A town in the Borderlands - story time

In the kingdom of Midgard has come a new time - a time of change and new beginnings. Adventurers and pilgrims have set their sights to the north, where lies the great forest Ellathar, once - the dreaded land of elves where no human dared to trail. But as its ancient masters have abandoned it, the fearless fools have elected a new name for it - the Borderlands. A land of unclaimed riches and countless opportunities, calling for the strong, the brave and the daring to settle it and find a new life for themselves.
This is a story of unlikely heroes, who came to this new land from all corners of the world, each for their own reasons. But our story does not begin in Ellathar, but rather to the south of it.
In the infamous Spiderwoods.

Is this a sequel to the Heroes of Spiderwoods?

Well, Veeky Forums, it's writefaggotry time. This one will not be in the format of a greentext yet - I'll listen to the feedback and change things if necessary. Maybe greentext will be used some of the times, or I'll switch to it entirely - and rewrite the posted story to fit it.

Yes, I'm glad somebody remembers it. But it's an indirect one, with a different plot and characters. But if you want to see Fiona or Gunnar, don't worry, you'll get to meet familiar faces. Eventually.

Maybe, it all started when a man lying by a river started slowly drifting back into consciousness - and with his very first thought, he immediately regretted it. His head rang in pain, and no matter how hard he tried to stand up, he could not find enough strength in his aching body. It took him a few failed attempts to realize that he can’t win this struggle, but eventually he gave up and tried something that made him hurt less - thinking.
How did he even end up in the middle of nowhere, beaten and bruised? The more he thought about it, the more puzzled he became. He could not remember it - and neither he could remember who did such a number on him.
“Who…”
In a single moment, his confusion evaporated into nothing, as dread stepped in its place. Those woods being unfamiliar to him was the least of his worries, for he suddenly understood that he could not remember anything at all - not what came before, not whom to seek help from, and not even his hometown or name.
He laid there, weak and confused, as he stared into the blue sky above. “At least I’m alive” - he found the silver lining eventually. Resting and gathering his strength, he listened to the soothing sounds of the forest - while they could not help him up, at least the songs sung by forest birds could calm his chaotic thoughts.
He could not remember for how long did he lie there, before amidst the sounds of the forest he heard heavy footsteps. And then - a voice.
“Hey, you there! That’s no place to sleep at! Come on now, get up.”
He groaned, as he struggled to lift his head, so he could see his visitor - and in a few moments, he could. The stranger was a woman - an extremely short woman wearing a suit of chainmail. From her leather belt hung a hammer.
“A dwarf” - he realized after a moment of confusion. And then he wondered when he even remembered what a dwarf was.

As he tried to answer her, she already was sitting beside him, mumbling about how somebody ought to really hate him, to do such a number on him. He was about to agree, when suddenly he felt an unusual warmth and lightness in his body - disturbed by unusual sensation he suddenly lifted his back from the grass. He wasn’t sure what was the source of his sudden second wind, but his instincts told him to speak.
“Greetings, miss…”
When he realized what a huge mistake he has made, it was too late.
“Before you stands Hildegarde of Ostagur, daughter of Hakon of Osmuth, son of Hrolf of Osmuth, son of Hrafn of Laketown, son of Harald of Laketown! I am the adopted daughter of the great craftsman Folki of the Stormforge clan, son of Fannar of Ostagur, son of Flemming of Ostagur, son of Freyr of Ostagur, son of Folki of Laketown!”
The man only managed to smile and nod in response, barely understanding a word from this tirade. The dwarf seemed to introduce herself as Hilda or something of sorts, and seemingly expected him to introduce himself in turn - something he couldn’t do. Which he immediately confessed.
It seemed that the dwarf was in trusting and helpful mood, so she took her time, sitting beside him and answering his questions. Sadly, she did not have the slighest idea of who he is, but she could tell him about the place he was at - the edge of a dangerous forest called the Spiderwoods. It was a long road until any settlement - so whoever has beaten him so badly, they must have really hated him, carrying him all this way, and really lazy, not even trying to bury him alive or at least tie him up.
The more she talked about kingdoms and duchies, forests and villages, the more he realized just how little all those names mean to him. She must have noticed it at some point, because eventually she just stopped, and advised him to think of getting somewhere safe first, and remembering things later.
That would be a great advice, if he even knew where to go.

He could barely make a step in his sorry state, nevermind make it out of the forest on his own - something he immediately pointed out. Beaten, alone, defenseless and without as much as provisions, forget a map, he would likely perish in these woods, and she was the only one who could help him now. He would be a burden, he admitted, but he would also try and be as much of help as possible - even though he wasn’t sure himself what exactly could he do.
Hilda gave it some thought. Trusting a complete stranger, especially the one making outrageous claims about having no memory, was a gamble - but eventually, she agreed. There was a camp nearby - and she would take him there. No true dwarf would leave a man for the beasts to find.

In the following couple of hours, he learned everything about the dwarf and her journey there was to know. She was moving to the place called the Borderlands, to live with her family. A free, if barely settled, land for the free people - a fitting place for great minds such as her father's. Hakon Hrolfsson soon became the second person amnesiac knew far better than himself, whether he wanted it or not.
It was a while until Hilda stopped yapping about her distinguished family, but it was only so she could move the conversation onto topic of his person. At least this time, he got an opportunity to speak. Many questions were asked, such as…
“You really don’t remember anything, or just making it up?”
“Are you remembering anything yet?”
“You think you know which country you came from?”
“You have anything on you?”
“Have you thought of a name yet?”

Maybe I'm an odd fish, but I'd really like to read about the regions, what they are like, how they got their names, what lives there. I'd like to understand that before getting into the plight of some guy. Sure, you put a parenthetical blurb about those places in the dialog, but that's not enough for me. I want those things first. Ignore me if I'm the only one who feels that way, but after all, the pic is an unfamiliar map and I don't know what to do with it.

A few of those were valid points - on the road to the camp, he already found a scabbard with silver dagger hanging from his neck together with a necklace - those seemed to be his belongings. Now, near the campfire, he could give them a closer look. After a few minutes of fiddling, the necklace turned out to be a locket hiding a portait of a young woman with red hair - a token of his past, no doubt. Yet no matter how much he looked at it, trying to recall who that woman was, he could not. The only thing he felt looking at it was growing sadness - and he could not understand, if it was because a part of him could remember her, or because it could not.
His blues were quickly scattered by his new companion, who declared that she can’t look at a man in such a sorry state no more - and she has to give him some medical attention, being an able healer. Her assurances did not sound true at all, and her salves smelled disgusting, but he was in no state or mood to refuse. Grumbling something quietly, Hilda lifted his shirt and began her work.
Frankly, he could not believe how quickly he got better - it must have been that the fouler the medicine, the better it works, since only in a few moments he could sense warmth and lightness spreading across all of his body. He felt like he ought to stand up and dance from how good his suddenly felt - but firm hands kept him in his place. She has found something.
Apparently, on his back there was a strange mark - a distinctive silhouette of a hound, and a number - 1605. Once again, this has told him absolutely nothing - but according to the dwarf, it was somehow hugely important. How and why - she would not tell.

Your wish is my command, user.

In a few minutes, she has also proclaimed that she’s tired of calling him “Hey, you”, and having a name is greatly important anyway. And since he has none, she will give it to him. For what seemed like hours, young man desperately resisted and struggled against becoming Hakon, Asbjorn, Sigurd, Gudrun, Rurik, Dorri and many other names, each sounding more dwarvish than the last one.
Yet in the end, one of the names she spouted suddenly struck him as fitting. “Einhild”. That one sounded right. Maybe, he should be Einhild after all, if only to avoid becoming Dorri.

Their journey to the Borderlands was long and boring. They sticked to the safe routes and only travelled during the day, so newly named Einhild did not even get to see any of the great dangers of the Spiderwoods. To pass time, amnesiac did his best to learn - partly because the world around him still did not make any sense, and partly because if he didn't answer questions every minute, Hilda would spend this time telling him an "exciting" tale about her ancestors - something Einhild soon learned to dread.

Men divide the continent into two different parts, as she told him, the North and the South.
The North consisted of three kingdoms, Midgard, Dulast and Reichland. There were others - Aleroth, Palanor and the Kingdom of the North, but they have been lost to the Great Dark since the Silver Age, and it was ill to speak of them.
The land they were at right now, as well as the Borderlands, were part of the Midgard Kingdom, founded by refugees from the east. It is a land of many dukes, each ruling over their part of the country - some of them good, some bad. Midgard may be the land of many dukes, but only one faith - almost all northmen worship the Sovereign One, but especially so here.
To the east, there lied - Dulast. It was an old kingdom, far older than the others, and it’s a land of hardy and proud people. They were a lot akin to dwarves - slowly, their land is being taken by the Great Dark, but men do not retreat, but fight back - and have been doing so for the last five hundred years.
To the south lies Reichland - the land where they did not like inhumans, at all. It’s not ruled by a king, but by a kaiser, and people there even have their own tongue despite refugees from the East too.

There was no kingdoms in the South, only an empire. It is a strange land, where live slant-eyed people who have no faith in gods, not even the Sovereign, and where rule the dreaded Black Mages - monstrous and immortal sorcerers, whose names are so infamous, Hilda dares not speak them.

There is also a dwarven kingdom nearby, which consists of Ostagur and Fergie's Gift. Those are not ancient cities, but rather they are new - much like Midgard. But unlike the northmen, dwarves have lost their old cities to the Darkness Below, not the eastern dark, and it has happened thousands of years ago.

High elves have mostly left Ellathar, and their wickedness is no longer a cause for concern.

>They don't like inhumans
>In a place called Reichland
H-m-m-m

This is a bit fast for me. Could you talk a bit about the name and history of the Spiderwoods?

And although Einhild and his dwarven friend no doubt had a part in what happened in the Borderlands, the story might have actually started differently. With a hunt.
It happened north of Hobbitton, three hours after midnight. Vorgel has been tracking down this witch for two days straight. The accusations were serious, but testimonies - conflicting, which made finding her much harder. The sheriff offered Vorgel an entire band of warriors riding the settlement’s best hunting dogs, but the hunter had to refuse this gracious offer. He has hunted a much more dangerous threat before. A suspected witch was nothing to him compared to foul monstrosities of the Black Forest, or the restless elven spirits of the Spiderwoods.
Instead, he tracked her on his own, right to the hole she was hiding at - right in the middle of the forest. Not a dark, worm-ridden hole, of the kind where beasts dwell in, but a small, yet comfortable halfling-hole - complete with a round wooder door.
Appearances can be deceiving, thought Vorgel to himself. This one did not house a merry and jolly creature, who knows its proper place, but a dangerous witch, and by all accounts - a willing servant of the dark powers. All manners of wicked creatures lived in Ellathar, from werewolves to the "high" elves, and he was not about to spare this particular one just because it's short.

Grabbing his hound by the collar and commanding it to be silent, the young man approached the door. Stopping, he listened in - judging by the noise, she was inside, and she was alone. Perfect. The silver chain of Saint Berg was ready on his belt just in case of dirty tricks, but the witch hunter was confident that he would not need it - and his grenades seemed like an overkill, Vorgel was prepared to face her with just the hound and his hammer, and confident in his chances.
He would do this one by the book. Raising his clenched fist, he gave the wooden door a few loud knocks. At first, there was nothing but silence, but then he heard a quiet and cautious: “Who’s there?”.
The innocent have nothing to fear from the witch hunters. This one was right to be afraid.

“I inform you that you have been accused of witchcraft! By the witness of Shnoggy Longfoot, it was you who killed his goat, it was you whom Ormik Widestep saw poisoning the well, and it’s being said that you stole the baby from the Birgen family, and if those heinous acts weren’t enough, you’re also being accused of many other sacrilegious deeds! Now I command you to open the door, or I swear by the Sovereign One, I will smash it down!”
His tone, his words, the smell of incense left no room for doubt. She knew that a witch hunter has visited her home.
“What, again? I mean... You won’t take me alive!”
And she chose to respond unwisely.

After a single powerful kick, the door gave in, and the witch hunter rushed inside, releasing the hound into the witch’s lair. Grasping the hammer, he quickly followed. After the dust settled down, he looked around the tiny lair the witch has holed up in, but he could not find a single trace of her - not at first. But foul trickery could not save her for long. An inquisitive gaze and a holy litany were enough to pierce the illusory wall she was hiding behind. By defending herself with magic, the sorceress has admitted her guilt - somehow, Vorgel doubted her having the staff or the sign of the Red Mages.
His prey seemed to realize it - so her hands moved, trying to conjure up a spell. Even if Vorgel could not easily shrug off the paralysis, his loyal hound was about to make short work of the sorceress.
The halfling was getting increasingly desperate, and it was showing. To defend herself, she had to break her wand and turn his hound into a rat. It seems that it was the end to her tricks and magic, because she immediately turned her tail and cowardly ran outside, through the thorny shrubs - as if she could outrun a dedicated pursuer.

Mayhaps, it could all go much different, if the witch would just be reasonable and surrender to a questioning. Mayhaps, she could even be innocent of poisoning that well - or stealing the child. Either way, one thing became clear the moment the witch hunter ran outside - at the very least, she didn’t slaughter the goat.
Vorgel saw the shadow in the sky too late, but he could not be blamed.
Griffins don’t usually hunt in the dark.

Those are some pretty straight rivers.

Spiderwoods weren't always called that. Once they used to be a part of the Ellathar before men landed on the continent, and elves still had a great city there even when humans have largely conquered the area.
It all changed in the Age of Fear - the very same age when dwarves started losing their famous cities one by one, until their kingdom was wiped out. A great darkness has suddenly engulfed the elven forests, and it's spirits went mad. By the time the age was over, Spiderwoods were forever cursed, and the city was lost.
Some attribute it to Sevillin, the She-Spider. This goddess has hated elves since the times she was a mortal woman.

Others know better.

At a later time, somewhere in Ellathar, a young half-orc has just realized that he wandered into the wrong part of the forest. It were the griffin hunting grounds - he could tell it by the smell alone. He also knew that a recent hunt was succesful, since very close, he could also smell spilled blood. Staying there was dangerous, but against his better judgement, young Hestan followed the scent - if the griffin left, he could scavenge what’s left after its meal.
Very soon he reached a glade and immediately spotted the source. A griffin lied dead in a pool of it’s own blood, and with it - many more bodies. Two elves - elegantly dressed, and a human in rags, covered in tribal tattoos. A “savage”, he thought, like me.
The elves were here with a purpose, it seemed like - they spent a lot of time near a fallen tree, and tree he soon found to be hollow, but not empty. Inside, the elves stashed their weapons - a sword and a spear, masterfully made, if he was to judge himself. Pity they didn’t have them ready, because they would need them.
The attackers couldn’t have chosen a better time. Elves were distracted by a griffin first, then - by a strange, heavy thing it was carrying in it’s talons. Suddenly, they were attacked and slaughtered.
Afterwards, the savages have hastily left. Carrying something heavy. The griffin’s prize, must be - the one thing he could not see anywhere nearby.
“Curiouser and curiouser.” - he thought, as he followed their trail. If it was worth picking a fight with elves, it was worth a lot.

And very soon, he found the killers. In the shadow an ancient oak tree there stood seven men, three against three, and a man in the dark cloak above them all. There they were. Bickering. Loudly.
“The Blacksnouts came second!” - shouted one of them, covered in red tattoos, as he hit his chest. At his feet, Hestan could see a man’s body, still breathing. - “So we’re ought to honor the Mistbringer first.”
“This is an outrage!” - protested another one, this one covered in black ones. - “We’ve found the prey wielding the metal of the Enemy. Our sacrifice is worth more!”
And near him, there indeed lied the second man - this one was wearing a strange, funny hat, and on his belt shined something silver.
“You could also sacrifice them both at the same time.” - mumbled a robed shaman in the middle of feuding groups, but no one even bothered listening to him.
As the half-orc listened to them from the bushes, puzzled as to what to do, he suddenly heard a quiet sneeze from behind a shrub nearby. Frowning, he quietly poked the green with the scabbard of his sword. Hearing another noise, Hestan quietly whispered to his unknown neighbour, asking him to be quiet - whoever he were, and then immediately assured him that he was not one of the pagans himself.
Looking out of his hiding place, an incredibly ugly, beardless old dwarf agreed, with a smile, that half-orc probably has nothing to do with it - but what is he going to do, then?
Hestan didn’t think much about the answer - of course, he needed to stop this ritual. He should distract them - and then slay them all.

As the Blacks and the Reds continued arguing, the half-orc and the ugly old little man continiued plotting.
That may be a very good plan, the little man agreed, but how will Hestan slay at least, for example, three of them? Hestan quickly admitted that he didn’t think that far - but quickly, he came up with another, even more cunning strategy. Perhaps, he should wait until the conflict of the savages start fighting - and then he’ll jump out and kill them all, the blighter included.
“I suppose.” - the little man smiled. - “But they won’t fight as long as the druid’s there to keep them calm. And not while one of their spirits is watching them.”
“The druid?” - Hestan wondered. So, not a blighter...
Not a blighter, the little man admitted, no - but they will still feed two people to a tree, if nothing is done.

And that would be bad.
“Don’t have much love for Men, but the Huntmaster’s pack is much worse. And that Mistbringer - he’s not such a great fellow himself. Sits in his damn library, and doesn’t let anyone in. I wanted to do it first, by the way!”
“The Huntmaster? The Mistbringer?” - Hestan never heard those names - but they didn’t seem like a good bunch. As the little man explained quickly, they were gods - alien to him, thus unfamiliar. And they were indeed… Oh come on, really?! That’s disgusting!
As the half-orc turned his head and glared back at the oak, he quickly understood the reason of the man’s annoyance. Life and death meant so little to this bunch, that they have settled to deciding their argument by pulling straws.

Time to make decisions was quickly running out. It became especially clear after one of the prisoners - the one in the comical hat - managed to wake up and shout a few threats, before one of the savages grabbed his head and smashed it into the ground so hard, Hestan could feel it himself. As the half-orc struggled with choices, suddenly the little man called out to him again:
“Hey. Those weapons of yours, are they elven by chance?” - when the young ranger quietly nodded, his helper smiled drily. - “Then they are good enough. How fast can you run?”
Well, Hestan stumbled, “I could probably kill one of them with a spear, before escaping and…”
“Not them, the tree. The felucien. Throw your spear at it, and then run as fast as you can. Don’t question it, just do it. It will work.”
By the time the little man was halfway through with talking, the half-orc has already clenched the shaft of a spear in his fingers, raised his arm and then, after flying in a small arc, his weapon pierced the ancient oak.


And then, the ground quaked. The tree screamed in pain, and it’s screams could be heard in the entire forest, if not beyond. The savages covered their ears in agony, as the druid yelled in panic: “WHO DARES?”.
In a moment, more than a dozen of bloodshot eyes stared at Hestan. Without even thinking, the half-orc turned his back on them and ran.

The spirits of the forest themselves must have helped him escape - because there was no other way to explain the speed with which he ran. The blood stopped pounding in his head only long after - when the screeching of the furious man-crow died down, and when no more howling could be heard behind him. The accursed dwarf may have told him to run, but he neglected to mention that he was about to anger a pack of beastmen.
They were a vengeful folk, he knew. He could not stay here any more, not after what has done. But where was he supposed to go?

The plot thickens!

Kiam Donnely wasn’t quite sure how he even ended up in this mess, and his headache didn’t make remembering it any easier. There was ale involved - he was quite sure of it - and then he walked somewhere in the night, and then… And then, somebody may have hit him on the head with a club - or it may have been just the pain speaking.
He also wasn’t quite sure how he was talked into carrying a man’s body through the forest - in circumstances like this, he would normally think about saving himself first, but that dwarf was strangely persuasive, and seemed to know what he was talking about. He even roughly explained what was about to happen if not for some unexpected - but probably dead - hero, and helpfully pointed a direction for him to go in too. At least there was this bright spot - when Kiam first saw him looking from above, he expected him to spout riddles.
It was almost unbelievable, how calmly he reacted to being kidnapped and almost fed to a magic tree. Normally, such things didn’t happen in city life he was used to. But it seems that his life has taken a turn. For the worse. If it weren’t for that accursed will, he still would have been in Estredor, drinking and playing cards, not hiding from the werewolves with a grown man on his shoulders.

A really odd man. Kiam heard that the North was dangerous, so he came prepared - but with his dagger and a sword, he was nothing like this walking armory. Across his back, there hung a two-handed maul, on his belt - an axe and a huge silver chain. Suddenly, Kiam wondered if he should just ditch this entire arsenal - his burden would certainly become lighter, should he do it. Could just say it got lost.
And there was this smell too. Most peasantry in this part of the world reeked like dirt and death. Donnely himself could smell a slight hint of alchohol from his own clothing. But his silent companion? He scented of incense. Interesting guy.

Cursing and grinding his teeth, but Donnely managed to walk through the woods unmolested - if one's to forget the failed sacrifice attempt, and he even managed to drag his companion all the way with him, all the while nobly and selflessly resisting the temptetation to ditch him, his gear or both. Whoever this incense-smelling man is, he'll owe him one.
Soon, however, Kiam’s nose caught a much more intriguing scent than some burning plant. The smell of campfire and a boiling soup was just ahead, and there was no way he was not about to miss it - not after everything he's been through.
"I bet it's the werewolves." - he thought to himself. - "Or an ogre - maybe even a few, would just be my rotten luck."

Strangely, those were not werewolves after all, and they really didn't all that much like ogres either. Two men and a dwarf woman have taken a refuge in the ruins of a watermill - he could easily see them from afar, as they were clearly lit by a bright flame on which they seemed to be cooking something absolutely delicious. They were armed, but seemed like neither bandits, nor soldiers. Dwarven women served in no army in the known world, for starters. Finally, just as Kiam settled on an oddly small mercenary group, the smell of the rabbit stew has finally grown irresistible.

Before he could even move, however, he was distracted by somebody else doing exactly the same. A large brute of a half-orc has suddenly emerged from the bushes close by and headed to the camp. From his shouting, Kiam could understand that his name was Hestan, and he allegedly did not wish any harm to the travelers - unless they were werewolves. This oddly specific comment caused one of the men to laugh, and the dwarf signed him to come closer. Good, Donnely thought, seems like they are in the mood to talk.
With that in mind, he stepped forward and strolled towards the camp. As all the faces turned from the half-orc to him, he could clearly hear the dwarf moan “What, another one?!”.

Hearing Hildegarde introduce herself for the third time was painful.
What was it, with all those people randomly joining them? There were now six people in the camp. A few more days - and they'll have a small army. Kicking them back out in the dead of night, however, would be simply cruel - and together with Thomas, they managed to convince Hilda to ignore just how unlikely of a coincidence would it take to bring them all together, and just let strangers stay until the dawn.

And what a group of strangers too.
Hestan - a half-orc, telling tall tales about living in the forest for his entire life, shunning humans and talking to animals. With a strange grudge against werewolves too.
And Donnely - that one just felt out of place, with his clean clothes, his smile and the promise to pay for the stay, as he just visited the worst guesthouse of Midgard.
And there was also his friend, an oddly dressed mystery with no name. This one made Hilda especially wary.

And then there was Thomas. The quiet one. He arrived two days earlier and randomly found two of them in the middle of the wilderness. After barely even introducing himself, he asked to join their little group in it's journey. And of all people, that’s the one Hildegarde trusted unconditionally.
Einhild lost his memories, not his mind. The way they met was strange. The way his guide trusted him was stranger, and the amount of times he spotted them talking about something, only to quiet down as he approached, was downright insulting.

As Hilda tended to the comatose man and grumbled about having to share her beloved rabbit stew, Einhild glanced at her and then at her companion, sitting there as quiet as ever, listening to the half-orc rant about forest creatures.
"Could he be a spy", he wondered? He was certainly talkative enough to be one.
Then again, he had no real reasons to care beyond common curiosity. Whatever secrets those two may share, Einhild had his own problems to deal with.

Einhild went to sleep reasonably expecting that when he wakes up, their guests will be gone - but to his surprise, his guide did not kick them out of the camp as of yet. He didn't even have to ask why, the dwarf started complaining to him the moment he opened his eyes. The coincidences just kept on happening, she said to him, and this one was truly one in a thousand. The unlikeliest.

As he learned a long time ago, Hilda was moving to the north, to live with her family, in a small village somewhere in the Borderlands. But only in the morning it was found out that the genteel, sharply dressed man - Kiam, as he remembered - had some business with a man who lived there, so he was travelling towards Ellathar as well. Hestan, the half-orc, has suddenly decided that the forest he lived his entire life in has become unsafe and “too crowded”, so he made a surprising decision to join the civilized folk in an even more crowded village. Einhild himself did not really care where to go, as long as he reached some sort of a town, while Thomas seemed not to care where to go at all.
The only man who didn’t express a desire to move towards the new land was a man out cold, but he had no real choice in the matter.

"Well", Einhild thought to himself, looking at the faces of his new companions and doing his best to remember them. - "Borderlands it is, then."

Doesn't feel like we have too many readers this time around, but it's fine. The format probably scared a lot of people off.

We're finished for now, and I'm open to feedback and questions. If this thread is still alive by the time I wake up, I'll probably continue the story. If not, I'll rewrite it as a proper greentext and post in some time later.

I liked it.

I want more!

Okay, a different approach is needed. To those interested, this story will return in a format of a much lighter and easier to read greentext, but later.