N/A
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
1 day ago
H E L V E T E
“Me? One of the hated man-things? Perish the thought, perish the thought! I am one with the Wood, and the Forest is I!”
Character Name
Helvete Solon The Wise, of Brightwood
Age
Fifty One
Gender
Male
Archetype
Druid Priest
Moral Conflict
As caretaker of the Wood, one of the Druid's duties is to protect nature from those who would do it harm. Helvete, lost in his zeal to defend what mattered the most to him, committed heinous acts against his fellow man- the same people who, ironically, belong to the natural world he's meant to safeguard. In the twisted logic of his mind, men are but parasites. Entities of hate who cannot appreciate the world the gods built, only tearing it apart to fuel their endless wars and bloody conflicts. He sealed himself within the root walls and twisted bark of his homeland, slaying all who so much as entered it, in some horrific crusade to cleanse the natural world of what he saw as leeches and vagabonds.
Physical Description
Before his soul passed on and his remains tossed in a ditch to rot, Helvete covered himself in parts of the Forest. A deer's skull was shaped into a rough mask to hide his hideous man-flesh, antlers protruding from his head. A coat of leaves, vines and thickets made him look larger and more menacing to those who trespassed in his home, serving the duel purpose of keeping him warm in the winter.
But all that has become one with the earth once more. All that remains of Helvete's old attire are the tattered clothes he had fashioned from animal hides and linens. Upon his chest is a tightly woven and heavily worn out shirt of Linothorax- armor of cloth, some metal and animal fat. Beneath it lie less protective robes, colored in a mix mash of dark greens and browns, so that he might blend in with his surroundings.
Physically, Helvete is...odd. Once upon a time, he was young and strong. Of strapping muscles and leather-like skin, the Druid survived in a harsh environment with few luxuries provided to him. However, age has weathered his physical might and prowess. His arms and legs have lost a great deal of their original strength, and the old man grows winder more easily than he would like. There's also an awful knot in his back that he just can't seem to knock out. Long, unruly hair of blond is deafened by time's ever shifting sands, gray and white overtaking first his beard and slowly creeping up toward his head.
Full red cheeks are complimented well by the lines and creases brought along by his age. Eyes of deep emerald,
once so bright and hopeful, darkened significantly in the days before his death. Most odd of his look, as strange as it is, are the Druid's ears. They are extended, scarred and pointy, lacking the roundness one might expect. A cruel ritual of magic, meant to stave off the beginning signs of deafness, as well as to further distance himself from his human roots.
How Helvete died is not a mystery to him, or any who look upon him. Scars that could come only from the piercing of a spear cover the area over his heart. Parts of his body are burned, too. Spots of scarred, burned flesh cover his arms, legs, torso and neck. Whatever happened to the priest was a violent affair that he didn't wish to dwell on. It was all on the past, after all! He had a world to save. No time to dwell, no time at all.
But all that has become one with the earth once more. All that remains of Helvete's old attire are the tattered clothes he had fashioned from animal hides and linens. Upon his chest is a tightly woven and heavily worn out shirt of Linothorax- armor of cloth, some metal and animal fat. Beneath it lie less protective robes, colored in a mix mash of dark greens and browns, so that he might blend in with his surroundings.
Physically, Helvete is...odd. Once upon a time, he was young and strong. Of strapping muscles and leather-like skin, the Druid survived in a harsh environment with few luxuries provided to him. However, age has weathered his physical might and prowess. His arms and legs have lost a great deal of their original strength, and the old man grows winder more easily than he would like. There's also an awful knot in his back that he just can't seem to knock out. Long, unruly hair of blond is deafened by time's ever shifting sands, gray and white overtaking first his beard and slowly creeping up toward his head.
Full red cheeks are complimented well by the lines and creases brought along by his age. Eyes of deep emerald,
once so bright and hopeful, darkened significantly in the days before his death. Most odd of his look, as strange as it is, are the Druid's ears. They are extended, scarred and pointy, lacking the roundness one might expect. A cruel ritual of magic, meant to stave off the beginning signs of deafness, as well as to further distance himself from his human roots.
How Helvete died is not a mystery to him, or any who look upon him. Scars that could come only from the piercing of a spear cover the area over his heart. Parts of his body are burned, too. Spots of scarred, burned flesh cover his arms, legs, torso and neck. Whatever happened to the priest was a violent affair that he didn't wish to dwell on. It was all on the past, after all! He had a world to save. No time to dwell, no time at all.
Personality Traits
The man that rose up from the grave exists in a strange state of halfness. In part he is like he was when he passed from this world: strange in his speech patterns, prone to muttering to himself to hear the sound of someone's voice, and insistent that he is not, in fact, a man. Rather, Helvete believes himself a spirit of the Wood. A wisp of the Forest given form. It's the only explanation for how he hears the trees whisper to him, after all; even if he doesn't understand a lick of what those damned things are saying.
Yet in part, Helvete is also like his old self. Before he fell from grace, his heart consumed by hatred and contempt for the very flesh that hung to his own bones. He holds within his chest the same heart of bright joy and love, particularly for nature, but also for his fellow man. Prone to share nuggets of wisdom he'd learned from the Forest, and ever ready to help any in need. A song exists upon his lips, and he's quick to try and make friends. Though eloquence is lost on him, Helvete loves to speak. To others, to the trees and animals, and to himself- anyone who will listen to him prattle on about whatever topic it is that has captivated his fractured mind.
When presented with the darkest humanity has to offer, that bag of resurrected bones always feels an odd...pressure in his chest. He cannot explain it. Like a knife has been plunged into his heart and set alight. It brings forth feelings that he doesn't enjoy to feel. Cruel, twisted rage is near alien to the old druid, yet he feels it burning in his heart more often than he would like. Solon is afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, and what it might mean if his memories ever return to him.
Yet in part, Helvete is also like his old self. Before he fell from grace, his heart consumed by hatred and contempt for the very flesh that hung to his own bones. He holds within his chest the same heart of bright joy and love, particularly for nature, but also for his fellow man. Prone to share nuggets of wisdom he'd learned from the Forest, and ever ready to help any in need. A song exists upon his lips, and he's quick to try and make friends. Though eloquence is lost on him, Helvete loves to speak. To others, to the trees and animals, and to himself- anyone who will listen to him prattle on about whatever topic it is that has captivated his fractured mind.
When presented with the darkest humanity has to offer, that bag of resurrected bones always feels an odd...pressure in his chest. He cannot explain it. Like a knife has been plunged into his heart and set alight. It brings forth feelings that he doesn't enjoy to feel. Cruel, twisted rage is near alien to the old druid, yet he feels it burning in his heart more often than he would like. Solon is afraid of it. Afraid of what it means, and what it might mean if his memories ever return to him.
Attributes
"Nature is the great provider!"
"Suck on this frog."
"Ugly goblin-creep, have at you!"
A man that has lived in the woods all his life knows more of berries, weeds and deer than he does practically anything else. While Helvete Solon remembers not the name of individual plants, he can tell you from instinct alone what is edible and what should never be put anywhere near the mouth. He knows a monster's den from that of easy prey, and animal tracks are as discernible as text to his old eyes.
"Suck on this frog."
One of the primary needs men had of the druid when he still served them was that of a medicine man. While nothing like those stick up pricks in big cities who could heal wounds with a flourish of the hand and a little magic, Helvete had methods that were...sort of...just as effective! He knew how to cure a cold, treat a fever and the best way to suck poison from a wound. While no master at potion crafting, Helvete knows a few remedies to help quicken the natural healing process.
"Ugly goblin-creep, have at you!"
Though older and more ragged than most of his part, Helvete is not entirely defenseless without his magic. His lessons have been forgotten, the Druid Priest knows his way around a quarterstaff through muscle memory alone. He can beat, bash and twirl with a stick better than your average woodsman. In a fight, Solon much prefers to stand behind men with a little more stamina and strength. However, if something manages to get past them and to him? The druid has it in him to fight back, even if he can't keep it up for very long.
Inventory & Equipment
"This is my stick. His name is Oakheart."
"Who uses potion bottles to carry birdseed? Well, me, I guess."
"So unfortunate. I wish I knew what it said.."
A seven foot long staff made of Oak, crafted with an expertise that suggested it was an item of some importance. Even the sands of time have done little to unravel it, magic working to preserve it against all odds. There appears to be some fire damage, though the integrity of it's structure isn't compromised too badly by it. At the head of the staff lies a glowing gemstone, it's surface cracked and it's light dimmed, existing as a likely source of power for the Druid. Without the staff in hand, he is unable to focus his magic, so it is assumed the crystal has something to do with it.
"Who uses potion bottles to carry birdseed? Well, me, I guess."
A leather satchel with several holes in it's aging surface was found about the Druid's shoulder when he 'awoke' from the endless sleep. Based on the size of the bag and it's contents, it appears that he'd lost most of what he was carrying in it. However, there did remain a pair of specially crafted bottles within, their surfaces scratched up and ugly, but unbroken. They contained birdseed when Helvete first found them, but he believes they'd be quite useful for holding medicine.
"So unfortunate. I wish I knew what it said.."
An amulet lay about the neck of the old man, it's chain rusted and it's once beautiful surface made ugly by time. The silver necklace once held a runic inscription upon it, though the words had been scratched off, leaving it a mystery to the druid. A weak magical energy can be felt radiating off of it, though it's far too weak to be of any use. Perhaps once upon a time it was an artifact of some importance; now, though, it was little more than a hunk of metal.
Gift of Rebirth
"A living statue. No moving, no seeing...what a terrible thing."
The gods, cruel as they are, seek to keep their resurrected warriors safe. When and why it happens, the druid knows not. But at intervals, Helvete finds himself growing horribly cold. Frozen to the touch, even. But a moment later his flesh transforms into granite, shifting in a terrifying and painful fashion. His ability to move is stolen from him, as well his his senses, though he is still 'aware' of himself. The forest wizard is nigh impervious when he's a 'statue,' though the drawbacks make it...less than an enjoyable experience for the man.
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
1 day ago
"I'd rather ya toss me into the ocean with nothin' but a piece of driftwood to cling to than make me live in a fookin' cave. I hate caves."
✶ P R O F I L E
BIRTHNAME:
Gashin Kazor
OTHER NAMES:
Captain, Gash, Sea Hound
AGE:
34
GENDER:
Male
RACE:
Half Human, half Dwarf
BIRTHPLACE:
Ryth, Amorynthia
RELIGION:
Worships Zorion, God of Freedom and Will
Gashin Kazor
OTHER NAMES:
Captain, Gash, Sea Hound
AGE:
34
GENDER:
Male
RACE:
Half Human, half Dwarf
BIRTHPLACE:
Ryth, Amorynthia
RELIGION:
Worships Zorion, God of Freedom and Will
✶ P H Y S I C A L I T Y
HEIGHT:
4'11 ft
WEIGHT:
123 lbs
APPEARANCE:
Captain Gashin Kazor is a short man, as one might expect. His stature is nearly a foot higher than the average dwarf, though several inches shorter than most men. Gash's origins are clear to anyone who give him a cursory glance. From his brawny, short form to his scraggly facial hair, to his strong accent and even stronger desire for pipeweed and alcohol, Kazor screams dwarf. Yet another look might cause the mind to doubt, for he's too tall to be a dwarf, his beard is horribly short and- strangest of all- he wears the badge of the Amorynthian Navy upon his breast.
Apart from his heritage, the captain's appearance is markedly similar to that of most men of his occupation. Gash's flesh is tanned and leathery from years spent out under the beating sun on the deck of his ship. On his head, the captain wears golden bandanna and a black tricorn hat. On his feet, a pair of dusty old boots. And on his hip, the sheathe for his reliable cutlass. A white, low cut shirt, a golden vest adorned with runes of ages past and a sash of crimson tie together the sailor's attire.
Several scars from boarding hatchet and cutlass adorn his arms and chest; the gnarliest of which rests right over his heart. His hands, calloused and worn by the sea, have several cuts across their dark surface.
Tattoos, too, mar his flesh alongside those wounds of old. A sea serpent coils about his left arm from wrist to shoulder. An anchor, with a mermaid hanging from it's hook, sits in the center of his broad chest. Most important to him, however, are the letters lined upon each finger. Put together they read the name of Kazor's vessel: Saint Leona.
SKILLS, STRENGTHS & TALENTS:
Captain Gashin Kazor, of the Royal Navy's Saint Leona, is a sailor without equal. None commands the high seas with the same tenacity, skill, or vigor of the half dwarf captain. He particularly specializes in Caravels, such as the Saint leona herself, preferring speed and maneuverability to size and bulk. Gashin is a pirate hunter. He chases down the rogues and bandits of the sea with ruthless efficiency, carving out a safe haven for Amorynthia's merchant fleets. Anyone who dares to fly the black flag knows the name Gashin Kazor, and of his damnable vessel, and fears him; those that wish to survive more than a fortnight on his ocean, anyway.
Though ship to ship combat is where Kazor is best known, the Sea Hound of Valdez excels in all aspects of sailing. He can guide a vessel through the sharpest rocks and the narrowest of paths, barely scraping by areas that any other captain would say was impassible. When Gashin must travel across the open ocean in long, drawn out voyages to far away lands, he can reliably guide the Saint Leona using the stars. Kazor rarely gets lost anymore, his knowledge of the heavens allowing him to get his bearings without the need for maps or landmarks.
A sailor first, and a navigator second, Captain Gashin is far from completely helpless when not manning his ship. While he's no master swordsman who dedicated his life to learning the ways of the blade, Kazor wields a cutlass well enough to skewer most who dare lift up a weapon against him in a duel. His training as a marine of the Royal Navy allows him to stand toe to toe against most foes he could expect to face. Alongside his curved blade, Gashin typically carries a boarding axe as a secondary weapon. It works well in tandem with a sword, and as a last resort if his primary armament was damaged or lost. Other weapons Kazor has some experience with are pikes, throwing axes and clubs.
Learned skills and talents are not all that Kazor has at his disposal. The blood of the dwarves runs through his veins, offering him a sturdy form and strapping muscles. He's naturally stronger than the average man, making the half dwarf a frightening wrestler in hand to hand. Alongside his dwarvish heritage, Gash is partially human. This gives him the advantage of height, reach, and agility over a full blooded dwarf.
WEAKNESSES & DRAWBACKS:
The Sea Hound of Amorynthia is at his best on the deck of a ship. His ship, specifically. Taking him from that and putting him down in another place takes Gashin out of his comfort zone. Ships larger or smaller than the Saint Leona are alien to him; Kazor can count the number of times he's had to captain another ship for any extended amount of time on one hand. This is not to say he'd be useless, far from it. But a lack of familiarity with his vessel makes the captain less effective in the whole. Other environments- such as forests, deserts and caves- are similarly out of Gashin's area of expertise.
Physically, Kazor's blood is as much a disadvantage as it is an advantage to him. While Gashin might be stronger than a man, he's almost always weaker than a dwarf. He may be more agile than a dwarf, but Gashin's slower than a human. His half breed status means that the captain lacks the all-in strength of either race, while still possessing the weaknesses of each.
Being a half breed is more a curse than a gift in the eyes of society as a whole. Men look down on him for his Dwarvish heritage, throwing him in the same class as the disenfranchised race of stocky slaves and craftsmen. His peers in the Navy view Kazor as a stain on their prestigious institution. More than one concerted effort has been made to force Gashin into an early retirement, though the half dwarf has never given in to the pressure of his fellow soldiers. He has few friends in Amorynthia, but even fewer among the Dwarves. Acting as an agent of the king responsible for the Dwarven Exploitation marks Gashin as a traitor to his own people.
4'11 ft
WEIGHT:
123 lbs
APPEARANCE:
Captain Gashin Kazor is a short man, as one might expect. His stature is nearly a foot higher than the average dwarf, though several inches shorter than most men. Gash's origins are clear to anyone who give him a cursory glance. From his brawny, short form to his scraggly facial hair, to his strong accent and even stronger desire for pipeweed and alcohol, Kazor screams dwarf. Yet another look might cause the mind to doubt, for he's too tall to be a dwarf, his beard is horribly short and- strangest of all- he wears the badge of the Amorynthian Navy upon his breast.
Apart from his heritage, the captain's appearance is markedly similar to that of most men of his occupation. Gash's flesh is tanned and leathery from years spent out under the beating sun on the deck of his ship. On his head, the captain wears golden bandanna and a black tricorn hat. On his feet, a pair of dusty old boots. And on his hip, the sheathe for his reliable cutlass. A white, low cut shirt, a golden vest adorned with runes of ages past and a sash of crimson tie together the sailor's attire.
Several scars from boarding hatchet and cutlass adorn his arms and chest; the gnarliest of which rests right over his heart. His hands, calloused and worn by the sea, have several cuts across their dark surface.
Tattoos, too, mar his flesh alongside those wounds of old. A sea serpent coils about his left arm from wrist to shoulder. An anchor, with a mermaid hanging from it's hook, sits in the center of his broad chest. Most important to him, however, are the letters lined upon each finger. Put together they read the name of Kazor's vessel: Saint Leona.
SKILLS, STRENGTHS & TALENTS:
Captain Gashin Kazor, of the Royal Navy's Saint Leona, is a sailor without equal. None commands the high seas with the same tenacity, skill, or vigor of the half dwarf captain. He particularly specializes in Caravels, such as the Saint leona herself, preferring speed and maneuverability to size and bulk. Gashin is a pirate hunter. He chases down the rogues and bandits of the sea with ruthless efficiency, carving out a safe haven for Amorynthia's merchant fleets. Anyone who dares to fly the black flag knows the name Gashin Kazor, and of his damnable vessel, and fears him; those that wish to survive more than a fortnight on his ocean, anyway.
Though ship to ship combat is where Kazor is best known, the Sea Hound of Valdez excels in all aspects of sailing. He can guide a vessel through the sharpest rocks and the narrowest of paths, barely scraping by areas that any other captain would say was impassible. When Gashin must travel across the open ocean in long, drawn out voyages to far away lands, he can reliably guide the Saint Leona using the stars. Kazor rarely gets lost anymore, his knowledge of the heavens allowing him to get his bearings without the need for maps or landmarks.
A sailor first, and a navigator second, Captain Gashin is far from completely helpless when not manning his ship. While he's no master swordsman who dedicated his life to learning the ways of the blade, Kazor wields a cutlass well enough to skewer most who dare lift up a weapon against him in a duel. His training as a marine of the Royal Navy allows him to stand toe to toe against most foes he could expect to face. Alongside his curved blade, Gashin typically carries a boarding axe as a secondary weapon. It works well in tandem with a sword, and as a last resort if his primary armament was damaged or lost. Other weapons Kazor has some experience with are pikes, throwing axes and clubs.
Learned skills and talents are not all that Kazor has at his disposal. The blood of the dwarves runs through his veins, offering him a sturdy form and strapping muscles. He's naturally stronger than the average man, making the half dwarf a frightening wrestler in hand to hand. Alongside his dwarvish heritage, Gash is partially human. This gives him the advantage of height, reach, and agility over a full blooded dwarf.
WEAKNESSES & DRAWBACKS:
The Sea Hound of Amorynthia is at his best on the deck of a ship. His ship, specifically. Taking him from that and putting him down in another place takes Gashin out of his comfort zone. Ships larger or smaller than the Saint Leona are alien to him; Kazor can count the number of times he's had to captain another ship for any extended amount of time on one hand. This is not to say he'd be useless, far from it. But a lack of familiarity with his vessel makes the captain less effective in the whole. Other environments- such as forests, deserts and caves- are similarly out of Gashin's area of expertise.
Physically, Kazor's blood is as much a disadvantage as it is an advantage to him. While Gashin might be stronger than a man, he's almost always weaker than a dwarf. He may be more agile than a dwarf, but Gashin's slower than a human. His half breed status means that the captain lacks the all-in strength of either race, while still possessing the weaknesses of each.
Being a half breed is more a curse than a gift in the eyes of society as a whole. Men look down on him for his Dwarvish heritage, throwing him in the same class as the disenfranchised race of stocky slaves and craftsmen. His peers in the Navy view Kazor as a stain on their prestigious institution. More than one concerted effort has been made to force Gashin into an early retirement, though the half dwarf has never given in to the pressure of his fellow soldiers. He has few friends in Amorynthia, but even fewer among the Dwarves. Acting as an agent of the king responsible for the Dwarven Exploitation marks Gashin as a traitor to his own people.
✶ B E L O N G I N G S
ATTIRE:
The attire donned by the Sea Hound is an unmodified uniform of the Royal Navy, marking Gashin as an officer in service of the Crown. A white waistcoat and a puffed shirt of the same color, accented by golden stripes and facings, protected the captain's chest from the rough conditions of the sea. Trousers matching Kazor's long jacket in color and material keeps his lower half warm and himself decent. More lavish is the long jacket that Gashin wears over everything else. Buttons of gold and dark blue linen mark it as a high quality product, though years at sea have sullied it's appearance significantly. Epaulettes, medals, and tassels can be added to the coat for ceremonial purposes, though Kazor's idea of a party involves more grog and fiddles than the a ballroom dance in the capital. The most treasured of his uniform is the old tricorn hat and bandana he wears on his head.
WEAPONS:
Wielded by sailors of all classes, ranks, races and creeds, the cutlass is as synonymous with the men of the sea as their ships. Gashin's cutlass is twenty nine inches long and a little under a pound in weight. A basket hilt embroidered with gold protects the captain's hand. The blade was forged with tempered steel by the venerable smiths of the Amorynthian military, and enchanted to be sturdier and sharper for longer. Named after a young maiden that Gashin courted in his youth, Betsy is a fearsome sword to cross indeed.
Alongside the mighty Betsy is a far less exciting boarding axe. Unenchanted though usually well crafted, Kazor has gone through more than a dozen over his career as a sailor. He has a habit of losing or breaking them, so Gashin likes to carry several on him at once. On occasion, if the situation calls for it, Gashin can use his axe as a ranged weapon.
TOOLS:
Any number of navigation tools are carried in Gashin's pack. A sextant, spyglass, a pocket watch, maps and various charting tools, and Kazor's trusty compass are all kept on his person when he travels anywhere. A short working knife, rope, bandages, rations, a lighter, and a bedroll were included in his equipment when he set off on the king's expedition.
PERSONAL ITEMS:
Golden earrings and a single iron band marked with the symbol of the king are all the jewelry worn by Captain Gash. One of the only personal items Kazor keeps with him is a worn copy of A Kraken's Tale; an old novel about a captain obsessed with killing a sea monster that destroyed his first ship. Gashin has read the book more times than he can count, though he never tires of the narrative and likes to come back to it whenever he has nothing else to do.
The attire donned by the Sea Hound is an unmodified uniform of the Royal Navy, marking Gashin as an officer in service of the Crown. A white waistcoat and a puffed shirt of the same color, accented by golden stripes and facings, protected the captain's chest from the rough conditions of the sea. Trousers matching Kazor's long jacket in color and material keeps his lower half warm and himself decent. More lavish is the long jacket that Gashin wears over everything else. Buttons of gold and dark blue linen mark it as a high quality product, though years at sea have sullied it's appearance significantly. Epaulettes, medals, and tassels can be added to the coat for ceremonial purposes, though Kazor's idea of a party involves more grog and fiddles than the a ballroom dance in the capital. The most treasured of his uniform is the old tricorn hat and bandana he wears on his head.
WEAPONS:
Wielded by sailors of all classes, ranks, races and creeds, the cutlass is as synonymous with the men of the sea as their ships. Gashin's cutlass is twenty nine inches long and a little under a pound in weight. A basket hilt embroidered with gold protects the captain's hand. The blade was forged with tempered steel by the venerable smiths of the Amorynthian military, and enchanted to be sturdier and sharper for longer. Named after a young maiden that Gashin courted in his youth, Betsy is a fearsome sword to cross indeed.
Alongside the mighty Betsy is a far less exciting boarding axe. Unenchanted though usually well crafted, Kazor has gone through more than a dozen over his career as a sailor. He has a habit of losing or breaking them, so Gashin likes to carry several on him at once. On occasion, if the situation calls for it, Gashin can use his axe as a ranged weapon.
TOOLS:
Any number of navigation tools are carried in Gashin's pack. A sextant, spyglass, a pocket watch, maps and various charting tools, and Kazor's trusty compass are all kept on his person when he travels anywhere. A short working knife, rope, bandages, rations, a lighter, and a bedroll were included in his equipment when he set off on the king's expedition.
PERSONAL ITEMS:
Golden earrings and a single iron band marked with the symbol of the king are all the jewelry worn by Captain Gash. One of the only personal items Kazor keeps with him is a worn copy of A Kraken's Tale; an old novel about a captain obsessed with killing a sea monster that destroyed his first ship. Gashin has read the book more times than he can count, though he never tires of the narrative and likes to come back to it whenever he has nothing else to do.
✶ H I S T O R Y
Use this space to tell us your character's story so far, from birth to the present day. Write to your best standard, as this section will also be used to assess the quality of your work. This section should also show us what your character's personality is like, and how they became that way.
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
1 day ago
For the briefest interval of time, tensions reached a crescendo. Two of the blindly faithful Guardsmen did indeed lift up rifles, though they chose to turn them upon their saviors. A man of gaunt features and of unshakable loyalty to a broken system led the mutiny, 'demanding' of the Major evidence to prove himself a speaker of truth. His insanity was backed up by the woman who deigned to call all who lifted a las-gun traitors. It was preposterous, in the eyes of Steiner, for these two to choose to side with the Inquisition. They hadn't a clue what was actually going on, only the barest knowledge possible;- all of which was provided by the men they called traitors.
"For the love of-" The medical officer grunted. He didn't raise his gun up in defense of the Major. For all of his prattle, Franklin didn't have a real dog in this fight. None of this political bullshit mattered. Not when there was a firefight going on just outside that room. He couldn't care less about shadow organizations, secret wars or whatever the hell else had sparked this whole thing. All he wanted to do was stay alive. Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp for these guardsman? Steiner swore some of them must've had a death wish, the way they went around flashing firearms at everyone that helped them out of a tight spot.
Thankfully for Doc's sanity, Bohman wasn't going to stand there and let two troopers way out of their depth get themselves killed for the men that tortured them. He revealed the nature of the enemy they fought against. These were not normal Tempestus Scions of the Inquisition, but...mutants. Heretics, touched by the cursed magic of the Ruinous Powers, and deformed by their damnable existence. Chaos, as Frank had originally surmised, was actually responsible for what was going on. "I called it. If we're keeping score." He muttered under his breath, no matter how inappropriate a comment it might be in the moment.
If that wasn't enough for the grunts, the Major also produced an item of incredible value. A talisman, bearing the icon of the Ultramarine Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, apparently given to the leader of the Shadow Order by the Primarch himself. Steiner held back a sarcastic whistle. It was a fancy little trinket. Really, it was. And if Bohman had really received it from Guilliman, than his path was certainly the 'righteous one.' As righteous as the Imperium could be. However. If the gaunt, robot-of-a-man and his babyfaced partner in crime refused to acknowledge that the Inquisitional Stormtrooper with a horrifically mutated face was sufficient evidence against their 'theory' that Bohman was a traitor, Steiner very much doubted that a necklace would do much to help Bohman's case. Though, on further thought, icons and items were important in the mind of the loyal guardsman; all it took was the symbol of the Inquisition to turn them against their rescuers, after all.
Thankfully, though, it was enough. Both decided to lower their weapons, joining the Shadow Order on their righteous crusade to purge that voidship of it's ruinous infection. Steiner let the tension in his muscles visibly relax. A firefight in this tiny room would end in several bodies falling. Steiner didn't want to be among them. "Thank the throne."
Next came the hard part: actually clearing the remainder of the ship. Stormtroopers, those infested by Chaos especially, were a bitch to kill. Their armor was stubbornly hard to cut through with a standard las-gun, unless one managed to land a clean shot. To make matters worse, all of the guardsmen of the glorious Imperium were practically naked. All they had were some cloth to cover their naughty bits. Steiner could shrug off the draft, his body hardened to the freezing temperatures of his icy homeworld. But a las-bolt or two to the chest was a little harder to ignore.
What was most difficult to look past, though, were the grunts of pain coming from the lady officer that was planning to shoot him a couple of seconds prior. 'Ah, Emperor above.' Steiner moved toward the door, purposefully keeping at least one body in front of him to absorb the first round of las-bolts. He shifted his harsh gaze over toward the loyal guardswoman. "Ay, pup," Frank called to get her attention. "You fallin' apart on us? If yer hurt, I can give it a look. I'm a medic." He informed her and, by extension, the rest of the company, of his skill set. "Sergeant Steiner. Been a real pleasure gettin' to know ya." She was going to shoot him in the back. It was all but guaranteed.
"For the love of-" The medical officer grunted. He didn't raise his gun up in defense of the Major. For all of his prattle, Franklin didn't have a real dog in this fight. None of this political bullshit mattered. Not when there was a firefight going on just outside that room. He couldn't care less about shadow organizations, secret wars or whatever the hell else had sparked this whole thing. All he wanted to do was stay alive. Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp for these guardsman? Steiner swore some of them must've had a death wish, the way they went around flashing firearms at everyone that helped them out of a tight spot.
Thankfully for Doc's sanity, Bohman wasn't going to stand there and let two troopers way out of their depth get themselves killed for the men that tortured them. He revealed the nature of the enemy they fought against. These were not normal Tempestus Scions of the Inquisition, but...mutants. Heretics, touched by the cursed magic of the Ruinous Powers, and deformed by their damnable existence. Chaos, as Frank had originally surmised, was actually responsible for what was going on. "I called it. If we're keeping score." He muttered under his breath, no matter how inappropriate a comment it might be in the moment.
If that wasn't enough for the grunts, the Major also produced an item of incredible value. A talisman, bearing the icon of the Ultramarine Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes, apparently given to the leader of the Shadow Order by the Primarch himself. Steiner held back a sarcastic whistle. It was a fancy little trinket. Really, it was. And if Bohman had really received it from Guilliman, than his path was certainly the 'righteous one.' As righteous as the Imperium could be. However. If the gaunt, robot-of-a-man and his babyfaced partner in crime refused to acknowledge that the Inquisitional Stormtrooper with a horrifically mutated face was sufficient evidence against their 'theory' that Bohman was a traitor, Steiner very much doubted that a necklace would do much to help Bohman's case. Though, on further thought, icons and items were important in the mind of the loyal guardsman; all it took was the symbol of the Inquisition to turn them against their rescuers, after all.
Thankfully, though, it was enough. Both decided to lower their weapons, joining the Shadow Order on their righteous crusade to purge that voidship of it's ruinous infection. Steiner let the tension in his muscles visibly relax. A firefight in this tiny room would end in several bodies falling. Steiner didn't want to be among them. "Thank the throne."
Next came the hard part: actually clearing the remainder of the ship. Stormtroopers, those infested by Chaos especially, were a bitch to kill. Their armor was stubbornly hard to cut through with a standard las-gun, unless one managed to land a clean shot. To make matters worse, all of the guardsmen of the glorious Imperium were practically naked. All they had were some cloth to cover their naughty bits. Steiner could shrug off the draft, his body hardened to the freezing temperatures of his icy homeworld. But a las-bolt or two to the chest was a little harder to ignore.
What was most difficult to look past, though, were the grunts of pain coming from the lady officer that was planning to shoot him a couple of seconds prior. 'Ah, Emperor above.' Steiner moved toward the door, purposefully keeping at least one body in front of him to absorb the first round of las-bolts. He shifted his harsh gaze over toward the loyal guardswoman. "Ay, pup," Frank called to get her attention. "You fallin' apart on us? If yer hurt, I can give it a look. I'm a medic." He informed her and, by extension, the rest of the company, of his skill set. "Sergeant Steiner. Been a real pleasure gettin' to know ya." She was going to shoot him in the back. It was all but guaranteed.
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G R A V E S
Tension laced Graves's form. His every digital muscle was taut with stress and anxiety. Ready to strike out the instant another monster deigned to show it's ugly mug. Tight, cramped corridors, with his back all but pressed against the party member behind him, wreaked havoc on his fortitude. Blood still dripped from the head of his halberd's ax from the last scout that Graves had managed to catch. Others fell to the chains of Tessa, or the arrows of their ranger- several, though, were too quick for any to catch. The monsters were watching them. It was the only explanation for it. Since when were monsters programmed to perform reconnaissance? They knew exactly where their party was. An ambush could've been waiting around the corner. Or maybe it'd just come right from underneath them.
This...this didn't feel like a game anymore. Not with their lives hanging on the tip of a needle. Not with the creatures of the dungeon acting the way they were. Graves was a wreck. His heart was racing a thousand miles a minute. Everywhere he looked, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. The relative silence of their march made things all the worse. Graves found himself glancing backward to check on everyone else- making sure they were alright, and that they were still with him. At the very least, the Blood Knight could say he was lucky that he had others around to make him feel secure when the warning came from the devs. He didn't want to imagine what it'd be like to be in this kind of situation alone. Knowing his usual playstyle, it was a miracle that hadn't happened to him.
Thankfully the labyrinth of tunnels ended, at least for a short while, as they came upon a cavernous room. A ceiling so high that sunlight could be seen peeking through the grates at the top. Far...far out of reach. Chains hung from above like vines, thick and metallic. And there were odd channels dug into the floor around the room, where a thick, sapphire liquid flowed. What was most apparent between the heavy pillars and chains, though, were the three doors, one that led in each direction.
Graves tore his gaze away from the tiny speckles of sunlight that leaked down into the darkness, his eyes shifting over toward the first of the crew to really speak up in the last twenty minutes. Tif had her humor about her, somehow. Graves hadn't the heart to draw up a smile, his lips still twisted down into an uncomfortable frown. "Well, we're not splitting up, so nobody even fuckin' suggest it." There was no way Graves was letting any of these idiots out of his sight. The second they took a few steps away from him, they'd end up dead; and really, Graves didn't want to have to live with that on his conscience.
The more he looked around, the more uneasy the tank felt. This room had the looks of a boss room. And though this dungeon shared little in common with other games, or even the rest of Pariah, Graves couldn't shake the feeling that they were going to be dealing with an attack imminently. It kept his grip on his polearm tight, and head on a swivel. He didn't really care what direction they decided to take. They were going to end up backtracking anyway, more than likely; so it wasn't too important. "Everybody holdin' up okay?"
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One shot. One kill. That was my motto as a hunter. As a collector of prized pelts, from the red nosed reindeer to the ever elusive horned kangaroo. I never missed, never in my life, it was always a fatal shot. The lungs, the kidneys, a leg, if I wanted to bleed it out. If I intended to eat the prey, I would put it down painlessly. The meat was tender, filled with the ripe juices of the prey, rather than being tense and filled with the chemical cocktail that the prey's brain unleashed when under attack. That was supposed to be the case with this animal, a simple job, a reward for its skin and a warm meal in my belly. Fuck, how long has it been since I've had anything so delicious? Weeks, I thought to myself, possibly longer. I had survived in the savanna off of scraps, calorie bars and even the dung of an elephant - not my proudest moment. But now, I could see, clear as day, the prey in sight. It was an afront to God himself and all that was holy. No, I'm not a religious man, but even I can see how unnatural this thing is. Walking on two legs with an oddly human face, distorted into a smug expression, as if acknowledging it's abhorrent existence and stubbornly refusing to die. The hunter knew its tell tale phrase, it was rote in his brain after studying this mysterious beast for weeks. "You're too slow." It antagonized the lions. "Come on, step it up." To the giraffe. No one cared for this beast.
The hunter could see why, plainly.
I lick my lips, thankful that I was downwind of this speedy prey item. With a cock of my rifle, one that I never missed with, if you remember, I stared down the scope. It was. . Walking. Its gait slow, conservative. Nervous. Could it sense my presence, or did it just know that this would be the day of reckoning? I had no idea, this was a new item for me to add to my wall. With a steady breath, wiping the generous sweat collecting atop my brow, I teased the trigger. Gritting my teeth, I fired.
The hedgehog went down.
I missed the killing blow.
The mewling, pitiful and desperate, could be heard for miles, I had no doubt. Lions and hyenas would pick up on it soon. A curse, I jump from my perch and dash out for the monstrosity. Upon reaching it, I quickly observed its state. Laying in a poll of its own blood, a hole right on the leg. It would bleed out, the hunter assured himself. But the meat. . It would lose flavor. He couldn't have this. "Oi!" I say, false horror in my eyes. "Blimey! I didn't mean ta hitya, it's my bad me bud." My thick, South African accent spreading over the item of my interest. It looked on, confused and hopeful. I did not hesitate to take the beast home. It was a short walk to my jeep, a shorter drive to my shack, on a large hill clear of the elephant grass that flooded the plains. The despair in my dinner faded, as did consciousness. I was glad, having to keep up the facade of being an ally would grow tiresome. Patching the wound proved to test my knowledge of anthropromophic demons anatomy, but I saved its life.
For an hour, maybe two, I debated my goal. The peaceful snoring of the hedgehog greeted my ears, soothing me. . I had spent so long on the hunt, away from the comforts of home and a warm body. I sigh, looking at the round buttocks. "No." He tell myself. "I cannot do this." While the demon slept, trying to regain its strength, I eyed the knife between us. Without any hesitation, I grabbed it. "Sorry bloke." I whispered, a hand moving to carress the piney-hair of the beast. "Nothin' personal." And with a determined slash, the animal's throat was slashed. Eyes opened, panic and confusion, before the bliss of death took the suffering hedgehog into its arms. With a sigh, I laid my body against it, the blood gushing from its throat, spraying me profusely. "Bettah get the pot." I'd need to skin it first, debone the dinner item before I could even begin to think of my rumbling tummy. Shutting the confused, bewildered eyes that the dead beast gave me, I stood, looking around the cabin for the needed tools.
It wasn't a hard hunt. Not for this master tracker, but it tested his heart. It tested his manhood.
_________________________________________________________
Did I make it?
The hunter could see why, plainly.
I lick my lips, thankful that I was downwind of this speedy prey item. With a cock of my rifle, one that I never missed with, if you remember, I stared down the scope. It was. . Walking. Its gait slow, conservative. Nervous. Could it sense my presence, or did it just know that this would be the day of reckoning? I had no idea, this was a new item for me to add to my wall. With a steady breath, wiping the generous sweat collecting atop my brow, I teased the trigger. Gritting my teeth, I fired.
The hedgehog went down.
I missed the killing blow.
The mewling, pitiful and desperate, could be heard for miles, I had no doubt. Lions and hyenas would pick up on it soon. A curse, I jump from my perch and dash out for the monstrosity. Upon reaching it, I quickly observed its state. Laying in a poll of its own blood, a hole right on the leg. It would bleed out, the hunter assured himself. But the meat. . It would lose flavor. He couldn't have this. "Oi!" I say, false horror in my eyes. "Blimey! I didn't mean ta hitya, it's my bad me bud." My thick, South African accent spreading over the item of my interest. It looked on, confused and hopeful. I did not hesitate to take the beast home. It was a short walk to my jeep, a shorter drive to my shack, on a large hill clear of the elephant grass that flooded the plains. The despair in my dinner faded, as did consciousness. I was glad, having to keep up the facade of being an ally would grow tiresome. Patching the wound proved to test my knowledge of anthropromophic demons anatomy, but I saved its life.
For an hour, maybe two, I debated my goal. The peaceful snoring of the hedgehog greeted my ears, soothing me. . I had spent so long on the hunt, away from the comforts of home and a warm body. I sigh, looking at the round buttocks. "No." He tell myself. "I cannot do this." While the demon slept, trying to regain its strength, I eyed the knife between us. Without any hesitation, I grabbed it. "Sorry bloke." I whispered, a hand moving to carress the piney-hair of the beast. "Nothin' personal." And with a determined slash, the animal's throat was slashed. Eyes opened, panic and confusion, before the bliss of death took the suffering hedgehog into its arms. With a sigh, I laid my body against it, the blood gushing from its throat, spraying me profusely. "Bettah get the pot." I'd need to skin it first, debone the dinner item before I could even begin to think of my rumbling tummy. Shutting the confused, bewildered eyes that the dead beast gave me, I stood, looking around the cabin for the needed tools.
It wasn't a hard hunt. Not for this master tracker, but it tested his heart. It tested his manhood.
_________________________________________________________
Did I make it?
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REGISTERY OF THE AMORYNTHIAN ROYAL NAVAL ACADEMY
MILITARY SERVICE RECORD ARCHIVE, LISTED UNDER PUBLIC INFORMATION BY ORDER OF KING VALDEZ II
NAME: Kazor, Gashin SEX: MALE RACE: MIXED, HUMAN / DWARF
P.O.B (PLACE OF BIRTH): GARD, AMORYNTHIA P.O.R (PLACE OF RESIDENCE): DRAY, AMORYNTHIA
MOTHER: Kazor, Vilea (age 64, registered blind) FATHER: Kazor, Deon (deceased) SIBLINGS: Kazor, Laeya (age 9, craftsman assistant)
ENLISTMENT: Dray Recruitment Office (age 17) RANK: Captain DEPLOYMENT: Saint Leona
FIRST TOUR:
Gashin Kazor first served under the original captain of the Saint Leona, the late BOARSON, WILLIAM. Patrolled the coast of Tumeken as ordered by the king, under the Valdez-Setsiput Treaty in the courts of Ryth earlier that year. Engaged in ship to ship combat with pirate raiders, and assisted the Tumeken Army in clearing out bandits in Fool's Mistake.
NOTE: Following first tour of duty, 50% of earnings were sent back home to family in Gard.
NOTE: Following first tour of duty, 50% of earnings were sent back home to family in Gard.
SECOND TOUR:
Assisting in the transport of engineers and resources to Wizard's Tower for construction purposes. Saint Leona was tasked with protecting unarmed transports from northern pirates and keeping forest bandits in the foothills away from the construction site. During a battle with pirates, a Boatswain was shot and killed via a crossbow bolt to the skull. Gashin, being the most experienced deckhand present, was elected to take his position. Captain Boarson received a good deal of harsh criticism from command and his peers for promoting a dwarf man of Gashin's inexperience to the position of junior officer.
NOTE: 65% of earnings sent back to Gard. Father is diagnosed with unknown heart disease, and Laeya is born. Kazor heads to the Royal Naval Academy for training as a naval officer, under the orders of Captain Boarson.
NOTE: 65% of earnings sent back to Gard. Father is diagnosed with unknown heart disease, and Laeya is born. Kazor heads to the Royal Naval Academy for training as a naval officer, under the orders of Captain Boarson.
THIRD TOUR:
Admiral [REDACTED]'s campaign to eradicate the pirate threat living on Rat's Nest island included a number of veteran pirate hunting ships. The Saint Leona was on the short list to join the fleet due to it's recent clashes with pirates in the north and along the Tumeken Coast. The fighting was incredibly fierce, resulting in several Royal Navy ships being severely damaged while others were sunk. Captain Boarson's first mate was slain in combat. Due to the courage he had shown during the campaign and his last two tours, Boarson elected to promote Kazor to the position. Mutiny was considered inevitable; that is, until the Saint Leona came under direct attack by several pirate ships. The captain was wounded, taking an arrow to the shoulder, and Gashin was forced to take the wheel. Showing considerable ability, Kazor directed the crew and successfully evaded their pursuers, earning the begrudging respect of the Saint's crew.
NOTE: 80% of earnings sent back to family. Deon passed away in his sleep, and Kazor returned home on leave to help his family with funeral arrangements. The Kazors, using the money Gashin received from his recent promotion, moved to Dray.
NOTE: 80% of earnings sent back to family. Deon passed away in his sleep, and Kazor returned home on leave to help his family with funeral arrangements. The Kazors, using the money Gashin received from his recent promotion, moved to Dray.
FOURTH TOUR:
Following the failed Rat's Nest campaign, the Saint Leona takes on low-stress cargo transport defense patrols. Captain Boarson's condition continues to deteriorate; the blow struck to him during the previous tour has, unbeknownst to him, become infected. While out at sea, William passes away, and Kazor finishes military duties until they can return to port. He is then unanimously recommended to take the position of captain by the crew. A letter written by Boarson on his deathbed confirms that these are his wishes, and command chooses to promote Kazor after eight months immediately.
FIFTH TOUR:
Gashin serves as captain of the Saint Leona for a number of years, acting as a pirate hunter in the seas near Rat's Nest. Fighting is intense and often, though Kazor shows a significant degree of skill at the helm of his ship. He receives several accolades for successfully capturing or sinking a number of vessels, having a direct impact on the region's frighteningly high population of pirates and criminals.
NOTE: As of very recently, Gashin has been pulled from duty and asked to accompany a special envoy by the king. His dwarven heritage, loyalty to the crown and navigational skills make Kazor a reliable asset for the mission his highness has planned.
NOTE: As of very recently, Gashin has been pulled from duty and asked to accompany a special envoy by the king. His dwarven heritage, loyalty to the crown and navigational skills make Kazor a reliable asset for the mission his highness has planned.
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Fortis Consortium
"Survive, overcome, and rebuild."
Political Environment and Government Type:
The Consortium is not a nation or government in the traditional sense. It operates off the basis that the collective is strongest operating in unison with itself, with all of it's made up parts being inferior to the whole. A council made up of the captains of each of the ships in the flotilla leads the Consortium in all matters, with the admiral being the spokesman for the council and the final deciding vote on partisan issues. The admiral holds no additional power except in matters of battle, wherein his word is considered law.
All captains elect a 'first mate' when they first rise to the position. This first mate is not only their second-in-command, but the captain's chosen successor, should he perish. There is no election process in the Consortium. Every man is chosen for promotion by his superior. If an elected successor is deemed unworthy of the position by a majority vote in the council, he can be replaced, though this is usually only considered under extreme circumstances.
While the greater population of the Consortium have no official sway in the running of the government, their voices do not go unheard. There is a system set up that allows 'representatives' to be 'elected' by popular vote. These representatives then meet with the captain of their particular ship to discuss whatever ideas their group supports, essentially lobbying for the vote of the captain. The threat of mutiny hangs ever over the heads of Fortis's leaders, all but forcing them to give ear to the concerns of the masses, if they wish to avoid being strung up by their crew.
The Consortium's structure is designed after that of the U.S Navy. Rankings are determined by merit, usually, though there is a degree of favoritism that goes into every decision by the higher-ups when promoting members of Fortis. Officially, there are no 'civilians' in the flotilla. Everyone serves, so long as they are aboard Consortium ships. Many are exempt from combat roles for a variety of reasons, however; age, illness, mental fortitude and how critical their role in the flotilla is are all important factors in determining if one is 'combat ready.' Engineers, physicists, doctors and other specialists are hard to come by in this day and age. They were the men and women who kept the flotilla, well, floating. They couldn't be sacrificed in battle, so specialists are typically ordered to avoid it at all costs.
All captains elect a 'first mate' when they first rise to the position. This first mate is not only their second-in-command, but the captain's chosen successor, should he perish. There is no election process in the Consortium. Every man is chosen for promotion by his superior. If an elected successor is deemed unworthy of the position by a majority vote in the council, he can be replaced, though this is usually only considered under extreme circumstances.
While the greater population of the Consortium have no official sway in the running of the government, their voices do not go unheard. There is a system set up that allows 'representatives' to be 'elected' by popular vote. These representatives then meet with the captain of their particular ship to discuss whatever ideas their group supports, essentially lobbying for the vote of the captain. The threat of mutiny hangs ever over the heads of Fortis's leaders, all but forcing them to give ear to the concerns of the masses, if they wish to avoid being strung up by their crew.
The Consortium's structure is designed after that of the U.S Navy. Rankings are determined by merit, usually, though there is a degree of favoritism that goes into every decision by the higher-ups when promoting members of Fortis. Officially, there are no 'civilians' in the flotilla. Everyone serves, so long as they are aboard Consortium ships. Many are exempt from combat roles for a variety of reasons, however; age, illness, mental fortitude and how critical their role in the flotilla is are all important factors in determining if one is 'combat ready.' Engineers, physicists, doctors and other specialists are hard to come by in this day and age. They were the men and women who kept the flotilla, well, floating. They couldn't be sacrificed in battle, so specialists are typically ordered to avoid it at all costs.
Location:
Mobile, but currently docked in what was once Lisbon, Portugal.
Demographics:
70% Caucasian-American
10% African-American
10% Latin-American/Hispanic
5% Asian
5% Other
50% Protestant Christian
21% Catholic Christian
22% Agonistic
5% Islamic
2% Other
10% African-American
10% Latin-American/Hispanic
5% Asian
5% Other
50% Protestant Christian
21% Catholic Christian
22% Agonistic
5% Islamic
2% Other
Culture:
The culture in the Fortis Consortium is one of pragmatism and utilitarianism. It is their belief that the world is still a very dangerous place, and it is necessary to take whatever steps they need to in order to survive to live another day. Nothing matters more than ensuring the safety of the collective. Morality, advancement, and all other things are considered secondary to the flotilla's continued existence. As such, the community believes that the sharing of resources and the coming together to solve problems are absolutely necessary. No singular person can survive in a world like this, so they must work together toward that goal.
All live to serve one another. Selfishness is considered the utmost taboo in the Consortium. Crimes such as theft of Consortium property are considered to hold near the same weight as murder. Due to the nature of the flotilla, crimes are generally punished in one of two ways: banishment from the fleet, or death. More minor crimes might be met with lighter rations, a heavier work load and monitoring by security guards. Depending on the necessity one has for the flotilla's survival, some crimes may be handled more lightly than the law clearly defines. For example, a nuclear physicist who makes sure the warships remain in operation may be confined to his quarters and given less to eat for sexual assault, whereas a deckhand or common soldier would be dumped off the side of the ship.
Art, music and traditions within the Fortis Consortium are quite varied, depending on one's heritage. Most of the citizens of the Consortium came from a number of different city-states and nations in North America, each bringing with them a piece of their homeland's culture. Several have joined the flotilla along the way. Some more populous sub-groups include Latin Americans, south-east Asians, Middle Eastern cultural groups, and a few European ethnicities. These cultures have mixed together to form the unique and vibrant society that is the Consortium.
The events that spurred the Age of Rebirth have caused a large resurgence of religious worship in the last four hundred years. Many of turned to God in order to find peace in a violent and turbulent world. The Consortium has a majority population of Christians, most coming from the former States, though there are very active Muslim, Jewish and Hindu sub-communities as well.
All live to serve one another. Selfishness is considered the utmost taboo in the Consortium. Crimes such as theft of Consortium property are considered to hold near the same weight as murder. Due to the nature of the flotilla, crimes are generally punished in one of two ways: banishment from the fleet, or death. More minor crimes might be met with lighter rations, a heavier work load and monitoring by security guards. Depending on the necessity one has for the flotilla's survival, some crimes may be handled more lightly than the law clearly defines. For example, a nuclear physicist who makes sure the warships remain in operation may be confined to his quarters and given less to eat for sexual assault, whereas a deckhand or common soldier would be dumped off the side of the ship.
Art, music and traditions within the Fortis Consortium are quite varied, depending on one's heritage. Most of the citizens of the Consortium came from a number of different city-states and nations in North America, each bringing with them a piece of their homeland's culture. Several have joined the flotilla along the way. Some more populous sub-groups include Latin Americans, south-east Asians, Middle Eastern cultural groups, and a few European ethnicities. These cultures have mixed together to form the unique and vibrant society that is the Consortium.
The events that spurred the Age of Rebirth have caused a large resurgence of religious worship in the last four hundred years. Many of turned to God in order to find peace in a violent and turbulent world. The Consortium has a majority population of Christians, most coming from the former States, though there are very active Muslim, Jewish and Hindu sub-communities as well.
The Fleet:
FCS Purgatory: Designed and built by the Independent California Republic, the Purgatory is a Continental-class amphibious assault ship meant for deploying Marine Expeditionary Units on enemy shores. In it's modern usage, the Purgatory is the flagship of the Consortium fleet. It is the only ship capable of holding aircraft in the flotilla, and acts as the main seat of the council. The Purgatory has a capacity to hold twenty eight aircraft and helicopters (Including the K-66 Knighthawk helicopters, VTOL capable H-12 Hero multi-role stealth fighters, and OK-10 King Osprey tiltroter helicopters), and three Landing Craft Utility boats in it's well deck. Designed for long term sea voyages, the FCS Purgatory is one of two vessels in the flotilla with it's own light water reactors. While it's fuel source is significantly harder to find than normal oil, enriched uranium lasts much longer, requiring next to no stops for refueling. At full operational capacity, the reactors on the Purgatory can last up to twenty five years without the need to refuel. It is helmed by Admiral Joseph Henshaw.
FCS Mjolnir: Another vessel constructed in the shipyards of the California Republic, the FCS Mjolnir belongs to the Olympus-class of fast attack submarines. The only other nuclear powered vessel in the fleet, the Mjolnir can last up to thirty seven years at sea without the need to refuel. Armaments for the nuclear submarine include twelve Olympus Launching System tubes, each holding Retribution-class medium to long range ballistic, non-nuclear missiles, and four Tsunami-class ADCAP torpedo tubes for ship to ship combat. As the most specialized of the vessels in the Consortium's navy, the crew of the Mjolnir is made up of the best of the best. Captained by none other than the fierce old bulldog Captain Wallace Jackson, it is easily the most fearsome ship in the fleet.
FCS Valiant: Stolen from the Northern Conglomerate, the FCS Valiant is one of several prized Destroyers in the Flotilla. Coming from the Zimmerman-class of Destroyer, the Valiant is a multi-purpose warship meant to defend the larger vessels in the fleet. With anti-aircraft, anti-submarine and anti-surface capabilities, the Valiant and her sister ships are easily the most flexible warships in the flotilla. Captained by the fearless Dinah Cohen.
FCS Indomitable: Another procured combat vessel of the Northern Conglomerate, the FCS Indomitable is another of the powerful Destroyers belonging to the Zimmerman-class. Unlike the Valiant, the Indomitable features an array of electronic warfare technologies that protect it and the other vessels in the fleet. Anti-jamming tech keeps the radar and radio frequencies of the Consortium safe from enemy information attacks, while similar technology is used to jam up the information channels of opposing forces. Due to the technical nature of this Destroyer, the Consortium's Captain Allen Hughes, a man of great technical skill and intellect, heads the Indomitable.
FCS Divination: The third of the four raided Zimmerman-class Destroyers, the Divination is much the same as the Valiant in terms of armament and purpose. A defensive warship with a flexible nature, it's armed to the teeth with Retribution missiles, Mark 62 naval artillery guns, and anti-aircraft, radar-controlled point defense guns. Any approaching threat can be met by the Divination and her sister warships in the Zimmerman-class. Helmed by a veteran captain in Marcus Locke, the Divination is a force to be reckoned with.
FCS Tempest: Last of the captured Northern Conglomerate ships, the FCS Tempest has proven itself in combat several times over. Eliminating threat after threat, there are few in the Consortium who can boast similar combat experience as the crew of the Tempest. Led by none other than Captain Jonathan Barnes, a reckless and hotheaded soldier with boundless courage, the Tempest leads the charge against anyone who would dare threaten the safety of the Fortis Consortium.
FCS Salvation: The first of the civilian vessels to join the Consortium's flotilla, the Salvation is one of two ships meant to keep the fleet alive. It's a large ship that carries roughly half of the hydroponics systems that feed the personnel of the navy. Vegetables such as carrots, potatoes, broccoli, and many other variants are grown aboard the Salvation using soil-less agricultural methods. Several animals such as goats and cows are kept to produce milk. Food is strictly rationed by the council due to how difficult it is to grow on the move, and stealing food is considered a horrific crime punishable by banishment or, in more severe cases, death. Captained by Doctor Annabethe Duff, a hard-nosed Irish woman with a mind like no other.
FCS Demeter: Sister to the Salvation, the Demeter is another vessel meant primarily to help feed the population of the Fortis Consortium. While the Salvation focuses mostly on hydroponics growth, the Demeter is a massive fishing trawler refitted for the purposes of the flotilla. Fish are caught in mass, cured and salted, and preserved within it's huge storage tanks to be consumed in the highly regimented meal plans set out by the council. Thanks to recent advances in technology, the Demeter is also equipped to collect and sanitize sea water, filtering it so it can be used as regular drinking water. Helmed by Doctor William Kosov.
FCS Galileo: The FCS Galileo is a research vessel built out of the modified hull of a giant icebreaker cruiser. The Galileo's purposes are flexible, as it houses the entirety of the Consortium's scientific community. Physicists, doctors, engineers, and mathematicians of all sorts gather in the Galileo. Their purpose is to advance the technology available to the Fortis Consortium, discovering new ways to find and refine oil and fuel for the fleet. Biofuels and other alternatives are constantly being updated and tested by the crew in an effort to stretch out the amount of time the flotilla can remain at sea. Led by Doctor Karl Stein.
FCS Bastion: Commonly nicknamed 'Noah's Ark,' the FCS Bastion is one of three vessels meant to house the families and people of the Consortium that do not live aboard the other ships. Children, the elderly, the infirm and those without the skills or knowledge to crew another vessel are placed aboard here. Periodically, the other vessels in the fleet may have or allow their crew to transfer to the Bastion or other such ships for vacation, entertainment and rejuvenation. The education of the younger generations and those without proper technical skills is conducted aboard the Bastion. Schooled in all the knowledge necessary to become a helpful cog in the Consortium's machine, this is where one's place in society is usually decided. As such, the Bastion has become something of a cultural center in the flotilla. Theaters, restaurants, museums and artisans shops are all commonly found within these Arks. At the helm is Captain Andre Bisset.
FCS Sanctuary: The second of the large population ships, Sanctuary has more of a focus as a mobile hospital. Most of the infirm and elderly are contained here, where they can be properly cared for by the nursing staff. The wounded, those critical enough to require long-term care, are also kept in Sanctuary. Most of the medical supplies are stored aboard this ship. Captained by Doctor Nicolas Carter.
FCS Haven: A bulk carrier or freighter, the second largest ship in the fleet behind the main carrier, the FCS Haven is the last of the modified population vessels. Though acting in the same manner as the Sanctuary and the Bastion as a home for those unequipped for work on more specialized vessels, the Haven doubles as a mobile workshop and factory. All raw materials are stored aboard the freighter and used for the production of supplies necessary for the continued operation of the fleet. Fuel, steel, and munitions are all stored within the freighter. There has been some controversy surrounding the operation of the Haven, with some citing it as dangerous to store all of the materials aboard a single, massive ship, seeing it as an easy target for sabotage. Led by Captain Arthur Steele.
These are the twelve most critical of the twenty six ships in the fleet. Of the fourteen remaining vessels, six are military vessels including smaller frigates, combat support ships, and littoral combat ships. The other eight civilian ships are a variety of passenger cruisers, cargo and merchant ships, tankers, and fishing ships.
FCS Mjolnir: Another vessel constructed in the shipyards of the California Republic, the FCS Mjolnir belongs to the Olympus-class of fast attack submarines. The only other nuclear powered vessel in the fleet, the Mjolnir can last up to thirty seven years at sea without the need to refuel. Armaments for the nuclear submarine include twelve Olympus Launching System tubes, each holding Retribution-class medium to long range ballistic, non-nuclear missiles, and four Tsunami-class ADCAP torpedo tubes for ship to ship combat. As the most specialized of the vessels in the Consortium's navy, the crew of the Mjolnir is made up of the best of the best. Captained by none other than the fierce old bulldog Captain Wallace Jackson, it is easily the most fearsome ship in the fleet.
FCS Valiant: Stolen from the Northern Conglomerate, the FCS Valiant is one of several prized Destroyers in the Flotilla. Coming from the Zimmerman-class of Destroyer, the Valiant is a multi-purpose warship meant to defend the larger vessels in the fleet. With anti-aircraft, anti-submarine and anti-surface capabilities, the Valiant and her sister ships are easily the most flexible warships in the flotilla. Captained by the fearless Dinah Cohen.
FCS Indomitable: Another procured combat vessel of the Northern Conglomerate, the FCS Indomitable is another of the powerful Destroyers belonging to the Zimmerman-class. Unlike the Valiant, the Indomitable features an array of electronic warfare technologies that protect it and the other vessels in the fleet. Anti-jamming tech keeps the radar and radio frequencies of the Consortium safe from enemy information attacks, while similar technology is used to jam up the information channels of opposing forces. Due to the technical nature of this Destroyer, the Consortium's Captain Allen Hughes, a man of great technical skill and intellect, heads the Indomitable.
FCS Divination: The third of the four raided Zimmerman-class Destroyers, the Divination is much the same as the Valiant in terms of armament and purpose. A defensive warship with a flexible nature, it's armed to the teeth with Retribution missiles, Mark 62 naval artillery guns, and anti-aircraft, radar-controlled point defense guns. Any approaching threat can be met by the Divination and her sister warships in the Zimmerman-class. Helmed by a veteran captain in Marcus Locke, the Divination is a force to be reckoned with.
FCS Tempest: Last of the captured Northern Conglomerate ships, the FCS Tempest has proven itself in combat several times over. Eliminating threat after threat, there are few in the Consortium who can boast similar combat experience as the crew of the Tempest. Led by none other than Captain Jonathan Barnes, a reckless and hotheaded soldier with boundless courage, the Tempest leads the charge against anyone who would dare threaten the safety of the Fortis Consortium.
FCS Salvation: The first of the civilian vessels to join the Consortium's flotilla, the Salvation is one of two ships meant to keep the fleet alive. It's a large ship that carries roughly half of the hydroponics systems that feed the personnel of the navy. Vegetables such as carrots, potatoes, broccoli, and many other variants are grown aboard the Salvation using soil-less agricultural methods. Several animals such as goats and cows are kept to produce milk. Food is strictly rationed by the council due to how difficult it is to grow on the move, and stealing food is considered a horrific crime punishable by banishment or, in more severe cases, death. Captained by Doctor Annabethe Duff, a hard-nosed Irish woman with a mind like no other.
FCS Demeter: Sister to the Salvation, the Demeter is another vessel meant primarily to help feed the population of the Fortis Consortium. While the Salvation focuses mostly on hydroponics growth, the Demeter is a massive fishing trawler refitted for the purposes of the flotilla. Fish are caught in mass, cured and salted, and preserved within it's huge storage tanks to be consumed in the highly regimented meal plans set out by the council. Thanks to recent advances in technology, the Demeter is also equipped to collect and sanitize sea water, filtering it so it can be used as regular drinking water. Helmed by Doctor William Kosov.
FCS Galileo: The FCS Galileo is a research vessel built out of the modified hull of a giant icebreaker cruiser. The Galileo's purposes are flexible, as it houses the entirety of the Consortium's scientific community. Physicists, doctors, engineers, and mathematicians of all sorts gather in the Galileo. Their purpose is to advance the technology available to the Fortis Consortium, discovering new ways to find and refine oil and fuel for the fleet. Biofuels and other alternatives are constantly being updated and tested by the crew in an effort to stretch out the amount of time the flotilla can remain at sea. Led by Doctor Karl Stein.
FCS Bastion: Commonly nicknamed 'Noah's Ark,' the FCS Bastion is one of three vessels meant to house the families and people of the Consortium that do not live aboard the other ships. Children, the elderly, the infirm and those without the skills or knowledge to crew another vessel are placed aboard here. Periodically, the other vessels in the fleet may have or allow their crew to transfer to the Bastion or other such ships for vacation, entertainment and rejuvenation. The education of the younger generations and those without proper technical skills is conducted aboard the Bastion. Schooled in all the knowledge necessary to become a helpful cog in the Consortium's machine, this is where one's place in society is usually decided. As such, the Bastion has become something of a cultural center in the flotilla. Theaters, restaurants, museums and artisans shops are all commonly found within these Arks. At the helm is Captain Andre Bisset.
FCS Sanctuary: The second of the large population ships, Sanctuary has more of a focus as a mobile hospital. Most of the infirm and elderly are contained here, where they can be properly cared for by the nursing staff. The wounded, those critical enough to require long-term care, are also kept in Sanctuary. Most of the medical supplies are stored aboard this ship. Captained by Doctor Nicolas Carter.
FCS Haven: A bulk carrier or freighter, the second largest ship in the fleet behind the main carrier, the FCS Haven is the last of the modified population vessels. Though acting in the same manner as the Sanctuary and the Bastion as a home for those unequipped for work on more specialized vessels, the Haven doubles as a mobile workshop and factory. All raw materials are stored aboard the freighter and used for the production of supplies necessary for the continued operation of the fleet. Fuel, steel, and munitions are all stored within the freighter. There has been some controversy surrounding the operation of the Haven, with some citing it as dangerous to store all of the materials aboard a single, massive ship, seeing it as an easy target for sabotage. Led by Captain Arthur Steele.
These are the twelve most critical of the twenty six ships in the fleet. Of the fourteen remaining vessels, six are military vessels including smaller frigates, combat support ships, and littoral combat ships. The other eight civilian ships are a variety of passenger cruisers, cargo and merchant ships, tankers, and fishing ships.
History:
The United States of America was devastated by nuclear war. Russian missiles turned every major city into a crater, washing the U.S in waves of fallout and heavy radiation. The death toll was catastrophic. Those to survive were the few lucky enough to escape to bunkers scattered throughout the country, or who lived in areas sparsely populated enough that they weren't caught in the fighting. Still, nuclear winter proved difficult for those few survivors, as radiation claimed even more lives. Colonies formed. Tiny pockets of civilization amidst the chaos and death, hiding away in mountains that kept them from irradiated winds. Though Doomsday had indeed come, there were those precious, hardy few who managed to stave off the apocalypse.
When the harsh conditions of a war torn, destroyed world began to slowly fade over hundreds of years, those colonies began to expand. Repopulating the earth became a priority as humanity banded together to rebuild all that had been lost. Cities rose from the ashes. Those cities would connect with others like them. Some joined together peacefully, forming unions that eventually became the basis for the new nations. Others saw their neighbors as threats, or resources to be mined. It was during these days that the Independent California Republic formed, based out of the newly rebuilt Los Angeles. Up north in Washington States and parts of Canada, The Northern Coalition was brought together by the confederation of a number of smaller sovereign states.
These two nations were quickly set up as rivals after a number of trade and border disputes. Small skirmishes over scavenging grounds eventually led to all-out armed conflict. Development of military technology was once again a priority, as men seemed to forget what had brought the world to it's knees but a few centuries before.
Progress was built on the back of war as new, updated weapons were used to devastate the battlefield. Soldiers died in the hundreds as each nation struggled over small plots of land. Tanks, missiles, aircraft and infantry were all given state of the art updates to use against their enemies.
It was during this war that the a few soldiers of the Independent California Republic's navy gathered, meeting in secret to discuss the nature of the conflict. Too many lives were being lost. It was a fruitless endeavor that would only prove to weaken both nations. With how close to extinction humanity was, fighting was nothing but a waste of resources. Commander Henshaw, along with his peers in Allen Hughes and the venerable Wallace Jackson, approached the leaders of the ICR with their concerns. The president and congress both waved off their concerns, threatening to indict the navy men with charges of treason if they did not fight. Knowing that this war with be the end of them all, Henshaw and his supporters rallied what loyal crewmen they could and came up with a daring plan. In the dead of night, they took control of the Purgatory, the Mjolnir, and the since sunk cruiser, the Endurance.
They fled California waters and sailed north, requesting an audience with the leaders of the Northern Coalition in an attempt to arrange peace talks between the two sides. Despite Henshaw's best efforts, diplomacy broke down after several months of indecision, with neither side wanting to surrender to the other. They believed that the resources they had already sunk into this conflict necessitated that victory be achieved at any cost. It was not all for nothing, however, as some within the Coalition shared Henshaw's beliefs. A meeting was arranged with Captains Dinah Cohen, Marcus Locke and Jonathan Barnes. After much deliberation, it was decided that they should take all who didn't wish to participate in this fruitless conflict with them, and flee the ravaged coast.
A daring mission was arranged. Sailors from both sides joined together to commandeer four Destroyers from the Northern Coalition fleet, as well as a large cruise ship and a fishing trawler. Though there was bloodshed, and the resulting battle ended up costing the stolen California Republic cruiser. Fleeing the burnt out harbor, eight ships made it out to sea, jam packed with citizens of both countries that wished to leave that hellhole far behind them. They established the council of captains, flew the flag of the Fortis Consortium, and began their own bitter struggle for survival upon the harsh ocean waters. Headed by the iron Admiral Henshaw, the Consortium traveled the world, picking up more ships and more people for their flotilla. Many lost their lives along the way, and many vessels had to be abandoned. But the Consortium fought on. Ever forward they marched, eyes to the horizon as they sought out a place they could finally call home.
When the harsh conditions of a war torn, destroyed world began to slowly fade over hundreds of years, those colonies began to expand. Repopulating the earth became a priority as humanity banded together to rebuild all that had been lost. Cities rose from the ashes. Those cities would connect with others like them. Some joined together peacefully, forming unions that eventually became the basis for the new nations. Others saw their neighbors as threats, or resources to be mined. It was during these days that the Independent California Republic formed, based out of the newly rebuilt Los Angeles. Up north in Washington States and parts of Canada, The Northern Coalition was brought together by the confederation of a number of smaller sovereign states.
These two nations were quickly set up as rivals after a number of trade and border disputes. Small skirmishes over scavenging grounds eventually led to all-out armed conflict. Development of military technology was once again a priority, as men seemed to forget what had brought the world to it's knees but a few centuries before.
Progress was built on the back of war as new, updated weapons were used to devastate the battlefield. Soldiers died in the hundreds as each nation struggled over small plots of land. Tanks, missiles, aircraft and infantry were all given state of the art updates to use against their enemies.
It was during this war that the a few soldiers of the Independent California Republic's navy gathered, meeting in secret to discuss the nature of the conflict. Too many lives were being lost. It was a fruitless endeavor that would only prove to weaken both nations. With how close to extinction humanity was, fighting was nothing but a waste of resources. Commander Henshaw, along with his peers in Allen Hughes and the venerable Wallace Jackson, approached the leaders of the ICR with their concerns. The president and congress both waved off their concerns, threatening to indict the navy men with charges of treason if they did not fight. Knowing that this war with be the end of them all, Henshaw and his supporters rallied what loyal crewmen they could and came up with a daring plan. In the dead of night, they took control of the Purgatory, the Mjolnir, and the since sunk cruiser, the Endurance.
They fled California waters and sailed north, requesting an audience with the leaders of the Northern Coalition in an attempt to arrange peace talks between the two sides. Despite Henshaw's best efforts, diplomacy broke down after several months of indecision, with neither side wanting to surrender to the other. They believed that the resources they had already sunk into this conflict necessitated that victory be achieved at any cost. It was not all for nothing, however, as some within the Coalition shared Henshaw's beliefs. A meeting was arranged with Captains Dinah Cohen, Marcus Locke and Jonathan Barnes. After much deliberation, it was decided that they should take all who didn't wish to participate in this fruitless conflict with them, and flee the ravaged coast.
A daring mission was arranged. Sailors from both sides joined together to commandeer four Destroyers from the Northern Coalition fleet, as well as a large cruise ship and a fishing trawler. Though there was bloodshed, and the resulting battle ended up costing the stolen California Republic cruiser. Fleeing the burnt out harbor, eight ships made it out to sea, jam packed with citizens of both countries that wished to leave that hellhole far behind them. They established the council of captains, flew the flag of the Fortis Consortium, and began their own bitter struggle for survival upon the harsh ocean waters. Headed by the iron Admiral Henshaw, the Consortium traveled the world, picking up more ships and more people for their flotilla. Many lost their lives along the way, and many vessels had to be abandoned. But the Consortium fought on. Ever forward they marched, eyes to the horizon as they sought out a place they could finally call home.
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Clark Davis - Chief Warrant Officer, Black, Graduated University with a bachelor's degree in Mechanical Engineering. Works aboard the Haven.
Gary Wells - Chief Petty Officer, Caucasian, assists as a nurse and navy corpsman aboard Haven.
Deborah "Debbie" Graham - Seaman, Caucasian, acts as a cook on the Haven.
Warren Marks - Lieutenant Commander, Caucasian, marine officer on the Purgatory.
Gary Wells - Chief Petty Officer, Caucasian, assists as a nurse and navy corpsman aboard Haven.
Deborah "Debbie" Graham - Seaman, Caucasian, acts as a cook on the Haven.
Warren Marks - Lieutenant Commander, Caucasian, marine officer on the Purgatory.
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G R A V E S
A bone chilling breeze swept in from above, rattling the chains that hung down from the vaulted ceiling. Bits of frost gently clung to the darkest corners of the cavernous room as that accursed howling of the wind sent a tingle down the warrior's spine. Graves hadn't noticed just how cold it was in here until he'd stopped moving. He swore it was getting colder with each passing second, too. An irritating fact, considering his character typically neglected to wear a shirt.
Pushing passed the inconsequential fact, he turned his attention to finding a way forward. The longer the party tarried here, the greater the risk of another ambush befalling them. Everyone was of a similar mind: this room felt far too empty for comfort. It was the largest they had encountered thus far by a good margin, and they hadn't encountered significant resistance since the floor burst out from underneath them earlier. This was the perfect place for an attack, so it followed that everyone would be on edge.
Some of them were a little too on edge, with Tessa sounding like she was somewhere between hyperventilating and having an outright panic attack. Graves turned to look in the control mage's direction just in time to witness her snapping one of her ethereal chains like a bullwhip. Her massive, coiling steel slammed harshly against stone all around them, sending forth a cacophonous roar that echoed through the halls for an uncomfortably long time.
Graves froze, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he waited, and listened. He expected to hear her crash followed by a chorus of goblin bellows and ogreish howls and the rushing of feet, yet nothing of the sort came. A disturbing silence was all that followed. The tank glared in Tessa's direction, debating whether or not they would lose anything of value if he beat her into unconsciousness. "Nice." He hissed under his breath, his teeth gnashing together as he held back a torrent of curses and shouts.
While the rest of the party was close to losing it, one member decided to break away from the main contingent. Ochre approached the stream of strange liquid that ran throughout the crypt, that curious spark in his eye. He could see that the channel flowed with a strange consistency. It was not as liquid as it appeared from a distance. Whatever odd concoction filled the trench stuck together like glue, churning like a living body but not quite flowing. The closer he got to the stuff, the colder the air about Ochre became, up until his breath was visible beside it.
The ogre's tooth touched the blue substance, and immediately became stuck within it. Frost rapidly crept up the enamel, approaching Ochre's fingers with frozen intent and a frightening speed. If he didn't remove his hand from the tooth, Ochre would quickly find his fingers encased in several layers of ice so cold that it burned flesh.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The temperature plummeted as the wind picked up, it's ghostly howl violently shaking and rattling the chains throughout the cavern. Before them, that river of an unknown concoction began to dance. It shook and grew as the liquid almost seemed to come alive with activity. The slimy substance lurched out of the trench, grabbing forth at cool stone as it dragged itself from the channel.
Frost slimes split apart, forming individual entities numbering well into the dozens. Each voluminous blob stood at roughly two feet in height and less than half that in width. They climbed from their resting place, clinging to the floor as they started to crawl toward the nearest living things. Compelled to snuff out the heat in their warm bodies, those icy demons came at them from all sides.
Some clung to the pillars and walls, ascending into the air so that they could leap at the party from above. Others formed grotesque, makeshift limbs from their opaque bodies, using them tear off their own liquid flesh and using those slime balls as projectiles. Wherever they roamed, the slimes left a trail of frost and ice in their wake. Ice that seemed to be spreading independent of the slimes' movements, covering the floor in a slippery obstacle that made moving in certain areas quite difficult for those intrepid heroes.
"Everybody form up!" Graves screamed above the roar of the wind, his throat raw as his heart pounded in his bared chest. They were surrounded on all sides by enemies that would be an absolute bitch to fight with physical attacks. The amount of maneuverable space was quickly drying up as ice formed throughout the room. Worst of all, however, was the frigid air clinging to his pants. "Back to back, make a circle! And for Christ sake, Red, start frying these assholes!"
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H E L V E T E
The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD
Dry lungs that had not tasted the noxious air in decades were suddenly and violently filled. Desperate intakes of the putrid atmosphere pumped into that ragged body, dragging it kicking and screaming back into the violated world of the living. Rebirth was not a gentle thing for Helvete Solon. It was not the spawning of a new life but rather the rejection of one's peace in the afterlife, forcing it back into a damned plane of existence that it did not wish to live in.
Helvete's bloodshot eyes snapped open as he took in another deep, choking breath. There was a pressure on top of him. Something keeping him from drawing in a full breath that made Helvete panic. In that brief moment of terror, Solon let out a horrific, bestial roar. A sound so ferocious and inhuman that one would never expect it left the lips of a man. He thrashed against the carcasses of long dead man-things, rolling one over his grim-caked face so that it's broken body was dashed against a nearby flesh mound. Solon struggled against his lifeless adversaries, fighting tooth and nail to free himself from that prison of corpses that pinned him down.
In that brief rage, Solon felt the visceral phantom pain of his final moments. That strike of a spear in his heart played within his soul and within his gut. Like some psychotic theater production of the mind, Helvete saw the flames that consumed him right down to the seared marrow. The bodies piled atop him brought back brutal memories of chains and ropes pulling down on his limbs, pinning him in place as an awful play was acted out on his ravaged form.
These memories appeared for but a few, precious seconds. They faded when Helvete managed to wriggle himself free, his lungs allowed to suck in panic-ridden breaths once again. The blessing of freedom allowed Solon to calm his raging heart. Helvete rose into a crouch, his fingers grasping at a rotting woman's hair for support. No longer in danger of suffocating, he could finally take note of his surroundings.
This...this was not his home.
There were no trees. No grass, no fields, no animals. No chirping of the song bird and no lapping of river waters over cool stones. Fields of colorful flowers and rolling hills were replaced by crucified bodies and piles of the dead that reached into the sky. High walls of stone surrounded Solon on every side. Solon immediately felt a rush of anxiety and claustrophobia. The stench of excrement and rotting flesh made Helvete's guts churn, and he felt a distinct desire to vomit. No food rose up in his throat to join the hot, acidic bile that Helvete choked back down.
"What is this place-space?" The druid whispered, his voice cracking.
Other sounds reverberated off the walls and knolls of mortal remains. More voices, much like his own. Solon was not the only thing alive in that hellscape. Instead of a rush of joy at this revelation, all he felt was fear and terror. It was a deeply rooted instinct. "Man-things." He muttered quietly. Deciding it was best to retreat, Solon slowly climbed down the pile of corpses he had awoken on. Nearly slipping several times, it took the crouching forest dweller some time to reach a more stable ground. The 'floor' of more tightly packed dead was easier to traverse.
There, at the bottom of his mountain of carcasses, Helvete found something strangely familiar. A pulsating light, hidden underneath a blown out torso. Swiftly he reached down into the pooled blood, grasping the source of the light. It was sharp and hard, like a jagged rock. Solon tugged at it and found that it was firmly stuck in place. The energy that radiated through his hand on contact with it only enhanced Helvete's curiosity. Glancing about in search of dreaded man-things, Solon began to dig. He drug away bodies and broke at flesh and bone until he had cleared away the surrounding rubbish from his desired object.
It was a dull green gemstone, broken and dirtied, and it looked to be attached to something. Helvete pulled the object from the ground, wrestling free a long, wooden staff. Seven feet in length and with a shaft darkened and seared by flames, Solon felt an odd comfort with it in his hands. A comfort, and...a power. Strength that his aged arms did not know filled his body. A singular word played in his mind as he looked down at the tool. "Oakheart..." The staff's name, perhaps? An incantation of some sort? Or was that his name? Solon was entirely unsure.
His gaze drifted back to the pit he had dug out. Another object had been knocked free from the tightly packed sea of cadavers. Helvete inspected the satchel. The leather was worn and stained with blood, and several holes dotted it's surface. Rummaging through the pack, he found shards of broken glass and- oddly enough- birdseed scattered about inside of it. Two vials of the seed remained intact, though the rest must've been shattered or lost.
As he began to empty the bag of useless things, Helvete discovered another item that piqued his interest. An amulet of silver, rusted and grimy, with a chain that looked like it had seen better days. Solon could make out what appeared to be letters upon it's surface, though they were too scratched and damaged to be made out. This item, like the staff before it, carried traces of power. It was far, far fainter within the necklace, however. Helvete drapped the satchel over his shoulder and the amulet about his neck, happy with his findings.
Now he needed to get out of here.
Helvete attempted to sneak around toward the exterior of the well, planning to search for an exit. His awkward, doubled over gait made for a slow and quiet crawl through the fields of fallen men. Fate's hand was as cruel as ever, however; for on his way forward, Solon found himself face to face with one of those man-things he had heard earlier.
He reacted quickly, bringing the pilfered staff around so that he could hold it defensively before him. "Stay away-back!" Solon hissed. "No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt bad, very bad."
Helvete's bloodshot eyes snapped open as he took in another deep, choking breath. There was a pressure on top of him. Something keeping him from drawing in a full breath that made Helvete panic. In that brief moment of terror, Solon let out a horrific, bestial roar. A sound so ferocious and inhuman that one would never expect it left the lips of a man. He thrashed against the carcasses of long dead man-things, rolling one over his grim-caked face so that it's broken body was dashed against a nearby flesh mound. Solon struggled against his lifeless adversaries, fighting tooth and nail to free himself from that prison of corpses that pinned him down.
In that brief rage, Solon felt the visceral phantom pain of his final moments. That strike of a spear in his heart played within his soul and within his gut. Like some psychotic theater production of the mind, Helvete saw the flames that consumed him right down to the seared marrow. The bodies piled atop him brought back brutal memories of chains and ropes pulling down on his limbs, pinning him in place as an awful play was acted out on his ravaged form.
These memories appeared for but a few, precious seconds. They faded when Helvete managed to wriggle himself free, his lungs allowed to suck in panic-ridden breaths once again. The blessing of freedom allowed Solon to calm his raging heart. Helvete rose into a crouch, his fingers grasping at a rotting woman's hair for support. No longer in danger of suffocating, he could finally take note of his surroundings.
This...this was not his home.
There were no trees. No grass, no fields, no animals. No chirping of the song bird and no lapping of river waters over cool stones. Fields of colorful flowers and rolling hills were replaced by crucified bodies and piles of the dead that reached into the sky. High walls of stone surrounded Solon on every side. Solon immediately felt a rush of anxiety and claustrophobia. The stench of excrement and rotting flesh made Helvete's guts churn, and he felt a distinct desire to vomit. No food rose up in his throat to join the hot, acidic bile that Helvete choked back down.
"What is this place-space?" The druid whispered, his voice cracking.
Other sounds reverberated off the walls and knolls of mortal remains. More voices, much like his own. Solon was not the only thing alive in that hellscape. Instead of a rush of joy at this revelation, all he felt was fear and terror. It was a deeply rooted instinct. "Man-things." He muttered quietly. Deciding it was best to retreat, Solon slowly climbed down the pile of corpses he had awoken on. Nearly slipping several times, it took the crouching forest dweller some time to reach a more stable ground. The 'floor' of more tightly packed dead was easier to traverse.
There, at the bottom of his mountain of carcasses, Helvete found something strangely familiar. A pulsating light, hidden underneath a blown out torso. Swiftly he reached down into the pooled blood, grasping the source of the light. It was sharp and hard, like a jagged rock. Solon tugged at it and found that it was firmly stuck in place. The energy that radiated through his hand on contact with it only enhanced Helvete's curiosity. Glancing about in search of dreaded man-things, Solon began to dig. He drug away bodies and broke at flesh and bone until he had cleared away the surrounding rubbish from his desired object.
It was a dull green gemstone, broken and dirtied, and it looked to be attached to something. Helvete pulled the object from the ground, wrestling free a long, wooden staff. Seven feet in length and with a shaft darkened and seared by flames, Solon felt an odd comfort with it in his hands. A comfort, and...a power. Strength that his aged arms did not know filled his body. A singular word played in his mind as he looked down at the tool. "Oakheart..." The staff's name, perhaps? An incantation of some sort? Or was that his name? Solon was entirely unsure.
His gaze drifted back to the pit he had dug out. Another object had been knocked free from the tightly packed sea of cadavers. Helvete inspected the satchel. The leather was worn and stained with blood, and several holes dotted it's surface. Rummaging through the pack, he found shards of broken glass and- oddly enough- birdseed scattered about inside of it. Two vials of the seed remained intact, though the rest must've been shattered or lost.
As he began to empty the bag of useless things, Helvete discovered another item that piqued his interest. An amulet of silver, rusted and grimy, with a chain that looked like it had seen better days. Solon could make out what appeared to be letters upon it's surface, though they were too scratched and damaged to be made out. This item, like the staff before it, carried traces of power. It was far, far fainter within the necklace, however. Helvete drapped the satchel over his shoulder and the amulet about his neck, happy with his findings.
Now he needed to get out of here.
Helvete attempted to sneak around toward the exterior of the well, planning to search for an exit. His awkward, doubled over gait made for a slow and quiet crawl through the fields of fallen men. Fate's hand was as cruel as ever, however; for on his way forward, Solon found himself face to face with one of those man-things he had heard earlier.
He reacted quickly, bringing the pilfered staff around so that he could hold it defensively before him. "Stay away-back!" Solon hissed. "No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt bad, very bad."
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H E L V E T E
The Well of Valdis
12th Day of Autumn, 1088 AD
It was soon made clear that many of the man-things had survived whatever massacre took place here. In a graveyard of unrelenting death there still stood a few too resilient to die. Helvete found little comfort in the appearance of several man-things, however. He knew not why, but merely to look upon them made his guts churn. Flickering embers in his belly flared red hot for reasons unfathomable to the druid. They could not be trusted. Nothing could- not in this blood-soaked pit of madness.
Helvete's pleas for nonviolence were answered by the tender, shaken voice of a younger woman. Her words offered some meager comfort in an otherwise terrifying situation. Surrounded by strange man-things and standing in a mass grave was enough to set anyone on edge, with Helvete's amnesia only compounding the bleakness of it all.
A terrible scar about her neck drew his agitated gaze, piquing a small bit of curiosity in him. 'Strange-weird,' Helvete quietly wondered,'Would kill most man-things. Would kill this thing, too, yes-yes. How strange-weird indeed.'
"Ah...yes-yes..." He spoke in a slow drawl, still working to process all that was happening. "Very good. No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt very bad." He was glad to know that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Not from the people around him, at least. Someone had still tossed him into this place, and killed all of those man-things. Someone very bad.
As Solon was just managing to calm himself down, a mighty bellow slammed against his ears. A woman more akin to an angry oxen was screeching furiously from atop a mound of broken bodies. The angry cries of the obvious warrior caused Helvete to scamper backward in a low crouch, his body kept close to the ground as he brought his staff about before him. A wordless hiss was his only verbal response to the berserker's screams for answers. Not only because he found her dreadfully terrifying, but because the druid had no answers to give.
More man-things descended from the hills of corpses, all of them as confused as the last. No one seemed to have any idea where they were or why they were here. Five man-things and Helvete still breathed among the many hundreds of fallen.
Many questions, no answers; that was all they had.
A few had a determination to act, however. The only man man-thing that had joined them spoke rather strongly of escaping this dreaded pit of despair. Helvete was inclined to agree. The longer they spent here, the more likely they were to run into whatever monster-beast had tossed them in here.
The young woman with the scar about her neck wasn't so keen to leave right away, however. She wished to stay and search for more survivors among the dead. Solon was of a split mind on that one. On one hand, Helvete felt a strong desire to agree with her. Staying and searching for at least a short while sounded like the right thing to do. Yet, on the other hand, Solon was afraid of what they might encounter if they lingered here for too long. It was not an easy choice to make, so he stayed quiet, allowing the rest to speak their minds first.
Before that discussion came, however, another spoke up. The one that Helvete had seen conversing with the neck scar woman before he had scampered into view. She thought it wise for them to introduce themselves before they continued. Knowing the names of his temporary companions sounded like a good idea. It would make it simpler to address them, when the need arose.
"You don't remember-recall either, man-thing?" His brow shot up as Syrenia mentioned that she was suffering from the same amnesia that afflicted Helvete. "Strange-odd. Very strange-odd indeed." The old man muttered to himself, a hand letting up off the floor to run through his stark white beard. "This thing is Helvete." He shifted his hand down to beat against his chest. "I am one with the Wood. Very good-great with Forest magic, yes-yes." Solon proudly proclaimed. That was something he had felt the moment his fingers wrapped about Oakheart. It was a part of him. He could feel it's presence radiating through his very marrow, filling him with power.
Helvete's pleas for nonviolence were answered by the tender, shaken voice of a younger woman. Her words offered some meager comfort in an otherwise terrifying situation. Surrounded by strange man-things and standing in a mass grave was enough to set anyone on edge, with Helvete's amnesia only compounding the bleakness of it all.
A terrible scar about her neck drew his agitated gaze, piquing a small bit of curiosity in him. 'Strange-weird,' Helvete quietly wondered,'Would kill most man-things. Would kill this thing, too, yes-yes. How strange-weird indeed.'
"Ah...yes-yes..." He spoke in a slow drawl, still working to process all that was happening. "Very good. No fight-hurt. Fight-hurt very bad." He was glad to know that he wasn't in any immediate danger. Not from the people around him, at least. Someone had still tossed him into this place, and killed all of those man-things. Someone very bad.
As Solon was just managing to calm himself down, a mighty bellow slammed against his ears. A woman more akin to an angry oxen was screeching furiously from atop a mound of broken bodies. The angry cries of the obvious warrior caused Helvete to scamper backward in a low crouch, his body kept close to the ground as he brought his staff about before him. A wordless hiss was his only verbal response to the berserker's screams for answers. Not only because he found her dreadfully terrifying, but because the druid had no answers to give.
More man-things descended from the hills of corpses, all of them as confused as the last. No one seemed to have any idea where they were or why they were here. Five man-things and Helvete still breathed among the many hundreds of fallen.
Many questions, no answers; that was all they had.
A few had a determination to act, however. The only man man-thing that had joined them spoke rather strongly of escaping this dreaded pit of despair. Helvete was inclined to agree. The longer they spent here, the more likely they were to run into whatever monster-beast had tossed them in here.
The young woman with the scar about her neck wasn't so keen to leave right away, however. She wished to stay and search for more survivors among the dead. Solon was of a split mind on that one. On one hand, Helvete felt a strong desire to agree with her. Staying and searching for at least a short while sounded like the right thing to do. Yet, on the other hand, Solon was afraid of what they might encounter if they lingered here for too long. It was not an easy choice to make, so he stayed quiet, allowing the rest to speak their minds first.
Before that discussion came, however, another spoke up. The one that Helvete had seen conversing with the neck scar woman before he had scampered into view. She thought it wise for them to introduce themselves before they continued. Knowing the names of his temporary companions sounded like a good idea. It would make it simpler to address them, when the need arose.
"You don't remember-recall either, man-thing?" His brow shot up as Syrenia mentioned that she was suffering from the same amnesia that afflicted Helvete. "Strange-odd. Very strange-odd indeed." The old man muttered to himself, a hand letting up off the floor to run through his stark white beard. "This thing is Helvete." He shifted his hand down to beat against his chest. "I am one with the Wood. Very good-great with Forest magic, yes-yes." Solon proudly proclaimed. That was something he had felt the moment his fingers wrapped about Oakheart. It was a part of him. He could feel it's presence radiating through his very marrow, filling him with power.
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GENESIS PROJECT PERSONNEL DATABASE
MILITARY PERSONNEL RECORD ARCHIVE, LISTED UNDER PUBLIC INFORMATION BY ORDER OF THE UNITED EARTH COUNCIL
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NAME: ROSS, ELIJAH SEX: MALE D.O.B (DATE OF BIRTH): 10/10/2176 ETHNICITY: MIXED, CAUCASIAN-LATIN
P.O.B (PLACE OF BIRTH): ARCADIA, MARS P.O.R (PLACE OF RESIDENCE): ULROP STATION, EARTH ORBIT
MOTHER: ROSS, MELINDA (deceased) FATHER: ROSS, DANIEL (deceased) SIBLINGS: ROSS, LAUREL (age 38, botanist)
ENLISTMENT: ARCADIA CONSCRIPTION OFFICE (age 17) RANK: COMMANDER DEPLOYMENT: VITAE
LICENSES: FOR PILOTING CRUISER AND GUNSHIP CLASS VEHICLES
WARNING - THE DATA YOU ARE TRYING TO ACCESS IS RESTRICTED. ONLY THOSE WITH A VALID PASSCODE MAY ACCESS THIS PART OF THE FILE. PLEASE ENTER YOUR PASSCODE NOW.
INPUT PASSCODE:
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PASSCODE ACCEPTED
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MARTIAN UNITY NAVAL OFFICE
ARCADIA NAVAL STATION, MARS
9 September, 2203
DOCTOR CHEKHOV
GENESIS PROJECT
UNITED EARTH COUNCIL
Subj: LCDR ELIJAH ROSS
ARCADIA NAVAL STATION, MARS
9 September, 2203
DOCTOR CHEKHOV
GENESIS PROJECT
UNITED EARTH COUNCIL
Subj: LCDR ELIJAH ROSS
This is a formal letter of recommendation for the inclusion of Lieutenant Commander Elijah Ross in the Genesis Project. His skill at the helm of any ship cannot be overstated. He is an experienced commander of men that has proven himself to be unwavering in his bravery, even in the face of impossible odds. Those who have served with the man can attest to his effectiveness as a leader and strength of character. He has shown the ability to instill loyalty and discipline in his crew through a strong, commanding presence intermixed with compassion and understanding.
The Lieutenant Commander served humanity faithfully during both the Battle of Ceres and the Battle of Mars. At Ceres, the Lieutenant Commander elected to remain behind with with the Fleeters longer than the rest of the Unity relief fleet. His cruiser was the last to evacuate with the escaping personnel transports, managing to escape the Devastators by the skin of their teeth. Ross's risk was calculated, however- he knew that his ship could survive because he trusted in his own skill at the helm.
In the Battle of Mars, Elijah Ross and his crew held the line alongside the rest of the Martian fleet. He positioned himself aggressively to defend the orbital defense satellites from encroaching alien vessels for as long as his ship was able. Many crucial shots were fired off by the satellites because of Ross's bravery and intelligent maneuvering. Most impressive, however, was the fact that Ross did not sacrifice himself, his ship or any of his crewmen during this operation- Ross pulled back just in time to allow himself to continue to stay in the fight.
It is due to these many shining qualities that the office of Rear Admiral Holder formally requests that the Lieutenant Commander is brought on to work with your project. We need men like him if we want to survive this.
The Lieutenant Commander served humanity faithfully during both the Battle of Ceres and the Battle of Mars. At Ceres, the Lieutenant Commander elected to remain behind with with the Fleeters longer than the rest of the Unity relief fleet. His cruiser was the last to evacuate with the escaping personnel transports, managing to escape the Devastators by the skin of their teeth. Ross's risk was calculated, however- he knew that his ship could survive because he trusted in his own skill at the helm.
In the Battle of Mars, Elijah Ross and his crew held the line alongside the rest of the Martian fleet. He positioned himself aggressively to defend the orbital defense satellites from encroaching alien vessels for as long as his ship was able. Many crucial shots were fired off by the satellites because of Ross's bravery and intelligent maneuvering. Most impressive, however, was the fact that Ross did not sacrifice himself, his ship or any of his crewmen during this operation- Ross pulled back just in time to allow himself to continue to stay in the fight.
It is due to these many shining qualities that the office of Rear Admiral Holder formally requests that the Lieutenant Commander is brought on to work with your project. We need men like him if we want to survive this.
Sincerely,
Vice Admiral Jessica Holder
Captain of the Valiant
Office of Naval Command
Vice Admiral Jessica Holder
Captain of the Valiant
Office of Naval Command
With all due respect Doctor Chekhov, I don't know what the hell you're thinking by bringing this guy in, but it's a mistake. I mean, you've seen the file, haven't you? I know he's supposed to be some kind of Martian war hero and all, but...for Christ's sake. Just look at this.
His lungs are practically falling apart! He has to lug around a respirator unit everywhere he goes because he can barely breathe on his own. Maybe that would be fine on it's own, but that leg of his is barely functioning as it is and he refuses to get it amputated for a prosthetic. We don't have a lot of room on these ships. Is there really nobody else out there who can take this guy's place? Yeah, I get it. Martian Command has a huge boner for the guy. And his service was admirable. But can we really afford to be spending valuable medicine and tech just to keep him from keeling over on us?
RE: On the Commander's health
I understand your concerns, Marcus, and I share quite a few of them as well. But my hands are tied. We received an official letter of recommendation from the Martian Unity government. Do you know how much trouble I'd get into if I told them no? This E-Mail simply existing might be enough to get the two of us fired. No, he's going on-board the Vitae. The arrangements have already been made and I'm supposed to contact him in the morning.
Just make sure we have those prototypes on hand when he gets here in a week, alright? He's going to need that leg brace and the respirator pack if he wants to survive out in space.
And for God's sake, Marcus, show a little decorum. The guy almost died fighting the Devastators for guys like us.
His lungs are practically falling apart! He has to lug around a respirator unit everywhere he goes because he can barely breathe on his own. Maybe that would be fine on it's own, but that leg of his is barely functioning as it is and he refuses to get it amputated for a prosthetic. We don't have a lot of room on these ships. Is there really nobody else out there who can take this guy's place? Yeah, I get it. Martian Command has a huge boner for the guy. And his service was admirable. But can we really afford to be spending valuable medicine and tech just to keep him from keeling over on us?
Sincerely,
Doctor Marcus
Doctor Marcus
RE: On the Commander's health
I understand your concerns, Marcus, and I share quite a few of them as well. But my hands are tied. We received an official letter of recommendation from the Martian Unity government. Do you know how much trouble I'd get into if I told them no? This E-Mail simply existing might be enough to get the two of us fired. No, he's going on-board the Vitae. The arrangements have already been made and I'm supposed to contact him in the morning.
Just make sure we have those prototypes on hand when he gets here in a week, alright? He's going to need that leg brace and the respirator pack if he wants to survive out in space.
And for God's sake, Marcus, show a little decorum. The guy almost died fighting the Devastators for guys like us.
Sincerely,
Doctor Chekhov
Doctor Chekhov
REQUISITION OFFICE
THE VITAE
TO: CDR ELIJAH ROSS
We have successfully transported the requested items you wanted from your home on Ulrop Station. Below is a list of the requisitioned items. If anything is missing or if some kind of mistake has been made, please inform us so that it may he rectified shortly.
Here are the items we acquired:
One 125 gal. terrestrial aquarium
Several fish of varying species
Two six ft. bookshelves
Several hardback books
Three environment screens
One virtual reality headset
One personal computer
Several decorative Chinese box lamps
One indoor flowerbed
Several artificial sun lamps
One archaic watering can
If you have any questions, please forward them to this account. Thank you for your service.
THE VITAE
TO: CDR ELIJAH ROSS
Greetings Commander,
We have successfully transported the requested items you wanted from your home on Ulrop Station. Below is a list of the requisitioned items. If anything is missing or if some kind of mistake has been made, please inform us so that it may he rectified shortly.
Here are the items we acquired:
One 125 gal. terrestrial aquarium
Several fish of varying species
Two six ft. bookshelves
Several hardback books
Three environment screens
One virtual reality headset
One personal computer
Several decorative Chinese box lamps
One indoor flowerbed
Several artificial sun lamps
One archaic watering can
If you have any questions, please forward them to this account. Thank you for your service.
Cordially,
REQUISITION OFFICE
THE VITAE
REQUISITION OFFICE
THE VITAE
Mars Planetary Television News logo flashes across the screen as the program begins. Commander Ross is shown sitting in his study on the right, while the interviewer, Dana Kelly, sits at her desk in the studio to the left. Ross is in full dress uniform.
Kelly smiles at the camera.
KELLY: Welcome back, everyone. I'd like to introduce you all to MPTV News's latest guest, Commander Elijah Ross of the Mars Unity Navy! How're you doing today, Commander?
ROSS: Please, Miss Kelly, call me Elijah. I'm doing great today, thanks for asking.
KELLY: Elijah it is, then! For our audience at home- why don't you tell us a little about yourself, Elijah?
ROSS: Of course. Well, as has been said already, my name is Elijah Ross and I am a Commander in the Unity Navy. I was born and raised in Arcadia. My father was an ice miner and my mother was a botanist in our local hydroponics garden. Since my father was away on expeditions most of the time, I spent my days learning to cultivate plants in mineral solutions. I'm sure we all know what that's like.
Ross and Kelly share a laugh.
KELLY: And when did you decide you wanted to make a career in the Navy, Elijah?
ROSS: Oh, my. I think I was about nineteen or so at the time when it really hit me. Met the desk sergeant that changed my life forever when he really helped...put my life into perspective. The sergeant couldn't go off world anymore, ya see. He lost his legs in combat so they put him behind a desk. I saw that and decided right then and there that I didn't want to waste my life staying in one place.
KELLY: W-what do you mean?
Kelly appears to be nervous.
ROSS: Y'know, most people'll tell ya they went military because they wanted to serve their planet, or help people. Most of the time that's just hogwash.
Ross chuckles. Kelly looks confused
KELLY: I'm...sorry, sir, hogwash?
ROSS: Ahh, my apologies. It means nonsense. Real old school slang from back when the United States was still around. What I mean is, a lot of the time, kids like me picked that job because we just wanted to get away. You spend your whole life in one place for so long that you start to get anxious to move. TO go somewhere. Cheapest way to travel is the Navy. Nineteen year old me would laugh at ya or call you crazy if you told him where he'd end up as an old man.
KELLY: Hell of a time to stick with it just to travel, don't you think? With war on the horizon and all that?
ROSS: Ahh, yeah. Truth be told I wasn't paying too much attention to the news in those days. I heard about the Cold War sometimes, but the reality of it didn't really hit me until we started doing the orbital bombardment drills at the academy. It was scary, I won't lie to ya.
KELLY: But that didn't stop you, did it?
ROSS: Almost did. But...well. I was about as stubborn then as I am now. Wasn't going to let some interplanetary war stop me from seeing the stars.
KELLY: And...where were you when the Devastators first attacked?
ROSS: The mess hall in the super carrier I was station on at the time, the Relentless. It was lunchtime. They were serving meat and potatoes again. The klaxons went off, red lights started flashing. The droning voice over the intercom told us that the Citadel had come under attack by unknown forces. Everyone I knew that it was pirates. The return of the Scourge, they called it. I wish.
KELLY: Wow. And you were part of the first task force the Unity sent to Ceres, correct?
ROSS: I was. I was commanding a Destroyer at the time, the Benevolence. At the time we still didn't know they were aliens, just an unidentified fleet that had torn it's way across the system and was making for Ceres. Fleeters had asked everyone for help. Only Mars answered. I didn't understand what we were facing until I saw their ships with my own two eyes. They were...inhuman. Never seen anything like it.
KELLY: What was it like fighting them?
Ross is silent for several seconds, his expression shifting into a hardened grimace.
ROSS: Hell.
--The rest of the broadcast has been deleted due to containing potentially damaging information. Anyone in possession of the rest of this transcript is to present it and themselves to UEC authorities at once for questioning.--
Kelly smiles at the camera.
KELLY: Welcome back, everyone. I'd like to introduce you all to MPTV News's latest guest, Commander Elijah Ross of the Mars Unity Navy! How're you doing today, Commander?
ROSS: Please, Miss Kelly, call me Elijah. I'm doing great today, thanks for asking.
KELLY: Elijah it is, then! For our audience at home- why don't you tell us a little about yourself, Elijah?
ROSS: Of course. Well, as has been said already, my name is Elijah Ross and I am a Commander in the Unity Navy. I was born and raised in Arcadia. My father was an ice miner and my mother was a botanist in our local hydroponics garden. Since my father was away on expeditions most of the time, I spent my days learning to cultivate plants in mineral solutions. I'm sure we all know what that's like.
Ross and Kelly share a laugh.
KELLY: And when did you decide you wanted to make a career in the Navy, Elijah?
ROSS: Oh, my. I think I was about nineteen or so at the time when it really hit me. Met the desk sergeant that changed my life forever when he really helped...put my life into perspective. The sergeant couldn't go off world anymore, ya see. He lost his legs in combat so they put him behind a desk. I saw that and decided right then and there that I didn't want to waste my life staying in one place.
KELLY: W-what do you mean?
Kelly appears to be nervous.
ROSS: Y'know, most people'll tell ya they went military because they wanted to serve their planet, or help people. Most of the time that's just hogwash.
Ross chuckles. Kelly looks confused
KELLY: I'm...sorry, sir, hogwash?
ROSS: Ahh, my apologies. It means nonsense. Real old school slang from back when the United States was still around. What I mean is, a lot of the time, kids like me picked that job because we just wanted to get away. You spend your whole life in one place for so long that you start to get anxious to move. TO go somewhere. Cheapest way to travel is the Navy. Nineteen year old me would laugh at ya or call you crazy if you told him where he'd end up as an old man.
KELLY: Hell of a time to stick with it just to travel, don't you think? With war on the horizon and all that?
ROSS: Ahh, yeah. Truth be told I wasn't paying too much attention to the news in those days. I heard about the Cold War sometimes, but the reality of it didn't really hit me until we started doing the orbital bombardment drills at the academy. It was scary, I won't lie to ya.
KELLY: But that didn't stop you, did it?
ROSS: Almost did. But...well. I was about as stubborn then as I am now. Wasn't going to let some interplanetary war stop me from seeing the stars.
KELLY: And...where were you when the Devastators first attacked?
ROSS: The mess hall in the super carrier I was station on at the time, the Relentless. It was lunchtime. They were serving meat and potatoes again. The klaxons went off, red lights started flashing. The droning voice over the intercom told us that the Citadel had come under attack by unknown forces. Everyone I knew that it was pirates. The return of the Scourge, they called it. I wish.
KELLY: Wow. And you were part of the first task force the Unity sent to Ceres, correct?
ROSS: I was. I was commanding a Destroyer at the time, the Benevolence. At the time we still didn't know they were aliens, just an unidentified fleet that had torn it's way across the system and was making for Ceres. Fleeters had asked everyone for help. Only Mars answered. I didn't understand what we were facing until I saw their ships with my own two eyes. They were...inhuman. Never seen anything like it.
KELLY: What was it like fighting them?
Ross is silent for several seconds, his expression shifting into a hardened grimace.
ROSS: Hell.
--The rest of the broadcast has been deleted due to containing potentially damaging information. Anyone in possession of the rest of this transcript is to present it and themselves to UEC authorities at once for questioning.--
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The thunderous footfalls of the Wolfhound's iron boots reverberated within the cockpit. Each stomp shook the interior, jostling it's pilot in his seat as he held fast to the controls. "Damned shock absorbers are acting up again." Han Bjornson grumbled to himself, his guttural accent betraying the frustrations he felt.
When the opportunity to work with experimental mechs, Lostech and cutting edge technology presented itself back at the Nagelring, Han had jumped on it. It sounded like a great way to familiarize himself with the weapons of the future while potentially building his standing within the military. On paper, it sounded like a good idea.
Then he climbed into the cockpit of a Wolfhound with faulty shock absorbers.
Bjornson dropped a hand from the accelerator. "Come on, girl. Don't give me this." He growled, slamming a fist down on the console. The sub-systems screen flickered, and the cockpit's shaking ceased as the shock absorbers stabilized. It was only a temporary fix. If history was anything to go by they'd fail the moment it was least convenient. "Better than nothing." Han sighed, moving his gloved fist back to grasp the accelerator.
Captain Hart's voice filtered through the neurohelmet that sat on Bjornson's shoulders. Static intermingled with the Davion's orders, making it difficult to understand. Thankfully his orders were simple, and didn't require precise wording. Bjornson was to proceed forward, heading in the direction of grid 5B5D along with the other ground pounders. Han pressed down on the radio transmitter button, letting his own voice filter through the mech's comm system. "Understood, sir. I'm taking point."
Han eased forward on the accelerator, so as to give the shock absorbers adequate time to adjust to the increase in footfalls. He sped the mech up, pushing it until the Wolfhound hit it's full stride. He adored the speed that the light mech was capable of. The sheer momentum of it gave Han a sense of power as he sat at it's controls, guiding that massive hull of steel across the dusty desert floor.
Out of all the mechs, Han's Wolfhound had the fastest foot speed. Clocking in at over ninety seven kilometers an hour, the WLF-1 was the easy choice for a lead unit. It was fitting that Bjornson had been assigned to it, then, considering the fact that he was far and away the most disciplined of the cadets. Han had never flinched away from danger, and he had never disobeyed an order- unlike some of the other less obedient delinquents he was working with.
His gaze flickered over to the series of displays tied to the Beagle Active Probe that had been fitted within his left arm. Han's attention lingered on the static-ridden image of the lance's Griffin. It's pilot was the first to come to mind when the word delinquent flashed across his mind. The second was at the helm of the Wolverine displayed just to the right of the Griffin.
Cadets Rall and Von Wulfhart were as reckless as they came. Han silently prayed they'd keep themselves in check until the exercises were over so that he could practice in peace without incident. For some reason, the Rasalhague halfbreed got the feeling that wouldn't be the case.
Han was supposed to be practicing his in-combat maneuvering today. His piloting skills were sharp, but Bjornson still had trouble aiming while still maintaining a good speed. Instead of practicing vital Mechwarrior skills, however, Han and his lance were tasked with playing security escort for an engineer detachment looking to fix a regional sensor net. It was a frustratingly mundane and unnecessary duty. Who was going to attack those engineers all the way out here? The only potential threat were pirates, but no raider with half a brain would go up against a world so heavily garrisoned. Han just felt like he could be doing so much more with his time in a mech like this one.
Sighing, Bjornson shook it off. He wasn't going to openly complain about an assignment; that was unbecoming of someone of his position. A soldier obeyed his orders without question, and a nobleman did not whine. He focused his attention on the task at hand, boring as it may be. He kept the Wolfhound moving at full speed, letting himself get ahead of the rest of the unit a ways. His sensors weren't picking up anything out of the ordinary- not that he was expecting them to all the way out here. The worst the Probe could potentially find was a dust storm sweeping in, but even that would just be an inconvenience for them. There was no real practice to be had here outside of moving in standard formation. All he could see were rock formations and red dust for miles.
His impatience got the better of him. Han reached over and switched on the transmitter again. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?" Bjornson asked, wondering more about how long they would actually be out here than how the task itself was coming along. He really should've considered keeping something to do in his cockpit for missions like this. Maybe a book, or something to fiddle with...
When the opportunity to work with experimental mechs, Lostech and cutting edge technology presented itself back at the Nagelring, Han had jumped on it. It sounded like a great way to familiarize himself with the weapons of the future while potentially building his standing within the military. On paper, it sounded like a good idea.
Then he climbed into the cockpit of a Wolfhound with faulty shock absorbers.
Bjornson dropped a hand from the accelerator. "Come on, girl. Don't give me this." He growled, slamming a fist down on the console. The sub-systems screen flickered, and the cockpit's shaking ceased as the shock absorbers stabilized. It was only a temporary fix. If history was anything to go by they'd fail the moment it was least convenient. "Better than nothing." Han sighed, moving his gloved fist back to grasp the accelerator.
Captain Hart's voice filtered through the neurohelmet that sat on Bjornson's shoulders. Static intermingled with the Davion's orders, making it difficult to understand. Thankfully his orders were simple, and didn't require precise wording. Bjornson was to proceed forward, heading in the direction of grid 5B5D along with the other ground pounders. Han pressed down on the radio transmitter button, letting his own voice filter through the mech's comm system. "Understood, sir. I'm taking point."
Han eased forward on the accelerator, so as to give the shock absorbers adequate time to adjust to the increase in footfalls. He sped the mech up, pushing it until the Wolfhound hit it's full stride. He adored the speed that the light mech was capable of. The sheer momentum of it gave Han a sense of power as he sat at it's controls, guiding that massive hull of steel across the dusty desert floor.
Out of all the mechs, Han's Wolfhound had the fastest foot speed. Clocking in at over ninety seven kilometers an hour, the WLF-1 was the easy choice for a lead unit. It was fitting that Bjornson had been assigned to it, then, considering the fact that he was far and away the most disciplined of the cadets. Han had never flinched away from danger, and he had never disobeyed an order- unlike some of the other less obedient delinquents he was working with.
His gaze flickered over to the series of displays tied to the Beagle Active Probe that had been fitted within his left arm. Han's attention lingered on the static-ridden image of the lance's Griffin. It's pilot was the first to come to mind when the word delinquent flashed across his mind. The second was at the helm of the Wolverine displayed just to the right of the Griffin.
Cadets Rall and Von Wulfhart were as reckless as they came. Han silently prayed they'd keep themselves in check until the exercises were over so that he could practice in peace without incident. For some reason, the Rasalhague halfbreed got the feeling that wouldn't be the case.
Han was supposed to be practicing his in-combat maneuvering today. His piloting skills were sharp, but Bjornson still had trouble aiming while still maintaining a good speed. Instead of practicing vital Mechwarrior skills, however, Han and his lance were tasked with playing security escort for an engineer detachment looking to fix a regional sensor net. It was a frustratingly mundane and unnecessary duty. Who was going to attack those engineers all the way out here? The only potential threat were pirates, but no raider with half a brain would go up against a world so heavily garrisoned. Han just felt like he could be doing so much more with his time in a mech like this one.
Sighing, Bjornson shook it off. He wasn't going to openly complain about an assignment; that was unbecoming of someone of his position. A soldier obeyed his orders without question, and a nobleman did not whine. He focused his attention on the task at hand, boring as it may be. He kept the Wolfhound moving at full speed, letting himself get ahead of the rest of the unit a ways. His sensors weren't picking up anything out of the ordinary- not that he was expecting them to all the way out here. The worst the Probe could potentially find was a dust storm sweeping in, but even that would just be an inconvenience for them. There was no real practice to be had here outside of moving in standard formation. All he could see were rock formations and red dust for miles.
His impatience got the better of him. Han reached over and switched on the transmitter again. "Captain, if I may, how far are we from the sensor network?" Bjornson asked, wondering more about how long they would actually be out here than how the task itself was coming along. He really should've considered keeping something to do in his cockpit for missions like this. Maybe a book, or something to fiddle with...
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
Member
Seen
1 day ago
Sticks And Stones
I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.
Science Fantasy - Post-Apocalypse - Adventure - Political Intrigue
Crumbling towers of rusted steel and broken glass reach high into the heavens, standing as stark sentinels of a bygone age. Chariots with wheels of rubber and chassis of broken iron fill unwalked roads, and cities of impossible construction stretch for miles upon miles- empty of any signs of life. Save, of course, for the Broken. Those terrible creatures of fang and claw that crawl in the darkest corners of the old world, their hives nestled in the tall towers and under the bridges of stone. Only the bravest knights or the most desperate adventurers would dare to invade the lands of the Broken, and a scarce few of them ever return.
No one remembers what destroyed the world. Perhaps it was a war that encompassed every nation and every people, where weapons of incredible destructive power were unleashed, and everything was wiped out. Perhaps disease, unknowable and incurable, spread about the land and wrought the hand of death on all that drew breath. Or perhaps it was the arrival of the Broken that claimed the lives of the Before Men. Or maybe it was none of these things. By some awful chance, it could be a combination of all of them. No one knows for sure. Even the eldest scribes and the most traveled storytellers only know tiny pieces of what the old world was like. Wild tales of fantasy had intermingled with the truth down the ages, deluding what was known with stories of ancient powers and cruel gods.
It's rebirth is similarly surrounded in a veil of mystery. It is known that all life came to an end, but something...something brought it back. Some unknown force reached down into the radiation-ridden muck of the earth and dragged forth the next generation of men. It pressed into their unbeating chests the power that would forever change the world: Magic. A gift barely understood by those that wield it, magic was the only thing that kept man alive. It cut through the darkness, drove off the beasts that nipped at man's heels, gathered people together and allowed them to climb out from the pits of hell that their ancestors had damned them to so long ago.
As man rose up, no longer concerned with monsters and beasts, it turned on itself. Tribes wrestled for dominance over their fellow man. They fought with club and rock, spear and arrow. They made war over resources as simple as food, water and land. It was a time of darkness as brother turned against brother. But through death, through conflict, came life. From the fires of hate came out a race forged stalwart and unbreakable. Mankind was able to recreate, to rebuild what was lost so long ago. War had forced them to erect palisades around their camps. Tents were replaced by permanent structures. In the never ending search for better tools to destroy other tribes, they had rediscovered metalworking and masonry. And as the years passed, permanent settlements began to dot the land once more. They became cities. Soon cities and tribes interwove, putting down sword and spear in favor of trade and friendship- and nations were formed. And from those early nations rose up kingdoms that would stand the test of time.
No one remembers what destroyed the world. Perhaps it was a war that encompassed every nation and every people, where weapons of incredible destructive power were unleashed, and everything was wiped out. Perhaps disease, unknowable and incurable, spread about the land and wrought the hand of death on all that drew breath. Or perhaps it was the arrival of the Broken that claimed the lives of the Before Men. Or maybe it was none of these things. By some awful chance, it could be a combination of all of them. No one knows for sure. Even the eldest scribes and the most traveled storytellers only know tiny pieces of what the old world was like. Wild tales of fantasy had intermingled with the truth down the ages, deluding what was known with stories of ancient powers and cruel gods.
It's rebirth is similarly surrounded in a veil of mystery. It is known that all life came to an end, but something...something brought it back. Some unknown force reached down into the radiation-ridden muck of the earth and dragged forth the next generation of men. It pressed into their unbeating chests the power that would forever change the world: Magic. A gift barely understood by those that wield it, magic was the only thing that kept man alive. It cut through the darkness, drove off the beasts that nipped at man's heels, gathered people together and allowed them to climb out from the pits of hell that their ancestors had damned them to so long ago.
As man rose up, no longer concerned with monsters and beasts, it turned on itself. Tribes wrestled for dominance over their fellow man. They fought with club and rock, spear and arrow. They made war over resources as simple as food, water and land. It was a time of darkness as brother turned against brother. But through death, through conflict, came life. From the fires of hate came out a race forged stalwart and unbreakable. Mankind was able to recreate, to rebuild what was lost so long ago. War had forced them to erect palisades around their camps. Tents were replaced by permanent structures. In the never ending search for better tools to destroy other tribes, they had rediscovered metalworking and masonry. And as the years passed, permanent settlements began to dot the land once more. They became cities. Soon cities and tribes interwove, putting down sword and spear in favor of trade and friendship- and nations were formed. And from those early nations rose up kingdoms that would stand the test of time.
OOC Information
Welcome to Sticks And Stones, a far future Science Fantasy Roleplay set in what was once the United States. I will be your guide in your travels across this strange land wrought with danger, mystery and adventure. Here are a few things you should know about Sticks and Stones before we continue:
-If I were to give this RP a level, it'd be somewhere around High Casual.
-I'm looking for at least four adventurers to take up this quest, though I won't be putting a cap on the number of applicants unless things get absurd. My usual rule of thumb is the more the merrier, and I will more than likely keep the RP open even after we have started. It may be difficult to join in at certain points, but I will do my best to work everyone in.
-I'd like applicants to be in it for the long haul. Posts may come slower than in some other RPs since things like school, work, or other real life obligations can get in the way of writing. Anyone coming in should be prepared for that, and patience for your fellow writers is necessary. With that said, I'd like that we at least stay in contact so that everyone knows we're all still in the game. I ask that a weekly update is given, either in the form of a post or informing us that you won't be able to post this week. How we'll proceed when someone drops or if they have a long absence will be discussed when we come to it, though if you can't be active for a long amount of time your character may be skipped over so that the story can continue moving. A postless RP quickly becomes a dead one, after all.
-Length isn't too important to be, but substance is. All posts should offer something that others can react to or work off of. If your last post could be deleted and it wouldn't affect the scene in the slightest, something's gone wrong. In general one-liners or very short posts that offer little in the way of substance are frowned upon. Don't feel the need to rush out a short post. You've got at least a week to write one, after all!
-When we start out, everyone will be allowed one character. As things move forward this may change, but I would like for us to keep things small and laser focused when we first begin.
-General rules for the site and Roleplaying in general apply, obviously. Basically: smut/+18 situations are mandatory fade to black, treat everyone else involved in the game well, and don't power/meta/god game, and all that jazz. The RP will touch on mature themes like violence, and may go into detail, so just keep that in mind before applying.
-The beginning premise of Sticks And Stones is that we are a party of adventurers brought together by special order of the king. We will be sent into the remains of the city of Dallas in search of still-working artifacts from the old world.
-I'm looking for at least four adventurers to take up this quest, though I won't be putting a cap on the number of applicants unless things get absurd. My usual rule of thumb is the more the merrier, and I will more than likely keep the RP open even after we have started. It may be difficult to join in at certain points, but I will do my best to work everyone in.
-I'd like applicants to be in it for the long haul. Posts may come slower than in some other RPs since things like school, work, or other real life obligations can get in the way of writing. Anyone coming in should be prepared for that, and patience for your fellow writers is necessary. With that said, I'd like that we at least stay in contact so that everyone knows we're all still in the game. I ask that a weekly update is given, either in the form of a post or informing us that you won't be able to post this week. How we'll proceed when someone drops or if they have a long absence will be discussed when we come to it, though if you can't be active for a long amount of time your character may be skipped over so that the story can continue moving. A postless RP quickly becomes a dead one, after all.
-Length isn't too important to be, but substance is. All posts should offer something that others can react to or work off of. If your last post could be deleted and it wouldn't affect the scene in the slightest, something's gone wrong. In general one-liners or very short posts that offer little in the way of substance are frowned upon. Don't feel the need to rush out a short post. You've got at least a week to write one, after all!
-When we start out, everyone will be allowed one character. As things move forward this may change, but I would like for us to keep things small and laser focused when we first begin.
-General rules for the site and Roleplaying in general apply, obviously. Basically: smut/+18 situations are mandatory fade to black, treat everyone else involved in the game well, and don't power/meta/god game, and all that jazz. The RP will touch on mature themes like violence, and may go into detail, so just keep that in mind before applying.
-The beginning premise of Sticks And Stones is that we are a party of adventurers brought together by special order of the king. We will be sent into the remains of the city of Dallas in search of still-working artifacts from the old world.
The Setting/Worldbuilding
The known world is split into two parts: the Northland, and the Southland.
The Northland encompasses all of what is currently known as the continental United States of America. Most of the major kingdoms and nations exist within this sphere, and they via for control over it's lush and plentiful resources. While there are hundreds of smaller city states and dozens of minor nations, most of the politicking is centered around the five major powers.
Beyond the Northland are the Frozen Wastes, where Canada, Alaska and Greenland once were. There is little in the way of civilized life in the Frozen Wastes, with only a few tribes of hardy nomads daring to risk the arctic frost that has turned away weaker men. Some who live on the borders of the Frozen Wastes whisper of a large gathering of Wastefolk known as the Oathhorde. Supposedly they are made up of giants and beastmen with strange, monstrous appearances and a taste for human flesh, though no one has any real proof of their existence. They're a folk story as far as most of the world is concerned.
Of the five, the Kingdom of Dall is the oldest, it's lands stretching across what we know as Texas, Oklahoma and New Mexico. It has stood for centuries, it's high walls and unwavering people refusing to break under tides of time. Many a would-be conqueror has attempted to burn Dall to ash, but all have failed. It's current monarch is King Astius the Second. Though his family has not ruled Dall since it's inception, his line is the longest ruling, and for good reason. Astius, much like his ancestors, possesses a great deal of wisdom. He is a master diplomat and negotiator, ruling his people with a golden tongue that causes all to bend the knee before him. Dall is an state of artisans and craftsmen. Their works are strong, robust and long lasting, made with care and skill that no other people could hope to match. Through the trade of these goods, Dall has made itself one of the richest kingdoms in the world.
There exists a heavy class divide in Dall. To own a successful business in Dall, a prospective artisan must sign up for one of the many guilds dotted throughout the kingdom. A guild will take an artisans wares and distribute them to merchants or traders for sale. In turn, the guild takes a sizeable portion of the profits, which goes mostly to the pockets of the Guildmasters or Merchant Lords. The artisans and merchants themselves, despite doing almost all of the work, get pennies in comparison. Those without the skills to work in this system usually end up as Slaves or Bondsmen doing manual labor.
The Kingdom is not known for it's military might. Dall has defended itself all these years by calling upon it's many smaller allies and trade partners for aid in times of need. The number of mercenaries under Dall's banner far outweighs the meager number of 'official' soldiers of the crown, with that small garrison being almost entirely the Royal Guard that acts as the kings personal defense force.
There exists a heavy class divide in Dall. To own a successful business in Dall, a prospective artisan must sign up for one of the many guilds dotted throughout the kingdom. A guild will take an artisans wares and distribute them to merchants or traders for sale. In turn, the guild takes a sizeable portion of the profits, which goes mostly to the pockets of the Guildmasters or Merchant Lords. The artisans and merchants themselves, despite doing almost all of the work, get pennies in comparison. Those without the skills to work in this system usually end up as Slaves or Bondsmen doing manual labor.
The Kingdom is not known for it's military might. Dall has defended itself all these years by calling upon it's many smaller allies and trade partners for aid in times of need. The number of mercenaries under Dall's banner far outweighs the meager number of 'official' soldiers of the crown, with that small garrison being almost entirely the Royal Guard that acts as the kings personal defense force.
Acting as an almost direct inversion of the Kingdom of Dall, the youngest of the nations is also one of the farthest reaching. From the frozen north in New York all the way down to the humid swamps of Louisiana, the Delphian Empire exploded onto the scene less than one hundred years ago. It's ruler, Empress Ramiel Cinders, murdered her aging father in a trial by combat to take the throne. Their 'culture,' if one can call it that, can be summed up with the empire's official motto: 'aut vincere aut mori'- Either to conquer or to die. They seek victory through any means. Life in Delphia is cutthroat and cruel. You either drag yourself up the proverbial social ladder or you allow yourself to fall into poverty.
Exploitation of those beneath oneself in social status is the norm. Murder and thievery is frighteningly common. From the poor beating his neighbor to death for their coin all the way up to the nobleman embezzling funds and having his competition assassinated, Delphian culture uplifts the strong and dashes the weak against the stones. It's armies are massive. Poorly equipped warriors in the thousands flood into unprepared city-states and small nations so that their more powerful superiors can ride in on the backs of the dead and collect the spoils for themselves.
While many lambaste Delphia for it's endless taste for conquest, the Empire is surprisingly lax as an occupier. It's rule is distant and rarely felt. Taxes are light and military service is entirely optional. It's one of the few sovereign states in the known world to have totally outlawed slavery, the nobles seeing it as repugnant for the strong to rely on the weak. Delphians see themselves as liberating the people living under the yolk of harsh monarchies and backwards tribal traditions. There is no other nation where one has the opportunity and the freedom for growth like in Delphia.
Exploitation of those beneath oneself in social status is the norm. Murder and thievery is frighteningly common. From the poor beating his neighbor to death for their coin all the way up to the nobleman embezzling funds and having his competition assassinated, Delphian culture uplifts the strong and dashes the weak against the stones. It's armies are massive. Poorly equipped warriors in the thousands flood into unprepared city-states and small nations so that their more powerful superiors can ride in on the backs of the dead and collect the spoils for themselves.
While many lambaste Delphia for it's endless taste for conquest, the Empire is surprisingly lax as an occupier. It's rule is distant and rarely felt. Taxes are light and military service is entirely optional. It's one of the few sovereign states in the known world to have totally outlawed slavery, the nobles seeing it as repugnant for the strong to rely on the weak. Delphians see themselves as liberating the people living under the yolk of harsh monarchies and backwards tribal traditions. There is no other nation where one has the opportunity and the freedom for growth like in Delphia.
Before Delphia's Second Ramiel Campaign, the largest nation in the Northland was unequivocally the Plainsmen Federation. The region from eastern Montana over to Ohio and down to Utah and Arkansas is known colloquially as the 'Plains,' and the people that live there, the Plainsmen. The Plainsmen were once a diverse and divided people, bickering over farm land, hunting ground and rights to access certain rivers and lakes. Their petty squabbles were interrupted when Empress Ramiel Cinders declared the First Ramiel Campaign, launching her invasion of the Plains. Her forces washed across the eastern Plains, crushing the tribes that did not bend the knee. The Uri, the Arkan, the Owa, and the Wisco tribes saw the armies marching from Delphia and decided that they would not survive unless they fought together. The four tribes united and on the banks of the Mispi River they held back the Delphian tide. Imperial forces were routed by their combined efforts, but only at the cost of many Plainsmen lives.
Though the Empire was defeated, they all knew victory was only temporary. Delphia would return, and in greater numbers, so they had to prepare. A call went out to every tribe in the Plains to gather in Uri, and most answered. There, at the Council of Uri, the Chieftains of the tribes forged a blood pact. They promised- on pain of death- that their tribes would come to the aid of one another whenever they were threatened by an outside force. On that day the Plainsmen Federation was born.
It couldn't last forever. A second military campaign was launched, and this time Delphia's generals were prepared. The unified resistance of the Plainsmen put up an excellent fight, and every battle of the war was extended and bloody. The campaign dragged on for many months, with the Empire managing to tear an inch of land from the Plainsmen at a time. It wasn't until winter hit, and the Empire found itself grinding against Fort Fairfield in modern day Kansas City, that a peace treaty was drafted.
The Plainsmen are best known for their tireless and robust horses, and their archers are regarded as having a near mythical accuracy. The plains have excellent farmland, with almost half of the wheat products consumed by Northerners coming from farms in the plains. Many Plainsmen tribes follow the traditions of old, acting as steppe nomads that travel across the steppes hunting and gathering from the wild land.
Though the Empire was defeated, they all knew victory was only temporary. Delphia would return, and in greater numbers, so they had to prepare. A call went out to every tribe in the Plains to gather in Uri, and most answered. There, at the Council of Uri, the Chieftains of the tribes forged a blood pact. They promised- on pain of death- that their tribes would come to the aid of one another whenever they were threatened by an outside force. On that day the Plainsmen Federation was born.
It couldn't last forever. A second military campaign was launched, and this time Delphia's generals were prepared. The unified resistance of the Plainsmen put up an excellent fight, and every battle of the war was extended and bloody. The campaign dragged on for many months, with the Empire managing to tear an inch of land from the Plainsmen at a time. It wasn't until winter hit, and the Empire found itself grinding against Fort Fairfield in modern day Kansas City, that a peace treaty was drafted.
The Plainsmen are best known for their tireless and robust horses, and their archers are regarded as having a near mythical accuracy. The plains have excellent farmland, with almost half of the wheat products consumed by Northerners coming from farms in the plains. Many Plainsmen tribes follow the traditions of old, acting as steppe nomads that travel across the steppes hunting and gathering from the wild land.
Once upon a time the Crown of Forn controlled the area around California, Nevada and Arizona. The region was peaceful, and prosperous. It's leaders fair and compassionate. That was before the Faith Keepers arrived. They came as part of ordinary trade caravans, spreading the word of the 'Faith.' Like a wildfire, their beliefs spread. People were captivated by their miracles and displays of divine might. Their followers were zealous and devout. They saw the 'decadence' of Forn and sought to purge it clean. Violent revolts ensued across the kingdom, and the king's head was chopped from his shoulders while his family was burned to be cleansed by fire for their sins. It was a violent affair that brought about the Priestdom. No one knows if the original orators of the Faith even planned for this. But when the wheels of fate began to turn, there was no stopping them.
The Priestdom founded it's holy fortress on the island of Alcatraz. Guarded by the hordes of Broken that inhabited the nearby urban rubble, none could cross the water without facing the holy pyre that came up from underneath. Not without the guidance of the Ferryman. The Faith Keepers have been in power for two hundred years, and things in Forn have changed. All citizens of the Priestdom are members of the church, paying tithe to the Faith Keepers for protection and eternal salvation. It's one of the safest places in the Northland with Keeper soldiers on every corner, with every loyal citizen willing to string up those that disturb their peace.
Far from an isolationist state, the Priestdom regularly sends out Missionaries in the thousands to spread the Faith to all corners of the known world. They speak of the Father and his holy fire with which he cleanses pure the evils of the world. They tell of prophecies of a second apocalypse if the world does not turn it's heart away from sin. And they glorify the name of the Father of Mankind, who washes all of his loyal children in divine bliss. All who worship the Father bear the mark of the faith: A burning key tattooed proudly upon one's forehead. This symbol is banned in both the Triumvirate and the Delphian Empire; any seen wearing it are turned away or arrested. Many missionaries have a black band that they wear about their heads to hide the symbol when entering areas where those of the Faith are persecuted.
The Priestdom founded it's holy fortress on the island of Alcatraz. Guarded by the hordes of Broken that inhabited the nearby urban rubble, none could cross the water without facing the holy pyre that came up from underneath. Not without the guidance of the Ferryman. The Faith Keepers have been in power for two hundred years, and things in Forn have changed. All citizens of the Priestdom are members of the church, paying tithe to the Faith Keepers for protection and eternal salvation. It's one of the safest places in the Northland with Keeper soldiers on every corner, with every loyal citizen willing to string up those that disturb their peace.
Far from an isolationist state, the Priestdom regularly sends out Missionaries in the thousands to spread the Faith to all corners of the known world. They speak of the Father and his holy fire with which he cleanses pure the evils of the world. They tell of prophecies of a second apocalypse if the world does not turn it's heart away from sin. And they glorify the name of the Father of Mankind, who washes all of his loyal children in divine bliss. All who worship the Father bear the mark of the faith: A burning key tattooed proudly upon one's forehead. This symbol is banned in both the Triumvirate and the Delphian Empire; any seen wearing it are turned away or arrested. Many missionaries have a black band that they wear about their heads to hide the symbol when entering areas where those of the Faith are persecuted.
For one of the largest nations in the North, the Triumvirate is shrouded in a surprising amount of secrecy and myth. Few know the exact date it was founded, or when the Triumvirs truly came to power. Those with that knowledge all live under the Law of No Tongue, wherein a Wizard from Salyia shall never divulge the mysteries of magic to a 'mundane.' The first records of outsiders contacting the Triumvirate came three and a half centuries ago, when a group of Plainsmen riders traveled further west than they ever had before. They encountered a strange man in a large brimmed hat who spoke not the common tongue. The man was said to speak three words: 'frigus odium pluviae', and the sky tore open, and half of the riders were turned to statues of ice.
Salyia has come a long way since that day. The Triumvirate, while still secretive, has chosen to open it's borders to foreigners. Certain areas are restricted to Triumvirate citizens only for fear of revealing too much, but beyond those high walls, Salyia openly trades and interacts with any who step foot in their beloved home. Salyia is a hub of magical artifacts, their items ranging from weak spell scrolls that help wheat grow to elixirs that can regrow missing limbs in mere hours. Their wares are some of the most sought after items in the world, behind the Old World treasures everyone so desperately craves. Many have marched on Salyia's gates to take it's magic for themselves. None have succeeded in piercing the inner defensive ring.
The Triumvirate is ruled by the three most powerful wizards in the nation, each coming from one of the three major Arcane Academies in the capital city of Olym. These wizards, thanks to their magic, can live upwards of two hundred years. Rumors abound as to whether or not the current Triumvirs are the founders, or if they succeeded the old guard long ago, but the three magicians are obviously ancient and powerful forces to be reckoned with.
Salyia has come a long way since that day. The Triumvirate, while still secretive, has chosen to open it's borders to foreigners. Certain areas are restricted to Triumvirate citizens only for fear of revealing too much, but beyond those high walls, Salyia openly trades and interacts with any who step foot in their beloved home. Salyia is a hub of magical artifacts, their items ranging from weak spell scrolls that help wheat grow to elixirs that can regrow missing limbs in mere hours. Their wares are some of the most sought after items in the world, behind the Old World treasures everyone so desperately craves. Many have marched on Salyia's gates to take it's magic for themselves. None have succeeded in piercing the inner defensive ring.
The Triumvirate is ruled by the three most powerful wizards in the nation, each coming from one of the three major Arcane Academies in the capital city of Olym. These wizards, thanks to their magic, can live upwards of two hundred years. Rumors abound as to whether or not the current Triumvirs are the founders, or if they succeeded the old guard long ago, but the three magicians are obviously ancient and powerful forces to be reckoned with.
Beyond the Northland are the Frozen Wastes, where Canada, Alaska and Greenland once were. There is little in the way of civilized life in the Frozen Wastes, with only a few tribes of hardy nomads daring to risk the arctic frost that has turned away weaker men. Some who live on the borders of the Frozen Wastes whisper of a large gathering of Wastefolk known as the Oathhorde. Supposedly they are made up of giants and beastmen with strange, monstrous appearances and a taste for human flesh, though no one has any real proof of their existence. They're a folk story as far as most of the world is concerned.
Little is known about what lies to the south of the Kingdom of Dall. The Riogra River blocks all travel, save for those most prepared for what lies beneath those vile waves. It stretches from coast to coast, sinking deeper into the earth than any river should. Broken lie within it's deceptively calm waters. Those demonic creatures drag all who attempt to travel across it into the depths where they vanish forever, never to be seen again. Only a choice few brave adventurers have ever attempted to cross it, and those that do never come back. Myth says that the Southlands are full of impossible riches and cities made of gold, and that's why none return. Other legends tell of the Southlands as being the true home of the Broken, saying it is a place of vile magic and evil that slaughters all who enter it. No one knows for sure, and all expeditions to prove either myth true have failed spectacularly.
What are the Broken? Where did they come from? What purpose do they serve? Why do they attack humans on sight? Why do they occupy old world cities?
No one is sure. Myth and legend abounds. What we do know is that the Broken come in many different shapes and sizes. From massive Hydras, Dragons and Minotaurs to swarms of human-like creatures with stunted gaits and claws that tear through hardened leather. It is not well understood if the Broken are truly alive or not. They're made of a sort of...living metal, in a certain fashion. It's unknown what exactly it is, and Broken bodies are known to rapidly deteriorate once the creature dies, so experimentation is difficult. They seemingly show a level of intelligence in their combat tactics, and have even been seen communicating with one another. But their tongue is...impossible. Like the grating of iron against iron, or the cutting of glass, it's a pain upon the ears. A Broken has never attempted to interact with anything living other than to destroy it the second it enters into Broken territory.
Some have been observed to stand at the edge of their territory, completely still, watching. Others wait in ambush, hiding and waiting for humans or animals to wander into their active hunting grounds. It is unknown what the Broken do when they capture living things, though they have been observed taking prisoners. Some think they're devoured, but none have witnessed the Broken eating. They are known only to inhabit certain regions, such as Old World ruins and the borders along the Southland. Broken appear to be intolerant to the cold, having never been seen anywhere in the Frozen Wastes. During winter, they're known to retreat back into their hives within the glass towers, only exiting once prey draws near to their holds. Because of this, winter has been deemed the best time for adventurers to attempt to plunge into the depths of these ruins.
Attempts to enter these old cities with large fighting forces always end in failure. The Broken are attracted to life, and a large number of living things entering their territory brings them out in hordes. Thousands upon thousands of Broken have responded to mere hundreds of mercenaries marching into their territory. These expeditions always end in mass routes or total slaughters of the expeditions. This is why small teams of skilled warriors are usually used for artifact scavenging, since they attract less Broken toward them than a large group. Certain spells can be used to shroud life signs, making wizards valuable assets for adventuring parties.
We begin our quest in the capital city of the Kingdom of Dall, Praetor City. King Astius II has called for a group of brave adventurers and mercenaries to journey to his Keep in the city, where he will task them with entering the nearby Old World city to search the ruins for treasures of old.
In this new world, treasures of the old one more valuable than gemstones or gold. Finding a working electronic could potentially set one up for life. Of course, most of these surviving treasures have long since been horded up by the rich and powerful. Those that remain are trapped in the looming cities of broken glass and sharp steel, where monsters dwell, guarding the goods of the ancients from those that would see them taken back by man's ancestors.
Advancement has stalled, and technology has been plunged back into the dark ages. Things like indoor plumbing, electricity, and any other number of modern inventions are considered lost to mankind. There are ongoing efforts to obtain old world artifacts by the brightest minds of certain kingdoms- like Dall- who seek to understand and, perhaps one day, even replicate the technologies of old.
The bulk of adventurers and warriors fight with the typical fantasy weapons. Medieval tools like the sword, spear and bow are quite common in the arsenals of the new world. While some old world weapons survived, they are far too rare for any average person to have heard of them, outside of stories about 'sticks that spew fire.' They are more likely to know about magic than they are about guns.
In this new world, treasures of the old one more valuable than gemstones or gold. Finding a working electronic could potentially set one up for life. Of course, most of these surviving treasures have long since been horded up by the rich and powerful. Those that remain are trapped in the looming cities of broken glass and sharp steel, where monsters dwell, guarding the goods of the ancients from those that would see them taken back by man's ancestors.
Advancement has stalled, and technology has been plunged back into the dark ages. Things like indoor plumbing, electricity, and any other number of modern inventions are considered lost to mankind. There are ongoing efforts to obtain old world artifacts by the brightest minds of certain kingdoms- like Dall- who seek to understand and, perhaps one day, even replicate the technologies of old.
The bulk of adventurers and warriors fight with the typical fantasy weapons. Medieval tools like the sword, spear and bow are quite common in the arsenals of the new world. While some old world weapons survived, they are far too rare for any average person to have heard of them, outside of stories about 'sticks that spew fire.' They are more likely to know about magic than they are about guns.
Magic exists, though it is incredibly rare. Most people are unlikely to possess strong magical abilities, with the few rare exceptions being the wizards, witches and sorcerers that inhabit the world. Magic is tied directly to the incantations used There are certain magics that can be cast using scrolls, but these tend to be rather weak in comparison to the 'real' magic of a wizard. I will likely only be accepting a few magic users into the party for the reasons stated above. Magic behaves in a similar manner to Dungeons and Dragons.
To cast a spell, one must wield a specific, enchanted object (such as a staff or wand) and verbally recite the spell's full name in an incantation. The power of these incantations is directly tied to how loudly the magician speaks the word, with more powerful spells being more exhausting to use than normal ones. Most spell names are in Latin.
There are two sub types of magic: Arcane and Elemental.
Elemental magic is that which encompasses the manipulation or creation of things that already exist. So the elements such as fire, water, earth and air, or things like metal or nature, would fall under this category. Most magic is elemental, so it is the primary weapon of most wizards.
The other type is Arcane, which encompasses things not of this world. This is the more fantastical manipulation of vague magic energies, or powers of a divine nature. Spells that can resurrect or command the dead, that cast bolts of energy, or to open a portal. Arcane spells are usually tied to scrolls, as casting 'full power' arcane magic is a rare ability that most do not possess.
To cast a spell, one must wield a specific, enchanted object (such as a staff or wand) and verbally recite the spell's full name in an incantation. The power of these incantations is directly tied to how loudly the magician speaks the word, with more powerful spells being more exhausting to use than normal ones. Most spell names are in Latin.
There are two sub types of magic: Arcane and Elemental.
Elemental magic is that which encompasses the manipulation or creation of things that already exist. So the elements such as fire, water, earth and air, or things like metal or nature, would fall under this category. Most magic is elemental, so it is the primary weapon of most wizards.
The other type is Arcane, which encompasses things not of this world. This is the more fantastical manipulation of vague magic energies, or powers of a divine nature. Spells that can resurrect or command the dead, that cast bolts of energy, or to open a portal. Arcane spells are usually tied to scrolls, as casting 'full power' arcane magic is a rare ability that most do not possess.
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LONG LIVE MARS
This was the end.
It had been a long time coming. Years of blood, sweat and tears had been poured into every inch of the twelve massive arks that now embodied the last hope of all of humanity. The whole time, man had kept an eye to the heavens, praying that the enemy did not come. Praying that they would be able to finish the Genesis Project before they arrived. Their prayers fell on the ears of a deaf god, for Devastation was upon them. Riding in chariots of living flesh, that spewed nuclear hellfire from their gaping maws, came the enemy. Some believed them to be demons. Monstrous creatures from beyond the veil of the natural world, coming to reap the souls of men. Others thought they were a force of the divine. They believed that man had committed a grave sin when it first sparked to life the wormholes that brought the Devastators upon them. This was, supposedly, their punishment.
Total and complete extermination.
The enemy had gathered at their gates. Ships of impossible design numbering in the thousands were descending on Mars even then. Even as Commander Elijah Ross waited with baited breath for the Vitae to launch, they came. Holographic view screens floated in the air before the commander, drawing his gaze between them.
Each one showed something different. A Federation news cast detailing the launch of the Arks was playing to his far left. On it, a beautiful looking young woman was trying to deliver her script between her broken sobs. Opposite that was a live feed from Mars orbit. Every last military vessel humanity had to offer had joined together above Ross's home. Millions of sailors and Corpsmen manned thousands of warships, waiting with hate in their hearts and fear in their souls for the monsters that would tear them all to shreds.
Directly in front of Elijah was a cast of High Admiral Constantine and the twelve Ark commanders as he delivered the last words any of them would hear from the man. A hero in every sense of the word, Roland was the perfect choice to lead the fight against the Devastators. He was the only choice. Men would die in the millions for him. As Ross sat in the bridge of the Nyx, he couldn't help but think he should be one of those men. He should've been sitting at the helm of a frigate alongside the rest of the Martian Unity fleet.
Elijah should be dying to protect his home.
He took in a sharp inhale, air rushing into his lungs through the respirator he wore. The heavy duty appliance was modulated to the Prometheus exoskeleton he wore. Elijah's shoulders shuddered with each breath. The weight of his assisted breathing device only compounding with the heavy sense of guilt he felt for abandoning his people. His planet would die. Billions along with it. 'What gives me the right?' Ross kept asking himself. 'Why in God's name do I get to live while everyone else...'
He could only imagine how many more deserving people there were that were trapped on his homeworld. He could practically see them in his mind. Millions of children with terror in their eyes as they clung to their mothers and fathers in Martian disaster bunkers, wondering what will become of them. There were billions of others who could be sitting where he was. Younger men with families of their own who were healthier and stronger than he. Why couldn't Ross take the place of some other captain in the fleet? Some bright eyed, hopeful commander who would live for sixty more years to lead the remnants of humanity.
It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. They were all going to fucking die. Every last person on Earth, Mars and beyond that wasn't on one of the arks was going to be slaughtered.
The holographic screens before him were sent away with a swipe of his hand. Elijah motioned, bringing up a televised feed on Arcadia. He had grown up in those streets. He had played on them, worked on them. And now, years later, they'd be filled with the bodies of good Martian men and women who deserved better. "God damn it." Ross rasped, his hands clutched together in his lap. They were clammy with sweat. Every inch of his body ached with an overwhelming desire to act. Elijah wanted to command his crew to disengage the locks, to force open the hangar so that they could fly out and join the fight. It was a stupid desire. Ross had his duty, and he could not- would not- abandon his post. To do so would be to spit in the face of every other man that had been doomed to die and not even given the chance to climb aboard the arks.
No, Elijah had to go through with this. He had to give this mission his all. Thus was his duty to mankind. His duty to the Martian Unity.
Thus, was his duty to Mars.
With how large the Vitae was, Elijah could barely feel the engines kick-starting. He was only made aware when his engineering officer called it out. The man's voice had shaken as he spoke those few words. Everyone else on the bridge remained dead silent, save for the quiet sobbing of one of the petty officers. Her family had been denied a place aboard the Arks. There just wasn't enough room.
What Elijah wouldn't give for that officer's husband to be standing in his place.
Ross kept his eyes on the view screen. He watched an empty Arcadia, listening to the klaxons play through the dusty streets for no one but him to hear. Everyone had been move down to the shelters. It only offered the illusion of safety. The enemy wouldn't be stopped by a few hundred feet of rock. No underground bunker would help stop this. This was the end for them.
The Engineering Officer pulled something up on the main screen. Ross tore his eyes away from his home, looking up to the stars. He had brought up the feed pointed toward the Eye of Thea. That was their last hope. A portal to God knows where. Behind that swirling eye lay an unknown host of obstacles that stood between them and survival. A long journey lay ahead of them. It was entirely possible that each and every Genesis Ark would be destroyed before they found a suitable planet for colonization. This voyage could very well be the last effort to touch the sky for a species that was being dragged kicking and screaming into the mouth of hell.
With tears in his eyes, the old war dog looked back to Arcadia. Barren, empty, and facing it's end. Ross flipped the screen back to the fleet in orbit, watching a squadron of fighters flash by the camera as they made their way to the front. "Give 'em hell, boys." Elijah growled. Those were the final words he spoke as he shut down his personal screens. His gaze moved back up to the Eye of Thea.
Though this was the end for his home, it was also the beginning of their journey. The beginning of hope.
"Long live Mars."
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Supermaxx dumbass
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Character Name
Character Summary
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Aliases:(Nicknames, previous names, maiden names, etc.)
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Aliases:(Nicknames, previous names, maiden names, etc.)
Gender:
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Character Attributes
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Strengths: (What is your character best at? Where do they excel?)
Weaknesses: (This includes physical, emotional and psychological weaknesses)
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Day To Day Attire:
Strengths: (What is your character best at? Where do they excel?)
Weaknesses: (This includes physical, emotional and psychological weaknesses)
Magic
Spells: (A listing of spells, their descriptions - Only necessary for characters of a magic affinity)
- Spell: Description
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(Don't feel the need to go too overboard on this. This is more for me to get a feeling for what your character is like and how you write, rather than needing to be the life-time biography of your character.)
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Beads of sweat trickled down Han's forehead, flowing like tiny rivers down the curvature of his cheeks and jaw. Bjornson's Wolfhound was operating at minimal heat levels; he hadn't even so much as touched his weapon systems. Yet still heat bore down upon the Nobleman. It assaulted his bare flesh and drenched his golden locks in sweat. Training in Mechs back on Tharkad, Han only ever worked up this kind of a sweat during an intense firefight. He was usually sitting in the center of a laser boat- it only made sense that the cockpit would turn into a veritable sauna.
But Steelton was different. Han didn't need to be in combat to work up a sweat. All it took was the residual heat of the sun beating down upon his Mech for Bjornson's cockpit to reach such temperatures that he was sure he was going to be fried alive. This was what he hated most about the joint training exercises with the FedSuns from the NAIS: the heat. They dragged Han out into the middle of some backwater dust world and expected him to adapt to the environment. It was the polar opposite of home. Snow and ice were replaced by sand and burning stone. The twisted rock formations looming overhead were a poor substitute for the towers of Tharkad City that kissed the very heavens in all of their splendor.
And in the place of the regal and proud noblemen he called his peers, he had Mechwarriors like Rall.
Han could hear the poorly contained mocking in her voice as she sent a laser comm to his Wolfhound. There was a bitter twisting of his lips downward at the insult offered to his name. Bjornson debated simply ignoring her. She had been insufferable the last few weeks and continued to be so even now. Brushing off the remarks of an ignorant should've been a simple thing. Han had endured far, far worse treatment at the hands of the Nagelring's more bigoted students. However, the nobleman had little else to do at the moment except stare ahead at seemingly endless stretches of dust and rock. Against his better judgment, the Lyran let his digit slip down to the comms panel.
"Oh, yes. Hilarious as always." Han dryly retorted. "What ever would I need a book for when I have a Canopian hora constantly screeching in my ear? It's like I have my own personal jester."
Letting his thumb slip off the comms switch, Hand returned his hand to the piping hot accelerator. For a moment, he wondered if he was too harsh with the rat. Han assumed Rall was just trying to get on his nerves with her prattle, but he couldn't be totally sure. The Periphery was a strange place, and it's customs were wholly alien to someone like Bjornson.
'It's possible the rat was...how do they put it in English...Ribbing?'
Trying to juggle two languages was difficult enough, but the Nagelring had been pushing the tongue of the FedSuns on him since he was accepted into the student body. Han was still getting a handle on it, admittedly; but he ha committed himself to learning it. If Bjornson wanted to succeed as a Mechwarrior and a nobleman, he would need to be able to communicate with the FedSun pilots effectively. To that end, Han had committed to speaking in English alone. He had broken that personal rule only to mock the rat's use of a German insult against him. 'Presumptuous little thing.'
Before the boredom of the assignment could truly set in, Han's attention was arrested by a warning klaxon playing in his ear. He turned toward the source of the sound in his cockpit, the bulky neurohelmet making it difficult to do so but he managed. "The probe...?" He muttered to himself, flicking a few switches. It had to be a mistake. The sensors must've been acting up. There wasn't any way these readings were accurate. Han forced a reset on the sensor suite, yet that didn't stop the warning bells.
"Holy shit." Bjornson cursed, fumbling for the main radio. "Captain, I'm picking up seismic activity!" These readings...It could only mean one thing. Han thought it impossible before, but there was no denying what the instruments were telling him. "We have multiple contacts two clicks ahead of us. Range from twenty to fifty five tons. They have mechs."
Was this part of the training, somehow? An ambush by the Star Guard would certainly make for an exciting change of pace from a dreary escort, yet...they had loaded live-fire weapons before heading out. A mock battle couldn't be fought with real weapons. Han hesitated, his hands hovering on his controls. 'Is this real?' He pulled back on the accelerator, commanding his titanic steed to slow it's trot. Standard procedure dictated that the lead unit slow and allow the rest of the lance to catch up. Moving forward alone in a real combat situation was damn near suicidal.
Mattlov confirmed the contacts that the Wolfhound had picked up as being genuine, as well as confirming visual on a dropship of some kind. 'A dropship, out here?'
Finally the voice of the Captain returned over the tactical comms, confirming the dropship and the contacts to be hostile. He wanted Bjornson, Eichberg and Rall to move ahead with him while the other units sought out a fire support position. That meant Han was going to be meeting the enemy head on.
This was real, then. Someone was attacking them and Han would actually be in a fight. Grim determination set in on his expression. If he were totally honest with himself, Bjorson didn't know how he felt. He was terrified of the concept of being shot at for real for the first time and exhilarated at the prospect of engaging proper opponents all at once. It was a rush of adrenaline that caused his fight-or-flight instincts to kick into overdrive. "Are they pirates, sir?" Han could only assume so. The sector was supposedly crawling with them. But what madness had overcome them that a group of poorly equipped brigands would think they'd stand a chance against Steelton's garrison? The Star Guard alone could wipe the floor with any rogue unit. And it wasn't like Steelton was some treasure trove of riches to be taken...So what were they doing here?
But Steelton was different. Han didn't need to be in combat to work up a sweat. All it took was the residual heat of the sun beating down upon his Mech for Bjornson's cockpit to reach such temperatures that he was sure he was going to be fried alive. This was what he hated most about the joint training exercises with the FedSuns from the NAIS: the heat. They dragged Han out into the middle of some backwater dust world and expected him to adapt to the environment. It was the polar opposite of home. Snow and ice were replaced by sand and burning stone. The twisted rock formations looming overhead were a poor substitute for the towers of Tharkad City that kissed the very heavens in all of their splendor.
And in the place of the regal and proud noblemen he called his peers, he had Mechwarriors like Rall.
Han could hear the poorly contained mocking in her voice as she sent a laser comm to his Wolfhound. There was a bitter twisting of his lips downward at the insult offered to his name. Bjornson debated simply ignoring her. She had been insufferable the last few weeks and continued to be so even now. Brushing off the remarks of an ignorant should've been a simple thing. Han had endured far, far worse treatment at the hands of the Nagelring's more bigoted students. However, the nobleman had little else to do at the moment except stare ahead at seemingly endless stretches of dust and rock. Against his better judgment, the Lyran let his digit slip down to the comms panel.
"Oh, yes. Hilarious as always." Han dryly retorted. "What ever would I need a book for when I have a Canopian hora constantly screeching in my ear? It's like I have my own personal jester."
Letting his thumb slip off the comms switch, Hand returned his hand to the piping hot accelerator. For a moment, he wondered if he was too harsh with the rat. Han assumed Rall was just trying to get on his nerves with her prattle, but he couldn't be totally sure. The Periphery was a strange place, and it's customs were wholly alien to someone like Bjornson.
'It's possible the rat was...how do they put it in English...Ribbing?'
Trying to juggle two languages was difficult enough, but the Nagelring had been pushing the tongue of the FedSuns on him since he was accepted into the student body. Han was still getting a handle on it, admittedly; but he ha committed himself to learning it. If Bjornson wanted to succeed as a Mechwarrior and a nobleman, he would need to be able to communicate with the FedSun pilots effectively. To that end, Han had committed to speaking in English alone. He had broken that personal rule only to mock the rat's use of a German insult against him. 'Presumptuous little thing.'
Before the boredom of the assignment could truly set in, Han's attention was arrested by a warning klaxon playing in his ear. He turned toward the source of the sound in his cockpit, the bulky neurohelmet making it difficult to do so but he managed. "The probe...?" He muttered to himself, flicking a few switches. It had to be a mistake. The sensors must've been acting up. There wasn't any way these readings were accurate. Han forced a reset on the sensor suite, yet that didn't stop the warning bells.
"Holy shit." Bjornson cursed, fumbling for the main radio. "Captain, I'm picking up seismic activity!" These readings...It could only mean one thing. Han thought it impossible before, but there was no denying what the instruments were telling him. "We have multiple contacts two clicks ahead of us. Range from twenty to fifty five tons. They have mechs."
Was this part of the training, somehow? An ambush by the Star Guard would certainly make for an exciting change of pace from a dreary escort, yet...they had loaded live-fire weapons before heading out. A mock battle couldn't be fought with real weapons. Han hesitated, his hands hovering on his controls. 'Is this real?' He pulled back on the accelerator, commanding his titanic steed to slow it's trot. Standard procedure dictated that the lead unit slow and allow the rest of the lance to catch up. Moving forward alone in a real combat situation was damn near suicidal.
Mattlov confirmed the contacts that the Wolfhound had picked up as being genuine, as well as confirming visual on a dropship of some kind. 'A dropship, out here?'
Finally the voice of the Captain returned over the tactical comms, confirming the dropship and the contacts to be hostile. He wanted Bjornson, Eichberg and Rall to move ahead with him while the other units sought out a fire support position. That meant Han was going to be meeting the enemy head on.
This was real, then. Someone was attacking them and Han would actually be in a fight. Grim determination set in on his expression. If he were totally honest with himself, Bjorson didn't know how he felt. He was terrified of the concept of being shot at for real for the first time and exhilarated at the prospect of engaging proper opponents all at once. It was a rush of adrenaline that caused his fight-or-flight instincts to kick into overdrive. "Are they pirates, sir?" Han could only assume so. The sector was supposedly crawling with them. But what madness had overcome them that a group of poorly equipped brigands would think they'd stand a chance against Steelton's garrison? The Star Guard alone could wipe the floor with any rogue unit. And it wasn't like Steelton was some treasure trove of riches to be taken...So what were they doing here?
OP
Supermaxx dumbass
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1 day ago
Praetor City, Dall
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]
Winter - 941 F.M (Finis Mortem)
[ ♫ ]
Dark clouds filled the sky like a gloomy afterthought. Weak rays of sunlight peaked through the breaks in the gray, filling the frozen streets of Praetor City with a much needed light. Ice clung to the numerous high towers that loomed overhead, the chilling wrath of some unseen god wrapping tightly about them. Flakes of ice crystals were carried down on the biting wind, joining the layers of white that covered every inch of the city proper. Though the constant foot traffic on the busier streets had managed to carve a rough path through the inches-deep snow, travel was still made obnoxiously difficult by winter's frost.
Despite the weather, Praetor was as active as ever. It's markets were filled to the brim with citizens wrapped in their warmest cloaks, rushing to purchase what food and goods they could to survive the early winter. Merchants still packed their wagons full of furs, winter wheat and other trade goods, planning to ride from Praetor City to the nearby villages that so desperately needed their wares. And even in the winter the local drunks and ne'er-do-wells needed to piss away what little coin they had on cheap beer, stale pastries and other, less savory forms of pleasure.
Far from the dirty and grimy masses of serfs, a near panic had set in at the king's palace. Behind it's smooth walls of glistening granite and it's towers that touched the very heavens, officials and knights were rushing about between it's golden halls to complete their own tasks. With the unexpected coming of an early winter came many a duty that needed to be fulfilled. Defenses needed to be shored up, messages needed to be sent off, the supplies needed to be checked and double-checked to make sure they would last until the coming of summer. And, most importantly, the artifact hunts needed to be arranged.
Hidden away in a tiny study stuffed full of useless trinkets and piles upon piles of scrolls, the castle steward frantically attempted to finish the final touches on his fiftieth summons of the day. Frederick Lethino's quill glided across the parchment like a ship across the sea, a trail of black ink left behind with every precise mark, jot and tittle. Lethino finished the final line, a sigh escaping his thin lips as he returned the quill to it's stand. 'At last.' He thought. Dark bags hung like men at the gallows underneath his uninteresting eyes. The words on the page were all but blending together after staring at paper after paper after paper. It was only through sheer force of will that the steward had managed to complete this final one.
Spindly, wrinkled fingers reached for the stamp sat on the desktop before him. Lethino planted the seal of the king on the scroll, finalizing it's authenticity. Now it was ready to be rolled up and sent away with one of the messenger boys. Frederick rose from his chair, his movements sluggish and slow. Even indoors, the coolness of the winter air were hell upon his bones. Taking up the scroll, the steward shuffled forth from his office. Massive windows that reached greater heights than some of the buildings in the city allowed the fleeting rays of the sun to filter into the gold-wrapped and pearly white hallways of the palace. It was a welcome difference from the low candle light that Lethino was used to working in. 'I must hurry. They await my arrival.' He reminded himself, moving faster to his destination. First he had to drop off the scroll at the messenger's office, then he could be on his way toward his real appointment. Frederick would be cutting it close; he only hoped that the hunters would behave themselves while they waited.
After several minutes, Lethino eventually reached the bottom floor of the castle. He pressed through the grandiose entrance hall, the guards allowing him to pass without hassle- that balding head and frizzled beard were all the identification they needed for the king's royal steward. He stopped before the heavy oaken doors that shielded the keep from invader and starving commoner alike. 'Alright, Lethino. You have done this many times before.' He reminded himself, as he had every time prior to this one.
Lethino couldn't help that nervous tickle in his rib cage before little things like this- that intangible worry that he would flub his delivery, or that they would be unreceptive to his words. He swallowed it down, clearing his throat as he placed his hands upon the iron handles of the gateway. Frederick threw them open, their great weight causing his meager arms to yearn for respite. The frozen wind immediately tasted his rosy cheeks, that force assisting in throwing the doors open the rest of the way.
Frederick took a single step out of the threshold, his arms thrown wide in a bombastic display. "Welcome to Praetor Keep, mighty adventurers!" Lethino shouted, a wily smile on his face as he turned to look at the host of treasure hunters and noble knights that were-
"Wait." Lethino's face fell in confusion. "W-where the devil are they?!" He spun his head about, moving further out into the courtyard. It was empty! Not a single soul stood out in the blistering wind or frozen, icy snow. "Oh, gods..." Frederick stepped back into the hall, his panicked gaze searching for the first of the guardsmen that he could find. "You there, soldier!" The royal steward called out. The guard looked quizzically over at the nobleman. "How many bells have sounded?"
He stood quietly for a moment, a metal-encased hand moving up to touch the bottom of his chin. "Uh..'bout three, I reckon."
"Three?!" Lethino screamed. He thought his heart was going to burst. "By the gods, I'm late! I was late!" He had worked right through the meeting and hadn't even heard the third bell sound. How long had it been since then? He must've left them out in the cold for so long that they all just left! The steward tied up his cloak and threw the hood over his head, rushing back out into the cold. He raced through the courtyard and shout through the raised gate, his feet sliding to a halt in the open street.
"Has anyone seen my adventurers?!"
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