Vec
kapuchu@Kho Buuuuut we can agree that it has a LIMITED amount of matter in it the likely is not spread evenly across. We'll run into the eventual Big Stretch acenario: in which the universe becomes so big that every particles become isolated unto themselves in the void.
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I was actually planning on Toun grabbing one of Slough's life-sacks and making a proper, intelligent, sentient race. They were intended to be little creatures with a porcelain exoskeleton, but if someone doesn't make humans soon, Toun might have to make them accidentally.
Logos has the field set to make th next round.
Logos is confirmed the edgy brother. He left us all to go play by himself because we can't understand his feelings!
BOW YOU IMPUDENT LITTLE BA- Oh why do I even bother?
@Vec Edge of the universe. Away from the rest of you chaps. :p
Scientists think life on earth occurred when lightning struck the right amount of chemicals in a volcanic hotspot. Logos is doing something similar; more or less seeding the planet. Basic evolution over install life doe.
Scientists think life on earth occurred when lightning struck the right amount of chemicals in a volcanic hotspot. Logos is doing something similar; more or less seeding the planet. Basic evolution over install life doe.
Vestec, at least wait until we have Life ON Arcon before you start your shit, son!
Harbinger of the Natural Order, Guardian of Harmony, God of Kings and King of Gods, I AM THAT I AM
Level 2 God of Order
10 Might 2 Freepoint
On a desolate plane on a barren world, Logos landed for the first time.
His eyes open to a white sea of cracked sandstone that spans the horizon—a murky black sky blanketing it. The world falls under dim light that seems to come from everywhere at once. Here there are no stars: they are too far away. Their light will take billions of years to reach him, and even then it will be faint. This world was at the furthest edge of their little universe, drifting alone.
Calling for purpose.
There is nothing around for miles. No life. No movement. Not even a breeze. There is only him, and bit of sandstone is as white as his eyes are.
Logos shakily stands on two legs, and looks around with curiosity.
There is so much room, and all of it empty. He takes a step. And his foot makes a sound.
Body flinching at the sharp noise, he takes another anxious step. The noise comes as expected, but it’s no longer startling.
He walks.
His footsteps make rhythmic sound on the white sandstone, a steady tip-tap that breathes life into his actions. She begins to notice the quieter sounds, like the sound of his feathers ruffling in the vacuum, which are as white as his eyes and as white as the sandstone beneath them.
Once in a while, he stops to look over his shoulder at where he came from, but when he stops to look back, it’s impossible to tell he has moved at all. The plane is flat and featureless, the stone hard and trackless.
Nothing happens in the world unless he causes it.
As he walks, his steps become graceful and confident. He has no reason to walk, but he has no reason not to either. Time stretches ceaselessly as he travels, and soon he begins to forget how long he has been walking.
In the middle of a step, a white-hot spark appears in the sky.
He stops for the first time in billions of footsteps.
It is gone just as fast.
It reminds him of the many stars he had passed, so long ago, on his way here: to his quiet little world.
There is material aplenty in this universe. He needed only a little. Gases from a nearby nebula begin the slow journey towards him. It collects in his palms for a billion footsteps: the pressure builds and builds and he clasps it tightly. He molds it, forming the spherical shape.
A spark of his own divinity ignites it.
He can feel the sphere of light, and it is under his will. The light warms his with its soft, intimate glow, a loving child.
It is his star. A sun.
It’s alive, and yet it’s not.
A suitable replacement.
He opens his eyes and all he sees is white. The sun paints everything around it so brightly, that the ground beneath it disappears. It looks as though he is standing on the sky.
His sun is too bright.
He looks at the ground beneath him that even his own divinity cannot see, and banishes the orb of light into the sky - and it changed.
It becomes rich, illmuminating the darkness. Rich purple, lighting the expanse in traces of violet and lavender.
For some time he simply looks up at the sky with his eyes wide. The color is majestic and all-encompassing. It’s calming and serene. It’s beauty and modesty.
It would suffice.
The desolate plane that spans the horizon in every direction were being brought to life by the sun. The sandstone has changed. It has details he had failed to see, and something new fills the cracks in the sandstone. It’s dark.
Even the false contender would have his place in the Natural Order.
He and his shadow walk for a long time.
And after a while, things stop moving again.
The sun hangs overhead, always in the same spot. It creates shadows, always in the same spot.
Some part of Logos is aware that nothing has changed.
The flat sandstone still spreads in every direction, and although its every intricate detail is lit, it still never changes.
There is so much room, and all of it empty. That hasn’t changed.
He looks at the sandstone and looks at the cracks where shadows are cast. He closes his eyes, his wings glowing with the light of the sun, and a sound louder than he has ever heard cracks and resonates beneath him.
The sandstone he stands upon rises above the rest. It lifts him towards the purple expanse above. At the sides of where he stands, the sandstone falls off abruptly and jagged cliffs form on the sides of the elevated rock.
He looks out at the horizon. It stretches onward into the distance, white stone and purple skies. He walks to the edge of the mountain and looks down. The ground is so far below.
And then he leaps.
He experiences a new sensation: the air rushing past him as he falls. It feels cool, like the opposite of the sandstone, but just as comforting in its own way. His white hair whips in the air rushing by, and he looks back at the cliff face rushing past with frightening speed.
The ground is still far and he still has time to fall. He watches the cliff race by with an indifferent face. His wings snap open.
He tilts them and pulls up from his free fall. His wings are magnificent and wide, each twice as long as his body, and he is no longer falling. The air rushes past him in a different direction as he soars away from the cliff face. His hair blows behind him, whisps of etherial whiteness.
He flies.
He flies for a long time.
As he flies, he stops to create more mountains. Fairly soon the desolate plane isn’t as much of a plane anymore. Flat areas are broken up by mountain ranges, hills, and cliffs. He still keeps areas flat, as a reminder of how things have been for so long. He experiments by making pillars, valleys, canyons, and by creating trenches that dig deep into the ground, their bottoms hidden by shadow and their walls steep. Each wingbeat a nudge, a subtle pressure to make things just so. Shalestone, iron, and diamond, and more.
The horizon is broken. Razor sharp mountains give detail and feature to the distance, and one direction is no longer indistinguishable from another. He looks out from the peak of his highest mountain, and knows that all that there is on the planet is because he willed it.
It is not enoough.
His eyes glows intensely with the color of the sandstone. A noise like wind, only deeper, rises from the ground at the base of the mountain, and the earth rumbles. There is riches beneath the surface, even if he must add to them.
All the base materials are here: he merely needed to the time to seek them out.
Everywhere Logos can see, geysers erupt, fountaining thousands of teardrops high into the air. The drops fall to the ground and make pools that fill the cracks and trenches in the white sandstone. The tears come together to form water, and the water collects in vast quantities to create seas. The sound of rushing water fills the world.
And then Logos stops.
He stops when he realizes there is almost as much water as there is land, and the geysers trickle to a halt.
The sea stretches past the horizon on one side of his mountain. The broken horizon was flat again, but it was no longer white.
It was sea-green.
The surface of the sea shakes from its creation, waves bouncing and coalescing with one another. Logos watches entranced, the sound of waves pushing up the shore, only to retreat, repeat, once more.
The sea slowly calms as the waves lose their vigour. It takes great time, time enough for the water to gouge the sandstone.
He wills the sun to leave. Just for a little while.
Darkness falls across the land, and the colors he created become dim and blurred, but the dark feels relaxing on his eyes. Looking around at the pitch-black landscape, Logos walks to the water’s edge, its green color has changed to a deep, dark blue that he feels will swallow him if he stares into it too long. The sky has become as black as it had been when it arrived.
Empty.
Desolate.
It would be fixed.
His gaze focused on one piece of the sky and his magic flared, as it had with the sun. All it took was the matter, and a little nudge.
It starts off as a speck, looking like a piece of dust in the night sky, but it begins to grow and take shape. The speck grows to an orb of pale light, perfectly spherical, and the same size as the sun, but dimmer, glowing a pale yellow where the sun shines on it from the other side of the world’s sky. Vulamera had gifted him something very smiliar: but where hers had been flawed, his would fit into the Natural Order.
His powers flared once more.
"Let it begin," Logos commanded.
And the world obeyed.
Logos alighted to a nearby plateu out off a cliff, watching the sun come up. The black gives way to blue, gives way to mauve, gives way to white, as the sun peeks over the edge of the world. He sat in silence and watch the sky change, long shadows trailing on the stone behind him.
The sun continues to rise, and the colors disappear and return to purple.
For the first time in billions of years, the sun rose on Arcon and the celestial heavens of this world danced in their roles of the Natural Order.
Logos sat. It was not a position he assumed very often. He looked now at the shattered moon Vulamera had once gifted him in tribute, spread out around Galabar a galaxy away, sundered by the clash of gods. The fragments of moonstone drifted aimlessly in the cusp of the planets atmosphere, ignorant in its serenity. The spark that had inspired his own son so many footsteps ago...
They were ants, and emboldened by their capacity to lift a weight ten times their own, they were trying to move a mountain. But Logos was immovable.
Logos stood, walked three paces,and looked down on the exact center of the plateau. He drew a hand across the ground, brushing away dust and pebbles to uncover the smooth rock beneath. A touch to the stone, and a slight ripple of power disturbed the air, the faces off of cliffs around the broken mountain. It returned to him in moments, carrying the character of a power he had long since forgotten to feel.
A savage raged against a thunderstorm, unaware of the titanic conflict the elements waged within. What could one god, one unenlightened brute do to end the churning tempest? Vestec would rage, and the lightning would come. But would his death suffice, or did his transgressions call for true retribution?
Logos’s gaze pierced stone and earth and spell, seeing for the first time what he had drempt of an aeon past. Each of them dared to wield their divinity against King. He would use their divinity against his subjects.
The earth shook.
They were all wretched parasites, crying out against the very being that had given them meaning and sense and order. Their crushing insignificance, their debilitating simplicity had fascinated Vowzra. They forever craved the demands of their design, and so the ghost of intellect with which they were gifted attributed to these things higher forms so as to justify their primitive pursuits. Love, for companionship. Knowledge, to guide their mentality. War, as an assurance of survival. As if they could comprehend true divinity. As if Logos had not already strived to give them peace.
The false plateau cracked and broke beneath him, the sound loud enough to break mortal ears. The earth seized, and mountains were torn free from the earth, their foundations snapping as dirt cascaded from their forms. Logos ascended.
There were few who saw a glimpse of his vision of the Natural Order. So prescious few, and even then, all they glimpsed was some twisted, perverted ideal of it. Blind and deaf, they mewled out for salvation
The arms of The Citadel were now distinct. They heaved their way out of the ground around him, each carrying a thousand tons of broken stone and soil. A small effort of will, and Logos blew most of the debris away. He folded his wings and set his bare feet down on the shards that rose to receive him for the first time in a millenia and a half.
They were cosmic dust caught within the pull of a star. They could not even comprehend the being that they reckoned with, and they did not understand his divine providence. Each led each other in a dance of anarchy.
Logos began to ascend, the elementary white of his magic filling the sigils of the shards wherever he stepped. The remaining debris was annihilated and recycled as The Citadel came to life. His greatest creation; next to this world that was.
They were machine beings, worth only the matter that composed them. The divine blood in all of them had caused them to malfunction as intellect warred with instinct to create a hybrid monstrosity. Was exterminating each and every one of them only answer left?
Simultaneously, each petal-like arm of The Citadel met its neighbors, sealing Logos within the metal tower. He continued his climb to the uppermost ring at a leisurely pace. He was in no hurry.
Perfectus was gone. No doubt Vestec saw fit to that. Had Toun retaliated? Would Vestec meet him in battle alongside Zephrion? Were they so infected by ideals that their basic arithmetic could fail them that much? Did they truly hold on to their whims?
Logos reached the summit, and his eyes burned like a star brought low. The walls of The Citadel were lit with his power, and the great spell shaped itself in his mind. Each ring formed from the floating shards beneath him, and a single beam of white light shot skyward.
High above Logos, a wave of energy travelled outward from the point where the beam met the sky. The first spell was the call. The electrons in the air shifted, their charges building in the ozone far above.
Another wave. The second spell was the storm. Pulling the gases in the air, cooling them, giving shape to the prescious liquid. An atmosphere.
A curtain of cloud creeps from the horizon and makes its way across the sky, concealing the sun and eventually blotting out every trace of purple. The air begins to pick up around him, blowing in a harsh wind that howled in his ears. Up above, the veil of white darkens, and jagged bolts of light danced through the clouds, creating echoing bangs as they arc through the sky.
Only Logos could tame the feral elements, now.
The final wave did not come, for the final spell would take time. Such was its magnitude that Logos himself could not have cast it without The Citadel to provide the design, to deliver his gift to the world.
He had decided that the other gods could be salvaged. Genocide was beneath him. Instead, despite all their resistances, they would would be fixed. The final spell would kill only the things that made them weak, only the things that made them imperfect servants of the divine authority. When it was finished, they would fit perfectly into the natural order.
His eyes flashes once, nicking an ethereal finger. A drop of divine ichor, as silver as starlight, beads at the tip. He helds it aloft, and the light takes it, carrying it into the atmosphere, into the storm.
It would take millions of years of waiting - waiting for the culmination of the final design, but Logos was patient. When all was ready, all would be remade in his image.
Could a more perfect world be imagined?
The king was the strongest piece. The only piece that mattered. The piece that bore the burden of both victory and defeat. The piece that was the avatar of the player himself.
And in all of creation, from the hot and screaming birth of the universe to the unfathomable end of time, from the edge of the cosmos to the center of the most massive, seething star, from the youngest god to his own beating heart, there was only one true king.
I did further simulations. This time my simulated god will save up Might for a specified number of turns and spend it all on a Holy Site when the cooldown expires.
By just spending the one turn of Might on Holy Sites, I cut down the time to level 100 to 34 Turns. By Turn 9 our god had reached Level 11 and had 2 Holy Sites. This is only one level ahead at this point, but from turn 8 onwards it went up two levels per turn. The fourth Holy Site, built Turn 18 Level 28, boosted the rate from 2-3 levels per turn to a fairly consistent 4 levels per turn. Holy Site number 5 (Turn 30, Level 73) got us to 7 levels per turn.
The best time I can get is 25 Turns, at 4 or 5 turns of savings per Holy Site. At 4 turns of savings per Holy Site, that the first 3 Holy Sites, taking until Turn 10 to build, occupy its entire spending. But with that Might Production it can then leap the levels until it reaches 100.
Lol, I did a similar simulation, though it's a little easier when you're manually able to produce Might.
In the same breath... why would you solely want to save. Sure, in twenty something turns you'll be GOD ... but where's the fun? Story over stats! Use and abuse thay divine power!
<Snipped quote by Kangutso>
I was intentionally vague because the last map I made was rather rough and I'm not the best of spatial thinkers. I don't want any contradictions between what is said IC and what appears on the map, so I will reevaluate everything that the other gods have made, put it on a new map as accurately as I can, and then add Zephyrion's landforms wherever there is room. The map will then canonize their location.
I Imagine @Frettzo silently laughing at my meager graphics skills, but I'm growing in power... The other day I watched half of a youTube tutorial on making fantasy maps! Do not underestimate me, feeble mortals, for one day I shall be the god of maps!
@Kho *glances at Kho* Should I burst his bubble, or do you want to do it for me?
<Snipped quote by Dawnscroll>
I imagine Logos is planning something like this with his species:
To answer: if you're creating a whole new planet, it'll take few billion years and some stealing from Slough.
If it's on Galbar, you just need to steal from Slough.
In both cases, you need Might to create intelligent species.
What if I use my own divine blood as a template? And this is just for non-sentient species atm...
Next post, the Citadel Rises. Terraforming begins....
Also, my race will be pretty much...
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