Maybe. Idea is interesting but kind of busy and always feel weird about the neutral/inter-faction groups
Bugman Member
What happens when old wounds heal?
STATUS: thinking of a medieval VtM/WoD RP. fuck. 7 days ago
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thinking of a medieval VtM/WoD RP. fuck.
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7 days ago
Don't send every thought that comes to mind dawg
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FUCK Hermaeus Mora all my homies HATE Daedra
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no i do
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14 days ago
As a Canadian, please don't come here, fix ur own stuff Ameribros, thank you so much! (if you do don't even try Quebec they literally won't let you in)
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The twelve Marines stood assembled before their commander, naught but loincloths on their frames as their skin glistened with the snowflakes melting from the moment they touched each body. Captain Krassus looked upon his troops, then to the data-slate that summarized their combat records, their biometrics, the complete transcripts of every word they ever said in proximity of a means to record them.
“In twelve hours, we will take Fort Orti.” No cheers, just a few lips curling in half smiles. A small mark was made on the dataslate with an imperceptible move of the finger.
“Anwar. You will lead the infiltration of the facility. Brothers Karduk and Axios will assist.” All three Marines named were exceptionally short, of them only Axios bowing at the command. Another mark on the dataslate.
“I will lead the overwatch team.” A few snickers came about, comments about not wishing to risk himself in the thick of it. Another mark on the dataslate. “Brothers Gamaliel, Iskander, Perrax, Tojar, with me. The rest of you are on the assault team. Make your preparations, acquaint yourselves with any information on your respective dataslates you have not yet considered. The operation begins in four hours.”
With that Krassus departed to the Rhino, his own preparations yet to be made.
“In place. Go.” That was all that the trio needed to begin the ascent of the wall. Cameleoline cloaks covering their Urshite dress were just enough to hide them from sentries along the walls of the frosted settlement. It was important not to slay them, and before descending the walls they waited through a full two patrol cycles huddled near some munition crates covered with fresh snow.
Eventually they descended, and went to the central compound that composed the largest portion of the settlement of Fort Orti. “Move to the West Gate. The South has too much scrutiny now.”
Immediately the three Astartes shifted their movement, wheeling around to the alternate entrance to Fort Orti. The place was not just a fort, that much was clear. It was just a manner of naming the site, for hundreds of civilians were milling about the place. For one, the extraordinary cold made the cooling of many archaeotech computers very simple. But it also pumped rich dark promethium component substances deep from the ground, and it was thus that the civilians by far outnumbered the warriors in the place. Their lack of armament would not save them from the Will of the Emperor. The Marines were exceptionally tall for humanity, but at about two meters with a few more or less centimetres they could all plausibly pass for an ordinary person, perhaps one on some combat stims accounting for the bulk beneath their thick coats. Such after all were not uncommon, for looking left to right the infiltrators saw men that would probably have as much muscle as them, even if it was merely the physique of homo sapiens and no performance enhancing chemicals could bring it to the caliber of an Astartes.
Now the three infiltrators split into different directions. There were three main targets that each would have to secure. The auspex and vox augurs would have to be overridden first and foremost to prevent reinforcements being dispatched in a timely manner. Second, the climate controls would have to be disabled. The inhuman frost which a person could withstand for mere hours even covered from head to toe in the heavy layers that were uniform here would set in upon the climate regulation being disabled. It would kill all present as well as any bullet or blade, or at least bring them to submission. Finally, power would have to be cut in a very strategic and specific manner to ensure the present work of the Marines could not be undone, yet very carefully to not give nearby forts the notification that quite abruptly all activity in Fort Orti had ceased.
Anwar arrived at his target first, smashing apart the lightbulb in a service elevator to the roof of the main building of the Fort. Thus clinging in a spider-like fashion to its ceiling amidst a changing of the guard, dropping down behind them as they exited the carriage of the elevator, the ceaseless blizzard masking his sound. The old guard was going off duty, and in their weary state they didn’t notice the new guard had one extra fellow among them. As the elevator closed, the Space Marine hefted his heavy stubber and unleashed a brief rain of bullets on the mortals, until each was fallen. He did not execute those gurgling on the ground. They that survived the extraordinary firepower could yet make productive turncoats. Once more shouldering the machine gun he ran forth to the console and got to work. Unfortunately, as his fingers did their work he heard the sounds of the elevator opening once more. Brief panic gripped the Astarte, some sort of workers appearing. The civilians looked at him in a similar state of fear after they saw the corpses, hurriedly pressing the buttons to send the elevator back to where it came from. The doors closed just as a grenade passed them, a brief hiss of triumph escaping the Marine’s lips as at the very least the security would now have to manually ascend to his position rather than using the same elevator.
“Overwatch! They know I’m here.” he growled into his vox-bead. “We are well aware. Stand by.” was the sole response he got. He began demanding everyone hurry, but quite unfortunately he heard the high pitch whirr as he spoke that told him there was nobody listening to him. For now he was alone as he heard distant screams as Urshite troops began the slow ascent to get to his position without an elevator. Thankfully, he heard the faintest crack of a bullet whirring some few dozen metres from him, the overwatch team’s sharpshooters already thinning the ranks of the rapid response teams.
Climate control was manipulated shortly after in a very timely fashion. Brother Axios had made his way to the control room for it, and with a rap of either knuckle brought the duo of technicians there to an unconscious state. A great deal of irrelevant machinery was torn out of its position by Axios, who used it to barricade the entrance after closing the door. Finally, he got to work. The life support systems that kept the inside of Fort Orti relatively warm were turned against the thousands present, gushing freezing winds inside where previously it cycled them out. It would be mere minutes before the first screams would come that something was wrong, people comfortably in bed suddenly shivering. The first deaths would happen in less than an hour.
Brother Karduk however, proved to be a weak link. Strolling down the mess hall on the way to the power controls of the structure he did not notice that his uniform had the same serial number on his breast as one of the guards that he passed by. He did not recognize the sound of a drawn pistol, and while he was fast enough to stop the bullet aimed for his head its strike to his neck was enough to bring him to his knees. As more bullets riddled his flank, he fell to the ground as the world went black. The last thought he had was that he had failed in more ways than one. In his effort to save himself he had still died, yet now the progenoid gland in his throat was ruined. He would be a shame, forever cursed in the annals of The Undying Onslaught.
“Overwatch! My right, my right!” Krassus heard the pleas in his own vox bead. With a sigh, he had to write off Karduk. “Assault team, move out.” he gave the order, and at once four missiles flew out from the hill the Marines were camped on to each destroy a long targeted stationed vehicle.
The four Marines in the assault team ran towards the walls, gaining some initial height by using chain-axes as picks to help them climb swiftly. Jump-packs roared, and the assault team entered sky before each crashing down in a brutal impact crater on different parts of the ramparts surrounding Fort Orti. It was a very brief skirmish to tear apart the defenders there, but a quite necessary one to prevent return fire upon the overwatch team, for now two heavy bolters began their fire. Snow sizzled and evaporated as it fell on barrels hot enough to melt flesh, Brother Anwar at last getting wonderful respite as many dozens of men climbing stairs and ladders or pulling their way up grapples turned to gooey piles of meat and bone. Muttering some thanks to his vox-bead for now being unpinned, Anwar rose and ran through what little remaining stub and auto-weapons were arrayed at him and forced apart the doors of the elevator before jumping down the dark depths of the ruined shaft.
The assault team zipped and zoomed about the exterior of the Fort, the sky brightening with fired bullets and heavier munitions as absolute chaos reigned from the jump-pack borne Marines’ efforts. Soon though, Krassus gave them the order to get inside. Indoors, they at last discarded their jump-packs and each drew an autogun, preferring them to a bolt-pistol against these oh so fragile yet numerous mortals.
Fort Orti was damn well labyrinthian, the facility’s complexity only navigable to the superhumans thanks to the HUDs that gave them exact directions of how to get to the internal comms room. Unfortunately, Karduk’s failure was now showing its fruit. As the four Marines turned a corner, a turret came from the wall behind them and bisected a warrior at the waist before his thrown chainaxe destroyed the bullet-proof emplacement. The stricken Brother was left to fend for himself, crawling into a room where he could perhaps at least defend himself until the Imperial flag flew here and he could get help.
A door was soon after activated as a trap, the Marine it was aimed to squash just narrowly avoiding death and merely losing his shooting arm for it.
They did eventually get to the comms-room, the place conveniently having cameras to observe the whole Fort. A very brief firefight with the mortals within ended when the last man standing surrendered, getting a swift backhand into unconsciousness as the Astartes entered the room.
“Attention people of Orti. If every single one of you unloads and lays down his arms, you will be spared a slow, painful death of freezing.”
Briefly, men kept pushing towards the climate controls, to the comms room, to the roof. But with every person that fell to the creeping chill, morale cracked. One by one, squads of soldiers would stand before cameras with their weapons in a pile, the munitions for them some distance away. Krassus chuckled as he watched the feed from a camera of one of the Assault-Marines. In some instances, the little humans would kill the more heroic of their own number that refused to surrender, such that perhaps they would get reprieve from the frost.
Hundreds had already began to succumb to hypothermia when the last unit had dropped their guns. Using their jump-packs the Assault team swiftly navigated the structure such that they could goad all the formerly armed men of the place together.
Grinning happily to himself behind his helmet, Krassus gave the order to restore the heating of the place, a figure falling over after a bout of paradoxic undressing in a camera feed.
“Brother Gamaliel begin duties as Apothecary. There are more than two hundred viable youth specimens to examine therein.”
The Captain got up, and stretched, before heading off to the Rhino they had arrived on to communicate with higher command. “Krassus out.” he told his force, before tearing out the vox bead.
“In twelve hours, we will take Fort Orti.” No cheers, just a few lips curling in half smiles. A small mark was made on the dataslate with an imperceptible move of the finger.
“Anwar. You will lead the infiltration of the facility. Brothers Karduk and Axios will assist.” All three Marines named were exceptionally short, of them only Axios bowing at the command. Another mark on the dataslate.
“I will lead the overwatch team.” A few snickers came about, comments about not wishing to risk himself in the thick of it. Another mark on the dataslate. “Brothers Gamaliel, Iskander, Perrax, Tojar, with me. The rest of you are on the assault team. Make your preparations, acquaint yourselves with any information on your respective dataslates you have not yet considered. The operation begins in four hours.”
With that Krassus departed to the Rhino, his own preparations yet to be made.
“In place. Go.” That was all that the trio needed to begin the ascent of the wall. Cameleoline cloaks covering their Urshite dress were just enough to hide them from sentries along the walls of the frosted settlement. It was important not to slay them, and before descending the walls they waited through a full two patrol cycles huddled near some munition crates covered with fresh snow.
Eventually they descended, and went to the central compound that composed the largest portion of the settlement of Fort Orti. “Move to the West Gate. The South has too much scrutiny now.”
Immediately the three Astartes shifted their movement, wheeling around to the alternate entrance to Fort Orti. The place was not just a fort, that much was clear. It was just a manner of naming the site, for hundreds of civilians were milling about the place. For one, the extraordinary cold made the cooling of many archaeotech computers very simple. But it also pumped rich dark promethium component substances deep from the ground, and it was thus that the civilians by far outnumbered the warriors in the place. Their lack of armament would not save them from the Will of the Emperor. The Marines were exceptionally tall for humanity, but at about two meters with a few more or less centimetres they could all plausibly pass for an ordinary person, perhaps one on some combat stims accounting for the bulk beneath their thick coats. Such after all were not uncommon, for looking left to right the infiltrators saw men that would probably have as much muscle as them, even if it was merely the physique of homo sapiens and no performance enhancing chemicals could bring it to the caliber of an Astartes.
Now the three infiltrators split into different directions. There were three main targets that each would have to secure. The auspex and vox augurs would have to be overridden first and foremost to prevent reinforcements being dispatched in a timely manner. Second, the climate controls would have to be disabled. The inhuman frost which a person could withstand for mere hours even covered from head to toe in the heavy layers that were uniform here would set in upon the climate regulation being disabled. It would kill all present as well as any bullet or blade, or at least bring them to submission. Finally, power would have to be cut in a very strategic and specific manner to ensure the present work of the Marines could not be undone, yet very carefully to not give nearby forts the notification that quite abruptly all activity in Fort Orti had ceased.
Anwar arrived at his target first, smashing apart the lightbulb in a service elevator to the roof of the main building of the Fort. Thus clinging in a spider-like fashion to its ceiling amidst a changing of the guard, dropping down behind them as they exited the carriage of the elevator, the ceaseless blizzard masking his sound. The old guard was going off duty, and in their weary state they didn’t notice the new guard had one extra fellow among them. As the elevator closed, the Space Marine hefted his heavy stubber and unleashed a brief rain of bullets on the mortals, until each was fallen. He did not execute those gurgling on the ground. They that survived the extraordinary firepower could yet make productive turncoats. Once more shouldering the machine gun he ran forth to the console and got to work. Unfortunately, as his fingers did their work he heard the sounds of the elevator opening once more. Brief panic gripped the Astarte, some sort of workers appearing. The civilians looked at him in a similar state of fear after they saw the corpses, hurriedly pressing the buttons to send the elevator back to where it came from. The doors closed just as a grenade passed them, a brief hiss of triumph escaping the Marine’s lips as at the very least the security would now have to manually ascend to his position rather than using the same elevator.
“Overwatch! They know I’m here.” he growled into his vox-bead. “We are well aware. Stand by.” was the sole response he got. He began demanding everyone hurry, but quite unfortunately he heard the high pitch whirr as he spoke that told him there was nobody listening to him. For now he was alone as he heard distant screams as Urshite troops began the slow ascent to get to his position without an elevator. Thankfully, he heard the faintest crack of a bullet whirring some few dozen metres from him, the overwatch team’s sharpshooters already thinning the ranks of the rapid response teams.
Climate control was manipulated shortly after in a very timely fashion. Brother Axios had made his way to the control room for it, and with a rap of either knuckle brought the duo of technicians there to an unconscious state. A great deal of irrelevant machinery was torn out of its position by Axios, who used it to barricade the entrance after closing the door. Finally, he got to work. The life support systems that kept the inside of Fort Orti relatively warm were turned against the thousands present, gushing freezing winds inside where previously it cycled them out. It would be mere minutes before the first screams would come that something was wrong, people comfortably in bed suddenly shivering. The first deaths would happen in less than an hour.
Brother Karduk however, proved to be a weak link. Strolling down the mess hall on the way to the power controls of the structure he did not notice that his uniform had the same serial number on his breast as one of the guards that he passed by. He did not recognize the sound of a drawn pistol, and while he was fast enough to stop the bullet aimed for his head its strike to his neck was enough to bring him to his knees. As more bullets riddled his flank, he fell to the ground as the world went black. The last thought he had was that he had failed in more ways than one. In his effort to save himself he had still died, yet now the progenoid gland in his throat was ruined. He would be a shame, forever cursed in the annals of The Undying Onslaught.
“Overwatch! My right, my right!” Krassus heard the pleas in his own vox bead. With a sigh, he had to write off Karduk. “Assault team, move out.” he gave the order, and at once four missiles flew out from the hill the Marines were camped on to each destroy a long targeted stationed vehicle.
The four Marines in the assault team ran towards the walls, gaining some initial height by using chain-axes as picks to help them climb swiftly. Jump-packs roared, and the assault team entered sky before each crashing down in a brutal impact crater on different parts of the ramparts surrounding Fort Orti. It was a very brief skirmish to tear apart the defenders there, but a quite necessary one to prevent return fire upon the overwatch team, for now two heavy bolters began their fire. Snow sizzled and evaporated as it fell on barrels hot enough to melt flesh, Brother Anwar at last getting wonderful respite as many dozens of men climbing stairs and ladders or pulling their way up grapples turned to gooey piles of meat and bone. Muttering some thanks to his vox-bead for now being unpinned, Anwar rose and ran through what little remaining stub and auto-weapons were arrayed at him and forced apart the doors of the elevator before jumping down the dark depths of the ruined shaft.
The assault team zipped and zoomed about the exterior of the Fort, the sky brightening with fired bullets and heavier munitions as absolute chaos reigned from the jump-pack borne Marines’ efforts. Soon though, Krassus gave them the order to get inside. Indoors, they at last discarded their jump-packs and each drew an autogun, preferring them to a bolt-pistol against these oh so fragile yet numerous mortals.
Fort Orti was damn well labyrinthian, the facility’s complexity only navigable to the superhumans thanks to the HUDs that gave them exact directions of how to get to the internal comms room. Unfortunately, Karduk’s failure was now showing its fruit. As the four Marines turned a corner, a turret came from the wall behind them and bisected a warrior at the waist before his thrown chainaxe destroyed the bullet-proof emplacement. The stricken Brother was left to fend for himself, crawling into a room where he could perhaps at least defend himself until the Imperial flag flew here and he could get help.
A door was soon after activated as a trap, the Marine it was aimed to squash just narrowly avoiding death and merely losing his shooting arm for it.
They did eventually get to the comms-room, the place conveniently having cameras to observe the whole Fort. A very brief firefight with the mortals within ended when the last man standing surrendered, getting a swift backhand into unconsciousness as the Astartes entered the room.
“Attention people of Orti. If every single one of you unloads and lays down his arms, you will be spared a slow, painful death of freezing.”
Briefly, men kept pushing towards the climate controls, to the comms room, to the roof. But with every person that fell to the creeping chill, morale cracked. One by one, squads of soldiers would stand before cameras with their weapons in a pile, the munitions for them some distance away. Krassus chuckled as he watched the feed from a camera of one of the Assault-Marines. In some instances, the little humans would kill the more heroic of their own number that refused to surrender, such that perhaps they would get reprieve from the frost.
Hundreds had already began to succumb to hypothermia when the last unit had dropped their guns. Using their jump-packs the Assault team swiftly navigated the structure such that they could goad all the formerly armed men of the place together.
Grinning happily to himself behind his helmet, Krassus gave the order to restore the heating of the place, a figure falling over after a bout of paradoxic undressing in a camera feed.
“Brother Gamaliel begin duties as Apothecary. There are more than two hundred viable youth specimens to examine therein.”
The Captain got up, and stretched, before heading off to the Rhino they had arrived on to communicate with higher command. “Krassus out.” he told his force, before tearing out the vox bead.
The Primarch strode through the streets of Ummaria, his insistence on being let in to see its ruler somehow having had the entirety of the guard give him free reign to walk through the great city he was in. Hundreds, soon thousands of people came to watch the silver child. From afar that was certainly what it looked like. Yet those at the very fronts of the crowds would realize that this thing had corded muscles that even to the naked eye could be seen to be greater than that of even the mutants on some of the planet’s cursed lands.
Nobody spoke to it, all were in awe. Sheitan, some people called it. They had seen the rabid tribesmen bring forth such creatures at times, and this stranger certainly had an otherwordly appearance like they did. Yet, it was not prancing about tearing people apart. In fact, it had an otherworldly beauty and not one that brought the mind to immodest thoughts like the sheitan that were of handsome form.
Priests murmured strange thoughts as they saw it pass by, was this a Deva? An Avatar of God, of the Truth? It certainly seemed to foresee a higher purpose for itself, as it went right towards the palace of the Grand Heirarch.
It ascended the steps with the confidence that it was meant to be here, time almost slowing for the onlookers. The steps designed carefully to take a solar minute for most men to ascend seemed to take lazy hours for the arrival to traverse. But, if one looked at the sun it would not have shifted by any amount.
At the top, two guards stood sentinel. Their wills were stronger than that of billions on Brahms, but they melted as they saw the Primarch smile at them in a way so horrific. The corners of its lips went as high as either eyeball, and at that moment they opened the gates.
The smile very abruptly became the usual friendly gesture as the two men acquiesced to the unspoken command of the skylander, the child walking inwards. There in the distance sat Roskandar, the Heirarch. His son flanked his left side, the High-Priest of Ummaria flanked his right.
As the Primarch stood before him with hands clasped behind his back, Roskandar’s desire to wait for the intruder to explain himself wordlessly as a show of his will collapsed even quicker than the spines of the guards that had let it in. “What are you. I know of your arrival, the messenger pigeons flew faster than you came. You were not invited!” The Grand Heirarch roared, rallying some of the menace that had let him climb to his current position all those years ago.
For its part the child cocked its head, examining the Heirarch for a few minutes, as if watching an interesting new insect under a microscope. Eventually however, he knelt and then pressed both hands and forehead to the ground in supplication in an almost instant reversal of what many present has mentally parsed as an attempt to intimidate the ruler of Ummaria.
“Oh Lord of Ummaria, you are a ruler noblest, one to whom I am supplicant.” The stranger said, its voice not in the slightest suppressed by its position and indeed seemingly louder, as if spoken by lips within one’s very ears. Yet despite this it was soft, tender almost like a lover’s touch.
“I seek to find service under you, such that your throne may eclipse the very sun.”
“Rise.” The Grand Heirarch growled faintly as he was mollified but still confused. “That tells me little, no-name. Explain yourself. Who are you, where from, why do you believe I should take you in? What do you offer?”
Only when the Grand Heirarch did finish speaking did the Primarch stand as commanded, bowing to reiterate his almost unnatural recognition of a superior.
“I shall answer your queries in the order that makes the following best understood.”
“Go on.”
“I do not know where I am from, not in a meaningful sense. I know I came from the stars, my arrival heralded by a sharp descent from the stars. I come from a realm outside of this world, and yet I know not any more. The primitives of the wild seemed to think they had brought me forth, yet this I believe to be wrong. They believed me sacred. This I too believe to be wrong. I have no name, not one I care to keep. But I know I am destined for greater things.”
“Explain.”
“I am more intelligent than you. Any of you.” He said, turning to the High Priest and the many other nobles present within the chamber. Indignant gasps spread out across many voices, with the brows of the trio before the Primarch furrowing in a synchronous fashion.
“I mean this not as an insult, but as a mere observation. The previous sunrise, I knew not your language. I have been here some few hundred heartbeats, yet I know it better now than any present. If you would but give me the means, I can show you I can create great works faster than you could even think of them. I have already concluded knowledge your greatest researchers believe to be lost to time. I am stronger than any present in any physical test, with my bared flesh I could destroy your armies.” The Primarch closed its eyes, and inhaled deeply.
“But I will not. I know now that my betterness than any man on this world does not mean I cannot be humble and see the chinks in my proverbial armour. I am inexperienced, I know not of this world, how to lead it. But I may still serve, tell truths and wisdom none else will.”
“You wish to be an advisor after presuming so much?” The Heirarch demanded, for now to the surprise of the court not sounding particularly angered.
“Advisor, and student. There will come a day when I will be of greater import to this realm than you, but I can promise that when that day comes your children, grand children, and great grandchildren all of whom I will outlive will have secured themselves a finer life and fate than you could even dream of in this moment. This is a promise not out of mere confidence, but an inescapable guarantee if you accede to my request.”
The Heirarch stood at this moment, walking to a brazier some distance from himself and wafting the scented smokes leisurely drifting skywards back to himself. As sweat began to come from his crowned forehead he turned back to the Primarch.
“You come into my home, and promise to supplant my dynasty? Ambitious, but I am afraid I must decline. I bid you no ill will, child, but your promise is not enticing enough. If that is all, I believe I must exile you for this statement. I do not wish assembled company to believe this to be an invitation to come forth with similar ideas.” He stated, waving a hand across the onlooking court.
Shock came over the face of the Primarch, followed by a brief panic, its face molding and remolding itself into different shapes as it could not settle on emotion until eventually coming upon a pleading one. “You do not understand, I fault you for this. I warn you now. Should you reject me, I will find another realm to perfect. It will eclipse your’s, and in likely jealousy you shall strike out, forcing me to thereby destroy your majesty. I beg of you, do not do this. Ummaria is the greatest land of this world, I wish to see it prosper and grow! Not, to burn and shatter.”
“Is that all?”
“Please!”
“Leave.”
Fluid skin turned this way and that upon the child’s visage, until eventually settling upon a stoic one even as fluid tears came out of yet incomplete eyes.
“I hope you can forgive me for what will have to be done.” With another thought he turned to the Heirarch’s son. “I hope you can forgive your father for what he will bring upon you.”
With that, the Primarch left Ummaria as wordlessly as he had first entered it.
He wandered the deserts for some days, perfecting his thought, his speech, coming to new conclusions, thought systems and patterns. His musings in the arid sands were stopped abruptly as a column of people walked towards him. A majority were shackled, with some prodding and goading the restrained folk with spears and other cruel implements.
With great curiosity the Primarch walked towards them. “I say!” he called out. Hundreds of heads turning this way and that to try find where the newcomer was. “I say!” He repeated, this time using the power of his voice to have all the humans instantly know where he was calling from.
In a flash, he sprinted towards them, in particular stopping before their leader based upon his head-dress having the most flowers and shiny stones on it.
“Tell me, why are these men so restrained?” he asked cheerily.
“What?” the warrior asked.
“These people. They are not able to act freely owing to these chains binding them. Why is this?”
“They are mine?”
“Elaborate, please.”
“You have something in your ears, sura? We defeated the Godless. Did the wisemen not summon you?”
“They do not wish to be like this?” the Primarch asked, ignoring the latter question. The thought was very common!
“The desires of the faithless do not concern sons of the great four!” The tribal shouted, seemingly pleased with himself as he roared and shook a spear to the subsequent cheers of his fellow warriors.
“I see.” It took a little more than a second for the warband to be slain, most of the fallen bodies having only a finger-shaped hole in their throats.
With a flick of its wrist, it tossed a rusty key towards one of the shackled men who undid his collar and then passed it to the next one.
“Who are you?” the bearded fellow asked, his skinny, starved frame trembling slightly as his freedom was bought with a sight far more terrifying than he had imagined the horrors his captors would inflict on him.
“I have told this tale many times, but I am delighted to recount it again. Very simply, I came from the sky. Many believe they called me forth from their Gods, but this is likely a thought in error. I do not know of anything before I fell from above! I have no name, but since it is so often asked of me, would you give me one?”
A small rope of stunned drool hung from the man’s beard, before in awe he rasped a phrase. “Amunal. Born of the Sun.
Nobody spoke to it, all were in awe. Sheitan, some people called it. They had seen the rabid tribesmen bring forth such creatures at times, and this stranger certainly had an otherwordly appearance like they did. Yet, it was not prancing about tearing people apart. In fact, it had an otherworldly beauty and not one that brought the mind to immodest thoughts like the sheitan that were of handsome form.
Priests murmured strange thoughts as they saw it pass by, was this a Deva? An Avatar of God, of the Truth? It certainly seemed to foresee a higher purpose for itself, as it went right towards the palace of the Grand Heirarch.
It ascended the steps with the confidence that it was meant to be here, time almost slowing for the onlookers. The steps designed carefully to take a solar minute for most men to ascend seemed to take lazy hours for the arrival to traverse. But, if one looked at the sun it would not have shifted by any amount.
At the top, two guards stood sentinel. Their wills were stronger than that of billions on Brahms, but they melted as they saw the Primarch smile at them in a way so horrific. The corners of its lips went as high as either eyeball, and at that moment they opened the gates.
The smile very abruptly became the usual friendly gesture as the two men acquiesced to the unspoken command of the skylander, the child walking inwards. There in the distance sat Roskandar, the Heirarch. His son flanked his left side, the High-Priest of Ummaria flanked his right.
As the Primarch stood before him with hands clasped behind his back, Roskandar’s desire to wait for the intruder to explain himself wordlessly as a show of his will collapsed even quicker than the spines of the guards that had let it in. “What are you. I know of your arrival, the messenger pigeons flew faster than you came. You were not invited!” The Grand Heirarch roared, rallying some of the menace that had let him climb to his current position all those years ago.
For its part the child cocked its head, examining the Heirarch for a few minutes, as if watching an interesting new insect under a microscope. Eventually however, he knelt and then pressed both hands and forehead to the ground in supplication in an almost instant reversal of what many present has mentally parsed as an attempt to intimidate the ruler of Ummaria.
“Oh Lord of Ummaria, you are a ruler noblest, one to whom I am supplicant.” The stranger said, its voice not in the slightest suppressed by its position and indeed seemingly louder, as if spoken by lips within one’s very ears. Yet despite this it was soft, tender almost like a lover’s touch.
“I seek to find service under you, such that your throne may eclipse the very sun.”
“Rise.” The Grand Heirarch growled faintly as he was mollified but still confused. “That tells me little, no-name. Explain yourself. Who are you, where from, why do you believe I should take you in? What do you offer?”
Only when the Grand Heirarch did finish speaking did the Primarch stand as commanded, bowing to reiterate his almost unnatural recognition of a superior.
“I shall answer your queries in the order that makes the following best understood.”
“Go on.”
“I do not know where I am from, not in a meaningful sense. I know I came from the stars, my arrival heralded by a sharp descent from the stars. I come from a realm outside of this world, and yet I know not any more. The primitives of the wild seemed to think they had brought me forth, yet this I believe to be wrong. They believed me sacred. This I too believe to be wrong. I have no name, not one I care to keep. But I know I am destined for greater things.”
“Explain.”
“I am more intelligent than you. Any of you.” He said, turning to the High Priest and the many other nobles present within the chamber. Indignant gasps spread out across many voices, with the brows of the trio before the Primarch furrowing in a synchronous fashion.
“I mean this not as an insult, but as a mere observation. The previous sunrise, I knew not your language. I have been here some few hundred heartbeats, yet I know it better now than any present. If you would but give me the means, I can show you I can create great works faster than you could even think of them. I have already concluded knowledge your greatest researchers believe to be lost to time. I am stronger than any present in any physical test, with my bared flesh I could destroy your armies.” The Primarch closed its eyes, and inhaled deeply.
“But I will not. I know now that my betterness than any man on this world does not mean I cannot be humble and see the chinks in my proverbial armour. I am inexperienced, I know not of this world, how to lead it. But I may still serve, tell truths and wisdom none else will.”
“You wish to be an advisor after presuming so much?” The Heirarch demanded, for now to the surprise of the court not sounding particularly angered.
“Advisor, and student. There will come a day when I will be of greater import to this realm than you, but I can promise that when that day comes your children, grand children, and great grandchildren all of whom I will outlive will have secured themselves a finer life and fate than you could even dream of in this moment. This is a promise not out of mere confidence, but an inescapable guarantee if you accede to my request.”
The Heirarch stood at this moment, walking to a brazier some distance from himself and wafting the scented smokes leisurely drifting skywards back to himself. As sweat began to come from his crowned forehead he turned back to the Primarch.
“You come into my home, and promise to supplant my dynasty? Ambitious, but I am afraid I must decline. I bid you no ill will, child, but your promise is not enticing enough. If that is all, I believe I must exile you for this statement. I do not wish assembled company to believe this to be an invitation to come forth with similar ideas.” He stated, waving a hand across the onlooking court.
Shock came over the face of the Primarch, followed by a brief panic, its face molding and remolding itself into different shapes as it could not settle on emotion until eventually coming upon a pleading one. “You do not understand, I fault you for this. I warn you now. Should you reject me, I will find another realm to perfect. It will eclipse your’s, and in likely jealousy you shall strike out, forcing me to thereby destroy your majesty. I beg of you, do not do this. Ummaria is the greatest land of this world, I wish to see it prosper and grow! Not, to burn and shatter.”
“Is that all?”
“Please!”
“Leave.”
Fluid skin turned this way and that upon the child’s visage, until eventually settling upon a stoic one even as fluid tears came out of yet incomplete eyes.
“I hope you can forgive me for what will have to be done.” With another thought he turned to the Heirarch’s son. “I hope you can forgive your father for what he will bring upon you.”
With that, the Primarch left Ummaria as wordlessly as he had first entered it.
He wandered the deserts for some days, perfecting his thought, his speech, coming to new conclusions, thought systems and patterns. His musings in the arid sands were stopped abruptly as a column of people walked towards him. A majority were shackled, with some prodding and goading the restrained folk with spears and other cruel implements.
With great curiosity the Primarch walked towards them. “I say!” he called out. Hundreds of heads turning this way and that to try find where the newcomer was. “I say!” He repeated, this time using the power of his voice to have all the humans instantly know where he was calling from.
In a flash, he sprinted towards them, in particular stopping before their leader based upon his head-dress having the most flowers and shiny stones on it.
“Tell me, why are these men so restrained?” he asked cheerily.
“What?” the warrior asked.
“These people. They are not able to act freely owing to these chains binding them. Why is this?”
“They are mine?”
“Elaborate, please.”
“You have something in your ears, sura? We defeated the Godless. Did the wisemen not summon you?”
“They do not wish to be like this?” the Primarch asked, ignoring the latter question. The thought was very common!
“The desires of the faithless do not concern sons of the great four!” The tribal shouted, seemingly pleased with himself as he roared and shook a spear to the subsequent cheers of his fellow warriors.
“I see.” It took a little more than a second for the warband to be slain, most of the fallen bodies having only a finger-shaped hole in their throats.
With a flick of its wrist, it tossed a rusty key towards one of the shackled men who undid his collar and then passed it to the next one.
“Who are you?” the bearded fellow asked, his skinny, starved frame trembling slightly as his freedom was bought with a sight far more terrifying than he had imagined the horrors his captors would inflict on him.
“I have told this tale many times, but I am delighted to recount it again. Very simply, I came from the sky. Many believe they called me forth from their Gods, but this is likely a thought in error. I do not know of anything before I fell from above! I have no name, but since it is so often asked of me, would you give me one?”
A small rope of stunned drool hung from the man’s beard, before in awe he rasped a phrase. “Amunal. Born of the Sun.
Salkor looked upon the wide assembly of the Martian parliament. Hundreds of figures representing all the forges, and indeed the voices of the broader galactic Cult of the Machine were present, all array in small cubicles that provided no privacy, but rather simply served to give a small workspace for each to accommodate the often bulky assortments of cybernetics the Martian Priesthood bore. In many cases, representatives were not present in person and instead had a servitor bear a screen, hologram projector, or other means of display along with vox gear to relay their speech.
"Let the rite of percussive appraisal begin!" A tapping noise would come as mechanical fingers struck the foam upon the hundreds of microphones in the parliament, each followed by a quiet expression of "Testing, testing, testing, one-two-three...." the noise punctuated on occasion by random squeals as incense drifted into the devices.
“Have the spirits of the transmitters been sufficiently appeased?” The Fabricator-General asked, but the slightest of binharic whines through the air indicating the words had been outputted.
“Yea and verily, o’ speaker.” Returned a servitor to his side.
“Very well. Before we begin, is all the roster present?” the question was redundant of course, the milliseconds of it ultimately a waste of time as a part of his heads-up display showed that indeed all nine hundred and seventy three figures scheduled to be in attendance were in fact present in one form or another. But it was tradition, and to brook the mere thought of violating it would cause indignant outcry and the pointing of plasteel fingers.
“Good. Today we mark the thirty-second plenary committee of the Martian plenary, which I now state to be in session.” A gong would ring at glass shattering volume behind him. “The occasion is a solemn one, and indeed one of emergency.”
“Get on with it!” a heckler demanded, a fact that was made all the more annoying as in the cybernetic communion of the hundreds of figures assembled there was no anonymity, yet Forgemaster Antares seemingly felt no regrets about his outburst as Salkor examined him with his ocular implants.
“On this day, an unacceptable attack happened.” A hologram activated behind Salkor and in front of the assembled parliamentarians. It displayed hundreds of missiles fired and laser countermeasures ineffectively attempting to destroy them. Although all present already knew of the attack, they nonetheless immediately broke out into bickering and accusations.
“Silence!” The Fabricator General demanded, flicking a wax-encrusted switch to deactivate the optic cables connecting individuals, such that any speech could only be made through analogue means and without private mutterings upon the noosphere. “I am ordained as servant of our Omnissiah to bring order to this madness. We are all aware of the tensions between different schools of our faith.” he said, not elaborating on the tense situation of the electro priests.
“The violence that stems from it is unacceptable, however. Thus, while we will abide by all the laws and ordinances of this establishment and the red cloak, the right is waived by the commission to bring the perpetrators of this matter to justice.” He heard the gurgle of respirators and static of old synthesizers as again cries of protest came, but they were ultimately ignored.
“Thus we will begin with what is known. Magos Khur, the missiles fired upon the aircraft of the Corpuscarii pilgrims came from your Forge. The serial numbers and make and model inevitably match to Manufactorum IL-99. In particular, the photoreactive plasteel diamantine coating on the warheads is a known specialty of your forge. Do you have any comment?”
“I. AM. UNABLE. TO. SEE. HOW. THAT. INCRIMINATES. ME.”
If Salkor had a lot more of his human biology from brain to respirators system, he would have sighed. The Magos used an ancient synthesizer that was an archaeotech pride of his, supposedly reliable enough to last many tens of thousands of years without any parts needing replacement. The trouble was, his pride and joy seemingly would take that long to construct paragraphs. “You are not incriminated, we simply need to know if any orders were placed that were suspect.
“I. KNOW. NOT. OF. ANY. SUCH. ORDERS.”
“Very well, then we will require a full listing of any and all orders for your surface to air and other missiles matching the remains we found for the last three years.”
“THERE. IS. NO. CONSTITUTIONAL. BASIS. FOR. SUCH.”
“In this emergency we have waived the requirement to only receive the exact work orders matching each serial number given that far too many of said serial numbers have not survived.”
More outcry, and now on somewhat expected partisan lines. The Fulgurites were eager to defend their little gun runner, while a great many Magoses were enraged at the precedent being set. If this was centuries ago, Salkor would understand. He absolutely would hate the rest of Mars to have a right to root around in his work. But, what other options did he have? This was the closest to a middle ground he could come to.
“THIS. OUTRAGE. CANNOT. STAND.”
“No, but neither can we have your air-defence penetrating missiles used against fellow Martians. We are to be better than this, and yet we seemingly are not.”
The bulbs that displayed the preparation of speech of Magos Khur’s synthesizer began to glow, but this was interrupted by a great shock that rattled the Parliament building.
All present immediately read hundreds of readouts, a servitor then unfolding a screen from a mecha-dendrite beside Salkor. “The entourage of Magos Loiy is no longer present. The entourage of Magos Khur is departing. The entourage of Magos Khur is no longer present.” it announced. That was certainly an understatement, as the site where several vehicles an dozens of Skitarii and attendants once stood was now ash.
Salkor played back the footage of the servo-skulls that had observed them. It had taken mere milliseconds, but nonetheless there was a capture of the blue wave that fell from the sky. Dreamily, almost like a cloud the plasma had descended from the sky and turned the figures into nothing. A great many figures not part of either Magos’s party wwas caught and melted in part of entirety.
To Salkor, this was an opportunity. “Magos Khur, if you would care to reveal information that would make you reasonably believe you are at risk, security may be provided for you and your forge.” He announced, quite satisfied with how this line of inquiry was going even if the sum total of disaster had only just doubled, perhaps tripled.
"Let the rite of percussive appraisal begin!" A tapping noise would come as mechanical fingers struck the foam upon the hundreds of microphones in the parliament, each followed by a quiet expression of "Testing, testing, testing, one-two-three...." the noise punctuated on occasion by random squeals as incense drifted into the devices.
“Have the spirits of the transmitters been sufficiently appeased?” The Fabricator-General asked, but the slightest of binharic whines through the air indicating the words had been outputted.
“Yea and verily, o’ speaker.” Returned a servitor to his side.
“Very well. Before we begin, is all the roster present?” the question was redundant of course, the milliseconds of it ultimately a waste of time as a part of his heads-up display showed that indeed all nine hundred and seventy three figures scheduled to be in attendance were in fact present in one form or another. But it was tradition, and to brook the mere thought of violating it would cause indignant outcry and the pointing of plasteel fingers.
“Good. Today we mark the thirty-second plenary committee of the Martian plenary, which I now state to be in session.” A gong would ring at glass shattering volume behind him. “The occasion is a solemn one, and indeed one of emergency.”
“Get on with it!” a heckler demanded, a fact that was made all the more annoying as in the cybernetic communion of the hundreds of figures assembled there was no anonymity, yet Forgemaster Antares seemingly felt no regrets about his outburst as Salkor examined him with his ocular implants.
“On this day, an unacceptable attack happened.” A hologram activated behind Salkor and in front of the assembled parliamentarians. It displayed hundreds of missiles fired and laser countermeasures ineffectively attempting to destroy them. Although all present already knew of the attack, they nonetheless immediately broke out into bickering and accusations.
“Silence!” The Fabricator General demanded, flicking a wax-encrusted switch to deactivate the optic cables connecting individuals, such that any speech could only be made through analogue means and without private mutterings upon the noosphere. “I am ordained as servant of our Omnissiah to bring order to this madness. We are all aware of the tensions between different schools of our faith.” he said, not elaborating on the tense situation of the electro priests.
“The violence that stems from it is unacceptable, however. Thus, while we will abide by all the laws and ordinances of this establishment and the red cloak, the right is waived by the commission to bring the perpetrators of this matter to justice.” He heard the gurgle of respirators and static of old synthesizers as again cries of protest came, but they were ultimately ignored.
“Thus we will begin with what is known. Magos Khur, the missiles fired upon the aircraft of the Corpuscarii pilgrims came from your Forge. The serial numbers and make and model inevitably match to Manufactorum IL-99. In particular, the photoreactive plasteel diamantine coating on the warheads is a known specialty of your forge. Do you have any comment?”
“I. AM. UNABLE. TO. SEE. HOW. THAT. INCRIMINATES. ME.”
If Salkor had a lot more of his human biology from brain to respirators system, he would have sighed. The Magos used an ancient synthesizer that was an archaeotech pride of his, supposedly reliable enough to last many tens of thousands of years without any parts needing replacement. The trouble was, his pride and joy seemingly would take that long to construct paragraphs. “You are not incriminated, we simply need to know if any orders were placed that were suspect.
“I. KNOW. NOT. OF. ANY. SUCH. ORDERS.”
“Very well, then we will require a full listing of any and all orders for your surface to air and other missiles matching the remains we found for the last three years.”
“THERE. IS. NO. CONSTITUTIONAL. BASIS. FOR. SUCH.”
“In this emergency we have waived the requirement to only receive the exact work orders matching each serial number given that far too many of said serial numbers have not survived.”
More outcry, and now on somewhat expected partisan lines. The Fulgurites were eager to defend their little gun runner, while a great many Magoses were enraged at the precedent being set. If this was centuries ago, Salkor would understand. He absolutely would hate the rest of Mars to have a right to root around in his work. But, what other options did he have? This was the closest to a middle ground he could come to.
“THIS. OUTRAGE. CANNOT. STAND.”
“No, but neither can we have your air-defence penetrating missiles used against fellow Martians. We are to be better than this, and yet we seemingly are not.”
The bulbs that displayed the preparation of speech of Magos Khur’s synthesizer began to glow, but this was interrupted by a great shock that rattled the Parliament building.
All present immediately read hundreds of readouts, a servitor then unfolding a screen from a mecha-dendrite beside Salkor. “The entourage of Magos Loiy is no longer present. The entourage of Magos Khur is departing. The entourage of Magos Khur is no longer present.” it announced. That was certainly an understatement, as the site where several vehicles an dozens of Skitarii and attendants once stood was now ash.
Salkor played back the footage of the servo-skulls that had observed them. It had taken mere milliseconds, but nonetheless there was a capture of the blue wave that fell from the sky. Dreamily, almost like a cloud the plasma had descended from the sky and turned the figures into nothing. A great many figures not part of either Magos’s party wwas caught and melted in part of entirety.
To Salkor, this was an opportunity. “Magos Khur, if you would care to reveal information that would make you reasonably believe you are at risk, security may be provided for you and your forge.” He announced, quite satisfied with how this line of inquiry was going even if the sum total of disaster had only just doubled, perhaps tripled.
The Council of High Studies looked upon the silver child that mere moments ago they feared would extinguish their lives. But they couldn’t even begin to fathom what to make of its gesture of submission. These men spent centuries of their lives performing maths that the rest of human life could hardly fathom. They studied arts and history to find leisure and purpose, yet to also understand their own human nature and shortcomings. Despite almost the entire day being dedicated to learning in one form or another for all peoples of Asclepius, none could comprehend what was happening here.
Directness was the only thing the High Polymaths could think of. “Explain yourself.” Proctor Balear said, tapping his ceremonial staff upon the ground with the sound somewhat muffled as it struck his bear.
The child’s arms shifted, away from the pose of one upon its heart and the other outstretched to now both being spread far apart in an embrace of the whole world. “I cannot. It was my hope that learned men as yourself could.
Under their breaths, the Polymaths made grumbles of explanation that they could explain the situation, though they certainly needed more context and facts to make a final judgement. But ultimately, even these most arrogant of teachers were also the most eager of students and thus were willing to - if somewhat begrudgingly - concede that they knew not what the hell was going on.
“No, we cannot. Who-... what are you, why are you here, what are you called. Let us know that.” Proctor Kampande asked, with his free hand making the slightest of gestures that would get the onlooking crowds present to clean up after the performance of The Fall; it was over, and there was a new matter to attend to.
The child looked overhead with some fascination before it answered, its eyes moving with imperceptible speed as it tracked each and every drone that came to the site. Only then it spoke. “I do not know what am I, or why I am here, I have no name, or memory of events prior to my arrival here.” It ran a hand down its own cheek, smiling ever so slightly as it did so. “But… insofar as I can understand, I was born this day. I may have had a gestation period of sorts previously. I am… confused. I hope you can help me. Your words, knowledge, it pours into me. But I cannot fathom what to do with the information that ever more floods my thoughts. I believe such a question has been asked times infinite before. I believe today all of this effort I have seen has gone to trying to reply to the question. But, I cannot yet see from it an answer. I hope you can help me. Please.” it said, almost pleading and verging upon tears as it spoke.
Logical as they were, the fact emotional manipulations were all but bred out of the Asclepian populace made the Council of High Studies largely soften towards the creature before them. Still, ever greedy for new morsels of knowledge another voice spoke. “You say you were born today. Yet, you know so much of us, of the world. Explain this. Did your progenitor perhaps somehow install knowledge within you?”
The primarch nodded, now smiling with the melancholy seemingly evaporated. “No, that is not the case. I was born knowing nothing but my existence. I think, therefore I am. From there I assume my sense do not deceive me. I consider the smallest of things; the pull of the soil beneath me, every word you millions speak and the reactions from them. The very ripples and waves in the air you use to ferry knowledge among each other, and to these machines. All the tiniest of details, but interconnected. I learn this foundation. But I hope from you to learn so much more until that inevitable day my knowledge eclipses yours.
Now, almost an excitement overcome the men. They were issued both a challenge, but also an opportunity. One by one, the Polymaths arose from their seats and raised their staves towards the sky, the orbs at the tip of each staff touching the one of the neighbouring man.
“To learn from the best.”
“To overcome the faults you were cursed with!”
“To defeat the laurels upon which one rests.”
“To seize the days, months, years, and life!”
“To befriend numbers, though they may be irrational.”
“To challenge our norms, yet adore tradition!”
“To ponder the axioms of truth and love.
“To know time flies, but to dream to outrun it!”
“To fathom the unfathomable.
“To shatter the walls between our disciplines!”
“To never yield to lies.”
“To plot twists, in tales and geometrics alike!”
“To let your study’s fruits pour on eager minds.”
Then as one, the Polymaths struck the ground with their staves. “Though we know not your name, you as all willing minds are given an opportunity; to become a humble student with the greatest minds of man. Welcome to Asclepius, the World-Academy!”
Directness was the only thing the High Polymaths could think of. “Explain yourself.” Proctor Balear said, tapping his ceremonial staff upon the ground with the sound somewhat muffled as it struck his bear.
The child’s arms shifted, away from the pose of one upon its heart and the other outstretched to now both being spread far apart in an embrace of the whole world. “I cannot. It was my hope that learned men as yourself could.
Under their breaths, the Polymaths made grumbles of explanation that they could explain the situation, though they certainly needed more context and facts to make a final judgement. But ultimately, even these most arrogant of teachers were also the most eager of students and thus were willing to - if somewhat begrudgingly - concede that they knew not what the hell was going on.
“No, we cannot. Who-... what are you, why are you here, what are you called. Let us know that.” Proctor Kampande asked, with his free hand making the slightest of gestures that would get the onlooking crowds present to clean up after the performance of The Fall; it was over, and there was a new matter to attend to.
The child looked overhead with some fascination before it answered, its eyes moving with imperceptible speed as it tracked each and every drone that came to the site. Only then it spoke. “I do not know what am I, or why I am here, I have no name, or memory of events prior to my arrival here.” It ran a hand down its own cheek, smiling ever so slightly as it did so. “But… insofar as I can understand, I was born this day. I may have had a gestation period of sorts previously. I am… confused. I hope you can help me. Your words, knowledge, it pours into me. But I cannot fathom what to do with the information that ever more floods my thoughts. I believe such a question has been asked times infinite before. I believe today all of this effort I have seen has gone to trying to reply to the question. But, I cannot yet see from it an answer. I hope you can help me. Please.” it said, almost pleading and verging upon tears as it spoke.
Logical as they were, the fact emotional manipulations were all but bred out of the Asclepian populace made the Council of High Studies largely soften towards the creature before them. Still, ever greedy for new morsels of knowledge another voice spoke. “You say you were born today. Yet, you know so much of us, of the world. Explain this. Did your progenitor perhaps somehow install knowledge within you?”
The primarch nodded, now smiling with the melancholy seemingly evaporated. “No, that is not the case. I was born knowing nothing but my existence. I think, therefore I am. From there I assume my sense do not deceive me. I consider the smallest of things; the pull of the soil beneath me, every word you millions speak and the reactions from them. The very ripples and waves in the air you use to ferry knowledge among each other, and to these machines. All the tiniest of details, but interconnected. I learn this foundation. But I hope from you to learn so much more until that inevitable day my knowledge eclipses yours.
Now, almost an excitement overcome the men. They were issued both a challenge, but also an opportunity. One by one, the Polymaths arose from their seats and raised their staves towards the sky, the orbs at the tip of each staff touching the one of the neighbouring man.
“To learn from the best.”
“To overcome the faults you were cursed with!”
“To defeat the laurels upon which one rests.”
“To seize the days, months, years, and life!”
“To befriend numbers, though they may be irrational.”
“To challenge our norms, yet adore tradition!”
“To ponder the axioms of truth and love.
“To know time flies, but to dream to outrun it!”
“To fathom the unfathomable.
“To shatter the walls between our disciplines!”
“To never yield to lies.”
“To plot twists, in tales and geometrics alike!”
“To let your study’s fruits pour on eager minds.”
Then as one, the Polymaths struck the ground with their staves. “Though we know not your name, you as all willing minds are given an opportunity; to become a humble student with the greatest minds of man. Welcome to Asclepius, the World-Academy!”
Flesh on feet sizzled as men and women ran forth to adore the silver figure at the heart of the crater of sand turned to glass. Caressing hands ran across its body, the mercurial texture of the flesh bringing great awe to the cultists. Only the two shamans dared not step on the slag to approach the child. They could hardly see it behind all the fawning men and women upon it but even what little they saw had unprecedented potence that perhaps millions of even great minds as them couldn’t match. As much as an instinct within their brain told them to get on their knees in prayer, they knew this had to be handled carefully.
“O’ gift of the stars, we thank you, we thank the Fathers and Mothers of Sky and Earth for your sight!” Belsokh announced, his eyes skipping towards Ptraf for but a fraction of a second for affirmation.
“My Lord.” Ptraf began. “I hope our offerings were to your satisfaction. How may we serve you?” he said.
“How may we serve our masters?” Belsokh quickly added, somewhat confused by what Ptraf was saying; he was not yet enlightened to what had occurred this day.
“Why are there dead before me.” The figure stated, its voice almost smothered by a tattooed hand running across his lips.
“My Lord, I apologize, we put as much devotion as we could before the sacrifices expired, we-” Belsokh began, before being interrupted by Ptraf.
“It was a necessity. Their lives were given eagerly.”
“But why?” he giant child asked.
“To bring you forth my Lord.” Ptraf replied.
The child looked quizzical for a moment, its skin then very slowly changing pigment and moving across its flesh before it almost perfectly mirrored the appearance of Ptraf; even the tattoos he could not see directly were derived from visions of the man reflected off of the coast’s waters.
Not bothering to dislodge several of the people stuck to him, the child stepped forward and thus upon the stand to stand before the two magicians. It stared in the eyes of one, then the other.
“How did you summon me? I do not believe I was called. I saw the stars, the infinite nothing before I arrived upon this world. I saw the lights of your sister world. I believe my presence is an accident, elder. I do not think I am meant to be here. Harmony in chaos, wisdom in the wild, I do not know what this means. I do not believe any of this is meant for me. I do not think these souls should have died.”
Belsokh looked astounded, and then very quickly enraged despite the fact the figure before him could clearly slay him. “Their lives were spent righteously! They died for a greater cause!” He screamed, unable to be silenced by the hasty waves of Ptraf.
“Sire, Sire, you were brought here by a greater will! Can you not see? I see now you are a being of wisdom, of logic, no? Surely you understand there are no accidents, no chance, that is true superstition before our truth. You can see we are here to serve, to bring truth!”
“Serve, then. Where may I find the greatest realm of this land. Do not say it is here beneath my feet. Who built that?” he pointed to the not too distant temple, made at least in part of materials far too complex for these tribals. “Our ancestors, my lord.”
“Very well then. Who built that?” he pointed. What his finger was aimed at was unseen to all present, but Ptraf knew of what he spoke. “That is the Kingdom of Jhumal. Great are its armies and treasures, but it is not the greatest realm.”
“What is the greatest?”
With a sigh, and a look of defeat followed by one of scorn towards Belsokh, Ptraf sagged his shoulders and spoke. “I will tell it to you my Lord, but only if you make a small promise.
“What?”
“When you are downtrodden, when you are lost, and unsure of this world and life. Perhaps now, perhaps years, perhaps decades or centuries from now, when such a time comes, you will seek me out and ask me to explain why this is, and then you will listen.”
“I agree to this. When my existence is dim, I will ask you for light.”
“Very well. Up the Coast, to the East. Seek the great walls with great helms bearing galeas as towers, there you will find the realm of Ummaria, it is perhaps the greatest realm upon this planet.”
“Thank you.” With that, the creature reverted to its silvery form and walked off in the direction of this Ummaria.
“I see now, Ptraf. You aim to make this imposter perish in the deserts without slaying our own. Wise.” he said, as the child trodded well past the vanishing point of their vision.
Ptraf shook his head but said nothing. One day, one day he would redeem himself for the failures of this day.
Days later, after trodding far through the desiccated land the child brushed off the dead worshippers who had gladly died of thirst upon him. Washing himself of their residues in the salty waters, the child then looked up and saw the crest of a galea in the distance. There, his destination.
As he approached the walls, many a horn blared. He looked up, hearing the twisting of windlasses long before the ballista bolt missed him. He looked upon it, fingers tracing the painting along the fletching. Hundreds more followed.
Unafraid, he continued towards the walls. Stones soon followed shattering earth and stone around him. Eventually he was close enough that the men within the towers and upon the walls could see the features of the primarch.
“Please, do not fire upon me, I wish no harm!” the child bellowed, the voice carrying far further than any present could imagine. To their own surprise, all men present found themselves obeying.
“Now, please let me in. I wish to see your Sovereign.”
The child smiled as the gates opened for him. The day had just begun.
“O’ gift of the stars, we thank you, we thank the Fathers and Mothers of Sky and Earth for your sight!” Belsokh announced, his eyes skipping towards Ptraf for but a fraction of a second for affirmation.
“My Lord.” Ptraf began. “I hope our offerings were to your satisfaction. How may we serve you?” he said.
“How may we serve our masters?” Belsokh quickly added, somewhat confused by what Ptraf was saying; he was not yet enlightened to what had occurred this day.
“Why are there dead before me.” The figure stated, its voice almost smothered by a tattooed hand running across his lips.
“My Lord, I apologize, we put as much devotion as we could before the sacrifices expired, we-” Belsokh began, before being interrupted by Ptraf.
“It was a necessity. Their lives were given eagerly.”
“But why?” he giant child asked.
“To bring you forth my Lord.” Ptraf replied.
The child looked quizzical for a moment, its skin then very slowly changing pigment and moving across its flesh before it almost perfectly mirrored the appearance of Ptraf; even the tattoos he could not see directly were derived from visions of the man reflected off of the coast’s waters.
Not bothering to dislodge several of the people stuck to him, the child stepped forward and thus upon the stand to stand before the two magicians. It stared in the eyes of one, then the other.
“How did you summon me? I do not believe I was called. I saw the stars, the infinite nothing before I arrived upon this world. I saw the lights of your sister world. I believe my presence is an accident, elder. I do not think I am meant to be here. Harmony in chaos, wisdom in the wild, I do not know what this means. I do not believe any of this is meant for me. I do not think these souls should have died.”
Belsokh looked astounded, and then very quickly enraged despite the fact the figure before him could clearly slay him. “Their lives were spent righteously! They died for a greater cause!” He screamed, unable to be silenced by the hasty waves of Ptraf.
“Sire, Sire, you were brought here by a greater will! Can you not see? I see now you are a being of wisdom, of logic, no? Surely you understand there are no accidents, no chance, that is true superstition before our truth. You can see we are here to serve, to bring truth!”
“Serve, then. Where may I find the greatest realm of this land. Do not say it is here beneath my feet. Who built that?” he pointed to the not too distant temple, made at least in part of materials far too complex for these tribals. “Our ancestors, my lord.”
“Very well then. Who built that?” he pointed. What his finger was aimed at was unseen to all present, but Ptraf knew of what he spoke. “That is the Kingdom of Jhumal. Great are its armies and treasures, but it is not the greatest realm.”
“What is the greatest?”
With a sigh, and a look of defeat followed by one of scorn towards Belsokh, Ptraf sagged his shoulders and spoke. “I will tell it to you my Lord, but only if you make a small promise.
“What?”
“When you are downtrodden, when you are lost, and unsure of this world and life. Perhaps now, perhaps years, perhaps decades or centuries from now, when such a time comes, you will seek me out and ask me to explain why this is, and then you will listen.”
“I agree to this. When my existence is dim, I will ask you for light.”
“Very well. Up the Coast, to the East. Seek the great walls with great helms bearing galeas as towers, there you will find the realm of Ummaria, it is perhaps the greatest realm upon this planet.”
“Thank you.” With that, the creature reverted to its silvery form and walked off in the direction of this Ummaria.
“I see now, Ptraf. You aim to make this imposter perish in the deserts without slaying our own. Wise.” he said, as the child trodded well past the vanishing point of their vision.
Ptraf shook his head but said nothing. One day, one day he would redeem himself for the failures of this day.
Days later, after trodding far through the desiccated land the child brushed off the dead worshippers who had gladly died of thirst upon him. Washing himself of their residues in the salty waters, the child then looked up and saw the crest of a galea in the distance. There, his destination.
As he approached the walls, many a horn blared. He looked up, hearing the twisting of windlasses long before the ballista bolt missed him. He looked upon it, fingers tracing the painting along the fletching. Hundreds more followed.
Unafraid, he continued towards the walls. Stones soon followed shattering earth and stone around him. Eventually he was close enough that the men within the towers and upon the walls could see the features of the primarch.
“Please, do not fire upon me, I wish no harm!” the child bellowed, the voice carrying far further than any present could imagine. To their own surprise, all men present found themselves obeying.
“Now, please let me in. I wish to see your Sovereign.”
The child smiled as the gates opened for him. The day had just begun.
A trip to a hospital was now warranted. On his third day on Pelorum, Elias had found that his skin had started to begin browning. Thankfully, it had not begun to burn as he had feared. The fact he had accomplished this without using some oily sunscreen that would stain his clothing was one he was quite glad about. It was in these little victories that the Elias Riemen of today found solace.
He looked at a map on a board on the street after some walking, and after referencing it he looked up to see the faded neon lights of a red cross barely visible in daylight. There it was, the hospital. Just as he took a step towards it, he felt ever so slightly light. That was a fact that was very easy to establish, given that other than his clothing he had nothing but a tattered leather wallet on his person. When you have just one thing on you, its absence becomes quite apparent. He looked around for the offender, until he spotted a kid speed walking away from him. Elias's brief wondering of whether this was the offender was quickly resolved when the teen gave a look behind himself and locked eyes with Elias before promptly starting to flee as fast as his feet would take him.
Well, Elias knew he wouldn't catch the brat in a sprint. He would probably beat the kid in a marathon, but in an urban setting that wasn't a winning strategy to catching a pickpocket. Looking down, a loose bit of pavement entered his hands. Testing the weight, he remembered his high school years, his time in college. All the sports ma and pa made him sign up for, insisting he get the basketball scholarship in spite of the fact they had a money to pay for tuition a few hundred times over. Well, the piece of cement was nothing like a basketball or any kind of ball for that matter, but Elias knew he had a pretty damn good throwing arm. After a brief wind up, he sent the cement flying in a smooth arc to hit the boy on the shoulder with a meaty thunk even at the meters separating them.
Quite leisurely now, Elias strolled over to the yelping youth. Picking him up by the collar of his waistcoat, the engineer shook his head. "What a ridiculous outfit for such a planet." He said, or at least tried to in a string of syllables incomprehensible to the boy. Picking through the struggling boy's pockets he eventually retrieved his own wallet, and then another. "H'ahgeh." Elias managed, as close as he could in saying "taxes". He wasn't going to pretend to be a pinnacle of morality by any stretch, but he felt that robbing a thief wasn't going to earn him any more reincarnations until samsara.
Well, satisfied that he had lunch money and perhaps something to bribe a clerk, he entered the hospital. Strolling up to the counter of the reception, the woman there didn't even look up as he pressed a button that printed a ticket for him and tearing it off extended a hand not busy with a crossword. Taking it, Elias looked at the number. 4812. He began to write "What is the current active number?", when he heard a speaker announce "NOW SERVING TICKET FOUR. SE-SE-SE-SE-SEV-SEVEN. TWO. NINE. REPEATING, NOW SERVING TICKET FOUR. SEVEN. TWO. NINE."
"Fu'h."
Three hours passed until he heard "NOW SERVING TICKET FOUR. SEVEN. SEVEN. THREE." At that point his stomach began to make noises akin to an engine struggling to ignite. Looking down at an imaginary watch on his wrist, he decided he had time to go and get some sort of snack. Strolling out he went about until he got himself the cheapest hotdog he could find from a street vendor, reasoning that the dead flies or whatever would be extra protein for the bucks spent. Licking his fingers, he entered the hospital only to turn pale as he heard "NOW SERVING TICKET NINE. TWO. THREE. THREE."
A mixture of panic and confusion overtook him as he sprinted towards reception again, where the crossword enjoying lady repeated the routine of tearing off a ticket to hand him. He swatted it out of her hands, and pointed to his before quickly scrawling "I WAITED THREE HOURS", words he circled three times for emphasis.
"Sorry hun, you missed it." came the lazy reply.
"HOW THE HELL DID IT SKIP FROM 4729 to 9233?"
The woman chuckled. "Did you not read the ticket? It says the numbers aren't in consecutive order."
"WHERE????"
"Turn it over."
He did, and still didn't see.
"WHERE???" he repeated, now with several underlinings of the question mark.
"Look closer."
He did, and at last his squinting gaze spotted the beige print on the white paper. His hands trembled with rage, but the part of his brain that got straight As in university managed to soothe the ape within that was eager to rip off faces and throw feces. Rather lamely he stooped down, and picked up the ticket he swatted out of the woman's hands and once more took a seat.
After some fifteen minutes of waiting, an elderly man and his grandson sat near him. Looking to them, Elias wrote "MY NUMBER IS 5599 COULD YOU TELL ME WHEN IT IS CALLED? I HAVE BEEN HERE HOURS, GOING TO FALL ASLEEP ANY MOMENT", the final letters being tiny to accomodate the piece of blackboard the struggled to fit them. As an afterthought, he added a bill appropriated from the thief. While the elderly man began to grumble something, his grandson was all too eager for some candy money.
With a boar-like snort Elias awoke from the boy tapping his shoulder, just as the PA system finished calling his new number. Patting the child on his head Elias arose and rushed to the waiting nurse.
Clumsily he sat upon the chair that was far too small for him, the nurse typing something into a computer. "Name?" she asked.
"ELIAS RIEMEN." he wrote on his blackboard.
"Hmmm, you're not local then. Not surprising really. Alright, do you have any ID?"
"NO THEY TOLD ME TO COME HERE TO GET BIOMETRIC VERIFICATION."
"Oooooh, sorry. This site doesn't have that equipment, you're going to have to go up to the Memorial Hospital in the downtown. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
The man's hands began to tremble, then his legs. After a very brief hyperventilation, he wordlessly stood up and left the building.
Arriving at the memorial Hospital, a very similar routine happened, albeit the staff and conditions were of a far higher quality with smiles and the sickening white cleanliness that smelled of chemicals permeated the establishment. "WHY IS IT CALLED MEMORIAL HOSPITAL? ITS SUPPOSED TO BE IN SOMEBODYS MEMORY" Elias wrote to a passing worker at some point, out of pure curiosity.
Spotless white teeth moved to reply "Oh, its in memory of everybody, because everybody deserves to be in our thoughts." Such a line reminded Elias of shitty speeches he had to write for English class in high school. The thought was so meaningless yet pretentiously high-brow that it made bile rise up his throat.
At last however, another nurse tended to him. "What can I help you with sir?" he babyfaced fellow asked, quite pleasantly before asking who he was.
"I NEED TO RESTORE IDENTITY, I WAS TOLD TO GO HERE AFTER THE OTHER HOSPITAL DID NOT HAVE THE EQUIPMENT FOR THAT."
"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry sir. The issue is that right now that equipment is going through some maintenance. It is not available right now, I am afraid."
Again inconceivable anger came over Elias, but there was no point venting it on the guy before him. "WHEN WILL IT BE READY?"
"A week or so from now. Again, so sorry."
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose which was all that was left of it, but he had not yet given up. "CAN I SUBMIT MY WORK NOW, AND YOU WILL PERFORM THE TESTS WHEN ITS READY?"
"Sure!"
"OK"
"...."
"WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO?"
"One second."
Eventually the man returned with a doctor and a wheeled table with some equipment. In a lengthy process they took all sorts of measurements of him, pictures of things like eye colour, and samples of things like blood, fingerprint, and saliva. On the one hand, Elias feared that in his new ship-bound life having records of him like this would be quit detrimental. On the other, they hypothetically already had all of this.
At last, following a payment of all that he had on him, he received a card with a bar code on it. Unfortunately, the card was not ID. Simply, it was a means of verification that he would have access to the results of the work done with his measurements and scans and analyses. But, at least he was now getting somewhere.
"WILL I BE ABLE TO ACCESS THIS OFFWORLD?"
"You'll have to pay extra for that." The nurse said.
If this had happened earlier, Elias would have been angry again. But compared to his other trials, this wasn't so bad. He just had to go get the money to upgrade the card. Once more, he simply picked up his chalk and blackboard and ran off in pursuit of a little coin.
He looked at a map on a board on the street after some walking, and after referencing it he looked up to see the faded neon lights of a red cross barely visible in daylight. There it was, the hospital. Just as he took a step towards it, he felt ever so slightly light. That was a fact that was very easy to establish, given that other than his clothing he had nothing but a tattered leather wallet on his person. When you have just one thing on you, its absence becomes quite apparent. He looked around for the offender, until he spotted a kid speed walking away from him. Elias's brief wondering of whether this was the offender was quickly resolved when the teen gave a look behind himself and locked eyes with Elias before promptly starting to flee as fast as his feet would take him.
Well, Elias knew he wouldn't catch the brat in a sprint. He would probably beat the kid in a marathon, but in an urban setting that wasn't a winning strategy to catching a pickpocket. Looking down, a loose bit of pavement entered his hands. Testing the weight, he remembered his high school years, his time in college. All the sports ma and pa made him sign up for, insisting he get the basketball scholarship in spite of the fact they had a money to pay for tuition a few hundred times over. Well, the piece of cement was nothing like a basketball or any kind of ball for that matter, but Elias knew he had a pretty damn good throwing arm. After a brief wind up, he sent the cement flying in a smooth arc to hit the boy on the shoulder with a meaty thunk even at the meters separating them.
Quite leisurely now, Elias strolled over to the yelping youth. Picking him up by the collar of his waistcoat, the engineer shook his head. "What a ridiculous outfit for such a planet." He said, or at least tried to in a string of syllables incomprehensible to the boy. Picking through the struggling boy's pockets he eventually retrieved his own wallet, and then another. "H'ahgeh." Elias managed, as close as he could in saying "taxes". He wasn't going to pretend to be a pinnacle of morality by any stretch, but he felt that robbing a thief wasn't going to earn him any more reincarnations until samsara.
Well, satisfied that he had lunch money and perhaps something to bribe a clerk, he entered the hospital. Strolling up to the counter of the reception, the woman there didn't even look up as he pressed a button that printed a ticket for him and tearing it off extended a hand not busy with a crossword. Taking it, Elias looked at the number. 4812. He began to write "What is the current active number?", when he heard a speaker announce "NOW SERVING TICKET FOUR. SE-SE-SE-SE-SEV-SEVEN. TWO. NINE. REPEATING, NOW SERVING TICKET FOUR. SEVEN. TWO. NINE."
"Fu'h."
Three hours passed until he heard "NOW SERVING TICKET FOUR. SEVEN. SEVEN. THREE." At that point his stomach began to make noises akin to an engine struggling to ignite. Looking down at an imaginary watch on his wrist, he decided he had time to go and get some sort of snack. Strolling out he went about until he got himself the cheapest hotdog he could find from a street vendor, reasoning that the dead flies or whatever would be extra protein for the bucks spent. Licking his fingers, he entered the hospital only to turn pale as he heard "NOW SERVING TICKET NINE. TWO. THREE. THREE."
A mixture of panic and confusion overtook him as he sprinted towards reception again, where the crossword enjoying lady repeated the routine of tearing off a ticket to hand him. He swatted it out of her hands, and pointed to his before quickly scrawling "I WAITED THREE HOURS", words he circled three times for emphasis.
"Sorry hun, you missed it." came the lazy reply.
"HOW THE HELL DID IT SKIP FROM 4729 to 9233?"
The woman chuckled. "Did you not read the ticket? It says the numbers aren't in consecutive order."
"WHERE????"
"Turn it over."
He did, and still didn't see.
"WHERE???" he repeated, now with several underlinings of the question mark.
"Look closer."
He did, and at last his squinting gaze spotted the beige print on the white paper. His hands trembled with rage, but the part of his brain that got straight As in university managed to soothe the ape within that was eager to rip off faces and throw feces. Rather lamely he stooped down, and picked up the ticket he swatted out of the woman's hands and once more took a seat.
After some fifteen minutes of waiting, an elderly man and his grandson sat near him. Looking to them, Elias wrote "MY NUMBER IS 5599 COULD YOU TELL ME WHEN IT IS CALLED? I HAVE BEEN HERE HOURS, GOING TO FALL ASLEEP ANY MOMENT", the final letters being tiny to accomodate the piece of blackboard the struggled to fit them. As an afterthought, he added a bill appropriated from the thief. While the elderly man began to grumble something, his grandson was all too eager for some candy money.
With a boar-like snort Elias awoke from the boy tapping his shoulder, just as the PA system finished calling his new number. Patting the child on his head Elias arose and rushed to the waiting nurse.
Clumsily he sat upon the chair that was far too small for him, the nurse typing something into a computer. "Name?" she asked.
"ELIAS RIEMEN." he wrote on his blackboard.
"Hmmm, you're not local then. Not surprising really. Alright, do you have any ID?"
"NO THEY TOLD ME TO COME HERE TO GET BIOMETRIC VERIFICATION."
"Oooooh, sorry. This site doesn't have that equipment, you're going to have to go up to the Memorial Hospital in the downtown. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
The man's hands began to tremble, then his legs. After a very brief hyperventilation, he wordlessly stood up and left the building.
Arriving at the memorial Hospital, a very similar routine happened, albeit the staff and conditions were of a far higher quality with smiles and the sickening white cleanliness that smelled of chemicals permeated the establishment. "WHY IS IT CALLED MEMORIAL HOSPITAL? ITS SUPPOSED TO BE IN SOMEBODYS MEMORY" Elias wrote to a passing worker at some point, out of pure curiosity.
Spotless white teeth moved to reply "Oh, its in memory of everybody, because everybody deserves to be in our thoughts." Such a line reminded Elias of shitty speeches he had to write for English class in high school. The thought was so meaningless yet pretentiously high-brow that it made bile rise up his throat.
At last however, another nurse tended to him. "What can I help you with sir?" he babyfaced fellow asked, quite pleasantly before asking who he was.
"I NEED TO RESTORE IDENTITY, I WAS TOLD TO GO HERE AFTER THE OTHER HOSPITAL DID NOT HAVE THE EQUIPMENT FOR THAT."
"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry sir. The issue is that right now that equipment is going through some maintenance. It is not available right now, I am afraid."
Again inconceivable anger came over Elias, but there was no point venting it on the guy before him. "WHEN WILL IT BE READY?"
"A week or so from now. Again, so sorry."
Elias pinched the bridge of his nose which was all that was left of it, but he had not yet given up. "CAN I SUBMIT MY WORK NOW, AND YOU WILL PERFORM THE TESTS WHEN ITS READY?"
"Sure!"
"OK"
"...."
"WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO?"
"One second."
Eventually the man returned with a doctor and a wheeled table with some equipment. In a lengthy process they took all sorts of measurements of him, pictures of things like eye colour, and samples of things like blood, fingerprint, and saliva. On the one hand, Elias feared that in his new ship-bound life having records of him like this would be quit detrimental. On the other, they hypothetically already had all of this.
At last, following a payment of all that he had on him, he received a card with a bar code on it. Unfortunately, the card was not ID. Simply, it was a means of verification that he would have access to the results of the work done with his measurements and scans and analyses. But, at least he was now getting somewhere.
"WILL I BE ABLE TO ACCESS THIS OFFWORLD?"
"You'll have to pay extra for that." The nurse said.
If this had happened earlier, Elias would have been angry again. But compared to his other trials, this wasn't so bad. He just had to go get the money to upgrade the card. Once more, he simply picked up his chalk and blackboard and ran off in pursuit of a little coin.
Something I find that helps me is being very piecemeal! You don't have to write the epic of gilgamesh overnight, you can just do a paragraph or some other bite size at a time :>
In
Seeking co-GMs & Lead Role for Post-War Mass Effect RP
→
1 yr ago
Forum: Advanced Interest Checks
“The Reapers had fallen. Our minds were broken, we couldn’t think, some of us could hardly walk. The war was done, it was won, even if some might argue we had lost. But when we assembled that day, when the commander drew the line in the sand and offered us the chance to end our war for each and every soul if the wished, not a single body crossed the line. Everyone had family, friends, and justice to face outside our work. But we all knew the truth. The galaxy won the war, but it would never really be done until the end of time. Kali Yuga would come once more some day, and we would have to fight then again too. Someone had to think of mankind first. Maybe we won’t be there with our own rifles. But our children, grandchildren, and our souls will stand there for all sons and daughters of Earth. The whole galaxy would hate us for our efforts, but so what? So I stared upon my comrades. Then, I smiled, for what had I to fear?”
Hi! I’m Bugman. I’m still new to this forum in contrast to some people who have been here years, but I like to think I am somewhat acquainted with it by now. I am here to recruit help for an RP in the Mass Effect setting following the conclusion of the third game in the series. But, with somewhat of a twist.
The players will be the not be the good guys. The team, the crew, everyone will be part of Cerberus. We might not exactly be the mustache twirling villains, but we're going to need some serious lawyering to even convince someone we're anti-heroes.
With the reaper war finished in the control ending and the reaper fleets going into dark space, these people full of reaper implants will have their minds broken. They will struggle to deal with a new world, where they aren’t sure if their thoughts are their own or the work of the alien steel still within their bodies even though the source of indoctrination is long gone.
But though extinction by the reapers is a threat disappeared, mankind will find that there is once more an existential threat. When nobody else will do anything to protect the rights of man, the Three Headed Hound will arise. This cell of Cerberus will initially be small-fry, their organization’s much diminished power following the reaper war meaning the scope of their activities will be greatly reduced. However, they will eventually stumble upon a galaxy-wide conspiracy that threatens every man woman and child of the milky way. Ready or not, Cerberus and the player team will have to rise to the occasion and save a world that hates them all while wrestling their own demons and loyalties.
I will expect just a few rules to be followed:
-Follow site-wide rules and guidelines.
-Commit to the story and characters. Frequent and consistent posting is required.
-Communicate clearly if you're unable to post or wish to change anything.
-Seriously, respect each other. Be open to feedback and discussion.
To date, I am not ready to currently launch this RP. I have many details I am yet to decide on, and how to bridge the gaps between individual posts and scenes, to the much broader plot. However, the goal is to create an RP environment where the players are part of not just a living and breathing crew, but also determine the fate of the organization they are suddenly far more important in, to guide its politics and indeed the fate of the galaxy. The crew will have place for many different people: biotics, soldiers, scientists, doctors, tech specialists, and much more. Similarly, the player who is the commander of the ship can be of a diverse background, and the RP will just as easily accommodate a commander who receives a crew that covers their weaknesses and complements their strengths as one that simply mirrors and concentrates their existing skill-set to make a more specialized if less versatile cell of Cerberus.
Moreover, if and when this hopefully gains sufficient traction to continue on, I wish to expand this with a spinoff RP in the same subsetting following a team of spectres and their trustees formed to track and hunt the Cerberine team and potentially stumble upon the same grand conspiracies and threats that Cerberus is dealing with.
This is all quite a daunting effort to me. To that end, I wish to seek out only two, maybe three people for now to build off of. First, I want to find somebody that is a co-GM, a thought heavily inspired by a legendary Firefly RP I am in! Somebody to proofread a load of my ideas, help bridge them to make sense together and be internally consistent, and perhaps most importantly, to help keep it running if for whatever reason I am briefly indisposed. Second, I want somebody to play a “main character”. A Shepard-esque figure, in charge of herding the cats that their team will be. Somebody that has the first say in the hard decisions, somebody who will take the first blame for failure and the first praise for success. A person who resolves disputes between team members, who decides what the priorities of their Cerberus cell are, who represents the amalgam of the Cell’s ideas, thoughts and feelings and will help mold the greater organization of Cerberus in this image. They will make the first line of decisions with the greatest consequences. Depending on what me and the potential co-GM come up with, there might be a brief period where we do some 1x1 stuff to actually play out details of backstory, and “prologue” to the main story. We the GMs will also likely play some NPCs within the crew to both pad out roles too minor for players like a ship janitor.
While we will begin with something minor just shortly after the war, as the galaxy and Cerberus alike recover more and more from the Reaper-War there will come a time where both the grand-scale plot is followed and more personal items of interest to each character (analogous to perhaps ME2’s loyalty missions) will come to the fore.
Please post here or message me if you're interested, I should reply within a day or two.
To people who are interested in the RP if not quite these roles, I am excited to hear from you too though regretfully I must say it will be some time before you might see something yourself. However, hearing roles people might want to take early is good too.
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