I'll assume that the Cessians will have something similar then: they harvest memories, and linguistic systems would be of interest to the Dream. Hopefully translation will be pretty easy for my almost-sentient AI.
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A supremely boring post made, but it is late AF and I wanted to get things squared away before I write something actually interesting tomorrow. People near me, if they want to be discovered by the Exploration Fleet, should let me know, and we can get our collaborate on.
Also, how are we going to do the deciphering of alien languages?
Also, how are we going to do the deciphering of alien languages?
Above planet 3 of 6: Cessia, Cessian System
Shepherd Council Geostationary Satellite: 'Crook', 4:57/31/6/6188
The Arch-Shepherd Maxwell, his tall form obscured by his billowing blue robes of office, sat at the head of a jet-black table, joined by the eleven other figures, each in their robes of office. The room was absolutely silent, not even the familiar roil of machinery disturbing the still room. The Arch-Shephard waited a moment, then another, then finally raised his hand, characteristically pale with the long Cessian fingers adorned with his rings of office. All eyes were already fixed on Maxwell, though the intensity of their gaze increased dramatically as the hand motioned that the meeting was about to begin.
Maxwell spoke in a clear voice, his words filling the room to bursting, returning to the tradition so missed by the assembled councilors.
"The Council of the Shepherd convenes, at the behest of the Arch-Shepherd. All members being present at this sacrosanct convocation, our Council shall begin, to safeguard the Dream of our people from perdition and strife."
As one, the councilors intoned reverently, their response mirroring the council of a thousand years hence.
"We are convened."
The Arch-Shepherd spoke again, the formality dropping away as his speech sped up, the accent and tone shifting from formal grace to pragmatic business. "It has been four weeks since we have been transported. This council has been convened to assess the state of the Ascendancy. Councilors, please, make your reports."
The councilor of agriculture rose first, a tall and gaunt man, his green attire less ostentatious than the Arch-Shepherd but kept even more fastidiously tidy.
"Agricultural output is at normal capacity, Shepherd. The transposition played some havok on our automated systems, but estimates put our production at 102% of mean output, well within standard deviation."
The shepherd nodded, his attention turning to the next seated figure, the Councilor of Maintenance. A similar report was given, that the Dream had not suffered technical failure.
The Councilor of the Dream rose, a particularly ugly woman, her uniform of office doing an admirable, if futile, job of hiding her portly form. She spoke in a high voice, piercing the room like a dagger.
"The Dream itself is reacting well to the change: we have nearly finished feeding memories of the shift into the Cores, only increasing our stockpiles. Estimates for longevity of the new memories are unavailable, but technicians are working on them as we speak. In addition, the Core memory is being expanded in preparation for the new contributions: it should be finished ahead of schedule."
Several more councilors passed without note. Diplomacy, the youngest councilor and newest addition, had nothing to report, neither did Civilian. Industry reported minor disruptions in the asteroid belt causing delays, production forecasted to fall short of the mean, his worries trivialized by the fact there is no-one to trade the goods with.
Exploration spoke next, a well-built man with unusually pale hair, standing somewhat shorter than the other councilors. "I am afraid, Shepherd, that our Exploration fleet has been devastated. Final counts list nearly five twelfths of our fleet has been lost in the jump. If said ships did indeed transpose to our new galaxy, they should be assumed permanently missing. Our shipyards are hard at work rebuilding our numbers, and thankfully only one sixth of our shipbourne personnel were lost. The First Exploration is underway as we speak: every unmanned ship and most Cessian explorers have set off to harvest for the Dream. Broadcasts have been sent out in all directions with rough coordinates and sentience identifiers. The projected income is almost impossible to predict, but it is needless to say that the bounty of information will be unprecedented, even with a crippled fleet. First vessels have already returned, no sentient life encountered but several varieties of fauna have already been discovered, already a bounty for the Dream."
The mood of the room lightened at the news. The weeks had been hard for every Reality-bound Cessian, but the benefits of their situation being so clearly outlined had a visibly positive effect on the assembled leaders. The Defense Councilor spoke next, a tall and attractive woman, a clear contrast to her Dream counterpart.
"The prospects for our defense are mixed. Our fortresses transported without issue, and our fleet did not lose one ship in transit. The issue is, we have no idea the capabilities of our neighbor, whomever they may be. Once our Exploratory Fleet returns to full operational capacity, I propose a radical armament plan, to take advantage of the lack of trade and put our industry to good use."
A few councilors shook their heads. A few nodded. Most stayed silent, looking to their leader for a decision. The Arch-Shepherd spoke after a pregnant pause, once again commanding the full attention of the room. "The matter will be put to vote at the next session: there are other matters to discuss at this juncture".
The Defense Councilor nodded obsequiously and returned to her seat. The rest of the reports passed quickly: Trade was silent, and neither Research nor Development had any news on their projects. An uneventful, but no doubt supremely welcome, council meeting, followed, with small matters being brought up and discussed, small decisions made and tweaks to various systems implemented. Progress was slower than usual, the participants tired and preoccupied with their own tasks, but after four hours the meeting came to a close, and the councilors filed out of the room, the Arch Shepherd left alone at the jet-black table.
Shepherd Council Geostationary Satellite: 'Crook', 4:57/31/6/6188
The Arch-Shepherd Maxwell, his tall form obscured by his billowing blue robes of office, sat at the head of a jet-black table, joined by the eleven other figures, each in their robes of office. The room was absolutely silent, not even the familiar roil of machinery disturbing the still room. The Arch-Shephard waited a moment, then another, then finally raised his hand, characteristically pale with the long Cessian fingers adorned with his rings of office. All eyes were already fixed on Maxwell, though the intensity of their gaze increased dramatically as the hand motioned that the meeting was about to begin.
Maxwell spoke in a clear voice, his words filling the room to bursting, returning to the tradition so missed by the assembled councilors.
"The Council of the Shepherd convenes, at the behest of the Arch-Shepherd. All members being present at this sacrosanct convocation, our Council shall begin, to safeguard the Dream of our people from perdition and strife."
As one, the councilors intoned reverently, their response mirroring the council of a thousand years hence.
"We are convened."
The Arch-Shepherd spoke again, the formality dropping away as his speech sped up, the accent and tone shifting from formal grace to pragmatic business. "It has been four weeks since we have been transported. This council has been convened to assess the state of the Ascendancy. Councilors, please, make your reports."
The councilor of agriculture rose first, a tall and gaunt man, his green attire less ostentatious than the Arch-Shepherd but kept even more fastidiously tidy.
"Agricultural output is at normal capacity, Shepherd. The transposition played some havok on our automated systems, but estimates put our production at 102% of mean output, well within standard deviation."
The shepherd nodded, his attention turning to the next seated figure, the Councilor of Maintenance. A similar report was given, that the Dream had not suffered technical failure.
The Councilor of the Dream rose, a particularly ugly woman, her uniform of office doing an admirable, if futile, job of hiding her portly form. She spoke in a high voice, piercing the room like a dagger.
"The Dream itself is reacting well to the change: we have nearly finished feeding memories of the shift into the Cores, only increasing our stockpiles. Estimates for longevity of the new memories are unavailable, but technicians are working on them as we speak. In addition, the Core memory is being expanded in preparation for the new contributions: it should be finished ahead of schedule."
Several more councilors passed without note. Diplomacy, the youngest councilor and newest addition, had nothing to report, neither did Civilian. Industry reported minor disruptions in the asteroid belt causing delays, production forecasted to fall short of the mean, his worries trivialized by the fact there is no-one to trade the goods with.
Exploration spoke next, a well-built man with unusually pale hair, standing somewhat shorter than the other councilors. "I am afraid, Shepherd, that our Exploration fleet has been devastated. Final counts list nearly five twelfths of our fleet has been lost in the jump. If said ships did indeed transpose to our new galaxy, they should be assumed permanently missing. Our shipyards are hard at work rebuilding our numbers, and thankfully only one sixth of our shipbourne personnel were lost. The First Exploration is underway as we speak: every unmanned ship and most Cessian explorers have set off to harvest for the Dream. Broadcasts have been sent out in all directions with rough coordinates and sentience identifiers. The projected income is almost impossible to predict, but it is needless to say that the bounty of information will be unprecedented, even with a crippled fleet. First vessels have already returned, no sentient life encountered but several varieties of fauna have already been discovered, already a bounty for the Dream."
The mood of the room lightened at the news. The weeks had been hard for every Reality-bound Cessian, but the benefits of their situation being so clearly outlined had a visibly positive effect on the assembled leaders. The Defense Councilor spoke next, a tall and attractive woman, a clear contrast to her Dream counterpart.
"The prospects for our defense are mixed. Our fortresses transported without issue, and our fleet did not lose one ship in transit. The issue is, we have no idea the capabilities of our neighbor, whomever they may be. Once our Exploratory Fleet returns to full operational capacity, I propose a radical armament plan, to take advantage of the lack of trade and put our industry to good use."
A few councilors shook their heads. A few nodded. Most stayed silent, looking to their leader for a decision. The Arch-Shepherd spoke after a pregnant pause, once again commanding the full attention of the room. "The matter will be put to vote at the next session: there are other matters to discuss at this juncture".
The Defense Councilor nodded obsequiously and returned to her seat. The rest of the reports passed quickly: Trade was silent, and neither Research nor Development had any news on their projects. An uneventful, but no doubt supremely welcome, council meeting, followed, with small matters being brought up and discussed, small decisions made and tweaks to various systems implemented. Progress was slower than usual, the participants tired and preoccupied with their own tasks, but after four hours the meeting came to a close, and the councilors filed out of the room, the Arch Shepherd left alone at the jet-black table.
Planned Improvisation
Claes stood hunched over a table strewn with papers, all around her a score or more soldiers and servants buzzed like angry bees. The sun had barely risen, and many of the officers had not had time to change from nightclothes to more presentable attire. Claes herself had debated saving the time and charging into the makeshift planning room in a nightgown and slippers, but thankfully thought better of it. As it stood she was the only one looking anything near presentable in the throng.
Last minute changes of plans are a soldier's nightmare, only becoming more monstrous as one increased in rank. Claes felt sorry for the man standing opposite the table from her, his face tight and fully concentrated as his right hand scrawled chits and notices, his left performing the requisite sums on a worn abacus. Major Agallon's olive skin was slick with perspiration, his long brown hair bedraggled and his attire unkempt. If last minute changes are terrible for commanders, they are perdition incarnate for logistics officers, and Claes could see the toll of the last few hours already showing on his face, every second filled with requests, reports and accusations. Claes would have to reward him for his excellent service after this affair was over, and lavishly indeed. She herself was not free from the grasping pleas for attention that so beset her Major, but hers were at least in a lesser volume. She was currently studying a map, flanked by Colonels Gordon and Ostilla.
She drew an imaginary line on the detailed and [hopefully] accurate map of their area of operations with her finger, from the coast to their objective city.
"Colonel Ostilla". Laurence's eyes widened suddenly, the General's address apparently pulling him out of a deep reverie. "You will take your Battle and that of Major Bayaz, with changes to uniform to hide your alignment to Oromis. Intercept communications, destroy reinforcing troops, and create a soft cordon of the city. When we arrive at the city proper, break cordon and rejoin the party. Seize food and supplies: you will not be able to give chits without revealing who you are, but do keep violence to a minimum. Nearby towns are to be assessed for risk or garrison. I expect you to punish looting as always, Colonel. Ah, and if you identify any people of importance, take them hostage." Claes finished scribbling down the orders, stamped them with her signet ring, and handed the rolled up parchment to her subordinate. Laurence saluted and strode off quickly; he knew now was not the time for politeness or unnecessary response.
"Colonel Gordon. Take your Battle and that of Major Willem and land somewhere around here." Claes thumbed a rough location on the map, well north of Oromis' landing point. "Leave the specifics to the Commodore. You are to identify the counteroffensive army and harry it. Cut supplies, kill scouts: slow them and starve them. Pay for any food you take from locals, and try to spread whatever propaganda your officers can cook up. When our God-King joins battle, you are to fully commit to the fight. "
Gordon replied with a chuckle. "Don't worry General, I'll bring back coin and glory as always.". Claes nodded, and after stamping the messily-scrawled yet detailed orders with her signet, handed the scroll to her Colonel. He too saluted, though only shifted a few feet to the right to study expected enemy force predictions. She signed papers and checked in with Agallon: horses were just now being loaded, arrow procurement was on schedule and supplies were being bought at cheaper-than-expected prices. Seeing all was well, Claes stood and made for a pair of officers in the corner, talking hurriedly about something to do with hempen rope.
Majors Koltos Sim and Domican Hellico could be mistaken for twins. The two lancer commanders were of medium height, very muscular and with faces more resembling bears than men. Sim had a longer nose, shorter, darker brown hair and was clean shaven, Hellico being slightly taller with a wider face and larger eyes, but Claes still marveled at how two unrelated people could resemble each other to such a degree. Their personalities did not share the odd resemblance their appearances did, but that was only to be expected.
"Major Sim, Major Hellico, good morning gentlemen." The two men instantly stopped their hurried discussion and turned on their heels, saluting almost simultaneously. "At ease, Majors. Sim, have you prepared unit for Tavellan?" Sim, the more jovial, less formal and more of a maverick, was the obvious choice to receive the newest member of the Winds. He responded loudly, but his voice was almost lost in the din of the room, Claes being a conservative few feet from the two unwashed lancers, both in various stages of half-dress.
"Aye General. 25 good swords, cream of the crop of the mercenaries 'round here, expensive to match. Glad you told me when you did, with the mobilization most the honest sellswords are getting pinched like pennies"
25 was more than Claes had expected, but that was only positive. "To whom did you assign them, Sim?"
"Captain Elias, General."
Elias was the natural choice: fair, ambitious and more than capable, Claes was glad Sim had made the decision. Tough choices have to be made, and should always be made well, but deniability is never something to be passed up.
"Excellent. Return to your duties, gentlemen." The three soldiers saluted, and Claes strode back to the table, her mind already jumping ahead to the next problem at hand.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marko was up at dawn with the rest of the Winds, but had managed to find time to wake up fully and look presentable. His short, jet-black hair was combed, his bushy mustache in good order, and his dark, tan skin washed to at least the lowest standards of hygiene. He had found, when he entered the planning room, that most of his work would be done for him: there was not too much of it to begin with, individual Captains not having to deal with supplies or ships or what-not, but even inspecting his men was being taken care of by others.
Instead he found himself outside the door of a bunkhouse, navigating through the nearly empty establishment towards the common room. The infantry seemed to be quality: two young elves and a dwarf who looked ten years too old to be on a battlefield, the rest strong looking men, the sort who follow orders and don't rape peasants or steal from the Company. He didn't expect any different. Major Sim, let alone the General, would never pay coin for troops that didn't follow orders to the letter, but he just hoped they knew how to ride at something above a trot.
He asked the attendant to fetch one Myra Travellan, and after a patient wait the man returned, with him an elf woman that could only be described as 'imposing'. 'Terrifying' could work too, he supposed, but he would save that one for later. Standing, he offered a hand to the woman, still getting over the surprise of meeting two fighting women so different from one another in the span of a few hours, and spoke in a clear, inviting tone.
"Captain Marko Elias, ma'am. I'm your new superior officer, at least for this coming operation. It's good to meet you, and I look forward to working with you in the coming days."
Claes stood hunched over a table strewn with papers, all around her a score or more soldiers and servants buzzed like angry bees. The sun had barely risen, and many of the officers had not had time to change from nightclothes to more presentable attire. Claes herself had debated saving the time and charging into the makeshift planning room in a nightgown and slippers, but thankfully thought better of it. As it stood she was the only one looking anything near presentable in the throng.
Last minute changes of plans are a soldier's nightmare, only becoming more monstrous as one increased in rank. Claes felt sorry for the man standing opposite the table from her, his face tight and fully concentrated as his right hand scrawled chits and notices, his left performing the requisite sums on a worn abacus. Major Agallon's olive skin was slick with perspiration, his long brown hair bedraggled and his attire unkempt. If last minute changes are terrible for commanders, they are perdition incarnate for logistics officers, and Claes could see the toll of the last few hours already showing on his face, every second filled with requests, reports and accusations. Claes would have to reward him for his excellent service after this affair was over, and lavishly indeed. She herself was not free from the grasping pleas for attention that so beset her Major, but hers were at least in a lesser volume. She was currently studying a map, flanked by Colonels Gordon and Ostilla.
She drew an imaginary line on the detailed and [hopefully] accurate map of their area of operations with her finger, from the coast to their objective city.
"Colonel Ostilla". Laurence's eyes widened suddenly, the General's address apparently pulling him out of a deep reverie. "You will take your Battle and that of Major Bayaz, with changes to uniform to hide your alignment to Oromis. Intercept communications, destroy reinforcing troops, and create a soft cordon of the city. When we arrive at the city proper, break cordon and rejoin the party. Seize food and supplies: you will not be able to give chits without revealing who you are, but do keep violence to a minimum. Nearby towns are to be assessed for risk or garrison. I expect you to punish looting as always, Colonel. Ah, and if you identify any people of importance, take them hostage." Claes finished scribbling down the orders, stamped them with her signet ring, and handed the rolled up parchment to her subordinate. Laurence saluted and strode off quickly; he knew now was not the time for politeness or unnecessary response.
"Colonel Gordon. Take your Battle and that of Major Willem and land somewhere around here." Claes thumbed a rough location on the map, well north of Oromis' landing point. "Leave the specifics to the Commodore. You are to identify the counteroffensive army and harry it. Cut supplies, kill scouts: slow them and starve them. Pay for any food you take from locals, and try to spread whatever propaganda your officers can cook up. When our God-King joins battle, you are to fully commit to the fight. "
Gordon replied with a chuckle. "Don't worry General, I'll bring back coin and glory as always.". Claes nodded, and after stamping the messily-scrawled yet detailed orders with her signet, handed the scroll to her Colonel. He too saluted, though only shifted a few feet to the right to study expected enemy force predictions. She signed papers and checked in with Agallon: horses were just now being loaded, arrow procurement was on schedule and supplies were being bought at cheaper-than-expected prices. Seeing all was well, Claes stood and made for a pair of officers in the corner, talking hurriedly about something to do with hempen rope.
Majors Koltos Sim and Domican Hellico could be mistaken for twins. The two lancer commanders were of medium height, very muscular and with faces more resembling bears than men. Sim had a longer nose, shorter, darker brown hair and was clean shaven, Hellico being slightly taller with a wider face and larger eyes, but Claes still marveled at how two unrelated people could resemble each other to such a degree. Their personalities did not share the odd resemblance their appearances did, but that was only to be expected.
"Major Sim, Major Hellico, good morning gentlemen." The two men instantly stopped their hurried discussion and turned on their heels, saluting almost simultaneously. "At ease, Majors. Sim, have you prepared unit for Tavellan?" Sim, the more jovial, less formal and more of a maverick, was the obvious choice to receive the newest member of the Winds. He responded loudly, but his voice was almost lost in the din of the room, Claes being a conservative few feet from the two unwashed lancers, both in various stages of half-dress.
"Aye General. 25 good swords, cream of the crop of the mercenaries 'round here, expensive to match. Glad you told me when you did, with the mobilization most the honest sellswords are getting pinched like pennies"
25 was more than Claes had expected, but that was only positive. "To whom did you assign them, Sim?"
"Captain Elias, General."
Elias was the natural choice: fair, ambitious and more than capable, Claes was glad Sim had made the decision. Tough choices have to be made, and should always be made well, but deniability is never something to be passed up.
"Excellent. Return to your duties, gentlemen." The three soldiers saluted, and Claes strode back to the table, her mind already jumping ahead to the next problem at hand.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marko was up at dawn with the rest of the Winds, but had managed to find time to wake up fully and look presentable. His short, jet-black hair was combed, his bushy mustache in good order, and his dark, tan skin washed to at least the lowest standards of hygiene. He had found, when he entered the planning room, that most of his work would be done for him: there was not too much of it to begin with, individual Captains not having to deal with supplies or ships or what-not, but even inspecting his men was being taken care of by others.
Instead he found himself outside the door of a bunkhouse, navigating through the nearly empty establishment towards the common room. The infantry seemed to be quality: two young elves and a dwarf who looked ten years too old to be on a battlefield, the rest strong looking men, the sort who follow orders and don't rape peasants or steal from the Company. He didn't expect any different. Major Sim, let alone the General, would never pay coin for troops that didn't follow orders to the letter, but he just hoped they knew how to ride at something above a trot.
He asked the attendant to fetch one Myra Travellan, and after a patient wait the man returned, with him an elf woman that could only be described as 'imposing'. 'Terrifying' could work too, he supposed, but he would save that one for later. Standing, he offered a hand to the woman, still getting over the surprise of meeting two fighting women so different from one another in the span of a few hours, and spoke in a clear, inviting tone.
"Captain Marko Elias, ma'am. I'm your new superior officer, at least for this coming operation. It's good to meet you, and I look forward to working with you in the coming days."
I think I need to whip up a proper order or battle. I'll get one up after work, then get to posting.
Fuuuuck I want to post, but I need to go to sleep now, and then immediately go to work. Which means it will be at least 17 hours until I can actually post.
I for one support a time skip.
They should be spending that time on developing HOI4 or maybe even Vicky 3.
Man the world needs Victoria 3.
This sounds up my alley something fierce.
EDIT: On second though, maybe not. RPs should not be joined brashly at 2am.
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