ASTA

The Prophecy

“Ah,” Claw responded. Satisfied with the explanation given to him, the del’korm quickly adopted what passed for a customary relaxed posture among his people: back straightened; tail kicking up light puffs of dirty dust as it lazily swished to and fro behind him; pointed ears set in a neutral position. He looked at the collection of beings assembled in front of him once more, and then fixed his predatory eyes, now no longer shimmering with mild enmity for the newcomer with the big sword, upon a sleeping Iridiel.

He was mildly concerned for her. She was still unconscious, and had been in such a lifeless state for quite some time now. Claw pondered if it were at all possible that she had been stricken with some sort of ailment during the trio’s violent encounter with what had apparently been a “lohk”. Maybe her soul was sick? Soul sickness did exist in Malkor’Kurz (and Iridiel was most definitely exhibiting a number of the symptoms that were associated with the disease). Was it possible that it existed here too? Maybe the lohk had cast a spell upon her in the final seconds of its life that afflicted her---a final act of petty retribution to punish the one who had dealt it a mortal blow.

Soul sickness, although entirely painless, was not only incurable, but almost always lethal as well. Claw hoped that she didn't have it.

And like with Domhnall, he had grown quite fond of Iridiel. The magical power that she had displayed during the violent circumstances of their initial meeting deeply intrigued the moderately experienced Echoer. He meant to ask her about it. Perhaps he could show her how to wield the Echo and, in return, she could teach him how to do what she had done?

The mere possibility of losing her this early in their companionship gnawed savagely at Claw's conscious.

He wasn't ready to lose Iridiel. Or Domhnall. Or any of them for that matter. Claw silently reached across the Gelid Union to touch La'Kan's semi-divine presence, asking the venerable hero-god to lend his non-del'korm friend a minute portion of his own inexhaustible fortitude for good measure.

“Yes, let us go.” Claw muttered modestly, his eyes still glued to Iridiel’s motionless form.

The Prophecy

“Hello companion-Domhnall.”

Before he continued his greetings, Claw elected to steal a gander directly to his rear. Predictably, many beaten faces, most of them soiled with anxiety and trepidation, met his fierce and unflinching gaze with their own. A few lobbed mild obscenities his way. However “threatened” they may have felt, none of the refugees made any motions to harass or assault Claw, opting instead to give the del’korm a very generous berth as they trudged onward towards their intended destination. Claw found this ongoing spectacle quite amusing, sniggering softly to himself before turning his broad wolf-like head back to face the forestfolk who stood before him.

“These ones are...different,” Claw enjoyably remarked, casually jabbing a clawed pollex over a furry shoulder at the ever-shifting river of mortal life that flowed noisily around him and into Zerul. “Very different.”

Claw’s attention suddenly fell upon the other members who were accompanying Domhnall. His glare, intensely inquisitive and suddenly devoid of emotion, fell upon the young man with the big sword.

“Domhnall, who is this one?” Claw stoutly inquired, gesturing an index digit at the teenager.

The Prophecy

Reaching Domhnall’s immediate position hadn’t taken much time, Claw surmising that the gap between his starting point and his intended destination having taken no more than ten minutes to close.

Quite a few members of the assemblage that was slowly making its way towards Zerul City had noted his presence, however. While most kept to themselves and moved on (perhaps sneaking a glance or two at the passing del’korm at most), others had momentarily interrupted their unhurried journey towards the city to acknowledge his presence with audible astonishment or pointed fingers as he bounded towards the great metropolis with furious tempo. Some of their lot, mostly farmers but a few soldiers as well, freed an extensive assortment of melee weapons of all shapes and sizes from different places on their persons in preparation for an imminent attack, but were reluctantly returned to their holding places when Claw was far enough away from their families and assigned charges.

The severity of his exhaustion was readily made apparent to him when Claw returned to his usual two-legged posture mid-stride as he melded seamlessly into the crowd near the front of the city gates. His breathes came in labored pants and the padded undersides of his enormous claws rapidly developed a thick film of sweat.

Still, he trudged onward through the thick crowd, his overbearing presence and foreign appearance naturally prompting the vast majority of the refugees to break their ranks for his passage. A few more working men just ahead of him reflexively brandished crude weapons and lobbed threats at the oncoming del’korm, but Claw calmly yet threateningly reassured them, in a series of broken sentences and mispronounced words, that he was not interested at all in devouring them (yet), but instead had intentions of meeting a few companions of his.

When he finally saw Domhnall, an unconscious Iridiel, and her “wolf” sitting nearby, Claw started almost immediately towards them. But he abruptly paused mid-step when he registered the presence of a young man who was conversing with Jaelnec and Domhnall. His appearance was unassuming and uninteresting for the most part barring an over-sized two-handed "sword" that was fixed to his back.

Claw guessed that he must have been friendly enough. Otherwise the others wouldn’t have bothered exchanging words with him. Subduing his mild concern (of which was founded more on the strategic assessment of a potential enemy's capabilities and intentions rather than just on raw fear itself), Claw approached, still drawing the attention of the people around him as he calmly made his way forward.

The Prophecy

From his hiding place (which consisted of a trivial spot of forestry founded upon an elevated plot of land situated approximately 6 miles away from Zerul City) Claw bore witness to a most interesting sight. A gargantuan flock of people—appearing to Claw as a swelling, multi-tiered assemblage of diminutive black specks that seemed to be in a perpetual state of motion from such an immense distance—was making its way bit by bit towards Zerul City. A hazy cloud of dirt and grit (likely generated by the powerful strides of an impressively large integer of horses and burly draft animals slaved to an equally sizable amount of wagons and carts) floated lazily about them as they painstakingly strode onward.

Claw pondered the identity of these people. Perhaps the specks were traders? Or some great host from an enemy region coming to assail Zerul City? Claw yearned to know more.

But previous events had understandably made the del’korm moderately wary of this alien land’s inhabitants despite having been aided by a pair of them a few hours prior. He considered moving out beyond the outer edges of the forest and further inland a ways to get a better gander at the newcomers, but a last-minute epiphany rooted him firmly in place before he had committed even a single muscle towards motion.

Claw did not need to see these people directly in order to garner a comprehensive apprehension of their woeful situation at all. He was an Echoer. Not the most adept one perhaps, but competent enough to the point where his sense of sight utterly paled in comparison to his sense of hearing.

He only needed to hear them.

Ordinarily, eavesdropping on a far-flung individual or tiny group was but mere child’s play for those favored with the Voice of La’Kan. It was an ability universally known by the lion’s share of their lot. Claw had done it countless times when he was still in Malkor’Kurz. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

But doing it to thousands of tiny groups from such a vast distance all the while differentiating between such a dense cacophony of sounds? That was beyond him. Ashamed as Claw was to admit it, he’d need a touch of help.

Swallowing his pride, Claw gently shut his eyes in focus and marshaled his spirit to action, forcibly compelling the magical power that resided within his mortal soul to tap into, amplify, and then subsequently refine his own personal connection with the Gelid Union. Not even a second passed before the Echoer abruptly perceived the blazing fire of La’Kan’s divine soul seamlessly blending with his own, its dynamic pangs of nigh-limitless power momentarily enhancing Claw’s sense of hearing to a degree where he could even audibly detect the smallest of insects scuttling and scurrying about on the forest floor with unmatched clarity.

Sufficiently empowered and muting in totality all other noises around him, Claw fixed his gaze upon the lilliputian, bleary shapes that shuffled about within the dusty floating cloud in the distance and listened.

Our home is gone, murmured one of the specks to another. Their low and quivering voice was laden with equal parts gloom and dread, as if their whole world had been violently ripped clear from their clutches without much effort some time before. The speaker measured young vocally. A child likely. One who was perhaps six years off from womanhood.

Why is she so sad? Claw silently mused to himself. What had happened to her dwelling?

A loud crack disrupted Claw’s deep fixation on the young one’s dispirited mutterings. The splitting of hard timber. An “axle” maybe? Yes, that was it—and an obliterated wheel as an extra causality, too. The sound of an elderly mule, bucking and braying in terror at the sudden report from the wagon’s untimely mechanical failure, met Claw’s ears. And another vocalization—this time male, human, and the likely possessor of both wagon and beast—responded with a furious shout at his bad luck in an exotic tongue that the del’korm scarcely understood.

The Echoer continued to listen in on the moving masses as they gradually made their way towards the main gates of Zerul City, cycling from speck group to speck group with due rapidity. From what words that they exchanged lowly amongst themselves, Claw quickly learned of where they hailed from—a place he had never been to before called Nemhim that apparently was situated somewhere west—and how a mysterious entity of herculean might and unbridled vehemence had unleashed its direful fury upon the hapless people of that faraway city.

Claw concentrated towards Zerul City’s main gates. An explosive deluge of male and female voices belonging to the old, the young, the sick, and the injured of a multifarious collection of races and ethnic groups assaulted his ears, all of them seemingly speaking in unison to an overwhelmed contingent of men—all of whom spoke with a peculiar amount of authority—that clustered at the city’s entrance.

The men also made a number of distinctive yet entirely unnatural “clinking” sounds every so often. Steel on steel? Probably loose weapons striking armor. More than likely they were soldiers charged with presiding over this crisis in an orderly fashion.

There’s only three of us! One male voice cried out. By the Gods, we’ve no food and my son is hurt! He won’t---

---aunt resides here, Came another. ‘Sent for us the moment she caught wind of the attack. Name’s Te---

---thing was something out of a nightmare it was! Exclaimed one more. Ran roughshod through my entire farmstead like it was nothing! We barely made it out al---

Claw winced in agitation. Too much information. He bent and contorted the sounds until most of the refugees save for an infinitesimal section of them—perhaps five or so hustled up a fair walk away from the main body of newcomers—were all he heard.

There s'posed tae be more of us lo', came a new voice. Tall foreign-looking warrior fellow with a narrow face, a wee whi'e-haired lass an' a beas' a bi' like a lion big as four hor---

A feeling of familiarity suddenly washed over Claw as the sound of Domhnall’s characteristic accent greeted him.

Claw’s understanding of the local dialect was still in its infancy, but he did know a few rudimentary words and phrases to at least communicate a simple message to another. He homed in on who he hoped was Domhnall and spoke to him directly via a tightly constrained “beam” of acoustic energy that was aimed right at the forest dweller.

“Domhnall, this is Claw. Stay there, yes? I am coming.”

His message sent, Claw terminated his link with the Gelid Union, La'Kan's quasi-immortal spirit separating itself from his and the audible presence of the far-off lot of displaced Nimhem people vanishing almost instantaneously.

After checking to make sure all of his effects were in order, Claw dropped to all fours and sprang out from his protective woodland occupancy with a bestial grunt, landing with a heavy thud and ripping free great portions of packed dirt from the earth with his claws, and surged across the open land towards Zerul City with a tempo that even a prized racing stallion would have struggled to match.

The Prophecy

@Shienvien, @cthulu, @yoshua171, @Mercinus3, @Rhaevnn Xeno, @Legion X51, @ASTA and @Ashgan... may I have your attention please?

Am I doing something wrong?
Right from the time when I started this RP, which by now is a fairly long time ago, I have endeavored to be a forthcoming, understanding and generally amicable GM who, while stressing – as I will do again today – that I am indeed dedicated to this RP, its story and its continuation, but also time and time again reminding you all that real life comes first. Of course it does, and it has always been my policy that temporary inactivity was fully acceptable as long as I received some kind of forewarning, and/or some kind of assurance that you are still in the RP and haven’t dropped it.
But right now, the way things are looking, I cannot help but to wonder if I have perhaps been too lenient and too understanding, to the point where my failings have brought the health of this precious old RP of mine – which has admittedly been deteriorating slowly but inexorably for a long time – to what feels unnervingly like close to the brink of death. I know of many other GMs who would have decided that their RP had died long ago with the level of activity The Prophecy has had for the past months, if not even the past year, and quite frankly I think that the fact that I’m still fighting for this RP even at this point should demonstrate the level of sheer stubbornness with which I pursue its survival, deepened even further by my knowledge that there are also still players who not only want to participate in it, but who remain passionate about it too.
Several times over the course of this RP I have faced vaguely similar issues with single players, and during these times I had to invoke deus ex machina or downright cut those players from the story one way or another in order to enable the RP to continue. Now, however, it is not one player, not one story; in the three branching stories of The Prophecy currently active, none are particularly active. The most active one has gone half a month without seeing a reply, which would be acceptable... if it was the exception rather than the norm.
I am understanding and try to help you get through the hardships of your real lives without having to worry about the RP, and I realize that writing posts of the level that has become a hallmark of this RP can be taxing and time-consuming, but I have to realize that there is something seriously wrong when huge amounts of time pass without any activity whatsoever. Even in the most active branch of the story, it feels as though posts only occur when I grow impatient and request posting to be resumed. I spoke of this briefly in a previous “recent” - which one month ago is according to the standards currently in place – OOC-post, but nothing happened.
If you will permit me to do so, I would like to quote the rules-section of the OP of this RP; a rule that has been in place since the beginning of the RP:

<Snipped quote>

Four days was originally considered a longer period of time, warranting a warning to one’s fellow players. That is where we came from, and this is where we have gotten. One of the three branches of the story has been stuck for over a quarter of a year, and the last of the three is not far behind that one. You know which branches I mean without me naming them. I’m not mentioning anyone in particular in relation to this, not calling anyone out, and I leave it to each of you individually to consider whether you feel responsible for the current state of the RP, and whether you really are that extraordinarily preoccupied, or if you have perhaps just gotten bored with the RP or a “little” lazy. Some players are commendably ready and rarely delay for long once their turn comes around before they post, but those are regrettably in the minority... and quite frankly, recruiting new players for the RP will do nothing for the health of the RP if those new players still have to wait months for the old players to post their turn.
I may sound like I am being harsh, and for that I apologize. I realize from experience that a post like this will most likely make one or several people feel so particularly targeted – though I truly am targeting no one in this post – or so guilty that they feel pressured into leaving the RP, and I realize that including a disclaimer saying that I do not want this will probably not change that. But even so, I have come to the conclusion that it needs to be said.

Which brings me to the ultimate purpose of this post: what needs to be done?
Clearly I need to do something different, or this incarnation of The Prophecy really will die. What am I doing wrong? Should I hound you for not posting whenever a few days have passed? Should I be less polite and more resolute in my requests for posts? Or are my expectations unreasonable? I don’t think they are, but at this point I can’t be certain about anything.
All of these question marks aren’t there just for appearances’ sake, and they have their name for a reason: I am genuinely asking you all real questions here, and I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Please, help me be better if I have performed poorly as GM; please help restoring The Prophecy.

@Dark Jack

No, it's just that I'm currently enrolled in a government-funded vocational education program that sucks up an astronomical portion of my time. Said program offers free lodging and food and a host of other wonderfully convenient doodads for a person like me who has been away from home for almost three years now, but it comes at the expense of being forced to dwell within a relatively restricted environment that doesn't accord me a solid chance to fool around on the internet for extended periods of time.

You're free to rechristen Claw as a sort of "roaming" NPC that's attached to the character party for story purposes ( though Claw has limits like any living creature, I'd reckon that his unique arcane talents and raw physical dynamism would make him an ideal one-wolf power house during a scuffle) or you can send him back to his pseudo-present ancestral homeland.

Or you can do whatever you like with him. Doesn't matter.

I should also mention that you're a fine GM as far as I can see. The lack of posts on my part is one-hundred percent my fault; I should have communicated the nature of my predicament to a long time ago instead of having Shien and the rest of the crew wait on me for so long.

I apologize for that.

Now, assuming that you're not sick and tired of my lackadaisical approach to RPing, I'll probably come back with a new character (and a much better attitude) once I reacquire my full freedom and a new PC.

But, if I'm perfectly honest, there's no telling when that last part'll be.

The Unpopular Opinions Thread.

Sure, it's their money, but a person whom purchases a smartphone that either...

a) doesn't have a removable battery,

*Your device is destined to become a pseudo-brick within two to three years. That's the average lifespan of your standard lithium-ion battery.

b) doesn't have a slot for an SD card,

*Enjoy your measly fixed amount of memory. You're missing out on truly savage monsters like this bit of technological brilliance if you run with a scam smartphone.

c) doesn't have physical home screen buttons,

*Any handset that comes with integrated home screen buttons is a handset that's cheating you out of about 1/4th to 1/3rd of an inch in screen size.

...should familiarize themselves with the painfully obvious role handset firms (and other corporations) play in propagating and reinforcing America's degenerative consumerist culture. A smartphone that is afflicted with the aforementioned slights is objectively garbage. No ifs, ands, or buts.

I personally know a guy whom picked up some budget handset that was horrifically marred with all three of those cancerous transgressions: 8GB of internal memory (not including the space required for the OS and the bloatware that shipped with it) and no SD card slot, integrated home screen buttons, and an internal battery welded to the interior of the body for a nice little finish.

Had to be the worst phone I had ever laid eyes upon.

The Unpopular Opinions Thread.

1) The concept of total "free will" is nothing more than feel-good nonsense.

2) Blank slatism is utter jive.

3) Success in the social arena is almost entirely predicated on honing the two following foundational skills: your capacity to be fake and your ability to promptly register, immediately identify, and intuitively react to the many subtle social cues that people give off when they're conversing with one another.

Master those two techniques and you'll be swimming in job promotions and useful associates in no time at all.

Machiavellian as all hell, but ask yourself this: is pulling the right strings and feeding the right egos to get something that you want or need really a sin worthy of condemnation or vilification?

Is it a sin at all?

Era of Succession(Closed)

I hope this isn't full.

Because of school, I don't have the time to make a fresh sheet (but I think I do have the time to submit a post every couple of days), so I dragged an old one of mine out of the dust bin, made a few minute alterations to it, and tossed it into the characters tab for evaluation. It has a WIP tag slapped on it because I'm not entirely sure if I'm finished with it or not.

History section was omitted because I'm notoriously ass at writing them. I'll probably end up tackling the sheet again and throwing some stuff in there about the Azu-Man Wars.

Era of Succession(Closed)

WIP

Name of Nation:

Anukuian League

Type of Government:

Complex Chiefdom, with Anuku’s seven paramount chieftains, or Arch-Khans, each wielding dictatorial jurisdiction over a substantial swath of the Lone World’s habitable land, its resources, and a professional military force whose enlisted personnel are chiefly levied from the body politic of the Arch Khan’s own—often supermassive—tribe. The title of Arch-Khan is hereditary, with each paramount chieftain channeling their command through a dense cohort of subservient chieftains sprinkled across his or her lands. These subordinates have their sworn loyalty to their Arch-Khan enriched by a conservative quantity of biannual subsidies (normally in the form of raw materials, hunting arms, or land, but may also include young male and female azu slaves for either reproductive or recreational purposes) being bestowed upon them.

Due to the fairly recent incident with Jacha-Ria and the contemporary surge of activity in presently and formally occupied Imperial locales, Anuku’s seven paramount chiefdoms have mutually agreed to initiate the emergency formation of the “League of the Seven”, a martial alliance between Anuku’s seven tribal kingdoms that has predictably culminated in the complete fusion of the azu species into a single coherent racial bloc.

Leader(s):

Varied

Persons of Importance:

Jacha-Ria the Unchained: A once revered azu ship captain who quickly became universally infamous for her rapid transition into a violent career of rampant piracy. An avid azu racial nationalist at heart, Jacha-Ria made her mark in azu sagas across Anuku for her stellar showings of martial prowess during her participation in many of the defensive actions that Anuku brought to bear against invading Imperial forces during the Azu-Man Wars of 1757, 1764, 1769, and 1772 I.C. before spiriting her ship and her crew into the deepest void for unknown reasons twenty-two years prior to the present date.

Only recently has she resurfaced.

Her horrifyingly xenophobic and savagely condemnatory beliefs about mankind were legendary—almost fanatical even—during Anuku’s bouts with the Imperium, with some of the personal military scholastic writings and journal entries recovered from her mountainside retreat on the Lone World outlining an elaborate yet cryptic plan that would, quote, “lead to the complete eradication of that pathetic xenos species without any loss of azu life”.

Jacha-Ria’s possession of Our Last Hope—a unique, dauntingly potent azu arsenal fortress with the exceptional capability to reliably ferry multiple assault fleets across the greater galaxy with superb accuracy and extreme rapidity— has enabled her to easily evade or outright annihilate any domestic or hired reclamation units that the League has sent after her.

Faint rumors throughout the cosmos tell of a newfangled affinity of hers: broadcasting a siren’s song on an untraceable quantum wavelength, one that tells of promised retribution and guaranteed riches beyond comprehension for those wronged by mankind who opt to take part in her crusade against the Terran Imperium.

It is estimated that over one-thousand starship captains have aligned themselves with her.

Jacha-Ria's current whereabouts are unknown.

Species:

Azu: the azu, alternatively known as Anukuians, are the multi-ethnic race of cat-like humanoids that inhabitants Anuku, a verdant and opulent world that is, in many ways, homologous to Earth. Comparative in size to a large human specimen, azu are sharp of mind and lithe of frame, and can negotiate terrain with lightning tempo and supple grace when on the prowl. Other than being benefited with an excellent sense of vision, smell, and hearing, azu can discern the dynamic position of an object in motion by detecting latent changes in surrounding air pressure, feel faint vibrations through the soft pads of their hind paws, identify oscillating electromagnetic waves emanated by the heart of another living organism, and pick up subtle alterations in the pheromone secretion patterns of living creatures.

As a result of an uncorrectable anomalous fault in their genome, the azu sex ratio is heavily skewed in favor of the azu female, with the current population of azu (stated to be circa 560 million) being 90/10 (female/male) in numerical composition.

Culture:

Azu culture values self-determinism and minimalism. Azu adolescents-- colloquially referred to as “kits” by the Lone World's encompassing azu population—are educated in the fundamental artistry of the august survivalist by elder members of the tribe. A distinct (but ultimately secondary) emphasis is placed on adequately honing their apprehension of the clan's spiritual and cultural mores, teaching the importance of family, and promoting a simple yet personally fulfilling lifestyle. By the time that they are of breeding age, most juvenile azu females and males have a predisposition for exhibiting stalwart behavior and operating in a persistent mode of semi-autonomy. "Gifted" azu are convinced to pursue rigorous instruction in one of the more prestigious institutional sectors of academia that reside within the Peaks of Hia-Hia, an unforgiving geographical locale of historical importance where a prodigious amount of the azu's technological innovations primarily originate from.

Azu homesteads, called highhouses, are a queer mixture of an archetypal longhouse and a standard low-capacity semi-subterranean dwelling (such as an earth berm), and are fabricated from readily-available materials (in example: stone, timber, or bone) using un-powered utensils and powerful beasts of burden. Highhouses are comparatively voluminous, playing host to a number of necessary domestic facilities (such as larders, armories, storage enclosures, libraries, or washrooms) and over one-hundred families that are situated along a series of quasi-segregated living floors. Being in such close proximity with one another usually leads to family groups being acquainted on an intimate level.

From these tight-knit relationships, inter-familial gatherings--like ceremonial dances or recreational group hunting sessions--are organized and initiated, in turn strengthening the clan's bond and encouraging goodwill and harmony throughout the masses. Aside from personal effects, clan members openly share most things, and--unlike many other species--observe a weedy quota of personal space, instead preferring to brush up against and caress other clan members if at all able. Stroking the ears, the underside of the tail, and the lower back are all considered profound signs of affection and trust.

Regardless of their internal layout and external attributes, azu highhouses are matriarchal in their fashion of administration, matrifocal in their familial structure, and matrilateral in their inheritance lines, with a wise woman and her selected “elder council” of middle-aged azu women wielding uncontested authoritative influence over the clan's members. As azu males are numerically scarce across Anuku, they are universally perceived and handled as treasured commodities that have tremendous barter value, and are subsequently forced into arranged polygamous “mating sessions” with outside harems of suitable azu women for the clan's own monetary gain, its political elevation, or its social evolution.

Azu mating paradigms center around a single eugenics-like "code of conduct", called ormku, which preaches that only the "fit" are "fit" for reproduction. Azu tribal society does not suffer the frail and flawed to persist in life; the physically, intellectually, and emotionally disabled are sentenced to a ceremonial execution when detected, and may experience harsh instances of familial rejection or overt communal ostracization if they are allowed to live.

On average, azu males sire over 1,000 fit children throughout their lifetime.

Military:

Azu militia forces are exacted from local tribal communities and their encompassing septs during times of war. Owing to their idiosyncratic physiological and psychological characteristics, azu land army battle doctrine hinges strongly on mobility, flexibility, and longevity to sustain an effective guerrilla campaign against invading forces. Azu abhor lengthy and grueling battles of attrition, favoring instead to execute covert raids on an opponent's supply lines and any lightly-defended positions using the almost unrivaled power of phase-shift suits and the support of quick and heavy-hitting land vehicles and hypersonic aerospace craft.

Anuku is chaperoned by seven FTL-capable arsenal fortresses that linger several million kilometers away from her. An arsenal fortresses is an assault fleet in all but title, its spherical bulk protected by meters of electro-reactive hydro-armor, a siege-grade PDF, and a strengthened superstructure wrought from hyper-dense composite materials forged in specialized zero-G factories. Arsenal fortresses are divided into 30 fully-autonomous fighting compartments, each one furnished with its own network of submersible phased graser and particle accelerator arrays, fusion, active cooling systems, crew quarters, and capacitor banks, and can dispatch inexpensive and disposable one-use "combat mirrors" that--if positioned correctly--can offer the sphere's DEW suite the golden opportunity to effectively direct its beams around planets.

Return of the Dragonlords

Interested.