Enigmatik

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

For those wondering, yes, dwarves of all genders and sexes have beards. At least the Dinnin kind.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Malleck Freepaw

Malleck 'Freepaw'

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
An Ainok of 20 years, having travelled with the caravan for three of them.

The Ainok Race[/hider

Hunters and storytellers, Ainok are a canine beastrace indigenous to the savannahs and grasslands that form the borders of Dinnin lands. Ainoks are usually shorter than humans, with a typical specimen standing between 4’11” and 5’6”, they have tough and compact bodies covered in a heat-regulating layer of blotched and multi-hued fur that gives them the name ‘Painted Folk.’ No two Ainok have exactly the same pattern adorning their fur, and the colours can range from deep blacks to pale cream and sandy khaki to russet red, allowing them to blend in with tall grass and lightly dappled groves alike.

Ainoks bear litters of children that can include anywhere from two to eight pups, who grow and mature slightly faster than humans do – reaching physical maturity at fifteen and being culturally recognised as full adults at sixteen. Well-adapted to a fast-paced hunting lifestyle, Ainoks are natural born sprinters, but this same fast-paced lifestyle claims many of them before their time. An Ainok’s natural lifespan typically ends at around sixty years of age, but many fall before their fortieth birthday, and those who make it to fifty are considered unusually venerable.

Appearance:
Malleck has dusty fur, blotched with natural camouflage in hues that range from sandy khakis to deep blacks, with a noticeable cross pattern that stretches from his muzzle to his nose, the crossbar reaching to the ends of his brows. He has a shaggy plume of hair that's been braided and tied with baubles and other accessories in an attempt to tame it, and bright amber eyes with black sclera. He stands at around 5'5", and thanks to his regulating fur, usually eschews more clothing than a simple tunic, covered in straps and bags to help him carry anything he needs on the road.

History & Personality:

Ainok Culture

The Ainok are, to the surprise of many, part of the loose confederation of peoples known as the Dinnin: self-declared ‘chosen people’ of the God known as the Light-and-Flame, who they believe manifests itself as the sun. The Ainok are the most heterodox of the Dinnin, having adapted their old beliefs into the framework gifted to them by Dinnin preachers in order to form a fusion where the stars are individual gods, yet still each a part of the Light-and-Flame whose worship can be the key to a higher understanding.

Unlike the settled Great Clans, the Painted Folk maintain a semi-nomadic lifestyle revolving around the savannah’s dry and wet seasons. During the former they range extensively in familial tribes or packs to hunt, while during the latter they encamp at regular gathering grounds, forming large communities that take advantage of regular animal migrations to swell their food stocks. A fractious people, the Ainok are prone to intra and exopack conflict that forms the backbone of their unique system of adoptive slavery. Because of this, Ainok packs often include non-Painted races who have become Dinnin.

The Ainok also have a unique relationship with magic. Having traditionally had no written language, they do not have wizards, but instead ‘star-speakers,’ shamanistic astrologers and storytellers who not only commune with their astral deities, but also pass down the history of the Ainok people through ancient oral traditions.

A true-blood Ainok through and through, Malleck has grown up with the cycle of dry and wet seasons from his time as a pup on his mother's back to an adult of fifteen, expected to be able to hunt and provide for his family.

Despite these unremarkable beginnings however, Malleck always sought out more than this. He was born under the light of Otota the dancing star and his paws always itched during the wet season, eager to be on the road again eating up the dusty miles. He bade farewell to his family when he was sixteen, departing alongside a merchant caravan returning from trade with one of the Great Clans deeper into the desert. Although he had had brief interactions with outsiders before- the Ainok are no strangers to traders, caravaners, hunters and hostile bands, this was the first time he had been truly exposed to different cultures and ways of thinking, and he loved it.

He drank in the diversity and the uniqueness, adding their tales sand stories to his own mind, and whenever he could take the opportunity to tell them and retell them at the fire, enhancing his own tales as he did so. It is one thing to have a firm grasp of a single method of storytelling- quite another to begin to understand the universal traits that sapient species use in their myths and legends, and to weave them together.

Soon after the caravan arrived in settled lands however, one of the guards informed him that there was an even better option out there. The Pilgrim's Caravan was, coincidentally, in the same city they were, and with thanks to his previous travelling companions, he joined up, bringing with him his stories, while being always eager to learn more.

Motivation:
Malleck is a classic example of someone filled with wanderlust, and travels both out of a desire to see the world and to imitate the passage the Dancing Star of Otota makes across the skies. He knows not when his wandering will end, or if it even will at all, but is more than happy to stick with the Pilgrim's Caravan for as long as it stops his feet from itching.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
As an open and gleeful follower of Otota, Malleck is expected to be able to bring cheer wherever he wanders. to this end, he has immersed himself in the entertaining arts- music, singing, storytelling and dance. He can work his magic with only a willing audience, but any instrument is obviously a boon. A not-insignificant part of his memory is dedicated to the countless tales he's heard and repeated across his pilgrimage, but for all this knowledge, he is undoubtably rather 'book dumb.' Coming from an oral culture, Malleck can neither read nor write, and he has neither inclination nor patience to dedicate himself to learning how to do so. He also cannot swim and easily and violently becomes motion sick, preferring to walk if at all possible over sitting in a caravan or boat.

As with most long-time travellers, Malleck can defend himself- after all, he comes from a community of hunters and herdsmen, frequently in conflict, but fighting against other sapients always sat ill with him. It felt wrong- dirty, almost undivine in a way, and so instead he much prefers to laugh off an insult than to take a swing. For self-defence, he prefers anything that can extend his reach and put some distance between himself and his foe- be that a spear, stave or simply a sufficiently long and durable stick. When it comes to magic, Malleck's powers are extremely limited- he is neither a shaman nor wizard- although he practices the Ainok's typical astronomical fortune-telling and can produce a few minor illusions, mend a broken rope or help seal a small cut, anything greater than this is beyond his abilities.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
They'll figure it out at some point!

If They Had a D&D Alignment, It Would Be:
Chaotic Good

Three Likes:
The sound of laughter, a well-cooked meal, a new story to learn.

Three Dislikes:
Gnolls, betraying his trust, being unable to see the stars at night.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Heart! Part of the job, honestly.

Worst Fear:
Forgetting

Favourite Color:
All of them!

Most Like The Animal:
'Dog' would be pretty stereotypical, but also wrong. Malleck's more like a songbird of some kind.

Favourite Time of Day:
Deepest night- where the stars shine the clearest, and the fire seems that much brighter.

How They Dress:
As minimally as possible so other peoples aren't offended. He has fur for a reason.

Favourite Season:
The dry season! What do you mean most places don't count a 'wet' and 'dry' season?

What Gods/Spirits/Whatever They Worship (If Any):
The Ainoks of the savannah worship the stars- which come into view so brightly and clearly each night when the sun sets. They believe that these stars are each Gods in their own right, and that those born under the light and influence of various celestial bodies are favoured or disfavoured by these Gods. Malleck was born under the light of the so-called 'Dancing Star,' otherwise known as the Goddess Otota. One of the brightest stars in the sky, Otota is also unusual in that it is never stationary, swaying across the sky from night to night. Because of this, Otota holds a special place within the Ainok pantheon as the Goddess of gaiety, enjoyment, fertility, pleasure, and so on and so forth. Malleck considers himself a staunch follower of Otota's light, and it is under her auspex that he travels.

Notes/Worldbuilding:

Ainok do not traditionally use last names, as by and large they stay within small familial groups, and even during interactions between groups, misunderstandings are easily avoided. 'Freepaw' is a rough translation of the Ainok term for a wanderer who has willingly left their family, distinguishing Malleck from a banished and disgraced Ainok.

Gadri Abzan

Gadri Abzan

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Dwarf, 237 years old, caravaneer for some 70-odd years.

Appearance:

Gadri stands at a squat and broad 4'6", with the powerful muscles and roughened hands of a craftsdwarf. They complete the look with a heavy toolbelt and many of their own crafts dotting their appearance. To accompany this, they usually don a padded and reinforced turban, covering up short-cropped hair. As with all dwarves, they lovingly take care of their beard, which is carefully braided and knotted around silver rings. In the forge they don a thick apron, heavy duty gloves and sturdy boots, which they trade for finer robes and heavy khohl when out and abour.

Many of the intricacies of Dinnin-dwarvish appearance can easily be missed by those who are not used to the desert-dwelling branch of the race, from how they braid their facial hair to the precise location of jewellery and clothing folds. To those in the know, the braiding of their beard and the cut and manufacture of their clothes tell that Gadri is a tetra- a 'third gender' that Dinnin-dwarves recognise, believing some to be closer to the stone that formed the race than others. Additionally, they are clearly not only a craftsman, but one of the rare scriptsmiths, a unique dwarven trade- as evidenced by the words intricately woven across much of their jewellery.

History:

Gadri's story begins in one of the holds of the Great Clans that litter the desert who settle within valleys and crevasses among great mountains in order to minimise the effects of the ancient Covenant made between the Dinnin and their God. The dwarves who lived in these territories were slowly incorporated into the Clans, being neither strictly Dinnin, nor exactly Kaffin, much as the Ainok are.

It was here, as part of Clan Abzan, that Gadri was born. Apprenticed as a smith at a young age, they grew up in the hold, working with steel and flames, directing the kaffin that laboured under the watchful gaze of their betters, and being brought up in all the ways a true dwarf was supposed to behave. Their skill with smithing earned them the attention of a scriptsmith (what other dwarves would consider 'runesmithing,' although using the Dinnin script rather than an indiginous dwarvish one, lending it certain unique attributes.) This was no small thing- becoming a scriptsmith takes a significant portion of a dwarves young life- lasting almost a century, including several decades of their dwarvish adolescence.

Hard, delicate and precise toil forged a dwarf meticulous over details and extremely proficient in their craft, but alas, Gadri was not destined to bring honour to their clan and forge great crafts for the emir. Instead, fate took a different path. As so often happens with the delicate web of politics that make up the Holds, skullduggery and backstabbing reared its ugly head up, and as the mess settled, Gadri's hammer was stained with the blood of a fellow Abzan.

Kinslaying, regardless of reason, is a dire crime within the Holds, and although their skill as a scriptsmith was enough to save their life, Gadri could no longer stay in the holds. The back of their right hand was marked with a heavy brand and they were cast out of the hold.

The Great Dinnin Clans

Of all the groups that make up the Dinnin people, it is the Great Clans who are the best-known by outsiders.
Empire-builders, architects and warmongers, they are the most civilised and settled of any of the Dinnin groups.
Born not long after the first Dinnin formed the Covenant with the Light-and-Flame, the first of the Great Clans were nothing more than bands of conquered humans who converted to the faith and rose up in the standings of the nomadic desert tribes, but as their numbers grew and their lands became more and more inhospitable, they were forced to leave behind their Baraka brethren, striking out in search of fertile lands.

Large united migrations of these sun-worshipping peoples threatened those who had already been struggling against the mysterious desertification of their realm, and the nascent clans quickly found themselves embroiled in conflict as they tried to settle and grow their population. Clan founders – many of whom were direct descendants of the original Baraka, led their people in a serious of great wars, carving out city-states that would form the basis of the modern Great Clans.

Personality:

Gadri is a dwarf. A rather dwarfish sort of dwarf, although one tinged by their Dinnin faith and life experiences on the road. They abstain from intoxicants (other than coffee and nutmeg, both of which are rare to encounter on the road,) dedicate themselves to their craft, and are generally rather taciturn and stoic. Despite this, they've travelled with the caravan and had a long enough life to be a valuable source of information.

As any craftsdwarf ought to, Gadri is protective of the unique skills that their species have developed, but eager to share the fundementals of working with steel and silver. When in the forge they are strict, serious and focused, expecting orders to be followed quickly and correctly, and harsh on those that dissapoint them, although they'd argue this is the best way to learn.

Motivation:
An exile from their people, Gadri has no real home to turn to. For them, the almost seventy years they've spent within the caravan makes it as good as their home. One day, perhaps, they would like to wash the blood from their hands and return to their homeland... But until that day comes, they serve as the caravan's premiere smith and metalworker.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:

A dwarven smith is always in high demand no matter where they go, and Gadri happily serves as the Caravan's main arificer. Most of the time, this is little more than mending wagons or repairing old tools, but they also tinker with some of the metals purchased along the road, turning them into new crafts that can fetch a higher profit than just their base ingredients. In addition, they take great pride in maintaining any weapons or armour entrusted to them, and those willing to pay the dwarf's (sometimes extortionate) fees can find themselves with some truly beautiful pieces of art. In order to facilitate this work, Gadri's wagon has been extensively personalised and customised to turn it into a true rolling smithy, able to be set up and taken down in only a few hours, less if others assist them with it.

Even with all this though, Gadri is still falliable. Most obviously is their position as an exile - something they've kept carefully disguised from all but a tiny minority among the caravan. Then there is the natural peccadillos of dwarves - slow over long distances (but natural sprinters) water-averse and prone to nurture grudges for decades.

Scriptsmithing

Like all dwarves, Gadri is unusually magically resistant- both to the hostile effects of magic cast upon them, and for the purposes of channeling magic themselves. Dwarves are not immune from magical effects- a fireball still scorches them and some can indeed channel arcane power, but dwarves as a whole have instead developed their own system of bending the immaterial to their will- Scriptsmithing. Known by several other names- runesmithing, glyphcrafting, and so on and so forth, the core of scriptsmithing is the same. With strike of hammer and bloom of flame, dwarves can imbue items, thereafter elevated to 'artifacts' with potent magical power. Each scriptsmith goes through decades of their life training in scriptsmithing- from days as a journeyman apprentice, writing and reciting the words, to a proficient student, capable of wielding the hammer themselves, to finally a fully qualified smith, each hammerblow pulling from sources beyond to fill their crafts with power.

By now, Gadri is a more than competent scriptsmith, capable of forging great artifacts for others, should they have the time and ingredients to do so. The very finest of scriptsmith crafts are made from the legendary 'starmetal,' believed to be leftover fragments of ancient Gods that came before the Light. In its raw form, starmetal is fantastically magically unstable, throwing out wayward energies that sicken and even kill those handling it unprotected- but the dwarves, with their natural resistances, are able to forge and refine it, creating artifacts with a beautiful damascene finish. Fantastically rare, Gadri has only three precious artifacts made from this stuff- their hammer, chisel, and a single ring, each one with its script woven with their own hands.

Scriptsmithing's potential, in the hands of a master smith, is almost unlimited. So long as one knows the words with which to express their intent, a scriptsmith can create anything from wondrous automata to staves capable of stopping a rampaging oliphaunt dead in its tracks. Alas, such a thing requires a dwarf far more ancient and far more competent than Gadri, whose crafts, while still potent, are greatly limited by not only their resources but also their age. One simply does not become a master scriptsmith in a century or two.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
A grand piece of starmetal, to return home.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
True Neutral.

Three Likes:
Nutmeg-infused coffee, a roaring forge, a well-made craft.

Three Dislikes:
Politics, their beard being mussed, the biting cold.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Once, their heart. Once.

Worst Fear:
Never returning home.

Favorite Color:
The damascene sheen of starmetal.

Most Like The Animal:
The humble termite. Hardworking, fastidious, and capable of raising crafts that will long outlive themselves.

Favorite Time of Day:
The early morning, with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee, and a freshly-awoken forge, a day of work stretching ahead.

How They Dress:
Like the merchant that they are.

Favorite Season:
Autumn - before the nights become freezing in the desert, but where the midday sun is cool enough to allow forgework.

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Although the dwarves of the Dinnin mountains traditionally worshipped their own pantheon, increasingly they've turned to the way of the Covenant, and the faith of the Light-and-Flame.

The Light-And-Flame

The Dinnin people are characterised, first and foremost, by their relationship with their patron deity, known as the Light-and-Flame. The Dinnin believe that their God manifests as the sun, and thus set aside time each day for prayers at dawn, midday and dusk… But this connection goes far deeper than merely structured worship.
Before there was the Dinnin, the people of the world existed in a state of ignorance and barbarism, having forgotten the truth and power of the Light-and-Flame. Those who would become the Dinnin were a group of desert-dwelling nomads, pushed to the outskirts of inhabitable lands. It was here that they began to rediscover the Light-and-Flame, until eventually they made a great pilgrimage to the Jabal Ilah, the most sacred of mountains, and the Light-and-Flame spoke to them.

It offered them a Covenant – their souls would be indelibly marked by their God, and they would forever need to worship none but it. In exchange, they would be gifted new forms and new powers, and the people forced to the margins would once again rise triumphant. Those that accepted became the first of the Baraka, made righteous and true. These forms were scaled and cool, to resist the desert heat better. Their legs were changed to tails, to scale the dunes and clamber across the rocks quicker, and they were granted swiftness, strength, and wisdom. Those that rejected the offer were marked as ‘Kaffin,’ and driven out by the Baraka.
But the Covenant had other effects than merely creating the Baraka. The searing of Dinnin souls granted them a fragment of the Light-and-Flame’s unrestrained power, and wherever a large group of Dinnin settled, the deserts would soon follow with them. As the Dinnin expanded, fertile plains began to dry out, riverbeds became sunbitten dirt and green grass wilted replaced by blowing sand. The only thing that seems to restrain this desertification is major geographical barriers – oceans and mountains in particular.

Madame Morvanne

Madame Morvanne

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
A human of 32. Or so she thinks at least. A pilgrim within the caravan for four years.

Appearance:
A tall, slender, willowy woman, who looks as if a stiff breeze would cart her up into the air and carry her away, into places unknown. The good madame has long locks of flowing, wispy flaxen hair kept neatly tucked inside a full set of modest bonnets, a milky complexion and pale eyes that can never quite decide if they should be blue, grey or green, depending on the condition of light or shadow forces beyond the day or how wide her pupils are.

Her clothing is common for Trist burghers – warm colours, good hearty fabric like wool and linen, with minimal but present details. In other words, clothes of good quality and pleasant make, but not overly expensive, accented with well-made but unexceptional jewellery. She does have more practical garbs for hard treks or blending into foreign cities, but much prefers her comfortable homely wares. In Trist, makeup is considered the purview of either the very wealthy or ladies of the night and she’d be horrified at the implications should someone suggest she should be wearing it.

History

Trist is an old, forgetful land, somewhere to the west and somewhere to the north, not terribly far from the Old Marshes. It is a land of stone, earth, and bones, tilled and toiled upon by peasants, ridden hard upon by nobles, and settled extensively by wave after wave of migrant, invader and coloniser. Out in the oldest of its places, villages that once proudly stood for generations have been covered by the silt of time, and in their place are barrows and tombs... Yet in its beating heart stand proud citadels of heavy stone and sloped roofs, gutters near-overspilling from the rain that frequently drizzles down.

The earth of Trist is fertile and rich, fine fodder for the peasant folk to divide into hedgerow-split fields or to allow sheep and cattle to ramble over. Although few would call it the most blessed place on Alwyne, only a fool would deny that the people of Trist feast more often than they experience famine.

This was the land where Madame Morvanne was born to, as wind and rain crashed against sturdy stone walls, where the cries of her mother were drowned out by the crack of lightning and boom of thunder. She had a first name, once, of that she is sure, but she has found that whatever it was has become quite superfluous now.

In fact, many things about Madame Morvanne have turned out to be quite irrelevant over the years. Even to herself, her life is a patchwork thing, stitched together from threads of recollection around memories who have found new uses. Yet just because she does not remember them does not mean they never happened.

A child to a family of burghers - those who learn crafts like the peasantry yet live behind high stone walls, she was raised to be a lady-in-waiting, as it is the custom in Trist for wealthy women to have a learned assistant to help with managing their house in ways mere servants cannot. She learned to read, to write, to stitch together flesh so a doctor might not be needed, to count coins and tighten a purse, and to dress and undress another faster than they could do so themselves.

She was apprenticed to a family of minor nobility, but she quickly learnt that little was well within her new home. Her mistress was a weak-willed woman and she had a husband who used this against her and the rest of his household, heavy with his hand, harsh with his tongue, and prone to strong wine that made him all the worse for it. Morvanne learnt quickly that the one place her master rarely bothered to tread was the library of the house - a marvellous thing, but left neglected in the basement, where it secrets had been forgotten beneath the slowly gathering dust.

As she spent her time down there, blowing away cobwebs and parting parchment that had not seen candlelight in far too long, she began to read of things that perhaps ought to have been forgotten. She read of the Sun, and the splendour it once had. She learnt of the Flame, the Tenfold Essences of the soul, of how autumn did not lead to winter, but instead the Silence, and then she learnt of the Threshold, and she began to understand enough.

One day, her mistress noticed that she had not seen the young madame Morvanne around for an unusual while. Nor had her servants, and the master of the house could not remember a young woman by the surname Morvanne having ever worked at their estate before. Soon enough, the servants could no longer remember a madame Morvanne either. When the master of the house passed away - a tragedy for a sleeping sickness to strike like that, it truly was, all memories of Morvanne had left the house entirely, along with the quiet library buried in the earth.

But not all are as susceptible to such things as unwitting nobles, and not all are pleased by the twisting of shoulds and should-nots. Among Trist's people are those wise to the ways of ancient memories, and Movanne, with no tutor to guide her beyond the books, was not terribly apt at disguising the profession in which she found herself. When Wych-Finders came to her new abode she was forced to flee, and then flee again, until at last she realised that, for now, Trist was unsafe for her to say in. The Pilgrim's Caravan came at an apt time to allow her to quietly slip away, but she knew more than most that Trist is an old, forgetful land. She will return there, one day. Of this she is certain.

Personality:
The good Madame is a quiet, studious sort, who tends to travel alongside unusual companions wherever she can - the more unusual the better. She is the sort to listen, long and hard, the kind of listening that can rarely be feigned and she seems to take great and legitimate interest in the things that others have to say. She is fond of books and tea, of long strolls to nowhere in particular, of the houseplants she tends to in her wagon and in the careful sorting of the many curiosities and knick-knacks she has accumulated. In short, she is a regular homebody, except one whose home now rolls along the road.

Motivation:
If she had her way, Morvanne would be back in Trist, sat beside a small hearth in a pleasant house nestled firmly behind a set of thick walls. Perhaps she would even have a husband and let herself grow heavy with child, but above all she would have her library. Until Trist has forgotten her, she works on this last objective most of all. At every stop along the journey, and indeed between stops as well she goes about, gathering literature, cataloguing it and then, most of the time, selling it or gifting it onwards. Most of the caravan probably knows her best as a book merchant and librarian, which suits her just fine.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Morvanne is an occultist - but mind how you refer to such a thing around her, because to Madame Morvanne, the 'occult' is not the domain of fussy old fellows in Hermetic Lodges or tentacle-wielding scholars muttering at skulls. Her practices are easy to miss. She does not read the cards or cast the bones, nor do her spells pour forth darkness or sunder skin from bone. She reads, and she writes, and things that oughtn't ought, and things that ought oughtn't and peculiar bargains lead to peculiar happenstance.

Morvanne's Occultism

In plain English, Morvanne is a spellcaster dedicated to the various powers who those in the know refer to as the Oblitarchy, and the Tenfold Essences that Obliturges categorise. Morvanne in particular found herself predisposed to the Oblitarch known as the Threshold, associated with the essence of Hypist. This is the essence of the sleeping mind - where experiences become memory and memory engrained, and thus the Threshold is a peculiar thing - gifting and taking away knowledge in equal parts, and reigning over all that has been murmured in twilight.

Because of this, Morvanne is unusually well-educated considering her age in matters both of and not of this world, but this comes with it not only a forgetfulness of her own past, but also with remembering things that are not true, at least not within this Time. Outside of the Threshold, she also dabbles in the essences of Syis and Senopy: Change and Silence. Her lucky escapes and the sudden sickness that took her employer have not been entirely happenstance or accident.

To call upon these powers Morvanne must conduct rituals: long-winded things requiring careful preparation, the right ingredients, and potentially hours of tongue-twisting work to complete. Calling upon an essence requires items, people, times or places strong in that essence: A bloody knife for Ravume, a lover’s assistance for Percus or the deep midwinter for Senopy. For more complex rituals other, occasionally conflicting essences must be called upon and the more powerful the ritual, the more intense the essences going into it must be. A small Hypist ritual might only require twilight, but for the greater rituals… Well, a city on wheels is rather liminal, is it not?

The Oblitarchy

The ‘Gods Before Gods,’ the Oblitarchy are a lost pantheon of deities who have, according to their believers, existed before anything else. Before there was Alwyne there were two of them: The Nowhere and The Glory, consisting of existence and everything outside of it, locked in an eternal dance which neither could overcome. The Nothing however, begot The Sunderer, and living up to their name they slew The The Glory and usurped The Nowhere, and from this calamitous beginning, all other Oblitarchs would rise, each one domineering an aspect of the mortal world that had formed with their struggles.

The Ten Oblitarchs and their Essences are typically depicted around a ten-pointed star, showing their relation to the other Oblitarchs. Clockwise, from the top:

The Sun Divided is the truest form of the slain Glory, heading the triarchy known as the Gods ex Solari. It is the rising sun – a peerless, wrathful, and unforgiving deity that seeks to bring forth the hours of The Glory once again and to gather all other essences within itself, to remake the universe as it once was. Its essence is Ejas, and it consists of the waking mind – higher intelligence, the drive of knowledge for knowledge’s sake, and the unrelenting progress of mortals.

The Chalice is the second of the Gods ex Solari: Once the warmth and comfort of the sun that nurtured life, the Chalice still holds that benevolent spirit. Its essence, Prist, is the only of the ten essences that can be physically touched, for it consists of the physical body – bones, muscle, sinew and blood.

The Threshold heads the diarchy of the Gods Obsucras. The Threshold is twilight – it is soft and dimly lit, existing between day and night, and holds dominion over all that is liminal. Its essence is Hypist, and where Ejas is the waking mind, Hypist is the dreaming mind. It is a master of irrationality and illogic. It holds memories and recognition, half-truths and lies, and shares freely, although not without cost.

The Prism is the other of the Gods Obscuras and one of the more esoteric of an already esoteric lot. Shunning one form, the Prism is ever-changing and ever-formless, refusing to be neatly categorised or pinned down. Much like itself, its essence, Syis, is the constant drive for change and evolution, although it cares little for the direction that this change takes.

The Nowhere is the oldest of the Gods ex Nihi, and is the only of the Oblitarchs to have lasted unchanged from the dawn of nothingness. If the Oblitarchs can indeed dwell in our reality, The Nowhere holds itself somewhere far beyond the comfort of Alwyn, out in the unforgiving darkness where nothing dwells and nothing can ever dwell. It exists in contrary to anything else, and has created only once – its greatest mistake. The Nowhere’s essence is Nihi, and it is true illogicality. Things which must not be known and cannot be known, places where life itself has been banished, never to return, - these are where Nihi is strongest. Those few mortals brave enough to try to master Nihi are known as apocalypsists and almost inevitably meet untimely demises.

The Sunderer heads the Gods ex Nihi, having overthrown its parent and shattered the Glory. It measures itself not on its own merits, but on how effectively it contrasts the Sun Divided, the pair locked in eternal enmity just as the Glory and the Nowhere once were, long ago. The Sunderer’s essence is Ravume, and although often categorised as nothing more than hatred, jealousy, ego and anarchic rage, is far more about contest and competition, thriving where there is conflict, and quick to raise a blade when offended or challenged.

The Silence is an oft-forgotten member of the Gods ex Nihi, which is ironic, for it is the ultimate fate of all mortal life. The Silence reigns in the ice of deepest winter, at the bottom of the darkest caves and in the endless abyss deep beneath the ocean’s surface. Its essence, Senopy, is the quiet death that comes to all mortals not slain in piques of Ravume – old age, sickness, cancer and frailty, those things that linger deep within the bones of mortals that comes out one day to claim them – this is Senopy.

The Constant is the lesser of the diarchy known as the Gods Exertus, and is as much a contrast of the Prism as the Sunderer is the Sun Divided. It not static, but instead driving ever-forward, an unrelenting force that refuses to allow others to slow or divert it. Its essence, Effiv, is willpower and fortitude, and sheer dogged determination – the drive to climb the highest peaks and cross the deepest valleys for no other reason than that they are there, and therefore should be conquered.

The Flame heads the diarchy of the Gods Exertus, and is one of the most intimately mortal of all the Oblitarchs. The Flame is ingenuity and skill, progress not for progress’ sake, but for improvement and inspiration. Its essence, Emiv, was there when mortalkind first learnt to make sparks to tame the flames, and has been there for every subsequent step of the way. It is technology, learned skills and craftwork, and it will only grow stronger.

The Delight is the last of the Gods Ex Solari, and is the rawest form of the Glory – its explosive force, its pulsing rhythm, its undulating colours. Its essence, Percus, is lust and gluttony, sloth and pride, but also delight, love, happiness and all the other of the myriad emotions that swell a mortal’s heart.

Possessions:
Morvanne’s Wagon: A comfortable and cozy construction, Morvanne’s wagon is carved from hardy oak and stuffed with all manner of scrolls, books, trinkets and of course, plenty of tea. It even has its own sleeping area so she does not need to pitch a tent every night.

Unending Odds-And-Ends: Although Morvanne is best known for her trading of books and scrolls, she is also a well-known oddities merchant. Family heirlooms, archaeological artifacts, coins from dead kingdoms and sometimes genuine magical items are all collected and categorized. Most of these she sells on, but some she keeps, and puts away for her own uses.

Notables of Her Collection

An Ancient Whisper: It is said that once upon a time there was a winter that refused to end. At the ends of Alwyne, where the temperature never goes above freezing, there is water that has never known a form other than ice. Now it refuses to melt even when thrown into fire. A gemstone-sized piece of this ancient whisper resides in a small dish atop Morvanne’s hearth.

A Bell-Jar of Moths: On hazy nights, when the sky is dark and the air is fresh and clear, moths are irresistibly drawn to the small drop of incense left at the bottom of the bell jar. They always find their way home, in the end.

A Hand of Glory: Stolen from a gibbet, prepared in a mixture of nitre, salt, ashes and incense, dried in the days where the red star hangs low in the sky, hung from an oak tree to see three nights, then impaled to a temple to a false deity for a day. It takes a ritual to make such a powerful tool.

A Conclave of Candles: Each one embraced in its own case, each one a different peculiar colour. They smell of old books and fresh blood, of newly minted coins and fresh flowers. Morvanne lights them sparingly and always burns them to completion when she does.

A Lethey Concoction: Anaesthetic and amnesiac both, the waters of the Lethe are found best in one’s deepest slumber. Only a drop must be stolen from a dream to brew a full pot of sweet-smelling oblivion.

An Ironwood Wand: Not all Morvanne’s tools are connected to the Oblitarchy – some would be common to any studious spellcaster. Ironwood is known for its strength and sturdiness, and makes perfectly functional, if unimpressive wands. This one has been imprinted with a simple force spell, suitable for bowling down foes, blowing heavy objects about and helping shift a stuck wagon from a rut. It serves as Morvanne’s main defensive option should she be accosted.

An Unending Ledger: Average to look at, this plain leatherbound ledger holds a peculiar trait to it: perhaps an enchanter’s first project or an attempt at a truly endless book that ended poorly. Once the last page of the ledger is filled up the first page will lose its ink, allowing for one to write over ancient transactions with fresh ones. Very convenient for a woman like Morvanne.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
Secrets, Safety, Eternity

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
True Neutral

Three Likes:
A fresh set of tea samples, a well-loved tome, a lost secret rediscovered.

Three Dislikes:
Uninvited guests, being left out of the loop, unfortunate reminders.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Mind. One cannot blindly follow their heart in her field of study – it never ends well.

Worst Fear:
In her darkest dreams, where the line between The Threshold and The Nothing are too blurred, she sees an unlit pyre, surrounded by high-collared hunters with manacles at their waists and torches in hand.

Favorite Color:
Isn’t it obvious by now?

Most Like The Animal:
Perhaps a little stereotypical for someone as fond of books as she is, but an owl suits Morvanne quite nicely. She is quiet, wise, and does all her greatest work under the cover of darkness.

Favorite Time of Day:
Twilight.
How They Dress:
See appearance.
Favorite Season:
She should like Winter the most, as it’s very easy to weave with Senopy when snow lies heavy on the ground, but in reality she’s particularly fond of early autumn.
What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Cough

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

@Tortoise

How else are you meant to make metalcrafts on the road without taking a forge along with you? Wait until you get to settlements? Pfft, humans are so basic.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Made a few edits, so want a quick thumbs up before I go ahead and slap these back in the character section.

Malleck

Malleck 'Freepaw'

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Malleck belongs to the Ainok- a race of humanoid canines indigenous to Alywne's savannahs and deserts, with significant variety between individual specimens. A quick way to irritate almost all of them is to mistake them for Gnolls, their bitter enemies. He's young for most races, at 20, but reached maturity five years prior, and has been travelling with the caravan for three years.

Appearance:
Malleck has dusty fur, blotched with natural camouflage in hues that range from sandy khakis to deep blacks, with a noticeable cross pattern that stretches from his muzzle to his nose, the crossbar reaching to the ends of his brows. He has a shaggy plume of hair that's been braided and tied with baubles and other accessories in an attempt to tame it, and bright amber eyes with black sclera. He stands at around 5'5", a normal height for Ainoks, with the typical tight-wound muscle. His fur serves double duty to both cool him in warm environments and warm him in cool ones, meaning he usually eschews more clothing than a simple tunic, covered in straps and bags to help him carry anything he needs on the road.

History & Personality:
The Ainok are a semi-nomadic people who live as a periphery ally of the desert's great Dinnin kingdoms. Travelling throughout the dry seasons, Ainok clans, usually made from extended family units settle into temporary pastoral settlements during the wet season to reap the benefits of nature's sudden flourishing. A true-blood Ainok through and through, Malleck has grown up with this cycle- from his time as a pup on his mother's back to an adult of fifteen, expected to be able to hunt and provide for his family.

But, Malleck always sought out more than this. He was born under the light of Otota the dancing star, his paws always itched during the wet season, eager to be on the road again, eating up the dusty miles. He bid farewell to his family when he was sixteen, departing alongside a merchant caravan returning from trade with one of the Great Clans deeper into the desert. Although he had had brief interactions with outsiders before- the Ainok are no strangers to traders, caravaners, hunters and even the occasional hostile band, this was the first time he had been truly exposed to different cultures and ways of thinking, and he loved it.

He drank in the diversity and the uniqueness, adding their tales sand stories to his own mind, and whenever he could take the opportunity to tell them and retell them at the fire, enhancing his own tales as he did so. It is one thing to have a firm grasp of a single method of storytelling- quite another to begin to understand the universal traits that sapient species use in their myths and legends, and to weave them together.

Soon after the caravan arrived in settled lands however, one of the guards informed him that there was an even better option out there. The Pilgrim's Caravan was, coincidentally, in the same city they were, and with thanks to his previous travelling companions, he joined up, bringing with him his stories, while being always eager to learn more.

Motivation:
Malleck is a classic example of someone filled with wanderlust, and travels both out of a desire to see the world and to imitate the passage the Dancing Star of Otota makes across the skies. He knows not when his wandering will end, or if it even will at all, but is more than happy to stick with the Pilgrim's Caravan for as long as it stops his feet from itching.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
As an open and gleeful follower of Otota, Malleck is expected to be able to bring cheer wherever he wanders. to this end, he has immersed himself in the entertaining arts- music, singing, storytelling and dance. He can work his magic with only a willing audience, but any instrument is obviously a boon. A not-insignificant part of his memory is dedicated to the countless tales he's heard and repeated across his pilgrimage, but for all this knowledge, he is undoubtably rather 'book dumb.' Coming from an oral culture, Malleck can neither read nor write, and he has neither inclination nor patience to dedicate himself to learning how to do so. He also cannot swim and easily and violently becomes motion sick, preferring to walk if at all possible over sitting in a caravan or boat.

As with most long time travellers, Malleck can defend himself- after all, he comes from a community of hunters and herdsmen, frequently in conflict, but fighting against other sapients always sat ill with him. It felt wrong- dirty, almost undivine in a way, and so instead he much prefers to laugh off an insult than to take a swing. For self-defence, he prefers anything that can extend his reach and put some distance between himself and his foe- be that a spear, stave or simply a sufficiently long and durable stick. When it comes to magic, Malleck's powers are extremely limited- he is neither a shaman nor wizard- although he practices the Ainok's typical astronomical fortune-telling and can produce a few minor illusions, mend a broken rope or help seal a small cut, anything greater than this is beyond his abilities.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
They'll figure it out at some point!

If They Had a D&D Alignment, It Would Be:
Chaotic Good

Three Likes:
The sound of laughter, a well-cooked meal, a new story to learn.

Three Dislikes:
Gnolls, betraying his trust, being unable to see the stars at night.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Heart! Part of the job, honestly.

Worst Fear:
Forgetting

Favourite Color:
All of them!

Most Like The Animal:
'Dog' would be pretty stereotypical, but also wrong. Malleck's more like a songbird of some kind.

Favourite Time of Day:
Deepest night- where the stars shine the clearest, and the fire seems that much brighter.

How They Dress:
As minimally as possible so other peoples aren't offended. He has fur for a reason.

Favourite Season:
The dry season! What do you mean most places don't count a 'wet' and 'dry' season?

What Gods/Spirits/Whatever They Worship (If Any):
The Ainoks of the savannah worship the stars- which come into view so brightly and clearly each night when the sun sets. They believe that these stars are each Gods in their own right, and that those born under the light and influence of various celestial bodies are favoured or disfavoured by these Gods. Malleck was born under the light of the so-called 'Dancing Star,' otherwise known as the Goddess Otota. One of the brightest stars in the sky, Otota is also unusual in that it is never stationary, swaying across the sky from night to night. Because of this, Otota holds a special place within the Ainok pantheon as the Goddess of gaiety, enjoyment, fertility, pleasure, and so on and so forth. Malleck considers himself a staunch follower of Otota's light, and it is under her auspex that he travels.

Notes/Worldbuilding:

Ainok do not traditionally use last names, as by and large they stay within small familial groups, and even during interactions between groups, misunderstandings are easily avoided. 'Freepaw' is a rough translation of the Ainok term for a wanderer who has willingly left their family, distinguishing Malleck from a banished and disgraced Ainok.

Gadri Abzan

Gadri Abzan

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Dwarf, 237 years old, caravaneer for some 70-odd years.

Appearance:

Gadri stands at a squat and broad 4'6", with the powerful muscles and roughened hands of a craftsdwarf. They complete the look with a heavy toolbelt and many of their own crafts dotting their appearance. To accompany this, they usually don a padded and reinforced turban, covering up short-cropped hair. As with all dwarves, they lovingly take care of their beard, which is carefully braided and knotted around silver rings. In the forge they don a thick apron, heavy duty gloves and sturdy boots, which they trade for finer robes and heavy khohl when out and abour.

Many of the intricacies of Dinnin-dwarvish appearance can easily be missed by those who are not used to the desert-dwelling branch of the race, from how they braid their facial hair to the precise location of jewllery and clothing folds. To those in the know, the braiding of their beard and the cut and manufacture of their clothes tell that Gadri is a tetra- a 'third gender' that Dinnin-dwarves recognise, believing some to be closer to the stone that formed the race than others. Additionally, they are clearly not only a craftsman, but one of the rare scriptsmiths, a unique dwarven trade- as evidenced by the words intricately woven across much of their jewellery.

History:

Gadri's story begins in one of the holds of the Great Clans that litter the desert who settle within valleys and crevasses among great mountains in order to minimise the effects of the ancient Covenant made between the Dinnin and their God. The dwarves who lived in these territories were slowly incorporated into the Clans, being neither strictly Dinnin, nor exactly Kaffin, much as the Ainok are.

It was here, as part of Clan Abzan, that Gadri was born. Apprenticed as a smith at a young age, they grew up in the hold, working with steel and flames, directing the kaffin that laboured under the watchful gaze of their betters, and being brought up in all the ways a true dwarf was supposed to behave. Their skill with smithing earned them the attention of a scriptsmith (what other dwarves would consider 'runesmithing,' although using the Dinnin script rather than an indiginous dwarvish one, lending it certain unique attributes.) This was no small thing- becoming a scriptsmith takes a significant portion of a dwarves young life- lasting almost a century, including several decades of their dwarvish adolescence.

Hard, delicate and precise toil forged a dwarf meticulous over details and extremely proficient in their craft, but alas, Gadri was not destined to bring honour to their clan and forge great crafts for the emir. Instead, fate took a different path. As so often happens with the delicate web of politics that make up the Holds, skullduggery and backstabbing reared its ugly head up, and as the mess settled, Gadri's hammer was stained with the blood of a fellow Abzan.

Kinslaying, regardless of reason, is a dire crime within the Holds, and although their skill as a scriptsmith was enough to save their life, Gadri could no longer stay in the holds. The back of their right hand was marked with a heavy brand and they were cast out of the hold.

Personality:

Gadri is a dwarf. A rather dwarfish sort of dwarf, although one tinged by their Dinnin faith and life experiences on the road. They abstain from intoxicants (other than coffee and nutmeg, both of which are rare to encounter on the road,) dedicate themselves to their craft, and are generally rather taciturn and stoic. Despite this, they've travelled with the caravan and had a long enough life to be a valuable source of information.

As any craftsdwarf ought to, Gadri is protective of the unique skills that their species have developed, but eager to share the fundementals of working with steel and silver. When in the forge they are strict, serious and focused, expecting orders to be followed quickly and correctly, and harsh on those that dissapoint them, although they'd argue this is the best way to learn.

Motivation:
An exile from their people, Gadri has no real home to turn to. For them, the almost seventy years they've spent within the caravan makes it as good as their home. One day, perhaps, they would like to wash the blood from their hands and return to their homeland... But until that day comes, they serve as the caravan's premiere smith and metalworker.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:

A dwarven smith is always in high demand no matter where they go, and Gadri happily serves as the Caravan's main arificer. Most of the time, this is little more than mending wagons or repairing old tools, but they also tinker with some of the metals purchased along the road, turning them into new crafts that can fetch a higher profit than just their base ingredients. In addition, they take great pride in maintaining any weapons or armour entrusted to them, and those willing to pay the dwarf's (sometimes extortionate) fees can find themselves with some truly beautiful pieces of art. In order to facilitate this work, Gadri's wagon has been extensively personalised and customised to turn it into a true rolling smithy, able to be set up and taken down in only a few hours, less if others assist them with it.

Even with all this though, Gadri is still falliable. Most obviously is their position as an exile - something they've kept carefully disguised from all but a tiny minority among the caravan. Then there is the natural peccadillos of dwarves - slow over long distances (but natural sprinters) water-averse and prone to nurture grudges for decades.

Scriptsmithing

Like all dwarves, Gadri is unusually magically resistant- both to the hostile effects of magic cast upon them, and for the purposes of channeling magic themselves. Dwarves are not immune from magical effects- a fireball still scorches them and some can indeed channel arcane power, but dwarves as a whole have instead developed their own system of bending the immaterial to their will- Scriptsmithing. Known by several other names- runesmithing, glyphcrafting, and so on and so forth, the core of scriptsmithing is the same. With strike of hammer and bloom of flame, dwarves can imbue items, thereafter elevated to 'artifacts' with potent magical power. Each scriptsmith goes through decades of their life training in scriptsmithing- from days as a journeyman apprentice, writing and reciting the words, to a proficient student, capable of wielding the hammer themselves, to finally a fully qualified smith, each hammerblow pulling from sources beyond to fill their crafts with power.

By now, Gadri is a more than competent scriptsmith, capable of forging great artifacts for others, should they have the time and ingredients to do so. The very finest of scriptsmith crafts are made from the legendary 'starmetal,' believed to be leftover fragments of ancient Gods that came before the Light. In its raw form, starmetal is fantastically magically unstable, throwing out wayward energies that sicken and even kill those handling it unprotected- but the dwarves, with their natural resistances, are able to forge and refine it, creating artifacts with a beautiful damascene finish. Fantastically rare, Gadri has only three precious artifacts made from this stuff- their hammer, chisel, and a single ring, each one with its script woven with their own hands.

Scriptsmithing's potential, in the hands of a master smith, is almost unlimited. So long as one knows the words with which to express their intent, a scriptsmith can create anything from wondrous automata to staves capable of stopping a rampaging oliphaunt dead in its tracks. Alas, such a thing requires a dwarf far more ancient and far more competent than Gadri, whose crafts, while still potent, are greatly limited by not only their resources but also their age. One simply does not become a master scriptsmith in a century or two.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:
A grand piece of starmetal, to return home.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be:
True Neutral.

Three Likes:
Nutmeg-infused coffee, a roaring forge, a well-made craft.

Three Dislikes:
Politics, their beard being mussed, the biting cold.

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?:
Once, their heart. Once.

Worst Fear:
Never returning home.

Favorite Color:
The damascene sheen of starmetal.

Most Like The Animal:
The humble termite. Hardworking, fastidious, and capable of raising crafts that will long outlive themselves.

Favorite Time of Day:
The early morning, with a fresh-brewed cup of coffee, and a freshly-awoken forge, a day of work stretching ahead.

How They Dress:
Like the merchant that they are.

Favorite Season:
Autumn - before the nights become freezing in the desert, but where the midday sun is cool enough to allow forgework.

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any):
Although the dwarves of the Dinnin mountains traditionally worshipped their own pantheon, increasingly they've turned to the way of the Concord, and the faith of the Light.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Woaaah! We're back?!

WE'RE BACK!

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

And another bump - still looking for all of those plots!

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

@TexanJanus

You are accepted!

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

The Birth of a Company

A collab between @Enigmatik and @Eldritch Puppy
_{Feaaturing Coronel Martillo}

Kamenymir’s capital had a new addition to its streets and boulevards. At first it had just been one or two new people showing up, slighter and shorter than the usual towering fellows out and about. Then, slowly, day by day, week by week, more people started to move in. Where once there had been a couple, now entire families started to settle in, and as they did, the buildings around them began to change with them. Clustered around a space elevator station in Novyras, the area now known as Little Esperanza or if you were so inclined, Esperanzita, had come to be.

It was a bright, overly sunny day as the man known by the GRA as Coronel Larenzo Javier Martillo stepped outside and looked around. Back home he would be considered powerfully built- tall, with visible muscle, and the first few flecks of grey creeping into his hair and beard. Here, he felt dwarfed for the first time in his life.

Still, he had business to conduct, and it wouldn’t do to look weak to what he sincerely hoped would be his new business partners.This whole voyage had been a huge gamble- he didn’t have the authorisation or the influence to get away with the level of diplomacy he was about to conduct, and if this fell through he’d be lucky if he ever got a relevant command again. No matter: there was little time or reason to think about failure.

The Gran Republic had never been a nation particularly interested in mercenaries. It was too top-down for that, too well controlled by the Senate and by the patricians that populated that institution. Under any other circumstance, his little gambit here would have been casually dismissed without a second thought, but this wasn’t usual circumstances. New Terra still smouldered from the destruction levied on it from above, and across the galaxy nations uneasily eyed each other up, each one reaching out to try and forge another piece of this new order.

And Martillo had never been one to let an opportunity slide by him. Reaching into a pocket, he drew out a set of bulky, gold-framed aviator sunglasses, then set them carefully down over his eyes, now flecked with purple. The ‘Hekate serum,’ he had been informed up in orbit. A permanent change to one’s eye colour, in exchange for immunity from Kamenymir’s strange radiation. He had elected to go for the lite version- he had no particular desire to bulk out of his wardrobe.

Pressing the sunglasses up so they sat more comfortably, he tugged out at the collar of a wool-lined leather trench coat, underneath which sat a faintly shimmering, well-fitted brocade shirt. Beneath that was a g-suit that had originally been invented for Azulvistan pilots , but served well enough to keep Martillo’s organs pumping in the heavier gravity of the planet he now found himself on.

He checked his watch, freshly updated for Kamenymir’s strange timezones and day-cycle, and nodded once. Time to make the meeting that could make or break him.

A few dozen meters away from the station’s exit, the passenger door of an expensive-looking black car with tinted windows opened as Gregor Rayk Mayer stepped out. The founder of Strigoi Global Security, a successful, notably heavily equipped and organized in a military fashion private security firm, looked like the image of Kamenyan businessmen at first glance.

Standing near the Kamenyan average at 2.6 meters tall, and wearing a deep blue suit with a black tie, his face was clean-shaved and remarkably square-shaped, with thick lips and a protruding jaw. Aside from his mundane clothes however, Mayer had his brown hair cut short, the kind of buzzcut more typical of active duty soldiers than of CEOs and stock market traders. Rings of solid gold and silver adorned five of his fingers; three on his left hand, two on the right.

He closed the car door and walked towards Martillo. He smiled widely, and spoke in English with the typical heavy Kamenyan accent. “Mister Martillo, I presume?” He sounded jovial, with a deep husky voice. “Or should I call you colonel?”

Larenzo turned, then craned his neck up to attempt to look the man in the eyes. Once again, he was struck with a sense of not measuring up, before crushing it down. “I’m not in uniform, so Señor Martillo it’ll have to be.” His English was flowery and accented, a far cry from the harsher tones of Gregor. “But yes. I’m here from Azulvista because I think we have a real opportunity on our hands that I wouldn’t want to let slip.” Finally, he offered his hand forward.

“I do not wear the uniform anymore. Some of my men still call me ‘colonel’, though.” He took Larenzo’s hand and shook it firmly, although he did refrain from engaging in a little game of squeezing too hard. “I am Gregor Rayk Mayer. A pleasure to meet you, Señor Martillo.” He released his hand’s grip. “Be welcome to Kamenymir. Now, it wouldn’t do to discuss such things standing in the streets, with a dry throat to boot. I know a good café nearby, my treat. You can tell me if it’s as good as it is on Azulvista, eh?”

The lack of posturing surprised Larenzo a little… But then again, their size and weight difference would likely make it a pointless affair anyway. They knew who was physically stronger here, but this wasn’t about that now, was it? His research on the Strigoi firm told him they cared more about power born from money than they did any physical might.

“Likewise to meet you, Gregor. From some of what I saw up in orbit, I have high hopes for what my countrymen are brewing here. Do you smoke? I brought a small gift.”

“I do. Nebula leaf, that is. Although I have heard about this tobacco thing that some of the other colonies retained from Earth. I’ve read it was quite widespread back when the old planet was still alive and well.”

“Nebula leaf? Hmm. My research doesn’t seem to have brought that up. Incomplete information and all that.” He smirked a little, then reached into his overcoat’s inner pocket to draw out a cylinder only a tad larger than the Kamenyan’s thick fingers. “It’s sized for us, but considering you’ve never smoked before, perhaps that’s for the best.” A quick twist to take the lid off, before he shook out the cigar, taking the time to clip the end before handing it over.

“Not to be fully inhaled,” he informed Gregor. “Keep the smoke in your mouth - it’s for tasting, not sucking.”

Gregor took the cigar with his thumb and index finger, examining it for a few seconds. “Interesting. So you smoke the leaves like that, just dried? I’ll have to get you something in exchange as thanks.” He slid the cigar in his chest pocket. “I’ll save this for a good occasion.”

“Indeed. Hand harvested, sun-dried” Larenzo waved a hand. “Don’t worry about paying it back. That’s why we’re here, no? Hopefully by the end of this little meeting there’ll be a good occasion to light it.”He grinned a little, even as he had to double-time it to keep up with the bulkier man.

“I’ll tell you plain, if you don’t mind the launch into straight business. I have a lot of boys and girls back home, fresh from New Terra or Boot, fire in their eyes, guns in their hands, and nobody to shoot them at. The way I see it, we have a product. We just need to ship it to the right market.”

Gregor chuckled. “I like what you’re saying, Señor Martillo. Most of my current workforce came from the demobilisation of the Uhlans, like I did. The Constitution forbids conscripts from serving in the army in peace time, you see. But a lot of them found that they quite liked the life of a soldier, so now they work for me. Not quite the same thing… Yet.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“Two hundred years of peace. And now that this generation finally gets a taste of the glories of war, it’s been taken from them so quickly after a measly few years of conflict. It’s almost cruel, don’t you think?”

“I’m glad to see we have similar thoughts… And it’s unlikely that our nations are the only ones to be experiencing such a… ‘problem.’ So, here’s my suggestion:” He paused for a moment to straighten his shirt before continuing.

“Your Strigoi are already a functioning mercenary company. We can call them the ‘proof of concept,’ if you will, a sign to investors that our business model works. I have connections within the Republican Army. High connections. A few favours called in, an arm or two twisted, and I can secure us a significant amount of startup capital. Enough to say… Set ourselves up somewhere nice and prominent on Sol, and take your operation from one planet to the entire galaxy.”

“Sol?” He smirked, an eyebrow raised quizzically. “I do hope that your friends are in as high places as you say. The Sol system is subject to… ambiguous legislation, it is true. But that is a blade that cuts both ways.” The two of them walked past a large public park planted with a grove of trees with big, iridescent leaves. Loud buzzing came from that direction as dozens of bee-like creatures the size of a large house cat with multicolored bioluminescent fur frolicked in the canopy, occasionally coming down to play with the children below who were giving them fruit bars. “But if your plan works… Yes, that would put us in a good position. I take it you wish to be partners then?”

“Why not?” Larenzo returned the smirk. “Any system claimed by one nation would draw accusations of favouritism, and as you’ve accurately assessed, there’s no consensus at the moment on who controls what there. So long as we frame ourselves as a neutral third party, there shouldn’t be an issue” He paused for a moment to examine the flora and fauna, although any astonishment that might have been going through his mind certainly didn’t make it to his face.

“Indeed,” he continued, turning back towards Gregor. “Separately, neither of us are even on the board. Together? We can be one of the players above it.” Another few strides to catch up to the goliath-sized Kamenyan.

Mayer chuckled, before letting out a burst of laughter, giving Martillo a none too gentle pat on the back. “You’ve got some balls, Señor Martillo. I like that! Consider me interested in your little scheme. But for now, let’s get ourselves something to drink. We’ll go over the details later on, yes?” The large man smiled with a toothy grin fit for a wild predator.

“They call them cojones where I’m from. But let’s wet our lips - I’m curious to see what you have here.”

---

The Fate of a Desert

_{Featuring Crown Prince Raaid Ghani al-Karim, Aisha and Ögedei Khagn.}

“Tracking four ships, one seems heavily damaged.” The tiny hub that was Azulvista’s defence grid aboard the Meeting Place had suddenly become a swarm of activity. For the majority of its life it had been nothing more than a glorified traffic camera - watching those who came in and out of the Gateway. It didn’t even have offensive weapons, and the few point-defence guns it had would be useless to reach out to the vessels that had suddenly spilled through the wormhole.

“Can we get a response team out there now? If that message is accurate we have a huge opportunity on our hands.”

“Negative. They’d have to come from our side of the Gateway, and that ship doesn’t have that kind of time to waste.”

“Mierda. What are our options the-”

A new voice cut across the frequencies, run through a distorting translator that did nothing to relieve the guttural viciousness of its tone.

“This is the Bai-Ülgen vessel of the Great Khagn of the Steppes and Sky. You have entered the Sol system, and we do not approve of this violence.”

A long pause hung in the air as the crew of the Meeting Place stared at each other.

“Shit… That’s a lot of Khagnate ships…”

“Where the fuck are they coming from? How did we not have them tracked?”

“Someone trace their fucking flight paths right goddamn now, how did we-”

“The asteroid belt. They’re in the fucking asteroid belt.”

“But that’s around Mars? How in the fuck are they planning on getting to Luna orbit that quick?”

“I don’t think they need to. Flagship’s right here.”

“Joda! Right, you.” The officer jabbed a finger out. “Don’t let these saindsdamned Khagnate ships out of our sight. I have no idea how they squirrelled a fucking armada out there and I don’t want another surprise like that. Check under every fucking rock out there if you have to, comprende?”

“Si, señor,” came the grumbling response.”

---

If it wasn’t for the EVA suits that had been included in the shuttle Raaid had stolen, he’d be dead. They were losing atmosphere from three different places in the hull, had lost half of their thrusters, limiting their movement to precisely two directions, neither of which were helping them stabilise their trajectory, and they had somersaulted so many times that it was a miracle his dinner had stayed down.

But they were seemingly safe. After… The Great Khagn? Had signalled their vessel, and a whole suite of new IDs had begun to flash up on the fritzing rangefinder, the three Caliphate vessels that had been so eagerly snapping at his heels had peeled back, hanging next to the Gateway.

Aisha turned to look at the prince, confusion plain on her face even through the semi-reflective visor of her suit.

“Are we safe? What’s happening?”

“We’re in Sol, it seems. Home. And others got here first.”

The voice returned, sputtering out through the comms console.

“Crown Prince Raaid, the Great Khagn has extended his beneficious hand towards you, sovereign to sovereign. He invites you aboard the Bai-Ülgen to take tea, and welcome you to Sol.”

Raaid opened his mouth and was about to reply, when another voice - this one untranslated, its Arabic clearly rusty, came through.

“Ahem… This is translator Candelaria Barbosa, speaking on behalf of the Gran Republic of Azulvista. We would also like to welcome you, your royal highness. If the Khagn would permit, we would also like to send a representative to meet you.”

There was another long pause, and this time Raaid stayed quiet. There was already politics going on, and while normally such a thing would excite him, he was smart enough to recognise that right now he was the pawn in the negotiations, not the queen.

“The Great Khagn has vouched for your Republic, Candelaria. You are permitted aboard the Bai-Ülgen.”

“Many thanks, your Majesty.”

Finally, Raaid spoke. “Your offer is most gracious, and we will of course come aboard your vessel. Unfortunately however, we have lost control over our vehicle, and are una-”

“That will not be an issue.”

---

Aisha wasn’t sure what she expected when she had heard they’d be taken aboard by the ‘Great Khagn,’ but this certainly wasn’t it. A massive starship - bigger than even the mightiest ones used by the Caliphate as propaganda coups, had cruised towards them, then unceremoniously pointed some sort of device at their broken vessel and reeled it in.. They’d made contact with a juddering clank, and less than five minutes later, a small swarm of people, all fitted for the void they’d found themselves in, were clustering around the vessel.

She and the prince were both ushered out one of the gaping holes in the hull, then pushed and pulled through microgravity towards a cable that had been shot between the damaged shuttle and an airlock some distance above them.

“Quite the welcoming party, isn’t it?” Raaid’s voice came through their internal comms bright and clear.

“Are we sure this is a good idea? Sure, they scared off the Nizam’s goons, but…”

“Do you have a better suggestion? We could stay in the ship until we run out of air in our suits, if you’d prefer?”

She bit her tongue. This entire thing stank to high heaven, but the prince was right - they weren’t in a position to turn down any help, no matter how bizarre or concerningly offered it was.

As she pulled herself along the length of the cable, she took the opportunity to turn back and stare at the craft. She wasn’t sure what she had expected these strange folk to do, but even so she hadn’t expected to see the plumes of plasma cutters as they ate away at the hull, nor sparks flying from the internal engineering as besuited spacers set to work.

“They don’t look like they’re fixing it…”

“They can have the damn thing if they’re taking us aboard”

“Prince, with all due respect, that’s our only way to get around here, with-”

“Aisha, it goes down and left, and that’s it. It wasn’t getting us anywhere anyway. It did its duty, it did it well, and if these Khagnate fellows want to see how it ticks, they’re more than welcome to it.”

“I like this even less…”

“Concerns noted and filed away for later.” Or, to put it in a way that wasn’t distinctly Raaid-ish, she was being ignored.

“On our heads be it.” She sighed.

As someone who had never had to move around in zero-gravity, she felt distinctly disadvantaged as she slowly crawled along the cable. Around her, their rescuers zipped around, either assisting each other or using movement suites - something she was seriously wishing her suit had right now.

“Odd to see people who seem at home in space, no?”

“They seem way too used to this, yes.”

“You fret too much. We’re not dealing with Al-Sahra any more Aisha, these people are probably very different to us.”

“That’s exactly why I’m fretting.”

The prince chuckled, but finally the pair had arrived by the airlock, two more besuited individuals reaching across the gap to tug them in. Once they were both firmly situated inside the cramped space, one of the figures slammed a button and the blast doors crashed shut, vapour pouring in from the sides of the room.

Three long, silent minutes later, and the first individual removed their helmet, showing themselves to be a swarthy, short-haired man, who promptly genuflected and gestured towards the other door.

The prince removed his own helmet, then beamed at the man. “Thank you very kindly. I assume you-” The man’s blank expression told both the Dinnin that he had no clue what the prince was saying.

“To the airlock it is. Out that suit Aisha, it won’t be helping us here.” The prince busied himself with shedding the reinforced over-layer of the suit, and Aisha reluctantly followed suit, until the two were left in the thin, heat-positive jumpsuits that they had stuffed themselves into.

With that done, the door swung open, and immediately Aisha reached for the weapon she no longer had. Five walking behemoths, each one seven or eight feet tall and carrying weapons that looked like they weighed more than she herself did, all clad in bulky armour and only one without a sealed helmet. The last of them, slightly shorter than the others, had his under his arm, and was accompanied by a woman that he absolutely dwarfed in size and stature, wearing a peculiar device over her mouth and nose.

“Greetings, Crown Prince. These are the Khagn’s Kheshigs, led by Commander Temürdai. We are here to escort you to the Khagn himself.”

The prince let out a low whistle. “God rest the souls of those we left behind but… If we had five of these fellows, perhaps everyone’d have made it to the ship…”

Aisha gulped a little. These were the Khagn’s soldiers? When combined with the massive vessel they had been unceremoniously yanked onto, she was starting to feel like the Dinnin were a tiny fish in what had just become a very, very large pond.

“If I may ask.” The Prince was currently having to wedge himself between two of the airlock walls to keep himself stable in zero-g. “How on Earth are they all standing upright in this?”

“Their armour contains magnets for just this occasion. Now please, there are more important matters. The Khagn has laid out the ‘Red Carpet,’ for you, and the Azulvistan delegation will be arriving shortly. Do you require aid to move around?”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” The prince nodded several times, finally letting himself float when Temürdai reached out a hand, then promptly tugged him forward, through the crowd of Keshigs, and then practically launched him across the corridor. Bracing herself, Aisha also reached out, then felt her stomach churn again as the huge man sent her too flying along the hallway. The translator simply kicked off from one of the walls and shot along behind them, while the five soldiers turned together and began to march in lockstep behind them.

Several more weightless manouvres later, and they had finally reached what the translator helpfully described as the “inner sanctum,” and the pair of Dinnin found themselves suddenly under the effect of gravity once more.

The kheshigs escorted the pair through a set of massive blast doors that groaned as their gatekeepers hauled them open, and finally the group were through to the Khagn’s own court. Aside from the bullish figures of kheshigs and the rather downplayed appearance of the man himself, the rest of the court was stuffed with a myriad of different faces. Women and men, wearing everything from a thin gauze to shamanic robes had stopped what they were doing, curious eyes watching these two newcomers to the galactic scene step forward.

Raaid let out a low whistle at the sight. “Just think Aisha. Once upon a time, the arcology houses would have looked just like this. Hells, maybe they might even come to look like it again.”

His bodyguard let out a quiet grumble, but even she couldn’t hide how impressed she was.

For his part, the Khagn let out a wide smile, spread his arms wide, and in a cheery tone began to talk, the translator quickly filtering it through.

“He says that you are honoured and welcome guests, offers you sanctuary, and offers to treat you and your companion as befitting royal status.”

Raaid blinked a few times. He had to admit - he’d have thought that convincing people he was, actually royalty might have taken some time, but here it seemed none of that suspicion had come through. No looking a gift horse in the mouth though. He offered a slight bow - he was a prince, and thus below a king, but only slightly. No deep prostration here.

“Many thanks, Khagn, for your swift action and welcome hospitality. I had not thought such kindness and generosity would be so easily found through the Gateway - there is perilously little for me back home.”

The translator paused for a moment as the Khagn processed Raaid’s words, then resumed his translation. “The Khagn bids you to think little of it. This is sacred ground - those who would profane it not just with blood, but that of royalty, should thank themselves that we merely frightened them off. He says that even though he is eager to hear your tale, he wishes for you to wait until the third delegation arrives, so you may save your breath. In the meantime, do you drink?”

A smile slowly spread across Raaid’s face. “You’d be surprised how long I’ve waited for someone to ask me that.”

---

Slaughter over the Sands

_{A long overdue collab between @Lady Lascivious and @Enigmatik}

Transports screamed through the sky, and the small train of warriors paused, gazing up at it. “Quivers out!” Barked the lead warrior, and almost immediately the procession halted themselves, vaulting off bikes, dismounting from horses, and scampering out of buggies. Missile launchers were pulled from their moorings and set into place, the convoy forming a loose circle just in case others had had the same idea.

The foremost warrior unfolded a long, telescoping device and aimed it at the trails of smoke and vapour in the sky. A tiny display winked into life on the device, and the quivers automatically turned themselves, locked on to new targets.On the horizon, the specks that were their marks soared merrily along, ignorant to the danger, yet majestic in their movements.

This would not continue for long. The horses huffed angrily, and the engines idled, the quivers of high explosives bristling in the blistering sun. “Shoot,” the lead warrior ordered, and with a single chop of his hand the quivers were emptied. The rush and whir of missile engines engaging filled the air, the small plumes of smoke barely noticeable against the pale sands of the Steppe. As they hurtled into the sky, their primitive robotic minds were fixated only on the transports above them. This was their purpose.

Before they had even hit their mark, the warriors were moving. The tubes were hefted up and tossed over mounts, engines revving and horses snorting as they were kicked into action, clouds of dust kicked up in their wake as they moved to pursue the same targets the missiles now wung towards.

It was a small warband, not even a full clan’s worth of power. Really, it was just a raiding party that had seen an opportunity and taken it. Several buggies roared beside a single small-rig, boosted speakers blasting out the deep, melodic, and throaty wartunes that so often accompanied violence on the Steppe. The leader, clambering back onto the small-rig unfurled a warbanner, horsehairs angrily fluttering in the wind, and a small host of bikes and horses rallied around it, heavily augmented beasts managing to keep pace with their mechanical counterparts in a startling display of raw force.

The three aircraft in the formation were mothballed transport models from well over eighty years prior, kept in storage awaiting decommission. The opening of the Gateways had prompted a slew of interest from groups of Ishtari interested in procuring them for foreign adventurism. The allure of Khagnate archaeotech in particular prompted the creation of many a group seeking to pillage the remnants of yet another ancient civilization to bring back home to the commonality. Though these models lacked extensive weapons suits, armour, or more than basic defensive measures even for their time, they were nevertheless cheaply afforded.

Within the cockpit of the lead craft of the formation, the pilot kept her eyes trained on the horizon. Nothing but sand and rocks as far as the eye could see, interspersed with the remnants of bygone battles and crumbled civilizations, picked over by human carrion and left to gently rust away in the desert. The monotony of the desert was almost dangerous in and of itself, even speeding along it towards the promised coordinates as they were. They were making good time - but even so, she’d had to hit the stimulant drip more than once during the transition. The girls in the back had the luxury of waiting for a drop to the ground. Up here? Her eyes had to be peeled, constantly, for any sign of danger. And yet as she scanned the horizon she saw nothing once more. Her bored expression mirrored that of the copilot.

The monotony was quickly shattered as the old craft’s missile warning system called out at her. Reacting on well honed instinct, she disabled the autopilot with a simple nervous impulse, pulling the antiquated joystick control sharply as she began evasive maneuvers. Her copilot reacted just as quickly, activating the decoy flares. A series of muffled shouts and shrieks met her from the rear of the craft. “Contact!” She yelled out, “Buckle in!”

The second craft was not so fortunate, a missile slamming into one of its engines and erupting in a fireball that sent the stricken aircraft slowly careening into the ground, coming to a screeching crash landing. She winced as she watched its crew hastily evacuating from the wreckage, already brandishing weapons or dragging the wounded clear of the flames. The third aircraft fared little better, a missile tearing a chunk out of the fuselage and dangerously near the reactor. It had little time left in the air, but even as they began to lose altitude its pilots relayed to her location the rockets had been fired from.

The side door opened as the door gunner took up her position, taking aim at the enemy position and letting loose a burst from the E60. Those on the ground joined in, directing every ounce of firepower they had at their disposal towards the enemy.

She yelled back to her crew, “We’re putting you down! Ceratis! Keep their heads down! Anything pointing a launcher at us dies!”

The sounds of engines and hoofbeats were nothing in comparison to the music now blasting out across the Steppe. It shook the earth, drowning out the noises of the engines and the screeches of dying machines… And the sounds of mortars being fired. One of the buggies had fallen back a little, internal stabilisers allowing the crew to begin dropping indirect fire all around the vague vicinity of the downed crafts.Even as it slowed though, its fellows sped up, and now, barely audible over the guttural singing was the whoops and howls of the steppefolk as they tore their way towards the Ishtari.

The smallrig’s huge frame slowly began to turn, turrets atop the cumbersome construction’s beetle-like shell whirring to face the enemy position. The explosive rounds of the E60 thrummed through the air, bursting and raining shrapnel down upon the advancing warriors. One bike spun out, the rider thrown clean into the air, smashing down into a sand dune. As they tried to recover, limbs wobbling, the rest of the raiding party pressed onwards, disregarding their first casualty. Now, the smallrig’s turrets had found their range, cannon shots returning the displeasure of the steppefolk.

The bikes and horses began to peel apart from each other, each one clearly serving a separate role in this battle. The bikes wheeled about, throwing up a wall of dust as their tyres spun, then gripped the sand. From the back of the bikes weapons were aimed, and as the cavalrymen revealed long, bulb-tipped lances, a host of arrows, grenades and bullets were sent hurtling through the air towards the Ishtari. A few missed entirely, but many more did not, rattling off the vehicles or bursting into billowing smoke.

More Ishtari took up cover positions near the crashed aircraft, neurolinks slotted in and weapons calibrated, they began unleashing a withering hail of fire on the enemy in disciplined bursts. A power armored Gorgon Strain pulled herself from the rubble and, hefting the two E60s from the downed aircraft, positioned herself as the center of the impromptu defensive line. More of the GPMGs joined the fray as the passengers from the undamaged transport, and the ones from the wounded craft took up their positions, 26mm rocket propelled armor piercing explosive and airburst fragementation rounds hurtling downrange towards the onrushing steppefolk. Of course, it wasn’t as if they needed to pierce armour or explode- these were not the heavily armoured foes these weapons were designed for, but nonetheless steppefolk fell as explosions rocked the sandy plain.

The pilot of the remaining transport radioed in to the mothership in orbit. “Ryu, Washite 1, ambushed by war party of steppefolk, Washite 2 and Washite 3 down, request immediate reinforcement, I say again we require immediate reinforcement, over. ”

“Washite 1, Ryu, acknowledged. Sit tight, we’re sending the gunship. How long do you think you can hold out? Over.”

“Washite 1, we’re down two out of three and we’re taking heavy fire. Get here as fast as you can. We’re doing our best. Over.”

The pilot redoubled her efforts, pulling her craft to face the enemy as her second door gunner swung out and began directing her own stream of heavy shells towards the oncoming enemy.

On the ground, a Tiamat Strain hefted another piece of surplus equipment - a shoulder mounted launcher, taking aim at the largest of the enemy war machines. This was what they had trained for, albeit only for a short time. The gunner waited for the lock on, and cheered as she pulled the trigger, watching as the missile streaked towards its target. The crack of .50 caliber smart-rockets breaking the sound barrier was muffled by the explosion as the rig was engulfed in flame. A second later, an explosive tipped arrow struck its operator, blowing a crater in her chest and sending her sprawling backward where she was dragged into cover by another.

Despite the size and seemingly cumbersome nature of the smallrig, it was clear that taking it down would not be as easy as the Ishtari had perhaps hoped. The missile fired, streaking through into the air, then cracked against the carapace of the rig, engulfing it for a brief moment in flames and force. The rig rocked unsteadily, the front cabin threatening to jackknife the vehicle, but then, with a blast of its horn and gouts of flames and smoke from its exhaust the vehicle steadied itself. Smoke trickled from the turret that had been directly struck by the missile, but the others steadfastly continued to fire, one even adjusting itself up and pounding fire at the transport that was still airborne, hoping to force it into a landing.

Now however, the cavalrymen had vanished. The smoke and dust kicked up by the steppefolk concealed them to the eye, and the pounding music, explosions and the whoops and howls of the tribal warriors all around the Ishtari made the distinctive hoofbeats of the troops impossible to make out.

Then, from a cloud of white smoke just behind the most damaged aircraft, they emerged. Six steppefolk, lances lowered, mounts whinnying, burst from the concealment and aimed themselves towards the firing line. A volley of explosions went up as their demolition lances made contact, the horsemen desperately wheeling away to avoid return fire… Apart from one. Despite having struck an Ishtari clean on with the lance, the tip had not detonated, and, instead of leaving her a smouldering corpse, he galloped through the line of bullets and smoke, only to find that impaled on the end of his weapon was a still very much alive foe.

The impaled Tiamat Strain bared her teeth at him as she clawed for the rider, instinct wearing off after a second as she pulled herself further down his lance toward him, clawing for a bulky sidearm holstered on her thigh. She freed it and fired off a half dozen heavy caliber rounds into his chest and toward another rider in the distance, the explosive rounds detonating inside their targets with devastating force.

Unfortunately for the tiamat strain, this might not have been the smartest idea. As the shells exploded the rider’s arm went limp, their lance drooping down until they were dashed into the sand. Although unpleasant, this would not have been fatal to her… Unless, of course, the steed that the late warrior had been riding on galloped over her, its colossal hooves smashing down first onto her ribcage and then her skull, the force of the tremendous beast every bit as potent as a man-made weapon.

As if to ensure that she was out of the battle, another rider whose lance had blown itself as intended had drawn a bow, and as she galloped past the Ishtari she loosed an arrow with an instinct drawn from decades of practice. The arrow burrowed its way into the Ishtari soldier, and then, in a final moment of revenge for her fallen brethren, the horsewoman pivoted her steed, yet another set of hooves crashing down onto the unfortunate Ishtari. A moment later, the lance’s explosive tip finally detonated.

Elsewhere, the battle still raged. Several of the steppefolk bikers had peeled off from their harrying tactics and now tore towards the firing line. As the rider of one kept their mount steady, their passenger rose to his feet, holding out a ramshackle and boxy-looking construction with one hand.

With a howl, he activated the archeotech, and a bright beam of black light burst out, streaking towards the Ishtari line.

The beam struck an unfortunate Tiamat Strain square in the chest, her surplus armour of little use against the archaeotech beam as it, seemingly, bored a hole through her chest, her body and armour crumbling into dust as it was atomized by the blast. Instantly in return, the man was struck by a dozen rounds of various calibers, great gaping holes torn from his body as a hail of fire threw him from the bike. The rider, to avoid a similar fate, tipped the entire vehicle up, sending a plume of sand and dirt into the air to provide them with a smokescreen. By the time it cleared, the bike had already begun its retreat, the rider throwing themselves violently from left to right in order to avoid any more retaliatory fire.

“The actual fuck?!” An Ishtari yelled as she hunkered down to reload, eyes wide at the burnt remnants of a former comrade. “The fuck they get that kind of weapon?!” She slammed a fresh magazine into her gun and dropped it, the sling catching it, and threw herself onto another onrushing buggy. She pulled out her sidearm and a knife, plunging the blade into the skull of the first steppefolk and firing off a trio of bullets into the other.

The combatants were treated to the sight of an untrained Ishtari wrestling with the controls to the buggy, two dead steppefolk being thrown from it as she veered wildly off course, nearly slamming into another buggy as she tossed them a crazed salute, taking aim with a grenade and hurling it into the buggy’s driver’s seat, and peeling off towards the largest war rig with a mad cackle.

Hefting her rifle in hand, she waited the split second for the software to pick out targets, and pulled the trigger. In seconds the weapon’s magazine was empty and she was slamming another one in, her hands working on autopilot as dozens of explosive rounds slammed into the rig and its occupants.

She would regret being so careless with her ammunition. No sooner had she finished her barrage before a figure pulled themself up through the smouldering scrap that had been a turret on the small-rig, hurling herself across the gap between the two vehicles, a spear held overhead. She slammed into the Ishtari, the weapon punching clean through the tiamat strain’s natural armour, her weight causing the entire buggy to lift precariously off two of its wheels. The Ishtari retaliated, hurling the steppewoman back with almost as much force, sending her careening backwards and into one of the decorative spikes that adorned the sides of the buggy.

The changes in momentum was too much for the still-moving buggie to handle. Uncontrollably veering off to one side, it held course for but a second before it lifted off the ground too far, scrap metal flying off at odd directions from the crash. Blood seeped through the steppewoman’s teeth as she offered the Ishtari a final grin which her foe reciprocated in kind, the buggie managing another full roll before her grenades detonated.The concussive force set off the buggie’s ammunition cache, which, in turn, caused the hydrogen fuel tanks of the vehicle to also explode, the entire construct coming to a burning, smouldering end, shrouded in the dust its last manoeuvre had kicked up.

Her comrades hefted their rifles and cheered her display. Many of them yelled out “Banzai!”, one of the few untainted holdovers from the old earth languages that persisted within her own as they redoubled their counteroffensive against the Steppe attackers. Another, however, shook her head as she sheltered behind a burning hunk of scrap metal to reload, instead calling out, “Mediocre, Iuvetis!” before hurling a large grenade towards the enemy, the explosion generating a large noxious cloud of brown mist that ate at the flesh and lungs of anything it touched. Surplus weapons dug up from decades ago, but still appallingly deadly even now.

As the battle intensified further, the Ishtari counted down the minutes until air support was due to arrive. Outnumbered, surrounded, and with their ammunition reserves rapidly dwindling in the face of far greater numbers than they had prepared for, the situation grew increasingly desperate.

“How much longer we gotta hold these fuckers off?” An Akkoro Strain yelled to a comrade as she slammed a fresh magazine into her gun, firing off a burst of the explosive rounds into the chest of a charging Steppesman. Several more bullets pinged off the metal around her, one of them slamming into her armor and forcing her back into cover as she wheezed for breath.

“About seven minutes according to comms.” Her partner shouted back, pulling spare magazines from the headless body slumped next to her. “We might wanna prep self-destruct just in case because I’m not sure we can hold off that long.”

There was a brief pause in the battle, although the shells from the mortar vehicles in the back continued to fall, pounding the Ishtari and preventing them from gaining too much breath back. Even the small-rig’s guns stopped for a moment. The battlefield quietened.

The leading cannon on the small rig turned to the air and fired a single shell. It lanced upwards, then burst apart, a streak of bright orange smoke staining the sky. The pair of guns remaining turned to the three aircraft and resumed their barrage, except these shells didn’t detonate on contact- instead, wherever they contacted, thick, choking grey smoke sprung up, obscuring the vision of the defenders.

The meaning of the smoke was almost immediately apparent to the embattled Ishtari. “Regroup! Regroup! They’re going to charge! Don’t get cut off!” Called one of them, pulling a wounded comrade into the cover offered by one of the downed craft. The injured soldier, seemingly unphased by his lack of a leg or the intestines that could be seen dangling from his ruptured abdomen, continued to hold his rifle in anticipation of assault. The Ishtari were well prepared for battles in which quarter was neither expected nor offered, and they readied themselves as such, regrouping for a better defensive position for a final stand. Detonation charges were slapped onto the munitions too heavy to drag towards the craft they’d hold out at, deadman’s switches synced as a backup in case they were killed before they could destroy the craft and their payloads.

Every Ishtari carried a melee weapon of some sort. Some had them as natural parts of their bodies. Some carried swords, large knives, or axes on their persons in addition to their kit, but all were proficient in their use. Whatever charge the steppefolk had in mind they would find their quarry willing to fight to the last. A final radio message was sent out to the incoming aircraft that there was a likelihood they would find no survivors, and to drop whatever ordnance they had on the site and bug out.

The pounding music from the small-rig cut out. The only sound on the battlefield was the whistling of covering shells as they plummeted all around the Ishtari, and a faint, almost indistinct whine from somewhere outside the ring of smoke they were surrounded by. Then, building up slowly, was a low, indistinct, guttural noise, harsh and powerful.

It rose up in volume, the whining sound growing closer, the two sounds overlapping each other, both growing in intensity.

The smoke above them was ripped apart as skimmer-craft soared overhead. They were here and gone in a moment, but hurling themselves off from the sides, plummeting down, were steppefolk warriors. As they descended, the indistinct cry suddenly took on a more definitive tone, dozens of voices screaming out a single word together.

UUKHAI!

The Steppefolk burst from the smoke, spears, axes and blades held out before them, a few ripping off gunshots towards anything they saw that looked like it was twitching. An unfortunate Tiamat strain found herself practically leapt on by a warrior, a knife big enough and long enough to be called a sword flashing down as it struck the fish-folk’s neck, before coming down again and again and again, blood staining the sands as the blade punctured the armored membrane.

The Tiamat Strain in question bared rows of razor pointed teeth, dragging out a large knife of her own from a sheath strapped to her thigh and lunging at her attacker. She sank her teeth into the first soft flesh she could find, tearing away bloodied chunks from what rapidly became the remnants of a face. Raising her blade she plunged her knife into the steppefolk’s back over and over again, both combatants heedless of whether they lived or died as they savaged each other with the brutality of feral beasts.

The Ishtari, seeing the writing on the wall, pressed the self-destructs on two of the three downed craft, excepting the one they now sheltered by. Powerful shockwaves tore apart the air as fireballs erupted from these munitions, and the Ishtari pressed the counterattack. Those who lacked ammunition hefted melee weapons or even carried explosives on their persons as the remaining defenders sallied into the onrushing Steppefolk. Those too injured to run continued to pour gunfire into the oncoming steppefolk. The Ishtari warcry, preserved through their trials aboard the Ark, rose in defiance of the Steppefolk’s own as the doomed defenders launched their final suicide attack, gunning down or stabbing to death every Steppefolk they could see.

BANZAI!

Some charged into groups of enemies clutching armfulls of explosives, detonating them and wiping their bodies and those around them from existence. Others displayed tremendous prowess with the swords they carried, fighting ferociously until overwhelmed or gunned down. Others emptied the last of their remaining ammunition into the enemy before pulling out knives and swords and joining the doomed attack. The power armored gorgon strain, finally, burned through the last of her ammunition as the 26mm explosive rounds tore apart Steppefolk, the guns clattering empty as she disconnected their neural links and tossed them aside, drawing two sidearms and two primed explosives as she too joined the charge.

The sides crashed together in a last explosion of violence - one that was over almost as quickly as it had started. There was little time to revel in the victory though - the steppefolk had the rest of their clan to join up with, and the sheer number of explosives the Ishtari had deployed had rendered most of the battlefield naught but scrap and rubble. They salvaged what little they could and pressed on, the Ishtari air support only serving to pound the sand into even finer fragments.

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Bump!

Enigmatik's Enigmatic Search

Dropping my first bump!