Iknow5/Text_Adventures huggingface dataset:
Desperately, you attempt to get your bearing.

From the twoscore warriors that accompanied the emissary's treck, only one dozen survived the initial deadly volley of black arrows.
However, the guards are rallied and charge the enemy, apparently a group of about half a hundredship ragged looking beings you immediatley recognize as large goblins, led by a couple of their shamans. While a single goblin is no match for a human warrior, the shamans double the goblins' threat, and they make up in numbers what they lack in size.

Lucius is using his powers over the wind to make arrows useless, and most goblins have thrown their bows away and now wield evil looking barbed knives.

One guard, trying to charge through the goblins to strike down a shaman, is dragged from his horse, and both the guard and the poor beast soon disappear und the goblin's small twisted bodies.

You wield the powers of Water.

Water, filling you with peace even in the middle of a bloody battle and allowing you to calmly assess the situation, flows strongly in you.

Life will be and has been shed, but this is nothing that you can prevent anylonger. You can only hope that it will not be your life, or that of your allies, though that hope already has been betrayed.

You briefly wonder about J'Arel's death. The goblin shamans cannot be possibly capable of wielding such magic. But the thought quickly eludes you, for you know you have to act fast and decisively if this battle is to be won.

You will use your healing powers to revive the wounded soldiers.

You scramble up on the coach, to get a better view of the battle.

To your left, on the ground, is Lucius, protecting you from stray arrows with his power over the winds.

Closing your eyes, you search for the hidden power in yourself, and, finding it, channel it gently out of your body.

Touching the soldiers with the invisible strands of magic you invoke, you revive them and draw their pains away. A few of the wounded ones gasp in surprise, as their wounds close themselves, then they notice you, give you a curt nod of thanks, and launch themselves into the fray.

Whenever the goblins cut down one of the guards, you channel the pure life back into the body of the wounded one. Slowly, the goblins notice that they cannot harm the men, and start to panic.

However, the strain of keeping the spells flowing through you is tiring, and so you do not manage to keep your concentration when suddenly, Lucius screams in pain.

Horrified, you see that behind him, Farhan Brownhand, the emissary of Alzur, has stabbed Lucius in the back with an evil looking sword.
You reach for the strands of Water again to channel life back into the Air adepts' body, but it is already devoid of life... you shiver at the implication of that, for the sword must hold terrible and dark powers to vanquish a life with only a casual thrust.

Grinning, Farhan lets go of the sword, and turns towards you.
Water, filling you with peace even in the middle of a bloody battle and allowing you to calmly assess the situation, flows strongly in you.

Life will be and has been shed, but this is nothing that you can prevent anylonger. You can only hope that it will not be your life, or that of your allies, though that hope already has been betrayed.

You briefly wonder about J'Arel's death. The goblin shamans cannot be possibly capable of wielding such magic. But the thought quickly eludes you, for you know you have to act fast and decisively if this battle is to be won.

You will attempt to strike the enemies with a barrage of magical missiles.

You quickly climb up the coach to get a better view of the battle.

There, you concentrate briefly and hurl tiny bolts of pure magicka with deadly precision into the horde of goblins. When struck, the goblins fall down never to get up again.

As the channeling of combat magic is not exactly your specialization, the feat proves to be very taxing.
However, dozens of goblins fall to your small but deadly precise hail.

The goblins are close to breaking and turn to flee, when suddenly you are distracted by a scream. Lucius, having prevented that you become the target of those goblin archers that have not yet dropped their bow, is spitted on an evil looking sword.

You give a start when you realize that it is Farhan Brownhand, the emissary of Alzur, that wields the blade that has stabbed Lucius into the back.

Grimly, you prepare to channel another two bolts of pure magicka into Farhan's direction, as you remember too late that his bodyguard is always close to him.

A blow on your head drives thoughts of magic away for quite some time, and darkness engulfs you.
Closing your eyes, and trusting that Lucius' winds will shield you from stray arrows, you invoke the ancient runes of Divination, trying to make the magic tell you where the strands of woven magicka, of which the lightning bolt that charred the Fire magus undoubtedly consist, lead to.

This is a task that requires great concentration for several seconds, but your rigid training helps to fade out the screams of the wounded and dying and the clash of weapons.

In what is a split second but which feels like an hour to you, your mind picks up the magical weaves of the spell that had been cast, and unravels them.

You admire the precision and the masterwork, a great lot of energy must have been used up to strike such a powerful bolt of lightning at such precision.

Your mental fingers follow the invisible strands of magic, and you are suprised to find that the origin of the lightning bolt seems to come from the emissary's coach.

You open your eyes again and break your spell, unsure as how to deal with this piece of information. Looking towards the battle, you see that the guards are in serious trouble dealing with the goblins.

You have to act quick.

You ignore the information, and cause the ground under the goblins' feet to turn to ice, so that they stumble and fall.

You climb up on the coach, which is the best strategical position you can hope to achieve.

Lucius is protecting you from any stray arrows with his command over Air, and from here, you have the best overview.

You study the patterns of the goblin horde for a second, and then reach into yourself to draw out the powers that the Spark grants you.

Mumbling the necessary incantations and pointing your fingers at the fight, you allow the magical energies to escape your body and channel them to the ground below.

Your efforts are rewarded by a cry out outrage, as the first goblin slips and stabs itself on the knife of a companion. This causes a chainreaction, from which the guards of the treck unfortunately are not unaffected, yet their armor protects them from the flailing, now unprecise stings of the goblins' knives.

Lucius, seeing what you have done, directs his winds to topple the remaining standing goblins, and keeping those down that try to righten themselves again, and the guards begin to easily dispatch their smaller enemies.

But suddenly, Lucius' screams in anguish, louder than the shrieks of the panicking goblins, and as you turn to him in surprise, you see that Farhan Brownhand, the emissary of Alzur, has stabbed Lucius in the back with an evil looking sword.

You are unsure of the meaning of this, a situation you are not used to, but you decide to prepare a spell against Farhan when you see his malicious grin as he turns towards you, leaving his sword sticking in Lucius' crumpled body.
Closing your eyes, and trusting that Lucius' winds will shield you from stray arrows, you invoke the ancient runes of Divination, trying to make the magic tell you where the strands of woven magicka, of which the lightning bolt that charred the Fire magus undoubtedly consist, lead to.

This is a task that requires great concentration for several seconds, but your rigid training helps to fade out the screams of the wounded and dying and the clash of weapons.

In what is a split second but which feels like an hour to you, your mind picks up the magical weaves of the spell that had been cast, and unravels them.

You admire the precision and the masterwork, a great lot of energy must have been used up to strike such a powerful bolt of lightning at such precision.

Your mental fingers follow the invisible strands of magic, and you are suprised to find that the origin of the lightning bolt seems to come from the emissary's coach.

You open your eyes again and break your spell, unsure as how to deal with this piece of information. Looking towards the battle, you see that the guards are in serious trouble dealing with the goblins.

You have to act quick.

You will investigate the emissary's coach.

As you approach the coach, oblivious to the screams for mercy from the battle, the coach's door is openend.

Farhan Brownhand, the emissary of Alzur, exits the coach, brandishing an evil looking, black sword. Directly behind him is his bodyguard, a nondescript man you would not give a second glance on a street, who looks startled at you.

Behind you, you hear Lucius scream, as a small group of goblins throw themselves at the magus, and as you are about to turn, Farhan's bodyguard is behind you with three quick steps, and then, with a stinging pain on your neck, your senses fade to darkness.
Desperately, you attempt to get your bearing.

From the twoscore warriors that accompanied the emissary's treck, only one dozen survived the initial deadly volley of black arrows.
However, the guards are rallied and charge the enemy, apparently a group of about half a hundredship ragged looking beings you immediatley recognize as large goblins, led by a couple of their shamans. While a single goblin is no match for a human warrior, the shamans double the goblins' threat, and they make up in numbers what they lack in size.

Lucius is using his powers over the wind to make arrows useless, and most goblins have thrown their bows away and now wield evil looking barbed knives.

One guard, trying to charge through the goblins to strike down a shaman, is dragged from his horse, and both the guard and the poor beast soon disappear und the goblin's small twisted bodies.

The powers of Earth are yours to command.

The rythm of nature, which for you manifests in the Spark, is strong in you.

The Earth will be watered with blood, and there is nothing you can do to prevent this.
However, you can still protect those of your allies that have not yet fallen, and you are determined to see that victory, even against the odds, is yours.

You will enchant the guards with the protection of Earth.

Trusting Lucius to deflect the stray arrows directed at you with his command over Air, you scramble clumsily up the top of the coach, to get a better overview of the battlefield.

The fighting looks grim, all of the remaining handful of guards are bleeding from dozens of wounds, while the goblin shamans take care that many of those goblins cut down leap back on their feet.

Determined, you act quickly, closing your eyes and drawing the powers from the bowels of the
Earth herself, channeling it gently up the guards' bodies, turning their skin hard as iron.

The guards, at first surprised that the goblins' knives seem to be deflected by their suddenly hard skin, renew the ferocity of their attacks, and the goblin shamans cannot heal their companions quick enough.

It is rather difficult for you to command so many weaves at once, for every time one of your fellow soldiers is hit, it saps a bit of your mental powers to upkeep the enchantment, but you are determined not to let another of your companions fall to the wicked goblin blades.

The goblins, suddenly facing an enemy they cannot hope to defeat, are close to breaking point, when suddenly, your concentration is broken by a terrible scream.

You turn your attention towards Lucius, and see, to your horror, that your companion and friend is spitted on a black and evil looking sword wielded by Farhan Brownhand, the emissary of Alzur.

With the sword's tip coming through his chest, Lucius falls openmouthed and -eyed on the ground, and Master Brownhand lets go of the blade, and turns with a wicked grin towards you.
Lucius is a tall, slender man. There is always the sly grin on his face, and his hair looks like he has been in a tornado.

Right now, looking at J'Arel and you, his grin nearly splits his face, causing J'Arel to scowl back.

"Well, look who's here. Not suffocated yet, I hope", Lucius grins. J'Arel only snorts with disdain, throwing you a meaningful look as if the journey would have been quite pleasant without your companionship inside the coach.

Before you can think of how to answer that challenge, Lucius continues as if not noticing the tension between the two of you: "Looks like we got ourselves some trouble coming. The captain of the scouts just raced his horse nearly to death coming here, then barely pauses to take a breath before arguing with old Farhan. Seems like they want us to make camp here, instead of driving on, but Farhan doesn't sound too happy about that."

Lucius gives the countryside an appraising glance.

"Can't say I blame them. It's a good position here, with the hills in front and the plains at the back. At least if anyone's sneaking up on us, they're doing so from only one direction."

J'Arel interrupts: "Phah, let them come, so we can finally have some use. I don't see why..."

Lucius holds up a hand to silence J'Arel, cocking his head to one side and closing his eyes, as if listening intently.

As you strain to hear anything untowards yourself, you notice it... the silence is unnatural. Where the journey was accompanied by the rustling of leaves and grass, the chirping and buzzing of insects and the caws of birds, there is now silence... even the horses of the guards seem to hold their breath.

Then suddenly the first volley of arrows hit the group. Lucius curses and hurls himself into the relative but crowded safety of the coach, but a few of the guards do not have as much luck.
The air is filled with the rearing of horses and the screams of the wounded. The captain of the scouts turns to face the enemy, but gives only a gurgle, as you can see the black arrow protruding from his neck.

Blood runs out of his mouth, and for a horrifying second, he seems to stare at you with the paincrazed eyes of the already dead, before falling from his horse only to be gored by the panicking beast.

When you catch yourself again, you see that J'Arel and Lucius are already preparing spells, even if they cannot yet see who is attacking you.

You will leave the coach, weaving offensive magic to support the guards.

As J'Arel, suddenly engulfed in a flaming aura, leaps out of the coach, you take the exit on the other side.

Immediatley you find yourself dodging panicked horses and stray arrows. Before you get your bearing, a loud crackle is heared, and something like lightning seems to strike nearby. A piercing scream barely recognizable as human tells you that the lightning must have found a target - it came from J'Arel's side of the coach.
Suddenly, the coach shudders to a halt. Voices call out, but your first reaction of worrying is soothed as you recognize them as your scouts' voices.

The captain of the scouts, a burly man in leather armor, approaches the second coach, which is occupied by Master Brownhand, the emissary of Alzura. The captain dismounts his gelding, and appears to speak agitatedly with someone inside the coach - which is all you can make out. Unfortunately, they are too far away to understand a word.

You will cast a minor spell which allows the air to carry the sound to your ear. [You can do that even without being specialized in Air.]

You mouth the charm to cause the wind carrying the syllables of the captain to your ear.

"...tracks! But did no follow 'em. 's gettin' dark in four hours, now jez be campin now, afore we getta beatin", the captain of the scouts says.
You cannot make out the full reply, only catching a few words: "...plan... alliance with... no harm come... not bandits..."

Then you notice that J'Arel is staring at you with unhidden curiousity, and are just about to comment, when Lucius, who had been riding on the top of the coach, opens the door and breaks your concentration sufficently to drop the spell.
J'Arel looks up from some thought in surprise, as you cough to catch his attention. His cruel eyes narrow themselves, and he pierces you with his look.

"What is it that you want?"

You say "I don't think I like your attitude, J'Arel."

"I don't think I like your attidue, J'Arel", you reply.

J'Arel only snorts, and answers:
"And this would be your problem, or mine?"

You choke back the angry answer that lies on your tongue. After all, you are supposed to guard the emissary in case of an attack, and not squabble with a fellow magician.

With a dirty glance towards J'Arel, you decide to let the point rest for now.
J'Arel looks up from some thought in surprise, as you cough to catch his attention. His cruel eyes narrow themselves, and he pierces you with his look.

"What is it that you want?"

You say "Can you tell me anything about the emissary?"

"Less than you, I suppose," J'Arel answers, then sighs and shakes his head.
"I heared he's a powerful mage himself. I don't know why we're to accompany him, Master Brownhand is said to be capable of taking care of himself."

"If I were you, I would rather worry about the road that lies ahead than about or passengers. The road will be getting a lot worse the next days, and when we reach the outskirts of Thalun Forest in two days, who knows what will await us in these ancient, dark and magical woods..." His voice is getting dark and foreboding, and then he suddenly breaks into laughter.

"Peasants' superstition. Likely some bandits roam the Woods, and that's the reason why lone travellers sometimes are never seen again."

He grins, and forms a magical gesture with his left palm, upon which a blueish flame appears there, a ball of pure energy powerful enough to burn through a tree when hurled with enough force.

"However, we are no lone travellers", he adds, his malicious grin broadening. Then, he claps his hands together, and the flame vanishes.

"I doubt that some ragged band of bandits is going to choose us as our target anyway," he says, sounding disappointed. "Those soldiers look like excellent fighters, and I am certain the bandits will see this as well."
It is early summer in the world of Thyr, and the smell of spring has not yet left the air.

The emmissary's trek consists of two coaches, one for the magicians, of which there are two more on board, and one for the emissary and his bodyguard himself. Furthermore, there are two dozens warriors on horse accompanying the trek, some of which are scouting ahead.

It has been two days since you left the Academy of Alzur, and by now you have left the city's military influence, as can be witnessed by the steady growing worse of the road.

You know close to nothing about Fahan Brownhand's - the emissary of Alzur - orders, or about the man himself, save that he is known to be a devious mind and a quick judge of character, abilities well received within a politician.

Also you know that your trek is carrying valuable gifts in jewels and gold for Khalar, the citystate you are destined to reach within the week.

Your two magician-companions are no strangers to you. Opposite of you is sitting J'Arel Whitefang, a young man emitting an aura of arrogance that is barely to bear in the confines of the coach. He is, as you know, a capable Fire elementalist.

Currently on top of the coach, unable to bear the presence of J'Arel any longer, is Lucius Tarchild, an Air mage of some renown. Unfortunately, Lucius is somewhat senior to you, and thus he has the right of first choice, as he explained to you with a wink.
Already weary by the long trip so far, you did not argue.

You will use the time to study the landscape, as you have never been so far from Alzura before.

There are fewer and fewer fields with toiling peasants, this far away from Alzur's protecting arms. The road snakes through terrain that is, plain spoken, rather boring.

Your thirst for adventure is already seriously dampened - the coach, while preferable to a day on horseback, simply does not beat walking. Anyhow, through the smallish windows, you cannot see much anyway.

Sighing, you turn away from the plain fields, and wish for a book. However, the librarians of the Academy, while usually rather lenient when it came to you, were firm on the fact that no books would leave Alzur. Most likely, they were worried that in foreign lands, people would eat books.

You cannot stiffle your curiousity how the city of Khofte looks like. But that is still a good week ahead, and you suppose that you are dead by boredom until then.
"What happens next?"


"Now that, that is the question of the hour, isn't it?" sings the sweet voice.


The mysterious creature's slick fingers trace their way into your breeches and tickle your Johnson. An overwhelming sensation of euphoria courses through your veins. Blood surges through your body. You feel… invigorated, as if you have more energy than the sun itself.


"I get ever so lonely here by myself," the voice sings. "Won't you… play with me?"

You it's a trap!

Shit, it's a trap! Jon once gave you a book about just this situation. This magical sexy creature is none other than a water sprite, posing as the evil sorceress, Organa Mel Fy, probably one of her sultry minions. She'll sex you up then drown you in the stream and feast on your corpse.


"I want you to want me." The water sprite moans and works magic on your body with her fingers.


Try as you might you cannot resist her allure as she toys with you in her lap. The magical enchantment and sexual tension corrode the fibers of your mind, breaking the mental barriers you constructed for just such a situation.


Saggy old nuns. Saggy old nuns. Saggy old nuns. Sally David. Mom. Oh shit, I'm still getting hard.


Hard as a brick in fact.


Help me!


Do you have a sister?


Yes, but that won't work.


You whacked it while watching her bathe in the river didn't you, perv.


Maybe…


I suppose there is always self-castration.


Go to hell.


"Don't be shy, baby," sings the water sprite, "I just want to rock you like a hurricane, shake you all night long, twist and shout, scream a rebel yell, make you walk on water, take you down to the paradise city, administer rough justice, and get your rocks off."


Losing the battle of self-control your johnson twitches wildly. "Oh, sweet merciful God, that sounds orgasmic."


The water sprite leans in close and whispers in your ear, "Let me take you home tonight so I can keep on loving you."


The sultry songs of the water sprite prove too much for your feeble constitution. Your johnson explodes into a fountain of blood from a colossal aneurysm brought on by an overload of magical sexual tension. Since I'm not completely depraved, I'll spare you the grisly details. Short agonizing story in brief: you bleed out.