Oz

The hike up the stairs was long. There was a point at which, whether Oz looked up or down, he couldn’t discern where the stairs began or ended. Strangely enough, throughout their ascent, Oz didn’t feel the air begin to thin or get colder. Much the opposite. It filled his lungs more fully, and he began to feel a warm embrace he couldn’t quite describe. It wasn’t heat like the sort radiating from a roaring fireplace, or beaming down upon someone in the suns rays. This was like the warmth that came from within, magnified to an almost uncomfortable temperature. It settled right beneath that point,

While there was admittedly some apprehension attached to having to deal with a hungover god, Oz couldn’t say that he wouldn’t be able to relate to the guy. It was an ailment he was all too familiar with, and if the god had a personality he could discern, he’d likely be able to navigate the situation with some semblance of grace. All that being said, he was now a bit beyond the point where he gave a shit about the gods groveling or not. Any amusement he’d felt regarding the situation had now dissipated, and now all he wanted was to get this shit over with and get on with his life. Probably go t

“Well guess you better get used to being unhappy, then. People ‘round here have jobs to do. Mine is finding your name on the clipboard and escorting you up the stairs to the gods who requested you. I can’t do that as long as you’re sitting around judging how I do my job and demanding stupid shit like eye contact. Can’t find your name in the list if I’m not looking at the list, can I?” As much as Oz hated everything the little freak had to say, he couldn’t rightly say any of it was incorrect. Instead of replying, he chose to remain silent and try his best to be patient instead. Perhaps if

“Everyone who comes here is invited by the gods. I’ve got another two dozen of you assholes to deal with yet today,” the satyr replied, eyes still unmoving from that clipboard of his as he scanned the list of names. It would be a bit of a lie to assert Oz hadn’t had the wind taken out of his sails with a remark like that. Still, he’d find some way to put this goatish brute in his place. “Calling me an asshole with a demeanor like that?” Oz countered. “You haven’t even looked at me yet.” To this, the satyr closed his eyes and sighed, placing his pen down upon the clipboard and looking

He had no business fighting monsters. Through what he could only assume was Hera’s handiwork, he’d be able to make the ascent all the way to Olympus. It seemed, however, that before he would be able to make his way there, he had an attendant to deal with. “State your name and purpose for visit,” the unsightly satyr demanded as Oz approached the steps, not even bothering to so much as look up and make eye contact. It wasn’t exactly that Oz was the sort to demand recognition or respect - he hardly ever doled it out himself, and knew that he wasn’t the most impressive specimen. Still, there

Not a good start if the result Oz was looking forward to was a demonstration of the gods’ feeble powerlessness. Still, he was appreciative that there wouldn’t be any fighting in store for him in this quest, or so he assumed. Despite whatever desires he’d had previously for engaging in combat in Aincrad, they were all but snuffed out when he’d come into contact with the Titanium Warden. That thing had shown him just how hopelessly outclassed he was by the creatures of this world, and he dared not venture against them again. He’d need a body guard or some other means of of destroying whatev

Perhaps they already knew of his blasphemous amusement with their seemingly helpless weakness, and would smite him where he stood the moment they made first contact. These were all risks Oz was willing to take. He’d been wrong about many hunches, but this didn’t feel like one of them. The longer it stuck in his mind, the more it made sense. This was one he wanted to see through. His trek through the seventeenth floor was largely uneventful. A buff had been applied to him the moment he reached the floor, something called ‘Blessing of Olympus.’ It seemed the gods had granted him some sort o

The more Oz thought about it, the more amusing it became. They probably wanted him because he could do something that they couldn’t. And that just tickled him pink. So, eventually, he accepted the quest. This was something he desired to see with his own two eyes. Something that could only amuse him to a certain extent, in his mind’s eye. He wanted to see if he could make one of these mighty beings grovel, beg him for some enchanted brew to cure their discomforts or fill them with the strength to rival the very humans they looked down upon. There was a chance that Oz had been wrong about i

They witnessed as the Players created their very own custom foods and brews, hosting feasts which empowered them to best monsters the gods themselves quaked in fear before. Things the gods new better than to even attempt to trifle with. And then, they started to realize that humans could likely start to ameliorate their own discomforts with their wondrous new inventions. Perhaps it was true all along that the gods recognized the humans as the new gods on the block. The ones who could do the things they themselves knew they couldn’t. Create things the gods couldn’t fathom. Best beasts the

No thank you. It was the Players who made the real moves in this world. The ones inducing change in an otherwise static plane of morose existence. They were the ones who felled the bosses. They were the ones who actually made things. They were the ones who, despite it all, had the most god-like powers in Aincrad. Oz hardly counted himself among them - the lowest form of deity, if we were calling humans gods now - but still recognized that he had the ability to “make.” And the longer this realization took root in his mind, the more he came to understand what the request from the “gods” rea

So he let the thing sit there in his inbox. Collecting dust. He hadn’t even opened it, so as to not send the gods a read receipt. How would they handle being summarily ignored by someone like him? Imagine providing a comfortable life for one of your pets, only to have it snub you at the first opportunity. Though, why would they desire the love and admiration of their subjects, anyway? If they were so beneath them. It was one of the things that never made sense to Oz, when it came to any mythology. He didn’t give a fuck if the ants loved him, why would the gods give a shit if humans loved them?

It had been a while since Oz had received a message from, supposedly, none other than Zeus himself. Oz was always skeptical of bold claims such as these because, in all honesty, they were almost certainly always spam. Why would the leading god of the Greek pantheon deign to give Oz, of all people, audience within their court. Didn’t they have better things to do than waste their time on washed up has-beens who were only mediocre at best with their craft? It wasn’t until he’d had some time to dig into the rumors a bit that he discovered the mail wasn’t just for show. Surely automated

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CRAFTING ATTEMPTS 1-16. (08/30/2024)

It wasn't lost on Oz that he was acting as little more than a gluttonous buffoon, swinging out toward Demian's roving stall on a regular basis at this point just to get a taste of the youth's (surprisingly good) food. While not high on flavor, they made up for what they lacked through their bewitching subtlety. He could eat ten of the same dessert and still not feel overwhelmed by the cumulative flavor. Being a guy who loved desserts, how could he resist that? "Need some more of these," he announced, sending some col Demian's way. "Been brewing up some things of my own lately, and th

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CRAFTING ATTEMPTS 1-16. (08/29/2024)

Just like that, the battle was over. Ol' Lunky burst into a miasma of pixels and panels populated before the two men, herlading the success of their endeavor against the quest as well as the rewards gleaned. Among them, Oz spotted the Essence of Titanium, the very boss drop he'd promised he'd hand over to Pinball as payment for his protection through the labyrinth. Truthfully, it did cross Oz's mind to pretend as though he'd never made the agreement in the first place, or otherwise simply not mention it and see if the youth forgot. But if he was already worried the kid might kill him at the sl

Oz took long, dramatic strides into the battlefield toward Morningstar, grumbling to himself as he leaned over and picked his striped hat out of the sand. Luckily, when the creature had decided to dive back into the earth, Oz’s headgear had remained miraculously affixed to its gleaming chompers. Now dead, scattered into a mosaic of fractal shards, the hat was freed. He beat the ragged fabric against his hip, sending plumes of sandy smoke every which way. “My hat’s just fine!” he announced, loudly. “Thank you very much!” It was like these people had no respect for the common decency o

Just as Oz had suspected, the Warden moved in for the kill. Luckily, it seemed Pinball had opted to serve as an impromptu meat shield, absorbing the burnt of a blow that sent him sailing back toward the edge of the battlefield. Instinctively, Oz searched for the boy’s health bar in his HUD, but found it absent. Eyes widened as, for a moment, he assumed the worst. But just as soon as he’d reached the hasty realization, he remember the duo had never actually gotten themselves organized into a proper party. Grey orbs darted back and connected with Pinball’s unmoving frame as it lay prone on the g

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CRAFTING ATTEMPTS 8-14. (08/28/2024)

Name: THE HOLY FUCKING GRAIL Your Profession: Alchemist Your Rank: 4 ID: 228717 Roll: CD12 Item Type: Potion Tier: 1 Quality: Perfect Enhancements: Crafter's Respite Description: Tastes like whiskey. Makes the consumer forget they already did their crafting for the day. Post Link: https://www.sao-rpg.com/topic/40759-f13-r4-alchemist-the-sour-rumor-wip/?do=findComment&comment=685569

CRAFTING ATTEMPTS 1-7. (08/28/2024)

This guy was the real deal. In a flash, Pinball had closed the distance, placing himself between Oz and his untimely death and tearing into the beast’s impenetrable hide with another flurry of blades like molten shrapnel through a wet paper bag. All at once, the battleplate upon its chest contorted into a twisted concave, molten ooze seeping from the newly formed cracks and dripping to the ground where it sizzled on contact. The deafening crack from the impact could have led one to surmise that the very fabric of reality itself had shattered. By comparison, the Warden’s armor was no match