Would it be taboo, OOC as well as IC, to discuss Nuclear Power and its use in the game?
Edit: Ah; from the looks of things on the server, it might be, so I'll just look for something else.
Heyo and thanks for the interest! I can safely say that we are not nuclear unfriendly, but as with any mode of energy production, it has its costs and benefits. We would love to see those explored in the RP. As for the community, we are happy to discuss anything, really. I am sorry if we gave the impression of otherwise.
If you remain interested in the topic, you are still very much welcome to join! Please let me know if you have any further questions.
”... -n… -ome… in… -one… out there? -nyone out there? If… out there… -ease reply, -er. C-...-lling -nybody to… -ait… Allah b-... -raised! Ijah! We… signal! Hello?!crackle Hello! Come -n! This… Ashoka Bodh…padyai. Ugh-! Stu-... -d sig-...-al is so… There! Hello?! This is Ashoka Bodhisattvachatopadyai, calling from Basecamp Nusantara in what was once Indonesia. We have done out best to rebuild here after the… Well, I am sure I don't need to tell you anything. I am sure we both agree that, no matter what happened, Allah willing, we can only move up from here. We have a long road ahead, but hopefully we can rebuild a better world than what we inherited. Tell me: Where are you calling from and how many are with you?”
The year is 2100. The wounds suffered upon the Planet Earth and its billions of inhabitants by the heritage of the Industrial Revolution has left the world in an unrecognisable state. The scale of destruction wrought during the past century and a half is beyond any method of measurement, and humanity and non-humanity have both paid dearly for the dreams of the few. Great sorrows have swept across every continent: war, famine, thirst, disease, infertility. Trauma lives in every heart.
Yet while time neither an arrow nor a circle but something in between, it is nonetheless impossible to rewind. Global communications are slowly coming back online, and while there are disagreements and bitter hatred over many things, all that remains of humanity agree on one thing: The mistakes of the past exist alongside us as very contemporary entities, and while they may never be undone, we can do our best to correct them.
In that sense, there is hope that the future may yet again improve.
In this roleplay, you take on the role of a nation, a community or even an individual and explore their existence in a world very similar and yet profoundly different from our own. Most global institutions, if not all, have collapsed completely, and many countries have become unrecognisable from their contemporary form. Remnants of the Space Wars, the fourth frontline in the great wars of the 21st Century, has rendered most satellites completely worthless -- access to the remaining ones is tightly guarded. Parts of the world have been scarred by nuclear weaponry and unchecked pollution. Plastics and various heavy metals have been completely integrated into the food chain on all levels, with rumours floating around research communities that some low-trophic creatures are beginning to evolve to digest plastics as though it was common detritus. Freshwater is more precious than gold, followed closely by books and datapads that contain precious knowledge about the science of the world of our close Ancestors. The elderly are both hated and revered, forced to live with the dual burden of guilt for not doing more in their youth to stop the killing of the planet, and remaining among the few remaining sources of stories and knowledge in the world. The young grow up in a world which may be large or small, but enjoys few of the luxuries the Ancestors afforded themselves at the millennium turn.
The planet is not completely spent, however; pockets of life exist all over, scarred and bruised but recovering slowly. Some of the non-Homo Sapiens creatures of Planet Earth, anthropocentrically named "non-humans", are today even doing better than they have in well over a century. Top soil may begin to recover in places where it was not all spent. With the disappearance of industrial fishing, the oceans can begin to recover, though the overheated seas will no longer welcome many species back to its fold. Massively expanded, the seas have also taken back much of the land that rose after the last Ice Age. Coastal metropolises are reclaimed by the sea, like cliffs on the shores in old postcard photos. The recent decades have seen a disappearance of large swathes of people, and inland cities become grasslands, grasslands become forests and forests may burn to give way to new life.
Perhaps your community will try to amend the consequences of climate change by returning a much less affluent, but stable way of life for its people? Or maybe you want to explore lives of descendants of the global elite who have isolated themselves in impenetrable bunkers on distant islands, continuing their lives much like before? Maybe your community believes climate change was a hoax and that the world ended because it was God's will? Or maybe you want to explore the life of a lone vagrant, travelling the vastness of the world and witnessing the undergrowth reclaiming the soil that concrete stole from it all those years ago? The world is your oyster (provided it hasn't gone extinct).
The aesthetic of the RP is inspired by solarpunk, but you may dress your community in any way you want, from sci-fi technology to palaeolithic. However, I would encourage everyone to explore the holistic consequences of their community's way of life: How would a coal-powered city be viewed by their neighbours in the wake of climate change? Where would the resources enabling your people's affluence come from? Can radical changes in ways of life take place if the community elders grew up in vast luxury? Lots of ways to conceptualise the future - let's play with them!
DISCLAIMER: As you may already have picked up, this RP will necessarily touch on a lot of political, philosophical and religious topics. All are welcome to join and explore these topics, and are encouraged to work with different angles, but I sincerely hope that we can remain respectful of each other regardless of our views.
Location: Where are they based and what's the surrounding land, air and sea like?
History: Share a bit about your nation/community’s past and how it came to be.
Culture and beliefs: Share a bit about the culture and beliefs of the people(s) in your nation/community. Feel free to also write about people’s ways of life and their motivations.
Science and technology: Share a bit about what science and technology are available, how they're used and what their roles and status are in everyday life.
Character names (optional): Feel free to share the names of any important characters
Name:
Age (optional): How old is your character, if they know?
History: Tell us about your character’s past.
Occupation: What does your character do? Can be a lot of things.
Personality: What's your character like? What're they like on a good day? How about on a bad day? What's their stance on what's best between cats and dogs? Etc.
Motivation: What does your character want to achieve? Can be broad or narrow, firm or fluid, or completely non-existent.
Companions: Does your character have any friends or family that hang around them? Humans or non-humans? Living or non-living?
I'll erect some sort of OOC and maybe expand a bit on the world if you'd like, @Andreyich. It's pretty much the worst climate scenarios + a bunch of wars at irregular intervals in various places around the world all the way up to the 22nd century. Some are still ongoing, probs. I don't wanna write too much in stone as I want the players to help imagine what the world will be like, but I will put up the map of the world in 2100 with respect to sea levels as imagined if business-as-usual emissions continue. I'll slap it into the OOC when I make it.
I'm thinking something along the lines of a multispecies vineyard village in Northern Scandinavia. Sort of a regional trading hub for travellers coming from the warm south going north to the more liveable regions along the North Sea.
”... -n… -ome… in… -one… out there? -nyone out there? If… out there… -ease reply, -er. C-...-lling -nybody to… -ait… Allah b-... -raised! Ijah! We… signal! Hello?!crackle Hello! Come -n! This… Ashoka Bodh…padyai. Ugh-! Stu-... -d sig-...-al is so… There! Hello?! This is Ashoka Bodhisattvachatopadyai, calling from Basecamp Nusantara in what was once Indonesia. We have done out best to rebuild here after the… Well, I am sure I don't need to tell you anything. I am sure we both agree that, no matter what happened, Allah willing, we can only move up from here. We have a long road ahead, but hopefully we can rebuild a better world than what we inherited. Tell me: Where are you calling from and how many are with you?”
The year is 2100. The wounds suffered upon the Planet Earth and its billions of inhabitants by the heritage of the Industrial Revolution has left the world in an unrecognisable state. The scale of destruction wrought during the past century and a half is beyond any method of measurement, and humanity and non-humanity have both paid dearly for the dreams of the few. Great sorrows have swept across every continent: war, famine, thirst, disease, infertility. Trauma lives in every heart.
Yet while time neither an arrow nor a circle but something in between, it is nonetheless impossible to rewind. Global communications are slowly coming back online, and while there are disagreements and bitter hatred over many things, all that remains of humanity agree on one thing: The mistakes of the past exist alongside us as very contemporary entities, and while they may never be undone, we can do our best to correct them.
In that sense, there is hope that the future may yet again improve.
In this roleplay, you take on the role of a nation, a community or even an individual and explore their existence in a world very similar and yet profoundly different from our own. Most global institutions, if not all, have collapsed completely, and many countries have become unrecognisable from their contemporary form. Perhaps your community will try to amend the consequences of climate change by returning a much less affluent, but stable way of life for its people? Or maybe you want to explore lives of descendants of the global elite who have isolated themselves in impenetrable bunkers on distant islands, continuing their lives much like before? Maybe your community believes climate change was a hoax and that the world ended because it was God's will? Or maybe you want to explore the life of a lone vagrant, travelling the vastness of the world and witnessing the undergrowth reclaiming the soil that concrete stole from it all those years ago? The world is your oyster (provided it hasn't gone extinct).
The aesthetic of the RP is inspired by solarpunk, but you may dress your community in any way you want, from sci-fi technology to palaeolithic. However, I would encourage everyone to explore the holistic consequences of their community's way of life: How would a coal-powered city be viewed by their neighbours in the wake of climate change? Where would the resources enabling your people's affluence come from? Can radical changes in ways of life take place if the community elders grew up in vast luxury? Lots of ways to conceptualise the future - let's play with them!
DISCLAIMER: As you may already have picked up, this RP will necessarily touch on a lot of political, philosophical and religious topics. All are welcome to join and explore these topics, and are encouraged to work with different angles, but I sincerely hope that we can remain respectful of each other regardless of our views.
Nation/community name:
Population (optional):
Location: Where are they based and what's the surrounding land, air and sea like?
History: Share a bit about your nation/community’s past and how it came to be.
Culture and beliefs: Share a bit about the culture and beliefs of the people(s) in your nation/community. Feel free to also write about people’s ways of life and their motivations.
Science and technology: Share a bit about what science and technology are available, how they're used and what their roles and status are in everyday life.
Character names (optional): Feel free to share the names of any important characters
Name:
Age (optional): How old is your character, if they know?
History: Tell us about your character’s past.
Occupation: What does your character do? Can be a lot of things.
Personality: What's your character like? What're they like on a good day? How about on a bad day? What's their stance on what's best between cats and dogs? Etc.
Motivation: What does your character want to achieve? Can be broad or narrow, firm or fluid, or completely non-existent.
Companions: Does your character have any friends or family that hang around them? Humans or non-humans? Living or non-living?
The Runatorium of Bast was a spectacle to behold: The massive ebony black walls pillared to the heavens like an onyx mountain, with coloured glass windows blinking along its sunlit facade. Powers of nature and overnature crackled from behind the facade with thunderous booms and shivering zaps, accompanied with great light shows reflecting off of gray smoke coming out of mighty chimneys. The black citadel was the jewel of the Herring King’s domain, a centre of commerce, science, magic, divinity and – of course – weapons technology. And before the gilded rosewood gates that contrasted the black walls like a flower in a pile of coal, stood the young elf Yost, recently named Quickchisel. He maintained a slightly nervous shiver as the gatesman inspected a clay tablet of his. The purple and white robes of a Syllan Academy Revered Scholar could not imbue him with enough confidence to stand up to a four-hundred pound minotaur beastman – especially not one whose exposure to the written word seemed to agitate him immensely.
“... An appointment, was it?”
“Y-yes!” quivered the elf.
“... Wiff the boss?”
“O-or at least someone who can speak on his behalf!”
The minotaur snorted out a cloud of dusty air and handed the tablet back. “Wait ‘ere.” Then he thundered off towards the gatehouse. Yost permitted himself a brief moment to hope, to pray that he had gotten in. Five minutes past wherein nothing happened. Behind him, the busy city of Oss, capital of the Herring King’s realm, swarmed with all manner of day-to-day nonsense that was all too common in big cities. Yost was a traveled scholar – he had been to Sylann, Arbor, Tricity, the City-States and the Dominion, but Oss had a different air about it from all of the others: The ocean spray left an ooze of salt and moisture wherever one went.
Finally, the gates opened and the young elf hurried inside. As he entered the gates, a rumbling voice thundered:
Saluting: Yost Quickchisel, Revered Scholar of Sylann Academy.
The oppressive greeting shrunk the elf, and it did not help that the long, exposed walkway after the gates overlooked an ocean of scholars below, sitting at workbenches and copying runes. Some cast glances up at the walkway to behold the elf, and Yost felt himself quickening the pace. At the end of the long walkway, the path split into five, each path ascending different staircases. In the middle of the crossroads was a receptionist sitting behind a desk and Yost approached her warily.
“G-good afternoon. I’m here about the–”
“About the job offer, yes? Archmage Draal is expecting you. Main staircase to the top.”
“Uh–”
“That’s the one right behind me.”
The elf obeyed and shuffled up the main staircase with a mighty speed. The coloured glass windows gave the black halls a beautiful crimson tint. The mood resembled that of late twilight, only that Yost could find no nightly peace. Eventually, he reached the top of the stairs, where another pair of gilded rosewood doors greeted him. They opened by themselves on his appearance and inside he saw another elf, one considerably older, but hardly visibly so. He had his eyes of Yost from the moment the doors opened, but his face betrayed nothing but a wide smile and a welcoming gaze.
“Ah, Master Quickchisel! Come in, come in. Oh, at last – to think we are finally able to meet.”
Yost hurried inside and bowed deeply. “Archmage Augustus Draal, it is an honour to–”
“Oh, please,” said the elder and hurried over, “just Gus is fine. In fact, you can call me Uncle Gus! That’s my nickname around these parts.”
Yost was pulled back to a straight stance and mumbled, “Uncle Gus?”
“Yup! Why, with all the courtly nonsense that is demanded of us poor folk chained to His Majesty’s royal council, I prefer to keep a familial profile amongst my lads, y’know. The boys, eh?”
“The boys–”
“So!” Clap! “you’re here about the letter we sent, right?”
“Oh, yes! I–” started Yost and started to pull out his tablet, but fumbled the grip and instead sent it tumbling out of his pack and into the floor. It shattered into sand upon impact and Yost froze. “I am so–”
Gus, however, merely chuckled and waved a hand. The tablet reassembled as if time had rewound and it floated to the hand of the Archmage, who proceeded to look it over and nod. “Yup, this is the letter. Glubina’s handwriting is unmistakable.”
“Again, I am so sorr–”
“Oh, posh!” said Gus with a dismissive wave. “No need to cry over shattered clay – especially not before a mage. Hah!” He then lobbed the tablet out of a nearby window and gestured over to a chair by a massive desk. “Come now, have a seat, son.”
Yost did as told, conquering his nerves well enough to remember to toss out his cape before he sat down. Gus sat down opposite of him and maintained an open stance. “So, you wanna work for the Mages’ Guild, hmm?”
“Yes! It has been my lifelong dream, way before I started at the Academy.”
Gus nodded. “Mhm, mhm. Well, you received our letter for a reason. You have talent, son.” He conjured a parchment out of thin air and glanced it over. “Runesmithing, arcane arts, chaos magic and even dabbles into astrology and greensinging! And top marks across the board. You really pack a punch, kid!”
“O-oh, I’m just lucky I had good teachers.”
“Nonsense – this is innate; destiny, even!” His finger landed on a specific section. “Yet anyone can get top grades in that squip. Glamour-savvy novices fill these halls like mould in a cellar. What got you our attention, son, was your affinity for the dark waters.” Yost nodded excitedly.
“Oh y-yes, my academic assignment was about–”
“–about the prospects and benefits of black water for use in flesh manipulation, yes!” The archmage stood up from his chair and circumvented the desk, ending up next to the young genius. “I take it you are quite familiar with the use of R’kava, then?”
Yost nodded. “Certainly. My family comes from a small village that used to belong to an Octari tribe. They left copious amounts of dark water behind, and many of my friends and family are familiar with the stuff… In all manner of ways, good and bad.”
A cut of sorrow sliced across the archmage’s face. “Oh my, yes. It is powerful magic… Unstable magic. It has neither beginning nor end, and in the wrong hands can mutate completely out of control, risking the lives of everyone around. Truly, the Changing One planned for its use to be a highly exclusive affair. Hence why we would be more than happy to offer you this lucrative chance to join our team.”
Yost felt his chest overflow with butterflies. “I’d– I’d be honoured! What will I be working on?”
“I’m glad you asked!” Gus flicked his wrist and his desk spewed forth light. A diagram showing a humanoid giant with six arms, four legs and an amalgam of jaws appears with a flash that sent Yost flinching. “The current efforts in the war against the Falgini are a losing battle, and His Majesty has commanded that the Mages’ Guild produce new weapons for the front lines. The order has lead to this: the Stone Man Project. These elite soldiers are the product of the mind of your soon-to-be-colleague, Ewon Xand.”
“Oh my Gods, the Ewon Xand? The Sculptor of Sylann?”
“The very same,” said Gus with a wink. “A true erudite within the study of the black waters. Flesh, stone, metal, blood – it does not matter what the substance is: In his hands, they become clay. But, His Majesty’s order has put pressure on the poor mage and he simply cannot keep up with demand. This is why we have specifically asked for you, my boy. What say you? Food and lodgings are included and we will offer a generous stipend of two thousand shwoty a month.”
“T-two thousand?!”
“Oh-ho-hoh, can’t be having our esteemed magicians running around in rags, now can we? You start tomorrow at dawn.”
“Y-yes, Uncle Gus!”
The ebon walls of the Runatorium cast a mountainous shadow over the nearby city district as they blocked the dawn of the Black Sun. The chimneys had not yet begun to smoke, but a scent of sulphur still lingered about the place. Yost had hardly caught a wink of sleep, excited as he had been to start. Nonetheless he had managed to groom himself properly for his first day: his robes were well-kept and his hair had been combed into a slick-back style. He had even managed to stop by a physician’s house for a quick shave. He could not face the Sculptor as anything less than perfect.
With his newly acquired medallion of the Mages’ Guild, he glided effortlessly through the gates, even enjoying respectful greetings by the guards. As he walked the walkway overlooking the now largely empty scriptorium below, he produced a map of light with a simple spell. A glowing blue line appeared on the ground before him, tracing a path out before him over to the receptionist desk, then a hard left up the left-most staircase. Yost followed the beam, offering a curt bow to the groggy receptionist who was sipping some sort of steaming liquid. The staircase took him to another small room, but the beam guided him effortlessly despite the nearly identical black facades and complete lack of signs. It was not uncommon for hubs of magic to maintain confusing layouts to dissuade and trap potential invaders. Labyrinthian hallways with few to no indications of position or direction would quickly have non-magical interlopers running in circles. Confident mages, on the other hand – well, there were other ways of dealing with them.
The pathing spell cast by Yost had been provided to him by Gus, castable only by those in possession of a Mages’ Guild medallion. It was not an impossible spell to figure out by outsiders, but it combined elements of runesmithing and arcana, with the runes functioning as ciphers for the correct arcane spell. In many cases, such spells would carry very similar words of power to dangerous counter-spells targeted at the self, with imprecise incantations potentially costing the caster a hand or an eyeball. Still, the field of anti-magic was one highly valued at the Academy, and employers all around Galbar eagerly looked for magicians skilled in thwarting their peers.
Yost had never been particularly interested in anti-magic. To him, magic was the physical and spiritual manifestation of potential, virtually infinite in scope and possibilities. He had seen with his own eyes on multiple occasions how R’kava could help people: The dying were brought back to life; the limbless could walk again; blindness and deafness became mere temporary afflictions. Of course, the dark waters could take, too, and took quite often. In the presence of such pools, the foolish and uninitiated were famous for speaking the final words: “Did it work?” Yost was confident that he would maintain his mastery of the dark waters. He had done so all his life, and in the apprenticeship of Master Xand himself, he would be in better hands than ever.
The light eventually brought him to a large mahogany door, barely visible against the black walls. Upon his arrival, the frame of the door lit up with faint blue light and the doors opened slowly. The room inside was cylindrical, a great circle lit by a beam of light shining through a single hole in the very top of the ceiling. The beam centered on a small island of scroll-covered desks, besieged by a number of small sitting pillows and, in the very iris of the room – Yost could hardly believe it – a spawning pool. His footsteps echoed loudly against the domed ceiling as he entered.
“H-hello?” he called. There was a clunk! followed by a muttering groan. Yost blinked and stopped in his tracks. It was easy to catch that something was moving underneath the shadows of the tables, but against the singular beam of light, it was harder to make out what. Eventually a form emerged, humanoid at first but then clearly growing into an increasing number of feet as it approached. As it entered into the light, Yost saw that it was indeed an octari in the flesh: Nearly two metres tall, the tentacled creature towered above the young elf, multiple appendages probing the air in Yost’s direction inquisitively. A boney hand reached up and massaged the back of his tentacled hair.
“Oof, that table gave me a rude awakening. Sorry you had to see that.”
Yost blinked. “A-are you alright, Master Xand?”
The octari offered a small sigh. “Would that Vak’thuum had given me the strength to evolve out of the need to sleep, but alas. Until then, these all-nighters will continue to prey on me like the mites in my mattress. Oh, but where are my manners…” The opposite hand, equally boney, reached out. “Ewon Xand, principal investigator of the Stone Men project.”
Yost grabbed his hand eagerly. “I-it’s a huge honour, Master Xand – or, or should I say Sczar Xa–”
“Oh, there’s no need,” replied Xand with an almost venomous politeness. Yost shut up instantly. The octari seemed to make an effort to smile. “Considering that we will be working very closely together on this project, you may just call me Ewon. There are those that call me Ewe, too, if you prefer single syllables.”
Yost nodded slowly. “O-okay, then, uhm… Ewon.” There was a second of silence. “I-I am Yost, by the way. Of Hollowbeck.”
“Hollowbeck, huh? Would that be the name that your tribe gave to Thuu’zoj, the Folly of Sczar Thuu?”
Yost blinked sheepishly. “That, that is what the elders surmise, at least.”
The octari nodded. “So I wasn’t mistaken. Good. It is not often that I am lucky enough to encounter someone who have been in direct contact with my people and their remnants. There are not that many of us in this world, so I grasp at any straw of familiarity I can.” The octari squeezed Yost’s hand again. “I am truly glad to have you here.”
Yost smiled. The pair then took a tour around the room, beginning with the desks. “Here’s your desk. You’ll have to forgive the mess.” A quick wave of a hand sent all the scrolls, tablets and books floating from this desk to another. “I forget how much space I tend to take up when I work alone.”
“O-oh, it’s, it’s no matter, really.” Another hand wave saw a comfortable pillow fluff itself up and situate itself snugly against the desk.
“Please let me know if you find your pillow uncomfortable. The house physician has contacts in the Tailor’s Guild that can fashion you whatever pillow, chair or seat you need for a comfortable workspace.”
“I-I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Ewon winked. “Alright, but let me know. Now this–” he patted a small bookcase, “–is your case. You may store whatever literature you would like in it. If you find that you need more space, let me know and I’ll give word to Uncle Gus.”
“Aha, so you call him that too, huh?”
Ewon shrugged. “He seems to prefer the laid-back tone.”
The pair then turned to the bubbling black pool in the centre of the room. “And here – the star of the show.”
Yost’s eyes were wide as saucers. “A genuine spawning pool. I haven’t seen one since the Black Swamp back in my home village.”
Ewon smiled proudly. “Oh yes. I made it myself, I’ll have you know. Take a look around the rim.” The edge of the pool gleamed faintly with strings of runes, magical incantations forming an array around the dark well. The octari waved his hand over the waters and the pair watched it foam over in a mirrored movement. “Through years of taming, training and testing, I have calibrated the R’kava in this well to spawn warriors for His Majesty’s war effort. A decade of relentless pursuits of knowledge, searching for every written and oral account of Octari shamans, combined with the vast and expansive knowledge of the Arcane, the Runic and the Astral provided by the Mages’ Guild, have all culminated in this magnum opus.” He knelt down and seemed to caress the black soup, which almost seemed to return the gesture affectionately. Ewon rose back up and cleared his throat. “Forgive me – it’s not a common occurrence that I get to show off my darling to someone who… Well, someone who cares.”
Yost gleamed like an evangelised child. “Cares?! Ewon, this is bigger than anything I could have imagined! When do we start? Can we start now?!”
Ewon grinned from eye to eye. “Hah! I knew we’d get along! Alright, since you are so eager, I say we take her for a test just so you can see how she works.” The pair continued the tour over to the walls. Quickly, Yost realised that there were in fact multiple entrances to the room, five in total, but only the main door had been decorated to match the aristocratic theme of the Runatorium. The other four doors were worn and beaten, resembling the gates of a besieged castle. Ewon walked over to one of the gates and gave it a knock. “Ready!” The gates swung open quickly and there was a small yelp followed by a tumble and a smack. As Yost looked down, he felt his smile begin to fade. At his feet was a small, starved goblin, chained and dressed in what could hardly even be called a loincloth. He lifted his head and looked at Ewon.
“Wh-what am I missing?”
The octari blinked. “O-oh! My bad, sorry. Instructions! So, we’ll be taking turns in–”
“N-no, no. I-I mean, what is the goblin for?”
Ewon furrowed what little brow he had. “For… For the test run. We could get a furfolk instead, if you’d like.”
The whimper at his feet seemed to intensify the feeling twisting around Yost’s guts. “Could… Could you explain to me what the test run entails?”
Ewon’s face frowned with understanding. “Oh, now I see…” A boney hand once again scratched at his neck. “Shoot. Uhm, this… This didn’t go quite as I had in mind. Look, I’m very sorry, son – I thought Gus had given you the details on the project.”
“Wh-what details?”
“Well… You know how R’kava works, right? The waters are alive and, well, the batch that seemed to produce the highest quality soldiers just so happened to have a bit of an… Appetite, so to speak.” The octari deflated a bit as he beheld Yost’s expression. “Look, I don’t like it either. I really wish there was another way, but… You know as well as me that when His Majesty wants something, he gets it. With this project, we have funding: You got your job; we get stipends to spend on research. We can help people, Yost!”
“But these…” The elf looked down into the goblin’s mortified eyes. “... These are people.” A boney hand settled on his shoulder.
“Not people, Yost – convicts, prisoners of war. I made sure this project would not put any innocents at risk. I trust Gus to keep his word on that.” Yost’s head shifted right to peer into the concerned eyes of Ewon. “We’re turning the scum of the streets into loyal soldiers which will keep the people of Oss safe and sound and let our troops hang back from the front. If that isn’t a good cause, I don’t know what is.”
Yost swallowed. His mind was a storm, and it was hardly stilled by the grip about his shoulder and the prisoner at his feet. This was wrong. He knew the R’kava gave and could as easily take away, but this sort of exchange – a life for a life; a soul for a soldier – how could he justify that? Even in the name of science, of research and magic, it was insane. It was filthy. It was immoral. It was… It was…
Eventually, he took a deep breath. He held it for a moment before sighing softly. He then cleared his throat and said, “You, uhm… You said you had instructions?”
The young elf Yost has just graduated from the Sylann Academy with a specialisation in R’kava, the manipulation of the soupy dark waters of Vak’thuum (see link on his disc tab). This has gotten him a job offer at the Runatorium of Bast, a magical factory in the Herring King’s capital of Oss in the Sibling Kingdoms in the southwestern Iris Sea (island group in the centre sea on the map). He gets a job on the Stone Men project, which produces super soldiers for the Herring King’s war against the rival Falgini. On his first day, he meets his mentor and idol, Ewon Xand, an octari who has created a spawning pool in the Runatorium which he uses to produce the super soldiers. The two hit it off and Ewon takes Yost for a test run, but the mood sours when Yost realises that super soldiers are produced by feeding mortals to the pool. Ewon explains that they only use criminals and POWs and that no innocent soul would ever be sacrificed. Yost is skeptical, but his curiosity gets the better of him and the post ends with his wanting to do his part for the war effort.
The victory of Zlot over the tribe of Snop had sent ripples of fear and awe throughout the Striped Lands: A true boarzerker, a chosen of the Killer of Killers and the antagonist of every horror story and wicked legend, walked the soil of Galbar. Worse yet, the vile Zlot was nothing less than a Voot, and the many mortals calling the south of the Land of Origins their home, recalled with terror the oppressive reign of the Voot warchiefs before the tribe was undone by the Black Sun. Yet while Zlot was a threat, he was as much of a threat as an arrow was; he could kill any living thing, but only if drawn and aimed by an archer of the right caliber.
And Zlot was loyal to his cousin Draznokh, and as long as his blood hunger was sated, he would remain as such. At least for the time being.
As the weeks passed, it became clear to Grand Agricultist Krang that Draznokh had long since surpassed him in terms of popularity. Ever since he had convinced the vile bull to get rid of the Blood Swarm, the frightening visage of Krang had met more resistance, more backtalk, than before. The tribe of Pate, Krang’s tribe, was slowly turning away from him, many remembering the legacy of the Vootlands with increasingly more awe than shock. Krang had one last chance before the ultimate price; if he was not to challenge him outright and lose his life in single combat, he would choose to rely on one final quest - one that would surely do away with him.
Draznokh made the trip up the giant hill several times per day now. He had not idly let the time pass since his moral victory of Krang: his political opportunity had seen him force Krang to accept him as a high laysnouter of the Agricult, a position not equal to Krang’s, but one where he effectively functioned as his lieutenant. He thus held office at the temple atop the giant hill, ruling alongside the seething priest. In fairness Krang had had no choice; the Pates did not number enough snouters for his Agricult to hold all the power by themselves anymore. The Voot clique, backed by Draznokh’s will and Zlot’s muscle, managed to strike much harder than their tiny size would seemingly allow for. Any hidden attempt to murder Draznokh would immediately draw attention to him; his hatred for the hesnouter was brighter than Itzal. Any murder, even the basest misdemeanour, would be traced back to him.
It was thus at one congregation of the Agricult atop the giant hill that Krang gathered the innermost circle of the group and said sourly, “Brother Draznokh… In the name of the Vile Bull, I address you as his highest servant.”
Draznokh, like the rest of the innermost members, had been sitting on pillows fashioned from the pelts of enslaved beastmen. He stood up and entered the centre of the circle, where he kneeled and spread his arms out to the side with immersion. “Voice of the Fields, Brother Krang - what does the Taskmaster have in store for me?”
Krang squinted angrily. Draznokh smeared on thick with titles when he was mocking him. With a voice like poison, he replied, “Your efforts against the Snopans, while crude and disproportionate, have offered us temporary respite from their senseless attacks. As the descendent of Krooshus Pate, I thank you on my ancestors’ behalf for your loyalty to the tribe.”
Draznokh bowed his head. “Be it in the name of Pate or the Horned One himself, I submit to your will.”
Krang sneered. “... Your sense of duty is admirable...” The hesnouter collected his hands behind his foldy back and walked over to the edge of the temple platform. “Come. Gaze across the fields with me.”
Draznokh rose and followed him. The rest of the council, understanding that this looked to be a conversation for four eyes, decided to leave. With the two of them alone, Krang snarled, “Do not think for a second that this is your doing.” Below them sprawled a vast plain, starry with torches and campfires. Trees had been chopped down by the score and the place where there had once been forest were cleansed of every stump and plowed by armies of snouters. The humble garden that weeks ago had just kept the Pates scraping by, was expanding every day, eating up the overgrown lands like an inferno. Draznokh couldn’t help but smirk.
“... But it kind of is, isn’t it?”
Krang drew a knife, but stopped short of Draznokh’s ear. “Oh, come now, Krang, I’m just teasing you.”
“Know that it takes every fiber of my being to not bleed you dry whenever I lay eyes on you.”
Draznokh didn’t even pay him a glance. He merely stared out towards the horizon with a grin one could punch. “Your squeal better than you threaten, Krang. It is times like these when I truly wonder why I was ever afraid of you.” He finally turned and looked into the diverging eyes of the other hesnouter, neither eye affixed on him, but both equally filled with rage. “Now are you going to kill me or are you going to tell me what mess I need to clean up for you?”
Krang breathed sharply through his teeth and lowered his quivering knife-hand. “You should be thankful that I value my own life over my ambition…”
“Honesty, at last.”
“However... I will ask that you do one last thing for me.”
Draznokh raised a brow. “Last, you say?”
Krang sighed. “I tire of this game, Draznokh. ‘High laysnouter’ my rump… I haven’t been in charge of this tribe ever since the swarm disappeared. Do this one thing for me, and I will in the sight of gods and mortals declare that the line of Pate will step down from leadership in favour of the line of Voot.”
Draznokh temporarily failed to contain his excitement and turned a little too fast. Krang felt the hairs on his skin tingle with anticipation.
Hook…
“Do we have an agreement?”
Draznokh curled and uncurled his fingers. “What is it you need?”
Line…
“Our metalworkers have complained about the rising price of copper. The merchants from the sea say it’s due to a production shortage somewhere by the Western Falls. I want you to go there and settle this matter.”
Draznokh mellowed out and cast a distant gaze across the horizon. Krang pursed his lips. “... As you know, securing the flow of copper is essential for ensuring proper maintenance of tools, armour and weapons. Bone is strong, but we should not place all our eggs in one basket.”
“The Western Falls are quite far from home,” Draznokh said quietly. Krang nodded.
“Oh yes,” Krang assented. “But a diverse array of resources at hand will ensure a strong and well-prepared tribe.” He leaned in. “A strong and well-prepared Vootland, chieftain.”
Draznokh slowly turned to face him, a smirk on his snout. “You know that I know what you’re trying to accomplish here.” Krang shrunk ever so slightly, but regained his composure with a nod. Draznokh continued, “Do you expect me to go off somewhere far away again to die so that you won’t have the blood on your trotters? Hah!”
Krang snarled. “... Alright, fine. If honeyed words are not enough, perhaps you will respond to action.” He took his knife and carved a rune in his palm with a quiet wince. Draznokh did not know its effects and felt himself harden his stance. Krang raised his knife-hand calmingly. “Not to worry – this is only an insurance for you.”
“What is it?”
“Shake my hand,” said Krang, “and you will force me to make good on my promise. Come home alive after accomplishing your task, and I will surrender the tribe to you under pain of death.”
Draznokh furrowed his brow. “And if I don’t?”
Krang withdrew the hand and shrugged innocently. “Then there won’t be much of an agreement anymore, will there? Now, do we have a deal?”
Draznokh pondered thoughtfully. “You sacrifice quite a bit for such a simple mission. What is it that you are not telling me?”
“Nothing that you do not already know. I am just hoping that my luck will turn and that I will be rid of you forever. No one in this tribe can kill you; no one outside of the tribe can kill you. At this point, I am praying that a rockslide will rid me of both you and your blood-bloated cousin.” He shook his bleeding hand. “Do we have a deal?”
After a moment more of reflection, Draznokh squeezed the hand. A small light flashed from the cracks between their fingers and disappeared as quickly as it had blinked. Draznokh smirked and looked into his palm: a rune just like Krang’s had etched itself into his skin, but not in a way that caused him any harm. Krang shook his palm, which still bled, and Draznokh snickered. “You have just dealt yourself a shit hand, Krang. I will be expecting a feast upon my return. Prepare a good speech and clean that tongue – you will be licking my trotters soon enough.” As he stepped down the stairs of the temple, Krang rubbed his bleeding hand. He could not help but snicker, too.
“... And sinker,” he giggled. The next day, Draznokh, Zlot and ten others set off westwards, heading for the trading post of Ralhu, situated safely on the opposite side of the peninsula from the cursed river Lick. The trek wasn’t long - the group maintained a quick trot of fifty paces walking alternating with fifty paces jogging. They stuck to the beaten path, passing through Pate and Pate-loyal territory for the most part. Yet it would not be a scot-free journey. On the second day, when passing through rival Nu-Voot territory, Draznokh and the rest had to downright wrestle Zlot to the ground to keep him from assaulting a bypassing host of farmers working the floatato paddies. While Zlot could kill them with a flick of the wrist just like he had the Snopans, the Nu-Voots were many – more than even Zlot could handle. They eventually managed to calm him down. The mood maintained an uneasy tension ever since. Draznokh could feel it just as everyone else felt it: They were leaving the Vootlands, and their bodies – their very souls – were screaming at them to turn back. Snouters weren’t meant to leave home, and with every step, the knot in their hearts tightened. This felt wrong.
“But Draz… Who will tend my fields when I’m gone?” Zlot asked maniacally. It was the fourth time in an hour. Draznokh was starting to believe he had gone senile.
“Like I’ve said,” he squeezed through his teeth, “you told Jura to take care of them – she will take care of them.”
The giant hog, who most people thought had no concept of fear, quivered like a newborn puppy. “B-but she’ll never manage to tend to all of them! And, and my wives! They’ll be unfaithful in my absence, I just KNOW it!”
“They won’t, Zlot, calm down–” Draznokh choked, or rather, a hand the size of his head nearly crushed his windpipe in a single grab. The monstrous boarzerker dragged him up into the sky by the neck, eyes aflame with instinctual panic.
“YOU KNOW NOTHING! I NEED TO GET HOME!”
“... lot! … Z… lot!” Draznokh stuttered. The others tried to wrestle him back down. Draznokh felt his eyes roll back and his breath falter, but just before he lost his conscious, the boarzerker regained his sanity. He immediately dropped him, Draznokh crashing to the ground like a sack. The snouters swarmed him and tried to breathe life back into him. Droog, a competent shaman, started chanting healing spells and casting dried moss powder over his body. Slowly, Draznokh came to. Zlot pushed everyone else aside and held his cousin in his arms.
“Draz! Draz! Oh, Draz, I’m… I’m so sorry!”
“Think–” A cough. “... Think nothing of it…” Draz wheezed and massaged his bruised throat. With weak eyes, he looked around at the faces of his comrades. “... Look at us. Hardly two days away from home and we’re completely losing ourselves.” He snorted sharply. “The curse runs thick in our veins, brothers, but for an instant – a wink, is all – consider that you are leaving home, for the sake of home.” Variegated nods hopped from head to head. “The bull granted us means to till and fight,” he patted his bony snout, “but times change. Already our enemies are adapting to our tactics with pikes and armour. Zlot can piece mail with his tusks, but he is alone in such a feat. If we are to survive, we too must adapt.” He gestured a hand to the direction they were going in. “And adaptation is that way and that way alone. Yet I realise this quest may be beyond some of you.” Eyes shifted away and Draznokh’s frown deepened. “I will grant you a chance to turn back. This will be the only time I do so peacefully. Turn around now before we reach the Iris Sea, and there will be no consequences.” He studied the stoney faces of his companions. “Think hard about this. Know that even if I do not make it home, should any of you turn on me after we have left the shores of the Striped Lands, not even death will stop me from haunting your miserable existences. It’s now or never.”
A moment longer passed. Then Zlot stepped forward. Draznokh, despite his strict demeanour, could not dismiss his disheartened frown at the sight. “... Of all people…”
“I’m sorry, cousin,” Zlot sighed, “I do not belong this far from home. Without the firm hand of a hog, how will the sows at home behave? My crops will not grow without my governance – that little which grows will rot a-root.” He gestured down the path they had come from. “An empty death on foreign soil, where no Voot has ever set its trotters – I will take a lifetime of shame rather than abandon the hearth and the field.”
Draznokh grit his teeth. “... Very well. A promise is a promise. Anybody else?”
Out of the eleven he had brought with him, seven ended up leaving with Zlot. Draznokh and the remaining three hesnouters stood in the clearing for a small while until the others had passed beyond the line of sight. Draznokh then turned to the others and snorted quietly. “... I will admit: I had expected more to remain.”
“A betrayal, I say,” mumbled the shaman Droog.
“Maybe, but one that is my fault. I put too much faith in their will to resist the curse. Without the full party – without Zlot – we can no longer rely on strength as our primary tool. We were not exactly a raiding party before, but now we are hardly a beastman hunting team. From now on, our first weapon of offense is wit.” He tapped one of his tusks. “Save these for when negotiations go sour. Until then, stick to your tongues.” He surveyed the faces of his companions and sighed. “... For what they’re worth.” By the afternoon of the following day, the considerably diminished party finally reached the harbour town of Rhaam, a middling settlement ruled by the Herring King, one of the seven fabled monarchs of the Siblings, the sprinkle of islands situated in the south-west of the Iris Sea. The Siblings numbered eleven islands in total, home to all manner of mortals and beasts who descended from or themselves were people who had been drawn to the sea and decided to make it their habitat. Here were croakers, beastmen, snouters, dwarves, goblins, goatfolk, even humans. The many cultures of the islands lived intertwined with one another, connected by the water and the things that traversed them. Some were boatbuggers; some were swimmers; some sailed boats drawn by aquatic beasts – the sea welcomes all modes of transport that float. Rhaam was far from the biggest settlement under the Herring King, but it had its specialty.
“UGH! Gods, what is that stink?!” growled Vadym, a fat-bellied grain farmer and the largest remaining in the group.
The shaman Droog sniffed and grimaced. “Garum...” he remarked sourly. “I have heard the goblin merchants tell nightmarish tales about the ‘rank of Rhaam’. Plug your nostrils, lads.”
“What’s a garum?” whined Shtook, a root farmer and an ardent acolyte of the Agricult. He clutched his talisman, a bone necklace that resembled a little rake, as though prayer would save him from the ungodly stink.
“It’s a condiment that the seapeoples are quite fond of, supposedly,” Droog continued. “A product of fermented fish innards, salt and time, I believe.”
“Innards?!” squealed Shtook in disbelief.
“Indeed. The rest of the fish is used for different purposes.”
“Bull’s loins,” swore Vadym and threw the sky a glance. Sundown was luckily approaching – only a little extra sweat coalesced on his forehead. As the group entered into the town, they were greeted by bustling streets, more languages in minutes than they had heard their whole lives, and smells and noises completely foreign to the Vootlands. Spices and herbs, sweets and sours, burnt and rotting – the familiar scent of black soil seemed like a distant memory. Buildings of wood and mud flanked the dirt road streets on all sides, winding along the river of people that kept the afternoon alive. After an initial stroll, the streets began to snake their way down a hill which eventually dove into the sea; there, at its feet, was a bustling harbour and a grand market. Their descent through the city down to the harbour below was accompanied by yells and hoots by nearby merchants pushing fish, seaweed, salt, shellfish and fancy rocks in their faces. Stalls selling pearls, pretty shells, coral art and fishing equipment were as densely packed as carrots in a bunch, forming a labyrinth that the snouters had to laboriously traverse.
“Pig-bro! Pig-bro! Pearls for sow, yes?! Pearls for sow?!”
Vadym pushed the little half-hyena aside with a snort. “Back off, pup!”
“Oils for cheap! Ooooooiiils for cheapy-cheap!”
“Shrimp kebab for a shwoty! Shriiiiimp kebab for a shwoty!”
“Gaaaarum! Gaaaarum! No meal complete without gaaaarum!”
Droog muttered. “All this noise is making me nauseous.”
“It’s more likely the garum,” Shtook pointed out. Draznokh sighed.
“We’ll be at the harbour soon,” he said and pointed ahead. Rows of piers, boatbugs, boats and beasts stuck out of the crowds of fishermen, divers, cooks and merchants like stiff hairs out of a scalp. The snouters halted, trying to get their bearings. “Alright, brothers… We need to find a skipper who can take us to the Western Falls. Droog, do you have the payment?”
Droog extracted a small pouch of cowries from his pack, carefully collected from all the trade the Pates had engaged in with foreign merchants. “Three hundred shwoty, eager to find their future owner.”
“Alright, not too loud now…” Draznokh cautioned. “... Remember, we need to pay for the return journey, too. Be frugal, but respectful. Get us a good deal.”
Droog nodded and went off. Draznokh turned to the others and said, “While we wait, I suggest we see if we can boost our numbers some. Go out and find us some foolish souls who are willing to accompany us to the Falls. I don’t care who they are – if they are gullible enough to come along, we will find a use for them.” The two nodded and spread out. The rest of the afternoon was spent recruiting, scouting and haggling.
The shaman patrolled the docks with an idle trot, drinking deep in the selection of vessels docking at the pier. There were floats pulled by boatbugs, large bugs with carriages on their backs, oarboats with crews of goblin slaves, and many more. He approached one shovelling dried kelp into the trough of a large boatbug and said, “Good brother, would you be willing to take me and my three hesnouter companions to the Western Falls? We will pay handsomely, for certain.” Droog poured his soul into a courteous bow to seal-faced humanoid, who turned around and eyed him up and down. The seal then burst into a guffaw and thumbed over his shoulder.
“HAH! Oinky, you alone would break my Esmeralda’s back! Hooey!” He slapped his knee with a flipper hand and waved him away. “Gave me a good laugh, that. Good day to ya.” Leaving Droog momentarily dumbfounded, the selkie returned to the shovelling, the boatbug tapping the pile eagerly with a pair of antennae. The shaman then quietly moved on, trying to hide the pink hue in his cheeks.
A distance away, Shtook dejectedly walked away from a cackling gang of dwarven buccaneers. “FOR HOW MUCH?! HAH!” they spat after him in between the squeals. The spectacle was drawing quite a number of eyes, and Shtook’s rosy cheeks showed through his fur and turned them a blacking red.
Vadym didn’t have much luck either, though instead of laughter, he was met with threats: “Fakkin’ grunty, I’ll smack yo shit, I swear on me mum!” He ended up running away from the tide of shiv-wielding goblins he had proposed should join them. By the end of the day, the three of them returned to Draznokh empty-handed.
“Nothing?” the leader grunted.
“Nothing,” the three lackeys echoed.
Draznokh groaned. “... To reemphasise – we need a vessel and a crew. We absolutely cannot do this on our own.”
“... Yes, we are aware,” Vadym grumbled.
“So then do it again,” Draznokh growled. “And find me someone before–”
“Honourable tusklords,” came a voice. The four snouters turned to face a robed and bejeweled elf, her hair tied in a crescent knot that pointed skywards like the erect tail of a cat. Draznokh took the lead as usual and stepped to the front.
“Yes?”
The elf bowed deeply. “Blessings of the Ox, the Triple-Goddess and the Green Mother upon you all. I come bearing a message from Her Excellency Tidelady Arsantahl, mistress of the Little Brothers and Minister of Terrestrial Affairs under his Majesty the Herring King.” The snouters exchanged looks to see if any of them were wiser than the others. The elf ignored their ignorance and continued, “Her Excellency bids you welcome to her demesne of Rhaam, a humble speck of the mighty realm of the Greatest of the Seven. She apologises for the sorry state of the village and hopes that its amenities prove sufficient for your cultured beings.”
Draznokh furrowed his brows at the comment, allowing his eyes to once again gaze around the metropolis. “... We thank Her Excellency for the concern.”
The elf bowed again. “Your gratitude means everything to her. In fact, Her Excellency would like to invite you all to her humble abode for tea and a meal. Should you accept, it would be my honour to guide you along the way.”
Draznokh probed the expressions of his companions. Shtook pursed his lips. “Well, I have been feeling a little peckish for a while now.” Vadym concurred with an mhm. Droog was silent, but did not seem to protest. Draznokh shrugged and eventually said, “Very well. After you.”
“No, after you,” the elf insisted and the five of them ascended from the docks and back into the town. After what felt like an eternity swimming through the masses in the streets, the number of people eventually faded as the surrounding buildings fancied up something fierce. Mud huts and wooden shacks gave way to skillfully cut sandstone foundations topped with wooden mansions with curved roofs and colourfully painted walls. Greens, reds, whites, blues – rainbows of colour unimaginable in the Vootlands. After a while, the group crossed onto a great white plaza, dotted with small, isolated forests and flower beds. In the centre was a tall marble foundation that seemed to spike the sky like a lonely mountain. Atop was a large palace with a roof of jade and walls of fine coral. The snouters stood dumbfounded as the elf ascended a staircase. “Come now,” she encouraged. After stepping upwards and upwards for what felt like hours, the five all eventually reached the top, where they were greeted by an eagle-like fowlfolk dressed in beautifully patterned silks. She threw out her arms in greeting and bowed courteously.
“Honoured tusklords of the Lands of Voot, be welcome,” Tidelady Arsantahl greeted and straightened herself back up. “I trust the journey was comfortable?”
“So much stone,” whispered Shtook in what almost felt like discomfort. The lack of forests and fields around them intensified the homesickness. Draznokh swallowed as much as he could of the torturing sensation and bowed back.
“The Tidelady showers us with undeserved riches by presenting herself. We are honoured.”
Arsantahl giggled. “Oh, a charmer – how fun! Come in, come in. You must be famished!” The group entered the palace through a hallway of pillars and came to a scene of five small tables arranged in a horseshoe with the middle one being slightly larger. The tables were set with steaming dishes and bowls of all sorts of meats, seafood, vegetables, salads and stews meticulously prepared for their arrival. The snouters licked their lips gluttonously, but even Voots and Pates knew to wait for the elder to eat first. Arsantahl gracefully stepped over to the middle table, which had been positioned on a small platform above the other four. When she walked, her dress hardly showed it – she seemed to almost hover. Once she had sat down, she beckoned invitingly. “Please, sit.”
The snouters did as they were told and the fowl regarded them patiently. “Now…” she said and picked a morsel between her claws, “... What seems to have brought four snouters to want to sail the Iris Sea, hmm?”
A billion years ago, this post started with Draznokh and Krang arguing over shit. Krang knows he cannot get rid of Draznokh without making him a martyr, so he sends him on a suicide mission to restore the copper mines in the far west, faaar away from the Vootlands in the vain hopes that he'll find some way to kill himself. Draznokh agrees and travels off towards the port city of Rhaam, situated on the southern end of the big middle sea, called the Iris or the Iris Sea by the Vootlands snouters. They decide to split up to try to get a ship and a crew, but quickly realise the people there are woefully overpriced. Just as all hope is lost, the gang is summoned to the Tidelady Arsantahl, the local governour and servant of the Herring King - one of the big shots in the Iris Sea island kingdoms - and she starts asking them questions about their business.
Member
Kangutso
Lord Zee
Dinh AaronMk
Timemaster
Lunamaria Hawke
Taeryn
Nallore
Sigma
ButtsnBalls
