Personality: Howard is a man divided on many, many levels. Alienated from his birth by crime and adoption, he often struggles with a measure of discontent regarding his family and circumstances - and even when things are going well, he tends to feel like something is missing. As a result, he has a tendency to “overextend” himself, manifesting elements of a controlling or even narcissistic person. Most prominently, he is quick to find excuses for any problems he or others face - even after fusing with Union, he is quick to blame his former boss or others for his mistakes and the side effects of his failed experiments. The other Howard - who is called “Union” to distinguish him - is a much more relaxed and confident person, dangerously charismatic. He is also extremely certain - of his place in the universe, and how he is one of the few who can stop the darkness that is slowly corrupting his universe. Both versions tend to come off as somewhat conceited, just for fundamentally different reasons.
Costume: At "Union's" suggestion, Howard has created a suit designed to limit and "filter" any potential negative side effects of forcing matter to swap dimensions. This repurposed white and purple hazmat suit is streamlined and body-tight. It is based on designs from Union's home universe, using a mixture of polymers and metallic (silver, lead, copper) linings that are padded at the joints and neck. Most prominently, it contains a small electromagnetic generator at the base of the spine that is wired up to a series of coils that stretch up and around the middle of the suit, charging a protective field to more easily direct the flow of tachyons.
Origin: {In-Progress}
Hero Type: Grey Matter/Other Power Level: Street Level (in practice); World Level (hypothetically) Powers: Howard possesses the ability to “swap” matter between the two universes that he has combined. There is no excess energy created, but this works at the atomic level and the resulting displacement of materials can often have unexpected side-effects. For example, swapping a locked door in this universe might replace it with part of a tree, causing injury to others caught off-guard or even causing the building to collapse. -- A secondary effect of this power is that, when touching matter he intends to swap, he can begin to perceive the resultant effect by concentrating on it and closing his eyes. -- When using this power, there is a small chance that he will himself switch places with Union. This effect is cumulative, so the more he uses his power, the more the chance increases.
Attributes (Select one at each category):
Height: 5"3 Weight: 96 kilos Strength Level: Normal Human Speed/Reaction Timing: Normal Human Endurance (at MAXIMUM): Normal Human Agility: Normal Human Intelligence: Genius Fighting Skill: Untrained Resources: Average
Weaknesses: Howard is fundamentally a normal human being, physically speaking - he is thus as vulnerable to physical harm as anyone else. In addition to this, the fusion did not perfectly combine their minds, so when they switch there is often a lapse in memory - black outs or short-term amnesia, or concrete knowledge being replaced by vague feelings of deja vu, are all common place. Occasionally, the two of them will remember things that neither of them have experienced. "Union" theorizes this is some sort of "bleeding over" effect from any universes "between" their own.
Of note is that the swapping power itself is somewhat unpredictable. While Howard can usually "perceive" the effects of using his powers, this is not always accurate - on at least two occasions, he's almost impaled himself on shrapnel caused from "swapping" materials in our universe with partially constructed munitions or factory equipment.
Supporting Characters: Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?: Sample Post:
Well. That had certainly answered some questions. Unfortunately, it had raised plenty of others.
Everett had avoided lingering any longer than needed - he needed time to think, after all, and the open was not the place to do so. Without hesitation he'd grabbed one of the pamphlets and made his way to the edge of Midtown, a strange and seedy line drawn between the dense developed residencies and the ruins that seemed to personify the rest of the city. Standing in the shade, the mid-day sun still hot but in a more distant sense, he rested against a wall of concrete and thought carefully about what steps forward there would be.
Was she right? Was this really the way to make a difference? Could it really have been so simple, this whole time? The idea that the problems could be fixed by "the man on the ground" was one he'd always hoped as a child would be true, though the things he'd learnt as an adult had put those dreams to rest.
The thought of "facing resistance" wasn't comforting, but he'd had his fair share of run ins with the law, and she seemed to be a capable spokesperson and organizer... he could tell. Something about the way she had spoken, the way she had moved when addressing the people, the fact that she'd not backed down - even when her opening lines had caused more than a few angry murmurs from the people around him.
That girl has ideals. She knows what she believes in... and she's got no hesitation around fools-
Crunch.
The feeling of something soft and warm, wriggling at the back of his head, shook him from his thoughts. It was a strange and slightly eerie feeling that reached down into his stomach, and for just a moment he had the awful sensation that something very small and very ancient had just been snuffed out of existence.
"What, um... what was that?!" he thought, echoing in the dark golden light that he envisioned when his eyes were closed.
A delicate, pointed leg curled into the center of his mind's eye, My apologies, Mansa. I was making the best of an unusual circumstance.
A cold sweat crawled its way down the back of his neck.
"What... what does that even mean...?!" he seethed, his teeth gritting physically from the sheer focus on the internal discussion.
It is nothing of great importance - that place was surrounded by warm, ephemeral living things. They were beyond your perception, and your touch.
"Wait, you mean... did you just eat a ghost?!"
No.
Everett couldn't help but frown, pinching the bridge of his nose, the fume-stained oil of his finger tips coagulating into a thin grime that he would probably regret later if he couldn't get some sort of shower.
"Remind me one of these days to ask you more about this sort of stuff. It's weird enough having a magical spider in my brain without also, mmm... knowing the air is apparently filled with the equivalent of magical flies, too."
I will be certain to discuss it with you, Mansa.
Everett sighed physically, stretching his arms and cracking his knuckles with a single motion, before looking again at the pamphlet. There was the address, written in a tight, professional sort of font that he didn't recognize.
"Should I... what do you think? Is it worth a shot?"
A soft and rhythmic sound like swallowing, echoed in his inner ear.
The choice is yours, Mansa. You alone hold ruin and prosperity in your hands... however, I did feel something... strange, from this queen who holds fire.
"Queen?"
Undoubtedly, that mortal has the spirit of a queen in her voice. Her threads - at least the ones I could see - burn a zealous trail... for a certainty such a burning mind is one to guide a golden hand, if you are happy to allow it.
...
In fairness, he also had to think of where else he would go.
Between the risk of getting burned, or the oblivion of the pavement... what choice was there?
*********
The address led him south, through Midtown and beyond, and gradually the city thinned and industrialized. Cramped apartments gave way to construction - both abandoned and in-progress - which gave way to factories and warehouses. The horizon seemed to thin under an orange sky, as early evening set in and massive cargo ships docked and undocked from one end of the bay to the other.
Here, at the western edge of the bay, was an unremarkable building. Two stories tall, worn brick construction, though Everett didn't spend much time thinking about it. Even with the brief stop at the gym to use their showers - a trip that had cost him his last ten dollar bill - he was worn out, his thoughts foggy from hunger and the sun.
One shot to get this right... man, I really hope money talks.
He had trained himself to always keep his head low, his old duster black hat over his eyes, though it hadn't quite clicked the place was desolate and mundane, at least on the outside - there were no armed guards, no electric fences, no dogs or checkpoints.
Though if those flames were just for show, who knows how dangerous she is in an actual fight?
His shoes struck the concrete with an uneven beat as he approached the door, his breathing shallow, and tapped his knuckles against the glass door before opening it. Taking a moment to carefully close the door behind him, he tried to focus on the scene before him.
And then, with a deep breath, tried to hide his confusion. He had always been bad at hiding his expressions.
It's… much, much nicer in here than outside, wow. It’s even got that fresh paint smell.
I feel I might have led you astray, so please do not be fooled. I can see there is something lingering over this place.
The spider's echoes seemed to slow down, before fading gradually into the back of his mind, to the mere echo of a whisper - Traces and strands in the air. Please be cautious, Mansa. This queen of flames has stranger allies.
Everett swallowed, breathed again, and stepped forward. The reception had clearly been done up recently, with its sleek black desk and multi-layered coffee machine. The computers were the trendiest and latest models.
A number of abstract and surrealist paintings were hung up around the room, though most notable of all was a large blue poster. A man of bronze, his mouth bound by a cloth of red, white and blue - and there, beneath his chin, it read: “Patriotism means NO QUESTIONS.”
In every way he could think of it felt very much the modern, sleek office building - he half wondered if he’d accidentally walked too far and wound up in silicon valley.
But he wouldn't let himself be fooled. There was more to this place than met the eye.
"Hello, I..." he held up the pamphlet, wrinkled from his re-reading and from the sweat of his hands, "I was at the rally, near Midtown. I wanted to know how I could help with, um..."
He wiggled the fingers of his left-hand in an awkward sort of motion, though he had to pause mid-gesticulation with a hearty cough into his right sleeve.
He coughed again.
Once more.
...
Okay, that time he got it.
"Ahem," his accent finally becoming clearer from months of trying to 'blend in', "sorry about that. My name's Evan."
He paused again, the receptionist's expression more than a little uncertain.
The day had felt uncomfortably long, the hot sunshine on the bleak pavement seeming to bounce back ten times as strong, a furnace to his thick and sweat-soaked clothes - vest, shirt, coat, wide-brimmed hat. Beard, technically, though only for lack of less conspicuous disguises.
The smell of smoke lingered in his nose and the smell of vomit lingered in his clothes, and he'd kept to the alleyways with a hurried pace, head down and out of sight as much as possible despite his feet and belly begging him to take a break. He feared much more than the police right now, so close to his goal...
In his left hand he clutched the tattered paper - a shoddy pamphlet, dry and decaying at the edges from anyone's guess how long of drifting on the wind or clinging to awkward corners of roof-tops or tree branches. On its reverse side was a map to the district, a cramped and over-developed area north of Midtown. It seemed like an okay sort of place to live, but in that dense and unyielding way that was so common to city residences.
Will these people show you the way, Mansa? whispered the spider, its voice echoing in his mind in time with the constant, uneasy quiet of the place, Or will you show them?
They promise prosperity... but they wouldn't be holding a rally if they didn't need a little help, after all.
The meeting place of the rally itself was a humble street corner, a rummaged together black and silver stage like some sort of street band, aluminium pipes linked up to low-cost stage equipment. The pizza joint opposite seemed empty, as people avoided lingering too long in the area aside from those attending the rally...
And all around, steadily increasing as he got closer, was a number of posters and graffiti - both in support and violent opposition - discussing metahumans or magic. He'd noticed a slight uptick in the number of police cars on the main roads, but he had steadily practiced the art of remaining unnoticed through sheer quality of unlikable smallness.
"Bum dressed in decaying beige" was not exactly a fashionable look, and the thick, matted stubble around his chin was constantly itchy. It was hardly a fitting look for the title the spider claimed was his, but the greatest kings had come from nothing, hadn't they?
As he approached the crowd, his mind wandered to that morning, and the line between charity and pragmatism.
----
That morning he had rested in the blasted out shell of a building, the place he'd called camp, until eleven. The warnings of the spider from the night before had been for nothing more than a lost soul called "Jack", and through the night and morning they'd developed a quiet, sudden sort of bond, even sharing his last few snacks with the man.
Jack had been in even worse shape then he was, drunk out of his mind and clad in a spit-laden old bomber's jacket, the last remnant of a Jack Daniel's gripped in his hand and ever more stale at the inside of the bottle.
The majority of Jack's Daniels came back up in a stinking torrent, staining the base of Everett's trousers as his breathing laboured, his eyes deteriorating somewhat, trying to maintain consciousness.
Everett's eyes went wide, panicking at the sad, yellowing sockets where the man's own eyes still barely remained, diluted and dazed.
Will you watch him die? whispered the spider, You need not choose prosperity.
But Everett knew there was no danger here. Only dust, and despair.
Desperately, Everett reached into his bag, pulling out the last water bottle, carefully bracing Jack's head against his knee, leaning him forward to raise the bottle to his lips. Everett's nose curled and he wanted to vomit, the man's acrid breath close to his, though he quickly reprimanded himself, bottling the instinct and reining in his focus.
"Not worth worrying about. Prosperity or ruin my ass! Right now it's just two guys in hell."
Most of it dribbled down his matted beard, but it didn't matter. Everett watched as the man's lips curled around the bottle, sipping it slowly. Trace by trace the man's thirst took over, his body's survival instinct kicking in strongly enough to overcome the terrible desire for death that his conscious mind had clung to.
As the last of it ran out, and Everett slowly reached down to take the mostly empty whiskey bottle from Jack, he was comforted to feel the slow and rhythmic breathing against his knee. Snoring loudly but soundly, Everett took the towel from his bag - for the most part a ragged and dirty thing, unwashed for longer than he liked to think about - and curled it, a makeshift pillow.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Everett suddenly realized that he could feel his own chest pounding. The same sensation as when the secret service had been pursuing him, but now...
This relief, this energy of survival, was stronger than before. There was a meaning to it. Something bigger than himself.
He looked down at the empty glass bottle in his hand, and pondered what awful circumstances had led Jack to this situation. The point at which wealth was but one of the problems, something deeper and more wicked than gold could fix alone.
... But I can't leave him with nothing.
Your hands hold prosperity, but freedom's gift is still theirs' to choose.
Jack would wake up the next morning alone, still alive, with a vaguely bottle shaped lump of gold in his hand. Next to it was a note, with the address for a pawn broker - one of the few in the city who hadn’t yet had a stranger pay them a visit in gold.
…
Now if only the police weren’t on the lookout for reports of a bum with golden hands.
----
At the rally he lingered at the back, unnoticed by all except those who stood closest to him. He got a few grubby looks and one guy’s expression read like a bulldog staring at its own vomit, but he tried to avoid getting too down about it.
Their focus was drawn, after all, by the scene of the stage - the person about to speak was a someone, and a someone who would change the world forever.
Species & Population: Orichal (majority - approx. 550,000); Bloodmarked (north island minority - approx. 50,000); Human (subjects/allies - approx. 130,000); Refik (allies - population uncertain, but majority do not have any contact with the orichal, though they do have a non-aggression deal)
A mighty race of giants, the average Orichal is a fearsome sight. Twice the height of a man, a muscular and faintly rubbery or reptilian physique of grey-blue scales, marked by flecks of shimmering gold. Each hand and foot is a four-digited claw, a raking weapon with sharpness and strength enough to cut through toughened leather. Meanwhile its skull is a sight to behold. Wide and slavering jaws within a domed head, two great tusks and a heavy tongue, the top-lip lined with deep and hollow nostrils. To the side of the skull rest four curved and frilled ears, to the unaware a simple set of holes into the skull, yet wonderfully complex within the echoes of their darkened homes.
And there, most famous of their features, in the centre of the skull. There lies the great round eye, piercing and many-lensed, a complex organ that sees into the hearts of its prey. It picks up every feature, every notice of weakness or injury or fear, and then it lunges with the ferocity and might of a rage-filled bear...
Or so some might have you believe. In truth, for all their physical might and ferocity in battle, by nature the Orichal are pensive, pessimistic, and communal. They form mated pairs - though to a human eye it is hard to discern male from female - which bond for life, the male moving in with his new kin's cavern, whereupon they take great concern and care upon their newborns, alive and screaming into the world.
It takes many years - some say close to three decades - for a child of their kind to reach the prime of maturity, but from there they age slowly. Unended by battle or disease - a rarity amongst their hardy kind - a mature Orichal may live for close to three centuries, if the oldest of their number are to be taken as the example. Their scales ever-dulling and hardening with age, in the end there is nothing left. Their annual hibernation grows longer and longer, until at last death carves its final marker into their skin, and they remain a lifeless statue for their descendants to worship, a body entombed within its own skin.
Most Orichal have notable specks of golden-orange discoloration in their scales. Certain patterns of these are more prevalent in certain settlements, and these reoccurring patterns are linked together with golden-brown paint to help indicate the settlement to which each individual belongs as well as, on a more personal level, parental lineage.
However, many of the Orichal settlements on the islands north of Ruinous Petra are mainly inhabited by a slightly shorter and stockier breed of their people, most clearly distinguished by the dark red of their spots and subsequent patterns. These are the Bloodmarked, descendants of those who returned from their northern settlements in following the Crisis of Rejection. Their long isolation from the "trueborn" Orichal was seen as a stain on their culture and their bloodlines, and after peace finally settled on the islands, their settlements remained largely isolated.
Culture and Society: At heart, the Orichal lead simple lives. Their culture is organized into small settlements, usually of no more than two hundred individuals, who work together to support themselves. Each settlement will have a small orchard of mangroves, giant yams, mushrooms, or starch-rich root farms that it routinely harvests and reseeds, exchanging these seeds with their neighbours to ensure an even and circular spreading of crops, minimizing the risk of disease.
That said, the size and might of the Orichal has made them excellent hunters, and thus they supplement their diet with the flesh of beasts and fish. Upon fishing rafts, strung together from bone and the few trees remaining of the island, or from the dried out husks of their crops, they cast nets of rope and hunt with elegant stone spears, bringing back the carcasses of whales and squid and stranger, more monstrous prey.
For as long as they can remember, the Orichal have paid solemn respect to their three gods - of Storm, of Stone, and Sea. These three gods are not moral agents - they are beings of Chaos, of Order, and of Life, respectively - and are all both respected, beloved, and feared in equal measure. Dotting the islands are a number of shrines - spiraling, pointed structures. Those pointed west, built atop the highest points on their islands, are dedicated to the Storm. Those pointed east, in caverns and halls, are dedicated to the Stone. And those pointed south, dotting the coastline of every island, are those dedicated to the Sea.
-- The Storm, and Stormseeing The Storm of the West is their father, the ancestral origin of their people. It is ferocity and wisdom, chaos and thought, speed and emotion. They see in it the struggle of survival, and the endless possibilities of the future - so long as one does not forget their roots in the madness, and succumb to mindless chaos.
The orespeakers have a sacred ritual in the guidance of their people, the art of stormsight. When storm clouds gather and the wind begins to stir, an orespeaker from each settlement gathers at the closest shrine to the storm. There they ascend the spiral, and rest upon its rooftop. Consuming the sacred ore, their brain pan is opened with a ceremonial dagger, and a powder made from the sacred ore is applied directly to the eye, chest, and exposed brain.
In a meditative state they wait, for hour after hour, as the wind howls and the rain falls and the roar of thunder fills their ears. There, in the midst of the lightning, it flashes - the paths into the future, burnt into their mind like a bolt of lightning, permanently scarred into their memory. Those who survive - surprisingly many, for their bodies are not conducive to lightning and their organs are sturdy - descend the shrine, and gather at the capital of Ruinous Petra, comparing their visions with one another. The most common messages are those brought forward to the elder warriors of their people, who in turn will settle upon the path to take.
-- The Stone, Stonesculpting, and the great Hunting Fortresses The Stone of the East is their mother, the resting place of their people. It is caution and endurance, intellect and design, strength and silence. They hear in it the echoes of the dead, and the power of history, of tradition, and of their cherished elders.
The ritual of stonesculpting is one of the most integral, especially in their present situation. As the orespeaker meditates, consuming a portion of sacred ore, another portion of the sacred ore is crushed into a powder and mixed with sea water. The mixture is applied to a portion of heavy stone, engraved with sacred ridge-marks. As the orespeaker whispers into the mixture, eye wide open, the mixture bleeds into the ridge-marks and the stone, creating a layer of ambient magical energy across the surface of the stone.
Now it and the orespeaker are one, and with a mental push, the field shifts and compresses, the stone sculpted with no more struggle than a mass of mud... to the orespeaker. No one else can interact with it in this way, save another orespeaker who has prepared the same stone in the same way. For life, the orespeaker and the stone are as one.
Of note is that the stone is now buoyant - the field that layers it causes it to push up and away from water, as buoyant as wood. It can support a great deal of weight, and loses none of its strength or rigidity. When used as the platform, in layer upon layer, the Orichal have mastered a unique art - of essentially floating islands, tiny fortresses of their own construction that move with shocking speed, if somewhat lacking in agility. Supported by might frames and battlements of wood and iron and coral stone, grown and sculpted by orespeaker and Refik alike, these "Hunting Fortresses" have become the hope and glory of the Orichal, as legendary and fearsome as the Orichal themselves.
-- The Sea, and Seasalving The Sea of the South is their friend, parent of the Refik. It is life itself, and disaster, and food, and wealth. From its clarity comes cleanliness, and from its wide, dark depths an abundance is found.
Last of the orespeaker's arts is that of seasalving, the blessing of sea-water. The orespeaker consumes the sacred ore, and upon their spit a portion of water is blessed. In so doing, all of its sediment, salt, and other impurities is forced to the surface in a magical "skin" that is easily cleared away. Even more useful, the purified water has a warming and pleasant effect to any who consume it, their spirit feeling lighter, their aches and pains feeling less of an obstacle, and their thoughts find clarity.
A Note: The Orichal rely almost exclusively on oral history, especially regarding their early history, much of it extremely ancient. Because of this, much of it is embellished and the lines between myth, legend, and history are often unclear. If something in this history seems contradictory to the accounts of other nations, there is a high likelihood that the Orichal are speaking in allegory, or simply don't understand the truth of a given situation.
-- Origin of the Orichal, and the settlements of Ruinous Petra In the time before times, when the four primordial Titans seized upon the nothing of the world, they had a dream. Each shared it with the next. "I saw nothing - now, anything." whispered Chaos, and so was born the Storm in the West. "I saw madness - now, stability." whispered Order, and so was born the Stone in the East. "I saw emptiness - now, fertility." whispered Life, and so was born the Sea in the South.
And from this shared dream of three, there strode the Orichal, offspring of the West and the East. From the South were born the Refik, strange-friend of the Orichal. Meanwhile, the fourth Titan watched. The weakest and most jealous of its kind, with two eyes it split its soul in half.
"I saw vitality - now, disease. I saw peace - now, war." whispered Death, and so was born the Soil in the North. At that, the four Titans rested, and the seasons turned. Upon their home the Orichal dwelt, Ruinous Petra and her children, and the first of their settlements they built.
-- The First Orespeakers, the Refik, and the settlements of Lost Stormfall Upon Ruinous Petra they dwelt, in prosperity and peace. From stone they built simple halls, from the trees and roots they found sustenance, and from the beasts they found flesh and fame. But the mysteries of Stone were yet to be revealed in that age. For the most bounteous of the gifts of Stone yet lay dormant, till the first Orespeaker - the mason Phemus - consumed the stone in his arrogance, sensing its power and thinking himself a reincarnation of the Titan of Stone. With ravenous hunger he consumed and consumed, sordid and silent, and there was fear.
Then arose the Storm in the West, and Phemus gazed upon it. Phemus was a weak fellow, accused of consorting with a devil of Soil, his brain pan fragile. When his younger twin brother Gargant struck him upon Petra's Peak, he gazed into the oncoming Storm. Its lightning burned, and in a flash of divine inspiration, he saw the paths ahead.
With secrets strange he convinced his brother, and together they encountered the Refik. These slippery and cunning creatures of the Sea in the South, young Gargant did not trust them, but in their plight and in their nature Phemus saw wisdom, and companionship. He spoke and consorted, and in their shared heritage of Titans he was led to distant isles. Others followed, and so were born the settlements of Lost Stormfall, the five islands of the east.
-- Mankind's Arrival, and the settlements of the Bloodmarked Phemus's brother Gargant was a rigid and violent child, a warrior, but he could see the new potential in his brother and slowly the poison of envy did cloud his aging eye. He brought forth his daughters, and with a greedy cunning he guided them to build yet more stone ships, and thus journey into the Soil of the North.
Now at this time the North was barren, and dull, and filled with a vast emptiness of beasts to hunt. The daughters of Gargant lay claim to it, and built many settlements from the first stone ships. It was a time of struggle and of glory, of bloodshed and of hollow words.
For now the fourth Titan began to awaken. As the seasons change and the noise of battle drew him forth, the one called Death saw a terrible opportunity. The daughters of Gargant, in their revelry, did bring forth the dreaded weakling, the half-soul two-eye, the despoiler of lands. In numbers terrible they came from the Soil, and in the violence of that age there was thus the settlements of the Bloodmarked.
-- The Crisis of Rejection, and the sorrow of Ruinous Petra Peace was uneasy and often elusive, as the half-souls grew ever more numerous. Their pettiness began to corrupt the Orichal of the Bloodmarked, forever leaving them with specks of coral red upon the eye, not true Stone-bled gold.
For a time this peace remained, but as the Bloodmarked felt the starkness of their difference and the envy of man grew greater, it was only a matter of time. Their orespeakers foresaw the calamity, and many fled south. As was true now, was true then, for the divine warnings also reached their cousins at Lost Stormfall. In a blight of war and disease they fled home, and the many two-eyed fingers of Death did creep upon the edges of Ruinous Petra.
It was a bloody battle, but at last they smote their wretched foes upon the rocks. Amidst the struggle, the surviving Bloodmarked were banished to the southern smallest islands for their treachery, vowed to forever watch.
"Let it be said," said the orespeakers of that crisis, "that the Soil is rejected, and its children rejected, and its greed rejected. Ruinous Petra is our mother, our home, and our future."
Thus they vowed, and thus they waited, to push back extinction.
-- The Age of Offspring, and the mastery of Stone In quiet contemplation they remained upon Ruinous Petra. The Sea offered its bounty, and their friends the Refik continued to squabble, and Chaos and Order and Life were in abundance. It was a patient time, of lessons learned and children reared.
The orespeakers mastered and refined their arts - the art of staring into the Storm, that one might see the paths in waiting; the art of sculpting Stone and coral, of monuments and smithing; and the art of healing the Sea, of purity and holiness and the warmth of the spirit. Some of these things the Refik taught. Some of these things they taught themselves.
-- The Age of Resting, and the joining of Soils During that time, the half souls and the two eyes were rare, and often unwelcomed. Some would try to enslave them, while others treated them as meat, and yet others forced them back out to sea on flimsy rafts without provision. There was a cruelty there, born of ignorance, born of hatred and vengeance.
One day the orespeaker Gravos was in quiet meditation, at the very edge of the rocks, and was shocked to be disturbed by a ragged human. At first she was hungry, and sought to eat him, but it quickly became apparent he was not fleeing - instead, he rushed to get her attention, away from the nearby grass. Without hesitation she turned to focus on the subject of his protection, and there in the foliage was a woman, and her child.
The family begged Gravos, and while their speech was hard to discern, the message was clear - "Spare the child, please. We have nothing left." So moved was Gravos by this plight, and the twinge of a long-faded memory, that she agreed to shelter the human family. They helped her around her humble cave, and in exchange she offered them yams and water, and the exchange of knowledge. Slowly but surely, they learnt to communicate, and Gravos was troubled.
"There is no malice here," she thought, "Only fear, and love, and loss."
Not so different from an orichal, really. At once she led them to Petra's Peak, and the Orespeaker's Council.
-- Destruction in the East H
-- By Stone, by Storm and by Sea, so begins the Orichal Age
Territorial Claims:
Economy: -- Primarily hunters and subsistence farmers. Have basically nothing of value to other nations other than their sacred ore, that they refuse to trade. What few things they do own and produce are shared communally and rarely is in excess of their needs, so trade is difficult to set up or benefit from. -- Food production is sufficient for their needs but has begun to show signs of strain in the wake of a steadily increasing population, which coupled with their fears of a coming cataclysm upon their islands have served as a great motivation for the frequent hunting voyages. ---- "Homegrown food" is mainly in the form of large yams; a grainy but nutritious tuber called the rokoot as well as the excess roots of that plant; as well as a variety of fish and shellfish, domesticated goats, and caught game such as deer, boar, and harpies (a kind of violent wild fowl).
Army: Mighty warriors and hunters, a single Orichal is exceptionally dangerous and ferocious, and they have patiently studied and mastered the art of fighting as a group. However, their eye presents a notable physical weakness and their small numbers greatly limit their force projection on land. Usually armed with crudely melted down and "reforged" metal weapons stolen in raids on human settlements, or more often long, thick-shafted iron spears or clubs and maces. Most deadly of all are the slings they carry, allowing them to launch heavy rocks almost the size of a human skull, with tremendous speed, range and accuracy.
-- Hunters & Harpies ("Militia-Support") Although much rarer in recent centuries, their home islands of Ruinous Petra were once home to great and monstrous beasts. These creatures were often hunted purely for food and protection, though during the Crisis of Rejection many of these creatures were hunted to the point of extinction purely to sustain the surge in population, leading to an ecological collapse that devastated the islands and the maximum population of the Orichal and other life there for several millennia. The art of hunting in the past century and a half is now largely left to the warriors upon the great Hunting Fortresses, but ordinary Orichal at home do still build and set up traps for more mundane species such as deer and boar, and the support crews on the Hunting Fortresses are likewise skilled with javelin or sling. Though not considered "professional warriors", they are respected in spite of their relative lack of experience or dedicated training. A side note is that many of these Hunters also make use of small flocks of harpies, meter long birds of prey that inhabit Ruinous Petra and its isles (especially in the south) and many of which have been tamed. Nesting in the upper tiers of the Fortresses, their vicious personalities and sharp claws coupled with a strong pack mentality make them loyal companions - whether catching vermin, hunting sheep, or striking at enemy combatants with their claws.
-- Pack Warrior ("Infantry") The term used for the primary crews and raiding or hunting parties of the Hunting Fortresses, and thus the Orichal tasked with hunting the great beasts of the ocean for food, or in the raiding of ships and settlements. The Pack Warriors train often in the use of the spear, sling, and mace or club, and are ferocious warriors clad in simplistic but thick padded leather armour, often wearing a simple "mask" or "veil" of metal chains to protect their eye when going into battle against human opponents. Each warrior is assigned to a pack, usually consisting of a dozen warriors, led by a pack master and supported by a small group of four or so pathfinders, as well as usually having a few bloodmarked and stormhearts. -- Pack Master ("Leadership") The term used for the individual placed in charge of a pack, usually made up of the oldest or most experienced of its warriors. Though rarely better equipped, the pack master is often appointed to the position by an orespeaker for reasons greater than raw strength or skill in combat - many of them are surprisingly eloquent speakers, as well as having an emotional composure, confidence, and mind for strategy that makes them capable leaders adept at maintaining the morale of the pack. Those masters too old or injured to take part in hunts or raids themselves often remain on Ruinous Petra and become respected leaders in the home settlements, or else remain onboard the Hunting Fortresses as navigators and captains. -- Stormhearts ("Warrior Orespeakers") Most packs will be supported by an orespeaker, albeit one equipped for battle. Usually clad in some form of scaled or multiple component armour and carrying weapons and shields of heavy rock and coral that they themselves have sculpted and thus remains light-weight in their hands, a stormheart is a great boon to a pack, since his or her presence is a powerful form of motivation and spiritual comfort. In addition, the knowledge of a stormheart in the arts of seasalving and surgery makes them effective healers, and they often carry satchels of pain-numbing or curative herbs and roots. -- Pathfinders ("Scouts/Skirmishers") The youngest and most agile amongst the Orichal Hunters are often given the name of pathfinder, and are armed with javelins and darts as well as slings or powerful capturing weapons like the bolas, and a knowledge of building traps. These pathfinders operate in small groups or pairs, usually no more than four, and are tasked with observing and mapping out terrain. In battle, they often serve as harassers or flankers, laying in ambush while the majority of the pack lures the enemy into a preferred fighting area. -- Bloodmarked ("Heavy Infantry") During the Crisis of Rejection, many Orichal from the northern settlements on the mainland - whose long isolation had left them distinctive physical features, most notably a red discoloration of normally golden "specks" on their scales and a certain consistent "redness" to the veins in their eye - were viewed with suspicion, and as resources became harder to distribute and disease began to spread, they were blamed for it. The ensuing civil war, coupled with the other aforementioned issues, led to an ecological collapse on Ruinous Petra that devastated the islands for millennia. The surviving Bloodmarked, having clung to survival but not independence through their settlements on the islands just north of Ruinous Petra, have long been considered a subservient people... they are, however, famed for their ferocity and martial strength. They contribute a small "tribute" of their greatest warriors as representatives onboard the Hunting Fortresses, where they serve a unique role as heavy shock troops, clad in multiple layers of crude but effective iron armour and carrying massive tower-shields. They do not fight from a distance, but are instead vowed to take up defensive battle-line at the vanguard of the Pack Warriors that they are assigned to.
Navy: (description in progress) Sculpting great stone ships from the massive boulders of their home-island, blessed by Orespeakers in the midst of a storm, the stone becomes lighter than water and crackles with lightning. While relatively few, each stone ship is a surprisingly quick and near-impenetrable fortress, coated in spikes and slates of unyielding stone armour. Within the gut of the ship is enclosed a sacred, ornate chamber in which the Orespeaker meditates, their mind stretched out through the body of the ship, their eye forever linked to the magical field that permeates the layers of the ship.
-- Fishing Rafts ("Civilian"-"Militia"-"Boarding/Raiding") Before the mastery of stonesculpting by the orespeakers, the Orichal made extensive use of the once abundant forests on Ruinous Petra to craft wide rafts with large, crude fur sails and to set cross across their neighbouring isles and beyond. After the Crisis of Rejection, however, these rudimentary craft primarily served as simple fishing vessels, and many of them have been well-maintained by the descendants of those who first built them. There have been some refinements in the design, of course, but these simplistic craft serve no combat function save in the most dire of situations - even an untrained Orichal fisher, armed with net and dart-thrower, is a deadly foe if pushed into danger. Notably, most Hunting Fortresses will contain a number of specially reinforced "Hunting Rafts", reinforced with metal and coral and lined with metal or wooden shields. These smaller vessels are used for scouting and raiding on land, or to attack ships in less heavily destructive ways than their slings or javelins might.
-- Refik Mercenaries ("Raiding"-"Amphibious") The orichal work closely with the refik inhabiting the coral reefs and shallow waters surrounding the Petrese islands. While in ancient times there was anger between the two peoples, in recent centuries the expansion of human activity throughout the south sea has left the once powerful refik in an increasingly desperate situation, forcing them further and further into deep waters where they are often preyed upon by great sea monsters. In addition to helping in the maintenance and construction of the great hunting fortresses, the bands of refik will often congregate and attach themselves to the fortresses, using the psychological effects of the massive vessels as a protection that allows them to travel along much deeper water currents than would be otherwise considered safe, and giving them a sort of political clout among the other tribes and kingdoms of their secretive and mercenary people. In exchange, they offer their assistance in battle and fishing while the hunting fortresses are on their voyages - by helping to distract or flank sea monsters, by sabotaging human ships from underneath, and by helping to lure or pressure fish into the waiting nets of hungry orichal sailors.
-- Hunting Fortress ("Raiding"-"Siege"-"Landing") The keystone in the orichal plan for a new home and ultimate control of the south seas, the hunting fortresses are immense and multi-tiered ships, each over sixty meters long and -- Reclaimer of Ages ("Ship of the Line")
Traits: (description in progress; names and balancing pending) Giants of the South Sea {+} Their fearsome reputation, massive Hunting Fortresses, and raw primal size and strength are naturally intimidating to all but the most battle hardened. In situations calling for shows of force or intimidation, they have a natural advantage and enemy forces in battle often suffer from poor morale at the prospect of fighting them, especially at sea. {-} The stereotype of the "dumb brute" is often applied to them, and their practices of piracy, raiding, and of eating those that resist them are all viewed with contempt and anger. Diplomatic relationships with all of their human neighbours is quite poor.
Ancestral Wisdom {+} Their society and culture highly value age, experience and wisdom. They entrust all of their most important decisions to those felt to be the wisest in society, though with an emphasis on communication and the exchange of ideas between individuals, families, and settlements. Despite a lack of complex or centralized structure, the Orichal are adept at organizing themselves, even for quite large and time-consuming projects. {-} Their overly past and tradition centric worldview often stifles their individualism and willingness to adapt to new situations, and their tendency to view other races and peoples with contempt limits their ability to learn new strategies and techniques from others.
The Ore is Sacred {+} {-} Because of their strongly held religious traditions regarding the nature of the "sacred ore", the Orichal are not willing to sell or trade it. In fact, they find the largely materialistic way other societies treat the ore to be deeply disrespectful, and see the act of stealing it (usually by force) from "unworthy hands" to be a holy act.
Servants of the Storm {+} The Orichal are used to the frequent heavy rainstorms that batter their islands, especially during the approach of the "storm season", or monsoon. They are used to living and working in the rain and the wind, and build their homes and settlements in ways to minimize the damage potentially caused. Combined with their sturdy bodies, good low-light vision and other senses, and strong religious ideas surrounding storms, they suffer far fewer penalties or problems in harsh weather than other societies might. {-}
Foreign Relations: Primarily connected to the Exiles of the Barren Isles and Caelrumoste. Generally negative, but open to some form of discussion.
Rolls: (Rolled by GM in the Discord Server. Just ping me, and I’ll roll as soon as I’m able.) Land Area: 5 - 2 = 3 Land Fertility: 3 + 5 = 8 Development: 3 (swap) >12 = 12 Land Power: 17 - 2 = 15 Naval Power: 16 + 2 = 18 Economy: 12 (swap) >3 = 3 Magical Reserves: 19 - 1 = 18 Magical Sophistication: 10 + 3 = 13
Detroit, Downtown, abandoned construction site 11:48pm, July 6th
The young man sneered, the cold evening breeze having stung his eyes a little. He reached up with thin, dusty fingers to wipe it away, but winced as a trace of the ruins lingered behind. Only the glow of a small trash fire illuminated the area around him, the disorientation making the shadows in the peripheral all the worst.
In theory he should have grown used to them over these last few days, but in practice it was painfully difficult.
This place was not his home after all, but it was his residence for now. A blasted ruin of human failing, an image of an image, a shell within a shell. Twenty stories worth of what-could-have-been, collapsed by debt to the point where only those judged could hope to stay, away from the eyes of any who would hurt them.
Mansa, can you hear them? whispered the spider, Here, in the darkness. Your hiding place has been disturbed.
"I told you not to call me that-"
One cannot deny one's truth. Your hands hold the balance of ruin and prosperity. You are the Mansa, you mus-.
His stomach grumbling caught the spider off-guard, "Finally," and turned his attention to more immediate matters. He reached into the bag he had with him, pulling out a small peanut bar. Its aging orange wrapper was pristine by comparison to even the air surrounding it. It wasn't much, but after the first couple of bites he tried to chew more slowly, to linger on it. The sweetness of the chocolate, the saltiness on his tongue.
As he chewed, focusing his mind on every aspect of its texture, its colour, even things as inane as the history of the brand or the specific ingredients. Anything to get away from the ramblings of that damn spider.
Or the past. Or the future...
"...or the present."
He sniffed, the peanut catching in his throat a little as his body quivered, the taunting demons ever just out of reach, lingering in the darkness. He felt the pain begin to leave his body, running down the sides of his face, the quivering changing to jolts, the unfinished candy falling from his fingers as he lent his face into his knees.
But hope would not vanish forever, as a small piece of paper drifted on the wind, and found its way to the edge of the light...
Sorry about my lack of activity guys, just caught up with the OOC section and need to catch up with the current IC situation as well.
Since my ideas for 'lone story arcs' for Everett seem to have been hijacked by my brain into becoming independent stories outside of the RP, I'm going to try and get involved with more collab stuff for Everett and have him involved in other player's story arcs, if they so wish.
Is there anyone in particular who would be interested in collabing, or any specific side plots that could work well if Everett was to show up and join?
I'm really sorry about this, but I think it's probably best for me to drop out of this. Every time I try to sit down and do a bobbling post I just get this big creative blank space and nothing really seems to be shifting it.
Well, I finally got out of hospital but have been reeling since I started suffering from a lot of the same symptoms again, so I've been feeling exhausted - mentally and physically - a lot of the time and have made little progress on my creative projects, Helium Frightful included.
I dunno how long it's gonna take me to recover from this and get back into the normal swing of things, honestly ):
My apologies for lack of posts, I have been extremely ill the last few days and am now in hospital expecting an operation soon. It's nothing dangerous, but I'm sure y'all can appreciate my creativity has taken something of a hit right now, dehydration and medication are a fun combination.
I will post once I'm back home with laptop access and feeling a little better. ^_^
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