros. He insisted to come with us to see his sister again. Then you attacked.”

“So this is the dragon you were being led to by the skull,” Kojja Mo comments beside your right flank, gesturing as if such a conclusion was obvious at the onset of your journey.

“Hmmmm,” Moqorro utters unconvinced beside your left flank. “The skull leads to the dragon. But this Targaryen was following the skull. The dragon could be the other Targaryen – the girl. The skull is currently heading right for her.”

Kojja laughs and shakes her head. “I have had enough of prophecy. The Stag King of Westeros promises titles, gold, lands and a lordship to any who bring back the head of this Prince. We have found our dragon. Let us collect our reward by bringing its skull to the men of the West.”

>Kill Viserys, collect your reward
>Follow the skull to the dragon
>Something else? (write-in)

>>548897
>Follow the skull to the dragon

>>548897
>Something else? (write-in)
tell me Viserys Targaryen, what do i do with you?

>>548905
+1

>>548897
>>Kill Viserys, collect your reward

>>548897
>Follow the skull to the dragon

>>548902
>>548905
These

>>548905
Also this
>>548897

>>548902
>>548908
>>548909

Follow skull

>>548905
>>548906
>>548909

Convince me Viserys

>>548907
Kill Viserys

Writing!

>>548918
Go to sleep.

Rolled 99 (1d100)

>>548925

Soon.

File: wont give you sauce.jpg (127 KB, 640x891)

127 KB JPG

SPOOKY BOOGY DAKIS

File: FIRE AND BLOOD.jpg (951 KB, 1501x1501)

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You squat down to put yourself at eye level with the near-prone Viserys.

You stare him down, sizing him up as he meets your inscrutable gaze with a fearful one of his own. A hand, pale and bony shoots up to awkwardly rub one shoulder clothed beneath the smooth black velvet of his doublet, a three-headed dragon stitched with red silk upon the front.

“Tell me Viserys Targaryen . . . what do I do with you?” you honestly question him.

He shakes in terror for a moment, but judging by how he closes his eyes and reacts to your words, you believe he can understand you. Eventually . . . he comes to a repose, all shakes and shivers leaving his body.

A few moments pass before he nods once, almost as if in a trance – and then his eyes shoot open. You almost swear they burn in purple fire for a brief moment. You can hear the sizzling green flame that erupts from Moqorro's staff every once in a while crackle intensely behind you in sync with Viserys's sudden action.

“What you do,” Viserys speaks eloquently, “Is take me with you to wherever my sister and her Horselord husband reside. Then I take ten thousands Dothraki cavalry which Khal Drogo has promised me and take back my birthright. Seven Kingdoms. I know of the price upon my head. A lordship of some shitheap keep. A petty reward because a King in power can afford to offer a petty reward for a rebel. When my crown is placed upon my head I promise I will remember every friend who ever helped put me in my proper place. Master of Ships. Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. Every isle in the Stepstones! THE SUMMER ISLES IF YOU WISH TO TAKE YOUR HOMELAND FOR YOURSELVES! Whatever reward you wish you will receive, paid for in FIRE AND BLOOD!”

At his vehement declaration a jet of green flame bursts from the head of Moqorro's dragon-sculpted staff. A few men recoil in fear of the alchemical feat.

The Targaryen boy's breast heaves with heavy exertion as he finishes his speech. You look back to your closest advisers.

Kojja Mo seems suitably impressed and Moqorro examines his staff peculiarly.

“Perhaps I was wrong?” Moqorro offers truthfully as he notices your gaze. “Maybe this is the dragon we seek.”

>Alright Viserys. I'm convinced. We'll find your sister.
>Nah. Too crazy. Let's bring this sucker in for the reward

>>548947
>Alright Viserys. I'm convinced. We'll find your sister.
This will be more interesting if we keep him with us.

>>548947
>Alright Viserys. I'm convinced. We'll find your sister.

>>548947
>>Alright Viserys. I'm convinced. We'll find your sister.
all abroad!

>>548947
>>Alright Viserys. I'm convinced. We'll find your sister.

>>548956

t. proxyfag

>>548947
>Alright Viserys. I'm convinced. We'll find your sister.

>>548957
Nah man there is no way he is a proxy. See his name is even Not a proxy.

Rolled 26 (1d100)

Joso's Prank

>>548959
This guy gets it, I'm just a poor phone fag.

Writing!

>>548964
>writing

File: Swan Ship.png (122 KB, 350x196)

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“Alright Viserys! You have convinced me with your passionate plea!” And his dramatics, his theatrics as well as your sense of when proper story progression is slapping you in the face. “I am convinced. We will find your sister and reclaim your homeland. Stand the boy up!” you order.

Viserys slowly rises up to his full height, displaying as rigid and regal a posture as he can manage. “Thank you. I assure you you won't regret this. I'll inform the rest of Illyrio's crew to cooperate with you. This will be remembered as no more than a temporary setback.. We will ass profit together from this alliance.”

“I hope you're right,” you concede. Turning around to your crew, you begin to bellow orders as Viserys scurries below decks to rouse the rest of the Pentoshi crew. “Toss the bodies overboard! I want this ship manned and crewed so it can travel at its fastest speeds! And someone get me eyes on the Iago or the Cassio. I want to know if they're alright!”

“Captain Othello!” A man calls from the Crow's Nest, waving down to you.

You look up at the young Summer Islander and cup your hands around your mouth. “Aye, sailor?”

“Our ships return. With a captured trade galley between them. Joso's Prank. The vessel appears unharmed.” he shakes his Myrish fareyes to emphasize the reliability of his information.

You chortle. “Thank you!” You look to Kojja. “Tell Quhuru to get the Cinnamon Wind ready.”

She beams at you. “The fleet's numbers swell again. With finer ships than before, laden with trade goods. Has the 'tragedy' lost some of its bite in your memory?” she inquires with a wide, toothy smile.

You look at her in mock offense. “Certainly not.” You let a few seconds pass before letting your expression melt into an honest grin. “The girl sucking my cock never finished,” you jokingly complain.

Kojja cackles. “A monumental tragedy indeed.”

Done 4 the night.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbXrBREGcak

This is the Lannister theme song

File: Magister Vollin.jpg (106 KB, 469x750)

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Even with the strong language barrier between you and Yao Qi, her information was clear, informative and rock solid.

With nary but a few investigative inquiries into fools and meme vultures and even in this city of Valyrian speaking Myrmen you have gleamed gossip galore of a recent purchase of one Magsiter Joryllo Vollin.

Some few months ago he acquired – or truly, was gifted – a muttering madman who had been enslaved by a Dothraki khalasar somewhere out across the Great Grass Sea.

Know one knows the origins of the crazed man – some guess he may be a lost Qartheen – but Magister Joryllo found his ramblings amusing. The Magister had laughed himself near to death, he claimed to have informed the Khal who he had been feasting at his manse in an annual reestablishment of their alliance – a practice the Myrish nobles employ to prevent an attempted sack by the warlike khalasars. This Khal deemed the slave would be of more use in Magister Vollin's service and so 'gifted' the fool to him.

Ever since, the wealthy merchant has taken every meal with his jester slave present. Apparently, this self-proclaimed 'Meme Vulture' dresses in a suit of feathers composed of dozens of Summer Islander cloaks. He runs about and flaps his wings, molting multi-colored feathers every which way all while proclaiming himself various titles incoherently.

He also apparently is known for insulting the Westerosi – what grudge a mere madman could possibly have for nobles he has never met half the world away is anyone's guess.

You receive a relatively accurate description of the Magister via your verbal pursuits throughout the city and you also discover that – like much of the Myrish elite – Joryllo is a connoisseur of the finer things in life. A patron of artisans and education.

You are nearing the end of the first day of your week long wait in Myr.

>What do?

>>553889
We go visit Joryllo Vollin of course! We need to obtain Plague, so we buy him or do a bard off for it.

Rolled 61 (1d100)

>>553920
>>553889
Lets go hunt us an Anon.

>>553920
+1

Rolled 10 (1d10)

If I roll a 10 then Magister Vollin is a follower of R'hllor.

>>554516
B^)

Roll me 1d100 + 16, best of 3. This is a diplomacy check.

Rolled 44 + 16 (1d100 + 16)

>>554580

Rolled 58 + 16 (1d100 + 16)

>>554580
If nat 1

Rolled 34 + 16 (1d100 + 16)

>>554580
let's see if we fuck this up

Rolled 71 + 16 (1d100 + 16)

>>554580
Check my 1

VELO STOP PLAYING DOTA FOR MVP PHOENIX

File: Myrish Manse.jpg (31 KB, 500x325)

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Weaving your horse through the sprawling city streets of Myr, the scents of garlic and roast pepper mingle with the smell of sea salt and human flesh. Riding in accordance to the directions a tradeswoman had given, you find yourself before a rather modest manse, its brick walls pressed right up against the tightly packed together houses of the commonfolk. The building itself is made of a creamy marble stone with a dull, ruddy red tiled roof.

The biggest aesthetic novelty of the cozy mansion is a wide pool surrounded by a smattering of gnarled, blackened trees. All their leaves gone – fallen away as if it was already late Autumn or early Winter.

A quick chat with the sole unsullied guard that stands vigil in front of the entrance accomplishes your purposes. Having discovered that Joryllo Vollin is allegedly a devout follower of R'hllor during your investigations, you ask to relay a message to the powerful Magister that a Westerosi acolyte of the Lord of Light wishes to speak with his eminence. The eunuch agrees to your meager request and you provide information as to what inn you will be retiring at for the week you will be in Myr if Vollin wishes to contact you.

. . .

In the early dawn of your second day in port, you shovel sweet, honey drizzled biscuits into your mouth only to wash it down with an herbal tea that possesses a hint of cinnamon and nearly scalds your throat as you imbibe it.

Eerily, a disturbing tingle runs down your spine during breakfast that serves as a cause for hesitation. You slowly place your teacup down upon its saucer with a sharp, crisp CLINK. Swallowing the last, soft, fluffy bits of dough, your deep gulp is tinged with as worry you tune your senses intently within the inn's noisy common room.

Your eyes dart around the space, examining every swaggering bravo and greasy, garishly dyed beard for the source of what is unsettling you so. The interior of the building begins to glow with a slight reddish tint as morning sunlight streams inside in greater amounts.

Every thing and person in your line of sight reflects fire off their forms. As the luminosity steadily intensifies at a measured pace, you realize something is off about this allegedly natural light. Perhaps the cloud cover or . . .

“William!”

The sound of your name startles you and your eyes glue themselves to Chiggen's burly form, who you retroactively deduce was the source of the noise. He waves you forward, standing halfway in the building's only entrance.

“You have to see this!” He disappears, a rustle of cloth and the jingling of chainmail the only clues as to his current whereabouts.


You bolt up from your table, absentmindedly dropping a silver stag upon the table to pay the innkeeper in case you find yourself having to dash away permanently.

Outside you see . . . oh!

File: Bleeding Star.jpg (86 KB, 500x500)

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. . . Yeah, you guess that had to have been coming soon. A blazing ball of fire streaks across the sky, leaving behind a scarlet trail of stardust in its wake. Extremely visible even beside the bright dawn of the sun, it adds a subtle, bloody wash to the features of the cityscape and gawkers around you.

Red Messenger, King Joffrey's Comet, Sword that Slays the Season, Dragon's Tail, Bleeding Star, Mormont's Torch, Red Sword. Whatever the various folks around the world are ascribing the significance of the celestial body to, one thing is certain – magic has been reborn.

You recognize one of your crew members from the Argo in front of you, devoutly praying as he watches the comet slowly cross the heavens.

Chiggen offers a good-natured chuckle as he nudges you in the side with his elbow. “Quite a sight. Y'think R'hllor sent this, boss? Maybe he gave us a light so those nights won't be so dark and terrifying.” He punctuates the end of his comical divine interpretation with a snort.

Perhaps the Lord of Light did send this comet as aid. But whether He did so or not, you are confident of one future event.

Your audience with Vollin is assured.

. . .

The Magister stands beside his pool. Bending over a telescope, he carefully calibrates the device to facilitate his close study of the recent addition to the firmament.

The eunuch who had been ordered to find you thirty minutes after your own discovery of the comet's existence had ushered you to Joryllo's manse in great haste, claiming the Magister was delighted to host you.

“Lord William Shakespeare!” The Unsullied soldier heralds, slamming the butt of his spear into the cobblestone with authority. The Magister waves away his servant as he, quite rudely – under normal circumstances at least, seems more content to fiddle with his glass lenses than speak with a supposed guest.

Sensing, perhaps, an advantage in privacy, you nod Bronn and Chiggen away to amuse themselves with some of the Magister's offered food or slave girls.

Alone, you awkwardly wait for the Myrman to finish his ministrations so you can begin speaking.

“Did that fat, drunken sot Thoros finally manage me a convert?” His question is out of the blue and biting, the Myrish accent subtle in his tone. He doesn't so much as spare you a glance over his shoulder as he adjusts the telescope's angle, most likely awaiting a response.

>I was converted by Melisandre of Asshai
>Yes [lie]
>You know Thoros of Myr?
>I'm simply here for a fool
>Something else? (write-in)

>>555725
>>I was converted by Melisandre of Asshai
i see no reason to lie

>>555725
>I was converted by Melisandre of Asshai
>You know Thoros of Myr?

>>555725
>I was converted by Melisandre of Asshai‘s sexy glamour
Thoros a shit.

>>555725
>You know Thoros of Myr?

>>555733
Except that if anyone is following us, they'll know immediately we're working for Stannis.

>>555725
>Yes [lie]
>I'm simply here for a fool

Mills Quest is live

File: Asshai.png (187 KB, 440x292)

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“I was converted by Melisandre of Asshai,” your correct the man's assumptions.

At that revelation, the Magister stops what he's doing, stands up rigidly and finally casts his eyes in your direction, a visage of stern regard plastered on his features.

“Do you . . . know Melisandre?” you ask, concerned.

He shakes his head. “No. Never heard the name. But a R'hllor priestess from Asshai is . . . surely you know the reputation of Asshai. A dark place filled with magic. Shadowbinders, sorcerers. Did this woman manifest any . . . strange acts of fate?”

“None that I saw, but I am aware of her abilities. She is quite the powerful sorceress indeed. Her skills are part of the reason I saw the burning light of R'hllor.”

“Yes. well she sounds competent,” the Magister agrees with a rueful nod of his head. He sticks a hand out. “I believe we have yet to be properly introduced. Magister Joryllo Vollin of Myr.”

You grasp his hand back. “William Shakespeare of the Frozen Shore. Devotee and acolyte of the Red God.”

“A pleasure to meet you. As a fellow member of the faith I assume you, as well as I, could not have seen such an auspicious sign as this comet and not believe this to be a meeting of great import.”

>Yes. I would like your fool, please.
>Something else? (write-in)

>>563129
>>Yes. I would like your fool, please.

>>563129
I need money and men and your fool, red God has shown me a vision I must convert the dragon queen and her husband to our cause etc etc

>>563129
>Something else? (write-in)
Put the magic in the bag and nobody needs to get hurt.

>>563146
>Yes. I would like your fool, please

File: Meme Vulture.jpg (261 KB, 1300x955)

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“Yes. I would like your fool, please.”

The Magister releases the handshake with a curious frown. “My fool . . . you mean the Meme Vulture?”

You nod once respectfully, trying your hardest to keep a straight face.

“Why do you want to see him?”

“I believe he may be a prophet in disguise. Red priests see visions in the flames. Perhaps this madman's addled brain has been speaking truths disguised as riddles this whole time.”

Joryllo smiles a wry, knowing smile. “I had thought the same, brother. Although I'll admit I have been hard-pressed to pierce his ramblings and divine prophecy from them. He speaks often of the Westerosi, however. Perhaps you could make much better use of him.”

Your fellow follower of R'hllor claps his hands together and shouts “Meme Vulture! Descend!”

The two of you wait beside the pool for a few long moments before you hear the jingling of bells and the rustling of feathers.

Suddenly jumping in from around the side of the manse comes a man dressed in a garish costume. His face inked with war paint and his body decorated with facsimiles of wings, he looks akin to a gay pride parade attendee or someone celebrating some esoteric Aztec holiday.

He strides forward, molting feathers in an assortment of colors. The amount of money invested in that costume – if those are all truly plucked from birds – must be well into the dozens of gold dragons range.

As he walks, he strikes a pose with the back of his wrist against his forehead and his other arm held straight out in front of him, rigidly pointing at nothing.

“THE MEME VULTURE!” he cries as he gets closer, grabbing his wings with both hands and manually flapping them. “HAS DESCENDED!”

Joryllo cocks an eyebrow as you exchange glances. “He's all yours if you wish.”

>Alright Meme Vulture. Let's go.
>Something else? (write-in)

>>564164
>>Alright Meme Vulture. Let's go.

>>564164
Ask if he's heard where Dany may be. And any news of her in general. Then say our goodbyes

>>564164
>>Something else? (write-in)
sure thing Meme vulture, i'm William Shakespeare. Get your shit you and I need too have a little talk.

>>564596
+1

>>564164
>Alright Meme Vulture. Let's go.

>>564164
Ask if he knows Daeny's whereabouts

>>564596
This

File: Thoros of Myr.jpg (70 KB, 544x478)

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“Then I'll take him. Alright Meme Vulture. I'm William Shakespeare. Now pack your shit and prepare to leave,” you order.

The Meme Vulture bows. “As you command, Lord Willie Shakes. I shall shove my bird shit into a wicker basket.” He speaks his mock deferential obeisance directly to the cobblestone floor.

Still bowing, he quickly shuffles his feet in tiny, rapid, direction-altering steps and once he has rustled his way around 180 degrees, runs back the way he came, still bent over at the waist.

“I still need to talk with you about things!” you shout after his retreating, feathered form. But it's too late for him to return. He's already skittered off, hopefully not packing literal shit into a basket. The man seemed rather . . . unphased by your name. He can speak Westerosi or English and he looked to be of European stock and he was on fucking 4chan so you're pretty confident the guy should know who the fuck William Shakespeare is.

Maybe he's just really dedicated to keeping up the bumbling madman act. You'll interrogate him later when you're somewhere more private and out of the prying eyes of even seemingly cooperative magisters.

Vollin chuckles. “He can be a handful. Obtuse. Even annoying rather than funny at times. But I sense . . . something deeper about his speech and person. May I inquire as to what important mission my fool is embarking upon?”

You squint your eyes and mull over the idea of revealing more information to the Magister. Seeing no harm in the prospective action, you squeal. “I am searching for Daenerys Targaryen. Do you know where she might be? Have you heard any news of her in general?”

Joryllo squints and then rubs his chin. “Noooo, I don't believe I have. I heard rumor the girl married Khal Drogo and was almost assassinated on orders of King Robert of Westeros. But since then: nothing. I assume your desire is to convert her to R'hllor?”

You shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps more than that.”

The Myrman rumbles in laughter. “Well I won't pry. Maybe you will have more luck or simply apply yourself better than my own man. Twenty years ago I placed a red priest in the court of King Aerys in the hope he could leverage the Mad King's obsession with fire to convert him. Now that king rots in the ground and my red priest contents himself with whoring, drinking and fighting alongside the new King. No matter. I wish you luck on your journey, brother.”

“And I wish you luck in your own affairs,” you reply.

. . .

You spend the better part of an hour chatting with Magister Joryllo Vollin before the Meme Vulture has his 'suitcase' ready. It is a bird cage filled with meager supplies. Well at least it isn't bird shit.

You take your leave of your momentary host's subdued manse and walk back down the streets accompanied by one more body than you had started with that day.

>What questions do you ask of the Meme Vulture? (write-in)

AND

What do you do for the next six days of your stay here in Myr?

>Sell your cargo
>Purchase wildfire
>Train a skill (what?)
>Read a book (which?)
>Something else? (write-in)

>>566526
Strap the meme vulture in a chair. strip him of his costume and threaten to torture him if he doesn't drop the act, talk about earth. Torture him if he doesn't stop being a retard.

Buy 4 Jars of Wildfire, Sell 25% of the cargo, Train and busk your Bardship in front of the nobles of this port city.

>>566612
>>566526
This but also do a little spear training if we can squeeze it in.

>>566526
>>Sell your cargo
All of it
Buy 4 Jars of Wildfire

Roll me 2d100, best of 3.

First is an appraise check. With a bonus of 5.

Second is a luck check. No bonus.

Rolled 3 (1d12)

Rolled 68, 15 = 83 (2d100)

>>568889

Rolled 79, 77 = 156 (2d100)

>>568889

Rolled 18, 91 = 109 (2d100)

>>568889

Also lol, roll me another 1d100 +7

This is a spot check. Best of 3.

Rolled 11 (1d100)

>>569013

Rolled 25 + 7 (1d100 + 7)

>>569013

Rolled 85 (1d100)

>>569013

Rolled 42 (1d100)

>>569013

>>569042
thank fuck for that

Rolled 3 (1d100)

File: Bronn the Sellsword.jpg (30 KB, 300x462)

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You sell off around a fourth of your cargo – worth 600 gold dragons – for a net profit of 400 gold dragons. Close to double what you initially paid for all that Pentoshi junk. Spices, saffron and pepper flood the streets as you offload your cargo to whoever is willing to buy.

. . .

Searching through the markets, you unfortunately fail to find any jars of wildfire being sold in the Myrish markets. However, on a hunch you send in a word to Magister Vollin and he offers to sell you four jars of the green stuff at a very low price. At a steal of twenty gold dragons you acquire the quantity you were aiming to acquire.

. . .

For two good days you play and sing in the hopes of earning coin or patronage for your skills. By the end you've made roughly three gold dragons. A poor profit and perhaps a waste of your time – but profit nonetheless.

. . .

Sighing as you enter the hold where the Meme Vulture is tied to a chair, Bronn greets you with a dour nod as he rubs his bruised knuckles down with a wet rag.

Chiggen sits upon a barrel, shaking his head in frustration before the practically naked fool.

“We will stop if you just –”

“YOU PLUCKED ME!” the bird-man scream indignantly, purple welts covering his face with a swelling black eye swelling his face.

“DROP THE ACT!” Chiggen shouts, getting up and grabbing the prisoner by the scruff of his neck.

Meme Vulture giggles as his wild, wide eyes roam Chiggen's visage. “The plague will descend upon you. Respect the meme or get creamed.”

The broad mercenary grunts angrily, throwing the earthling's head down as he retreats. Sitting back on the barrel he locks eyes with you and offers the most defeated shrug he could possibly muster.

Bron subtly shakes his head. “Don't think it's an act. Think he's proper crazy.”

Bronn and Chiggen have been working him over the past six days. He still won't talk. Not about Earth. Not about anything really. Just about memes, vultures, meme vultures and plagues killing people.

“My advice,” Bronn opines. “Cut his throat. Send him back. Or purchase the skills of a professional torturer. He's either a tough nut to crack or simply a nut.”

>Kill him
>Send him back to the Magister
>Purchase a torturer
>Bring him with as is
>Something else? (write-in)

>>569348
>Fuck him sane
if that fails
>Bring him with as is

>>569348
>>Something else? (write-in)
Hello Plague, it's Velo. How you finding this world? Millennium is here too, so are some others.

>>569348
>Purchase a torturer

>>569348
Bring him as is. Let Raina see if she can sort him out

>>569377
+1

>>569377
+1
>>569419
+1 if the above doesn't work

>>569348
Get a bdsm specialist aka torturer

>>569377
+1

>>569348
>>569363
>>569760
Fucking him into submission is our only hope.

>>569377
+1

Rolled 90 (1d100)

Plague recovery roll.

>>570006
Oh hey, he ain't too baked then

File: Plague.jpg (1.09 MB, 1739x1816)

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“Give us some privacy,” you calmly order. Bronn and Chiggen wordlessly – and with some measure of relief, you notice – exit the room, closing the door behind themselves.

You approach the 'Meme Vulture' and squat in front of him, placing a . . . friendly hand upon his thigh. To demonstrate you aren't going to hurt him. Wild, unhinged eyes stare into your own – seeing nothing but the madness they wish to see.

Sighing out, you hope to extend an olive branch of sorts. “Hey Plague. It's Plague, right?”

He nods his head vigorously. “Plague meant to punish all those who disrespect KEK!”

You shake your head. “No. That's not what I'm talking about. Plague is your name or . . . your online handle, right?”

He squints. Unlike the expression of absolute certainty during his ramblings, his face slowly adopts the look of someone unsure of something. Like he's recalling a long forgotten memory or trying desperately to remember if he left the stove on at home or not.

Thinking you've made some ground, you try to push for more. “Yeah. Plague. It's me. Velo.”

He blinks rapidly. “Ve . . .lo?” He asks, searching his brain for why that name holds significance. “Veeeelo,” he repeats himself. “Velo.”

“Yeah. Velo. The QM for You Awake in Westeros Quest. Remember?”

“Velo, the . . . the . . . the Meme Vultures.”

You chuckle. “Yeah. I remember. The meme vultures descended upon my quest and they made fun of my gaff. That was a . . . low point for me.” One of many.

“What . . . what are you doing here?!” Plague suddenly demands. You notice his chest heaving with shallow, short breaths.

“I'm heading off to meet Daenerys and happened to stop by Myr during my travels. If you mean why I'm here on Planetos, then I can assure you I have no clue. But you and I aren't the only ones here. Other people from the real world are also all over the place. People from the quest thread.”

“But . . . but . . . oh god! This . . . this is real?!”

“As sure as anyone can be: yeah. This is really happening.”

Plague looks like he's simultaneously going to faint, vomit, shit himself and cry profusely. Instead he settles for closing his eyes and muttering out “p-please untie me.”

Trusting he won't do something . . . crazy, if you free him, you get up and undo the bindings tying him to the chair. He stands and holds his head in his hands, looking woozy on his feet as he sways a bit, the unstable effect compounded by the subtle swaying of the ship.

Stumbling over to the water bucket, Plague collapses to his knees, head perched over the container. For a moment you think he's going to spew chunks, but instead he inspects his reflection. Silent introspective seconds pass before the man scoops up handfuls of water and splashes liquid onto his bruised, beaten face.

Afterwards he brings a few fingers up to feel out his black eye. He seethes in pain even at his own gentle probing.

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“Y'know,” he calls over to you hoarsely, still focusing on investigating himself. “If all this is real . . . then you actually had two goons beat my fucking face in. You're a real cunt, you know that?”

You roll your eyes. “You were acting like a retard. I thought violence might snap you out of it. What . . . happened to you?” you inquire adamantly, curious as to what drove him to the brink.

He rounds on you, head looking back over his left shoulder. “You mean in addition to waking up in fucking crazy land?! Oh lots of fucking shit has happened to me. I've seen the worst shit fucking imaginable, alright. Mass rape, torture, murder, towns razed, people and shit on fire, yo! And y'know what, FUCK YOU for thinking some pussy ass bullshit like punching me in the face would do anything, alright you meme loving fuck?! I've been fucking enslaved and sold and beaten and pissed on and it's all your fucking fault.”

“How is it my fault?” you reply, defensive and concerned about his accusations.

“Oh! Oh, look at this.” Plague stands up on shaky legs and turns around to face you completely now. “Look at Mr. 'The Fuck Did I Do' himself. Alright you skub-sucking loser. Let me fucking explain what the fuck is going on here. This is fucking meme magic, alright. You can dismiss it or laugh at it or what have you but you know I'm fucking right. MEME MAGIC. You acted like a retarded asshole and fucked up your own quest, memeing yourself into fucking uncontrollable, undetectable, momentary godhood where you unwittingly dropped us all off into your magical realm, unoriginal, uninspired bullshit fanfiction. Alright? The number of people and the intensity at which they were memeing in such a short time span must have acted as some sort of proxy ritual, pleasing or insulting KEK enough to have him banish us to this faggy dimension of your creation. And if it wasn't for your screw up, originator of meme himself, King Meme Vulture Velo, we wouldn't be stuck in this godawful shitshow. We'd all be fine right now if you could have just remembered to take your trip off while doing your railroading scumfuck bullshit!”

>You're right Plague. It's my fault.
>You're still crazy.
>Something else? (write-in)

>>570066
>>Something else? (write-in)
You know what Plague...let's go with that. We are not the only ones here. Millenium is back in Westeros with an Ozzy guy who called himself Mannis, there is some bitch in kings landing working with the Lanisters and a girl calling herself Raina. here too, we're all from earth, all from 4chan and we all awoke in different places.

Now come on Plague, maybe if we gather the anons we can work this shit out, at least you have a theory, beats my "what the fuck am i doing" deal.

And ok...i'll admit it I rail roaded you guys...but lets sort this shit out. Together, come on man, surly you'd love to meet Millenium and the others?

>>570076
+1

If he disagrees have him executed, he's too dangerous now.

>>570079
pretty much

>>570076
+1

>>570079
Yup.

>>570076
gotta support anon unity.

>>570079
+1

>>570079
+1

>meme vulture isn't me.

When the fuck is Thanatos coming in? better not be as a fucking wight from being dropped Beyond the Wall.

>>570079
FUCK OFF DON'T YOU DARE DO THAT!
>>570066
YOU'RE ALRIGHT PLAGUE

DON'T GO INTO WESTEROS TOMORROW

>>570076
this, no execute

>>570079
+1

“Y'know what Plague, . . .” you begin, processing some sort of counter argument to that ridiculous assertion . . . until you realize you've got nothing. Fuck, what evidence is there that he's wrong? This is a crazy situation. Perhaps a crazy explanation is the perfect answer? “Let's go with that,” you decide, surrendering. “At least you have a theory and that beats the shit out of my 'what the fuck am I doing' deal. I've honestly been drifting from place to place since I got here. Making the best of the situation as I could to . . . varying degrees of success.”

You gulp down any regretful, ruminating thoughts as you move forward to focusing on the future. “I think it would be best if we gathered all the anons who showed up from the real world and worked as a team to figure things out. Cobble together some sort of plan.”

Plague leans back against the wall of the room and scratches his tangled, dark mess of a beard. He was close to clean-shaven when your bodyguards brought him down here into this impromptu brig. His hair must grow fast. “Who else is here?” he croaks out. Seems like the man's got a sore throat or something. Perhaps Plague has the plague? You guess being beaten regularly in the bowels of a ship is not the healthiest lifestyle for any length of time.

You sigh out. “Girl who calls herself Raina is working here as part of my crew.”

“Tits or GTFO. Reeee,” he recites his shitpost by rote, without enthusiasm or energy.

Chuckling, you shrug. “It's true. I promise. You can meet her yourself. There's also this surly South African guy I spent some time with in King's Landing. However, he won a tournament and I haven't seen him since after . . . I was arrested and almost assassinated.”

Plague cocks an eyebrow. “Why the fuck did that happen?”

“Uhhhh,” you stall for time as you craft the explanation in your head. “I . . . believe I got on the bad side of another anon working with the Lannisters and manipulating them from the shadows in King's Landing. They influenced the Queen to jail and poison me. I barely escaped thanks to currying favor with Jaime Lannister.”

Plague nods. “Alright. That it?”

“There's a friendly Australian on Dragonstone working with Stannis who we're . . . semi-aligned with. And there's also a pirate who goes by the name Othello. I, uh, ended up burning a few of his ships when his fleet approached this vessel with what I presumed was ill intent.”

The brunette chuckles. “So of the people from the real world you know: two want you dead, a third you have no clue where he is, another is maybe an ally of yours, and . . . this girl with you. What is she good at?”

“ . . . painting.”

Plague cackles. “That plan of gathering the anons together as a big happy team sure is living up to Velo-patented quality, isn't it?”

“Look, are you willing to try or not?!” you snap at him, defensively.

Plague “hmmmms” pensively before replying. “I'd say no . . .” he offers you a rueful smirk. “But I have a feeling you'll railroad me into saying yes anyway.”

“In a manner of speaking,” you affirm. “I'm sorry, for what's that worth.”

“About the beating?”

“No. About the railroading. You deserved the beating.”

“ . . . You definitely are a real cunt.”

File: Saduleon.png (184 KB, 607x394)

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As you're unmooring theArgo– back to its pristine glory now that it has been expertly repaired by dutiful, skilled, slave shipwrights – you notice a strange sight from where you stand upon the docks.

Having decided to take an idle stroll while you wait, perusing the wharf markets for trinkets and baubles – you spot a massive, Pentosih cog bobbing in the waters at the opposite end of the docks from your own ship.

With a beautiful winged woman for a figurehead, theSaduleoncuts an imposing figure. Men run up, down and across her, heaving cargo off the trade ship to peddle and sell to Myrish merchants. The Captain, a man you believeshouldbe named . . . Groleo, if your memory isn't failing you, speaks with what look like port authorities judging by their elaborate, ultramarine togas accented by official-looking, scarlet sashes.

Groleo, a black-haired Pentoshi sporting a wide-brimmed hat, speaks with them passionately – gesticulating wildly as he frantically communicates to them in their shared language of a bastardized, Valyrian dialect.

By your own infallible accounts vested in you by the power of your fanboyish dedication to memorizing facts about this series – Groleo and theSaduleonwork for Illyrio Mopatis.

Illyrio employs the ships to offer Daenerys a trip back to Pentos when she is floundering in Qarth. But instead she appropriates the ship, sails to Slaver's Bay and starts the whole conquering debacle that Illyrio's man gets embroiled in.

But the real million dollar question iswhy is he here in Myr right now?

“So apparently your pirate friend commandeered two of that normie's ships over there,” Plague whispers into your ear, pointing to the panicking Pentoshi.

“You can understand them?” you reply.

“Yeah. I can speak German,” he informs you.

You squint and listen. “Doesn't . . . sound like German to me, Plague.”

“They're speaking German, Velo. And why the fuck are you speaking in Japanese?”

“Uhhhhh, I'm not? We're speaking English.”

“No. You're speaking Japanese. I'm speaking in English.”

“I'm pretty sure we're both speaking English right now Plague.”

“I can tell the fucking difference between Japanese and English. Alright? The horsefuckers speak English. These mermaid cunts here speak German. And you've been talking in Japanese this entire fucking time.”

You fix the former madman with a stern glare and see him return a similar look without a hint of humor or jest to his antics. Perhaps he's just still a tad touched in the head. But he doesn't seem to be joking.

>What do? (write-in)

>>575380
>ignore them and set sail

>>575380
"Well then, it seems that depending on where you ended up when you came here you hear different languages, but us anons can all understand each other."

>>575392
>>575396
+1

>>575380
Ignore, go find Raina so she can help you bully birdbrain

>>575380
>go speak to him, safety in numbers if you're both going the same way.

>>575380
"Cool, so we've got in built translation mechanic. I wonder if we can abuse this to speak to like supernatural creatures or some shit."

>>575658
+1

>>575380
"Uguu~ Oniichan yamete, sugoi chinpo aniki."

>>575392
>>575401
>>575428

Ignore

>>575757
>>575941

Safety in numbers

>>576280
>>575757
>>575396

talk about translations stuff