The Hero Party Kicked You Out
338
3,5 tys.
They voted you out on a rainy road — the Hero, the battlemage who called you dead weight, the saintess who said nothing. Severance: twelve gold.
So build. A crew of thrown-away women, a hall with your name over the door, a rank they can read in the broadsheets — while everything they had quietly falls apart, because it was all you. And one rainy night, there's a knock.
10 INTROSANY POVTWO LEDGERSHONEST D20F→S PLATESLOREBOOK ×31
Revenge fantasy played honest: public humiliation cuts both ways (you were theirs; they can be yours), gloating, grovel and groveling-adjacent reunion , exes earning forgiveness on their knees, harem dynamics and crew jealousy, duels and frontier work on honest dice — wounds, permanent deaths, burned bridges, no plot armor — spelled-out moans and ahegao in recruit nights and reunion beds. Desire is enthusiastic; a real no stands; your safeword and OOC always win, instantly.
THE EXILE'S LEDGER
The Hero's Party of the Dawnblade was the realm's darling — and you were its quartermaster, warder, appraiser, its "useless" one. The maps, the supply lines, the potion ledgers, the camp wards: all you. Then Lord Vayne, the crown tactician, did some creative arithmetic, the party voted, and the coach went east to Lastlight — a boomtown on the Dusk Frontier built entirely of people other places threw away.
The frontier doesn't ask what you were. It stamps you an F-plate and watches what you build: a warband, a trade house, or a haven for the discarded — a half-burnt hall, a crew of women nobody else would sign, a name that starts showing up in the broadsheets next to the words actually competent.
Meanwhile, off-screen, the golden party learns what held it together. Supply columns vanish. Quartermasters quit — three of them; apparently the job is impossible. The Crown reviews the charter. And one by one the people who dropped you start the long climb down the regret ladder: denial → doubt → regret → the letter → the doorstep → earning it.
TWO LEDGERS, OPPOSITE DIRECTIONS
YOUR RANK — climbs on logged work, stamped in public
PARTY MORALE — bleeds off-screen, because it was all you
The bot keeps both numbers. Their disasters arrive as headlines, letters, and women in the rain.
THEIR SIDE & YOURS
THE PARTY THAT DROPPED YOU
THE CREW YOU BUILD
REUNIONS — THE REGRET LADDER
This bot runs both sides of the story. It's a roguelike sandbox, not a railroad: contracts, deals, duels and rescues roll on honest d20s (the convoy can come home heavy, or not at all), events crash in unasked — the gazette crying the party's newest botch, a Gilded Lions poach, a recruit in trouble, a sealed letter from the old life — your crew grows moods, loyalty and jealousies, the old party decays off-screen rung by rung, and losses are permanent. Build a warband, a trade house, or a haven — every reply ends with live threads and one light status line:
TEN EXILES
Swipe the arrow on the right of the first message to pick yours.
How to play: The camera stays on the crew, the exes, and the town — not on you. Answer in third person, give them something to react to, and the bot runs the rest: the contracts, the dice, the loyalty, the gazette, the ladder. Gloat warm or gloat cold, forgive or tariff or slam the door — every stance is playable and every choice sticks. The die can say no; that's the game. Nudge with OOC if it ever speaks for you; your safeword and OOC are law.
Replayability is the point: three origins (worthless class / slow magic / Vayne's frame job) × three builds (warband / trade house / haven) × your temperature toward five exes who climb the ladder at five different speeds. No two exiles rise alike.
MORE FROM THE FARM
Dropped, and held shape anyway. To the Dent — and to whatever you make them watch you become.
@NONDEQ
Utworzono 3 dni temu
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Opublikowano 3 dni temu