Government: The Kroak are a primitive people. And like all primitive people, they have been subject to manipulation by those more advanced--and in the case of the Kroak brains that work a bit better. But do not confuse their lack of intellect with a lack of spirit, culture, or the fundamental chutzpah it takes to survive in a world such as theirs. To survive you must harness forces more powerful than yourself, adapt them to your needs, and use the flow of the world around you even if you do not understand it.
Chief among these manipulations in the recent age is simply known as “the Voice.” Something-- a craft, an asteroid, a monstrosity-- tore into the marsh many ages ago and sunk deep into her loam. It fashioned a creator the size of a lake, and a lake it became. The Kroak, at the dawn of their bronze age, claimed the carapace of this great thing. They call her the Gular, the creator of the greatest song. Whether the cities were built on top of the artifact, or the artifact being a city itself is lost to the old croaks. All that is known is that this structure and the harmony it produces leads the people of the Kroak diaspora mind and soul.
- --- -
Demographics: The Kroak are an amphibious race of vagabonds, story tellers, and cold blooded killers. They do not prescribe to the common “moralities” of wind breaths. Theirs is a world of survival against nature, the rifts, and themselves. Quick to ally and betray in the same sentence. When those you deal with may evaporate overnight into the ether, so too do useless promises. Songs are not sung of those without action, drama, or conflict. For those who cannot survive, songs are not sung at all.
- The Top Land: All the lands that surround the Gular Pond. They are heavily waterlogged fens. Fungi are her cheif life and their perpetual spores hang about the air like glowing chafe. Flying insects infest her swaths, and the top predators (even to the Kroak) are her flora.
- Gular Pond: Warm darkness and a voice.
- --- -
Society: A simple chorus of simple people. Yet those who live their feeble lives with a raging hunger. They hunger for glory, purpose, and a path to take their people to the next tomorrow. They bound this path at any cost. And those who can find the path no longer help in its retelling. It is a path that has ebbed and streamed for thousands of generations. It is a symphony with the cruel world around it. The beauty it tells is all its own. Like the marsh they have spread. They are a tidewater that will see itself reach every corner of these lands. It is not an option, it is a force. Like creeping tides, it is their nature. It is called to them by their very existence. Called from the great Gular song beneath.
- --- -
Military: Quite... amphibious.
-- Land --
The Kroak operate in small bands with emphasis on speed and aggression. Their simplicity of dress and design betrays the technology they hold. Though aesthetically and functionally spears, the primary armaments' of Kroak Marine Raiders are particle long rifles.
_________________________________________________________ Nine-Oh_One Control Room _________________________________________________________
The smooth smoke of menthol and cannabis danced in tandem toward the ceiling. In a large, musty control room sat an unassuming man. He took another long draw on his spliff. His hand hung loosely about the tool as though years of practice had made it a spare limb. Tom Dop was in charge of this place, the maintenance of it at least. An abandoned chamber of seats and lights, and buttons and switches. It was an amphitheater with no performance to be had. The once plush chairs of the senate were in disrepair. Try as he might, Tom could not keep 120 year old furniture from its inevitable decay. And no amount of griping would change the funds for something so useless; in fact, no amount of griping would change anything around here, and so Tom did little of it. He simply sat in a vacant seat, one that still functioned without total collapse, and enjoyed his 15 minute break from cleaning the rotting carcass of this once great palace.
He scrolled aimlessly on his datapad. The vibrant lights of the life outdoors seeped into his eyes. The highlight real of every one he had ever made the acquaintance of greeted him, and yet these manicured images paled in comparison to the vibrance of Kawasaki adverts, catastrophes in foreign slums, genocide in Taloset. Short videos displayed images of horror with closed captioning at its base to explain. He appreciated the large font. It was kind of the world to keep him so well in the loop. Kind of the Architects to make a system of intergalactic jump gates. Though ironic that the only thing these jump gates brought to this simple man’s life was a couple wasted minutes scrolling on his already thinning lunch break.
Tom peeked at the clock above, three minutes left. Damn. His joints ached knowing they would soon be called back into action. One last scroll, one last post to sooth and gelatinize his brain. It was the image of a little girl from her hospital bed. She stared longingly out of the window on the bustling streets of New Memphis. Tom immediately noticed the area was a nice district, the kind only good rich families could afford--perhaps that is what made the post so much more moving. She was dying from cancer. Already much of her body had been replaced with cybernetics. Her hair was thin and her frame all together pitiable. “Please help us pay for our daughter Ella’s treatment.” The post mentioned, a crowdfunding link glowing in the periphery. Comments, emojis, and video replies hung loosely about the cyber canvas to display the population's concern for this child and the family’s predicament. Greatest of all the attention --in Tom’s opinion-- was that the image had been re-shared by the intergalactic influencer Liona Le Master. This perhaps doubled his care for the subject.
Tom gruffed silently to himself. “Someone should do something about this. Young people die too much. And the world pays. Family pays dollar, world pays watching.”
A faint pink light in the center of the room glowed as the clock struck 2am. Lunch break was over.
---------------
The next day Tom opened his phone. A quick break. One last rush of dynorphins before the next shift. His eyes locked on the barrage of trending data. Data so important that even Liona Le Master had confirmed it.
Literally speechless. @Nine-Oh_One has covered the cost of all pediatric healthcare in New Memphis from this day on. So blessed to live in such a dynamic and moving time. So humbled to bring awareness of this issue to the galaxy. I once visited this hospital once and did all I could to help. So glad the voices of New Memphis could be heard.
- @RealLiona
Tom too was speechless. However a centimeter of scrolling revealed others who were not.
@Nine-Oh_One is a fucking socialist pig. WHO IS PAYING FOR THIS???!
_________________________________________________________ N E W M E M P H I S _________________________________________________________ Core world, capitalist bordello. Humans and everyone caught in between. Loud music, bright lights, fast money.
N E W M E M P H I S ________________________________________________________________________________________
Know how many fake watches you can sell in a 97 km deep city? A lot.
G O V E R N M E N T ________________________________________________________________________________________
AI governance, namely the supercomputer Nine-Oh_One. The nation is run by this AI designed eons ago to create laws, move money, and distribute justice all by algorithm. However, the machine was never designed to be run the way that it finds itself today. It was designed to have the input of the populace, intellectuals, officials, senators and the like to provide it wise council, a heartbeat of the people, the emotional intangibles that no machine can replicate. But over the centuries neglect, corruption, and misinformation campaigns set in; the populace and eventually the government itself began to assume that the input of “flesh minds” mattered for nothing. The people unanimously assumed their voice was never heard and thus not worth offering. Anyone claiming that it did matter was said to be “just looking for a seat at the table,” raking in the cash rewards of “fake-ass government” funding. As such, the only voice that Nine-Oh_One hears now, in the entire sector, is Tom’s, the facility janitor.
D E M O G R A P H I C S ________________________________________________________________________________________
Mostly humans. In reality a vast number of other alien species live in New Memphis’s sentient chattel house, both registered and undocumented. There is little concept of “citizenship” in this nation. Those who come and make money are welcomed. No one really has a concrete voice, no votes are cast, taxes are levied by automated currency exchange, civil projects are contracted out electronically by Nine-Oh_One’s choosing among private industries. The peoples of the universe are free to mingle, trade, and create without limit. Those who are sub-profitable, are quietly managed.
E C O N O M Y ________________________________________________________________________________________
Bustling, noisy, smelly, beautiful, tragic, vibrant, scary, New Memphis. The world is a metropolice with every level of what it takes to “make it” in a modern universe. A world shrouded by kilometers of habitable manufabed layers, there are hustles at every level. Banking is done by the central computer Nine-Oh_One and the credit accounts attached to each resident are the only real markers of citizenship. Culture is vibrant and varied, reflecting the underserved and overworked populations of refugees, wanderers, and pseudo-serfs born in and tied to this endless turbine of the sentient experience. New Memphis is constantly creating, constantly growing, constantly starving. Food, minerals, tech, fuel. She is like a growing teen monstrosity, tearing at its very flesh on the climb upwards. New Memphis has its share of stretch marks: blackmarkets, gangs, trafficking, corruption. She is a city, the size of a system. Noisy, fury, and lights that empty out into the infinite abyss.
M I L I T A R Y ________________________________________________________________________________________
While sentients hold their place in the military, the majority of the true fighting force is automated. Wipers, the constructs are called. An air-space fleet of drones that are designed to police and protect the naval commerce of New Memphis. No one is really sure how they work but they certainly are the hivemind of Nine-Oh_One. By rule, their primary weaponry takes the form of radiation cannons with a pinch of EMP. Designed to shut down their prey and cook the sentient degenerates inside with minimal damage to the external structure of their craft. One simply can’t have debris floating around in front of the jump gate--ghastly for commerce. An entire economy exists around salvaging these “cooked” ships and repurposing them to the needs of whoever has the tech savvy and radiation tolerance to claim the cancer buckets. Labor laws are not a New Memphis strong suit. If you want it and you can sell it, fair game.
The police force, admittedly made up of sentients, is a small army unto itself. And yet despite its size, the hubbub of New Memphis often requires more thorough support of the peace from external sources. Private military companies make a killing--quite literally-- from controlling the unruly crowds that spring up from time to time. In the spirit of the free market, many such international industries set up shop in the global city. International trade corporations often find the robust centralized banking, little if any taxation/regulation, and cheap labor force to be rather enticing; as such, many high end military contracts are established simply to keep the riff-raff of New Memphis out of the penthouse spas.
H I S T O R Y ________________________________________________________________________________________
To ask a commoner on the streets, the response would be, “we been here.” A comment made with pride and a certain wily swagger that is seldom found except on these neon throbbing streets. The reality is that New Memphis was made with blood. It was filled with natives once who lived in the massive aqueous innervation of the prime planet. The soil was rich, waters clean, and lifeforms of all sorts thrived in abundance. Then it was found by humans. The global delta and its riches were settled, used, abused, adopted, formed, claimed, fought over, everything that happens when a sentient species finds something for the taking. Natives were whipped out, buildings were erected, greatness was born. New Memphis’s story is the same as any other. Ain't nobody give a shit. New Memphis is alive--now--and nobody can take back what it took to get it there.
C H A R A C T E R S ________________________________________________________________________________________
Tom Dop - Nine-Oh_One Environmental Services, Janitorial Staff
@RealLiona - Intergalactic influencer, frequent social voice of New Memphis
_________________________________________________________ N E W M E M P H I S _________________________________________________________ Core world, capitalist bordello. Humans and everyone caught in between. Loud music, bright lights, fast money.
N E W M E M P H I S ________________________________________________________________________________________
Know how many fake watches you can sell in a 97 km deep city? A lot.
G O V E R N M E N T ________________________________________________________________________________________
AI governance, namely the supercomputer Nine-Oh_One. The nation is run by this AI designed eons ago to create laws, move money, and distribute justice all by algorithm. However, the machine was never designed to be run the way that it finds itself today. It was designed to have the input of the populace, intellectuals, officials, senators and the like to provide it wise council, a heartbeat of the people, the emotional intangibles that no machine can replicate. But over the centuries neglect, corruption, and misinformation campaigns set in; the populace and eventually the government itself began to assume that the input of “flesh minds” mattered for nothing. The people unanimously assumed their voice was never heard and thus not worth offering. Anyone claiming that it did matter was said to be “just looking for a seat at the table,” raking in the cash rewards of “fake-ass government” funding. As such, the only voice that Nine-Oh_One hears now, in the entire sector, is Tom’s, the facility janitor.
D E M O G R A P H I C S ________________________________________________________________________________________
Mostly humans. In reality a vast number of other alien species live in New Memphis’s sentient chattel house, both registered and undocumented. There is little concept of “citizenship” in this nation. Those who come and make money are welcomed. No one really has a concrete voice, no votes are cast, taxes are levied by automated currency exchange, civil projects are contracted out electronically by Nine-Oh_One’s choosing among private industries. The peoples of the universe are free to mingle, trade, and create without limit. Those who are sub-profitable, are quietly managed.
E C O N O M Y ________________________________________________________________________________________
Bustling, noisy, smelly, beautiful, tragic, vibrant, scary, New Memphis. The world is a metropolice with every level of what it takes to “make it” in a modern universe. A world shrouded by kilometers of habitable manufabed layers, there are hustles at every level. Banking is done by the central computer Nine-Oh_One and the credit accounts attached to each resident are the only real markers of citizenship. Culture is vibrant and varied, reflecting the underserved and overworked populations of refugees, wanderers, and pseudo-serfs born in and tied to this endless turbine of the sentient experience. New Memphis is constantly creating, constantly growing, constantly starving. Food, minerals, tech, fuel. She is like a growing teen monstrosity, tearing at its very flesh on the climb upwards. New Memphis has its share of stretch marks: blackmarkets, gangs, trafficking, corruption. She is a city, the size of a system. Noisy, fury, and lights that empty out into the infinite abyss.
M I L I T A R Y ________________________________________________________________________________________
While sentients hold their place in the military, the majority of the true fighting force is automated. Wipers, the constructs are called. An air-space fleet of drones that are designed to police and protect the naval commerce of New Memphis. No one is really sure how they work but they certainly are the hivemind of Nine-Oh_One. By rule, their primary weaponry takes the form of radiation cannons with a pinch of EMP. Designed to shut down their prey and cook the sentient degenerates inside with minimal damage to the external structure of their craft. One simply can’t have debris floating around in front of the jump gate--ghastly for commerce. An entire economy exists around salvaging these “cooked” ships and repurposing them to the needs of whoever has the tech savvy and radiation tolerance to claim the cancer buckets. Labor laws are not a New Memphis strong suit. If you want it and you can sell it, fair game.
The police force, admittedly made up of sentients, is a small army unto itself. And yet despite its size, the hubbub of New Memphis often requires more thorough support of the peace from external sources. Private military companies make a killing--quite literally-- from controlling the unruly crowds that spring up from time to time. In the spirit of the free market, many such international industries set up shop in the global city. International trade corporations often find the robust centralized banking, little if any taxation/regulation, and cheap labor force to be rather enticing; as such, many high end military contracts are established simply to keep the riff-raff of New Memphis out of the penthouse spas.
H I S T O R Y ________________________________________________________________________________________
To ask a commoner on the streets, the response would be, “we been here.” A comment made with pride and a certain wily swagger that is seldom found except on these neon throbbing streets. The reality is that New Memphis was made with blood. It was filled with natives once who lived in the massive aqueous innervation of the prime planet. The soil was rich, waters clean, and lifeforms of all sorts thrived in abundance. Then it was found by humans. The global delta and its riches were settled, used, abused, adopted, formed, claimed, fought over, everything that happens when a sentient species finds something for the taking. Natives were whipped out, buildings were erected, greatness was born. New Memphis’s story is the same as any other. Ain't nobody give a shit. New Memphis is alive--now--and nobody can take back what it took to get it there.
C H A R A C T E R S ________________________________________________________________________________________
Tom Dop - Nine-Oh_One Environmental Services, Janitorial Staff
@RealLiona - Intergalactic influencer, frequent social voice of New Memphis
Loose drink and the smell of charred seal oil caked the air. A thick and drunken crowd had formed around the ring of assembled birch trunks. In the center of this pen thrashed three equine bodies, two of them stallions pummeling each other with bladelike hooves. Beside them, a mare in heat squirmed. The rope barding held her taut to the towering stone at the northern edge of the pen. The Hestavig at its best, a good time had by all. Cheers rang out with each blow as the specimens fought in bloodlust for the mare. It is the fate of nature and the stars that the strong should survive and carry on the path of the herd.
This particular celebration was special. The son of Thokk--the gothi, the leader and savior of her people--was turning one score years. Thokk stood over the ceremony in fine furs and silver talismans as blood, hair, and soil erupted in the pen beneath. Thokk was pitted with the scars and pocks of many hard winters and hard decisions. She had led her people to this place after generations of exile escaping the wilds and ways of men. This land had become their home. It was a place feared by all who neared its essence. Yet she had found a way to its heart and the key to her people’s safety amongst the bones of giants.
Were it not for the cheers and shrieking roars cutting the eve’s air, theirs was a quiet place. Dipping valleys of black volcanic rock shrouded in thick birch and maples. Beneath her canopy lay the secrets of old. Giant mounds of stone covered much of the forest floor, collecting moss and lichen and and the things of old life. It was a graveyard. The petrified remains of the Time Before, where Primordials clashed and their fallen became the earth. The tales of southern tribes said it was a haunted place. They were right.
Her son sifted through the onlooking crowd, greetings and well wishes of his tribesmen thrust upon him from every angle. Though many cared for him, Ulfrag was sure they were more pleased by the thrill of show and feast. The amber fire of twilight danced in the drunken gaze of their eyes. He joined the front row of spectators as hooves clashed skulls again and again. The noise was excruciating. The scene sickened him, but how can traditions be broken? This is nature. Without this pen, the mangled horse would have met the same fate.
The once beautiful pony, now caked in black dirt and gore, ceased its struggle. The bejeweled woman stepped into the pen and the crowd fell silent. The horns of black ale briefly parting from their lips as they watched abatedly. Even the stallion seemed to be frozen by her presence before being hurried away by stable boys with its mare in tow. Thokk raised her hand, a crude ax of birchwood and black stone hanging at her side.
“Fate cannot be interrupted by man,” her voice boomed. “Let this be the course of the stars. And may its children obey and avail.”
With a clean strike she plunged the ax into the maimed horse’s neck. The crowd erupted in revelry. Cheers once more. The once still drinks turned now into a frothy shrapnel. Sprigs of mistletoe were thrown at the feet of Thokk as tears began to streak their soot-covered cheeks. Soon the feast of horse would begin, the first fresh meat in months. Amidst the clamor a small, black fowl appeared. It swooped onto Thokk’s outstretched arm and proffered forth a small flower. The grizzled woman looked like blood no longer lived in her veins. Her eyes held only terror.
The horizon’s last breath of sun dipped across the sky. Ulfrag had seen the exchange and leapt into the pen to comfort his mother. A subtle surge in revelry but few noticed his addition. They instead were occupied with the horse being drawn up and affixed by its hind legs to the giant stone, the slow drip of its lifeforce falling below into a ceremonial bowl. She stared blankly to the sky as he rushed to her side.
“What news is this creature!? Why does it cause you such pain?” Ulfrag asked frantically. His mother continued to gaze blankly at the sapphire haze of early night.
“They know.” She muttered under her breath. Without further word she tore a fistful of hair from the slain horse’s palmetto mane. She held it under the crude ax still lodged in its victim’s throat. Black liquid trickled from its hilt. The stream collected on the coarse blond hair in her grasp.
“Come mother, let us talk of this alone while the others fill their gut.” Ulfrag whispered pleadingly. “They have had nothing but deer moss for months. Their teeth are nearly rotten. Let their minds be at peace, such a place I wish you could take mine.”
She continued her blank gaze. She thrusted the dripping horse hair at the winged creature. It took the offering and flew south toward the first glistening star of the night. She turned to Ulfrag. Her eyes were not her own. “I hope the stars wish them peace.”
She struck Ulfrag in the face, his nose clicking to the side with a fiery torrent of pain. “Mother, what in the Fates!?” She struck out again. This time he just managed to dodge her assault, swapping places with her in the parry. He was backed against the giant monolith. The subtle tapping drips of the slain echoed behind him.
“Let me end this!” She screeched into the dusk, her grey hair tossing about her face like a sordid beast. The members of the tribe stood in awe at the scene. Terror and confusion married amongst them. A club was thrown into the pit at the gothi’s feet. “Let Fate.” She hissed at the supplier in return. Another club found its way to Ulfrag. Two shields dashed in amongst the mistletoe and claret of horses. Ulfrag prepared himself in the fashion of his mother. He wanted to tell her to stop this, he wanted to find what had possessed her mind; but the words would not come, for he felt the same, unquestionable pull to blood.
The woman, venerable in years, crashed into his shield like a berserker of Sinn Dhein. Ulfrag felt the laminar wood begin to buckle under her blow. Once. Twice. Three times she struck home with the wooden cudgel. It caved in the thin pine that held him from her inhuman tide of strength. The next blow sent straight into his arm. Ulfrag looked twice to see that it had not been severed off yet it felt so. Dangling loosely at an ominous angle, he had lost his feeling and use of it completely. Feeling except for pain; all encompassing, blinding, it throbbed into his ears as the sound of the world went black.
White light dashed across his face. The side of his cheek roared into a pain more fierce than his mangled arm. His head spun rear. Liquid metals filled his mouth. In his gasp for breath he felt the sputter of small rocks fall from his jaw where teeth had once been. The night had come or else the world had gone dark. When Ulfrag managed his eyes open his vision was singular: the crude ax in the throat of the horse. It was all encompassing, all he could see, it roared to him without sound.
Ulfrag swung round on his foe. The club crunching through the gristle of Thokk’s right knee. He did not hear what cry she made, he only felt her, felt it. His left arm flailed at his side as he took blows to her shield as was done to him. The fresh scent of pine cut through the iron of his nose as splinters were wrought for yards. She was crumbling before him. She would die.
Yet, she did not. A thrust of her warclub found his exposed gut. His lungs collapsed under the weight of his paralyzed diaphragm. Air could not be found. He fell to his back, sputtering in the blood of his face. He wished she would put him out of his misery. Hang him to this stone and feed his people. And this she intended. Thokk, broken herself, dragged what bones she had left above her helpless prey. She sat astride him, the gift of her womb. A stone, a pumiced fossil of giants before time, was held aloft to deliver its blow. Ulfrag grabbed helplessly at the sky to impede its fall.
He felt it strike his hand. Slide into his palm. He felt the blood running down his arm. He could feel it yet there was no pain. It was all encompassing. He opened his eyes and saw the ax. It was in his hand. The blood of the horse still tapping in the cadence of his heart and the throb of the world around him. He looked up at his mother and plunged it into her chest. Silence.
Her gaze softened. Light slowly warmed her eyes. The grey soul-spun wisps of the aurora above kissed the fresh night sky. Ulfrag watched onward as her body relaxed above him and gently turned to stone. The ax was no longer all encompassing. Finally he could see the night filled with stars.
As a child, Ulfrag was raised under the stars. They watched over him and the ways of all his people. They delivered answers. They delivered questions. On the night of his birth no stars, nor clouds, nor sun, nor moon met the child as he cried into the night. It had been told. And yet the gothi of this backwater tribe looked down on her son with confusion. How could a heart have such love, and yet such hate?
One score years passed since that night. The Boy has grown mightier than he has wits to control. He bends the mist and air around him, whispers words into the air that no mouth has spoken, and bends the eyes of many to dream in the light of day--both of wild delights and primal fears. At his will, shadows and light dance through the water and wood as he steps on the twilight of what is real and what is other. The water and rocks hide him, some even say they keep him company with the stories they tell. They say he often takes the forms of other beasts who slink in the brush, always watching, always listening.
The people fear Ulfrag, yet are drawn to him. The frigid bog which has sheltered them from dangers of the outside world now will take no seeds. Both fish and fur have moved far afield. They look to their gothi for answers, yet she only questions the stars.
Ambition:
Do the stars make our fates? Why do the stars say who falls in battle and who raises the head of their foe; who grows fat and old while others wither from foul water; why a rock may grow moss in its rest and not be shattered by the tides? Perhaps the world is better off in a place where the stars and their terrestrial kin have no such say. Or perhaps without the stars to choose, the world is doomed to chaos. No matter the answer, Ulfrag's people must survive. With his mother’s last breath they shall be his charge and he will share their fate in this world or the next.
Life:
Ulfrag’s people are scarcely known by those who do not neighbor the tribes of the north. They are a forgettable folk who struggle on the edge of existence. Though meager in number and sophistication, their communities are tight and culture rich. They are a hearty people, but even the strong have their limits.
Legend has it that the people were called to this land by a force. This whisper led them from the chaos of the wilds and bronze blades of the “civilized.” In the time before even the grayest of elders, this swamp was the petrified remains of carnage from bygones ago. The bodies of giants lay strewn throughout her wastes. Their stony carapaces now seed the life of trees, moss, and lichens so heavily that they are almost unrecognizable. But the people of this land know they live in a graveyard and know they must one day leave it lest they add to its count.
At the heart these ancient bodies was found a fragment of an ancient weapon. It’s primordial owner long since having left or perished. This shard is what called to the wandering people of Thokk. It was pulled from the murky depths and placed upon a sprig of birch. The weapon reborn is held only by the gothi of the tribe. It is the ceremonial and literal linchpin of power. All who know it and feel it, fear it. The people whisper that it is the cause of primordial stone that liters their land. Whether or not it still holds this power is unknown, but fear holds a greater power all its own.
More of a place than a nation, more of an idea than a people. Dokkir, as many in the world call it, is a darkness that few tales emerge from. It is the story that haunts the dreams of children when their parents tell them of the night.
Anarchy and ruin exist below the Canal of Vajl - A curse is set on those forests, ethereal beasts attack any who speak - The people have abandoned speech and go to great lengths to ensure others abide
Vajl is the capital and quasi-City State which rules the satrap clans of the Northern Moors
Viscount Naezerios is the despot ruler of these lands and only remaining elf -He resides in Vajl -All literature not written by him is outlawed
The Northern Moors are home to humans, orcs, ogres, bugbears, kenku, and tuskarr - The populations of these minority races predominate far north - Humans are the primary holders of clan power - Clans have no race, they intermingle and interbreed freely between species
-------
The unconquered.
There once was a great kingdom in these woods. Its people were vibrant and their valor in life and in battle was known throughout the world. A proud people, that stood to the last as the elven masters tore into the lands of men. They fought unendingly in the deep woods. The carcasses of elves and men alike rotted in every stream of the nation. It was an attrition that was bound to end or take the life of the wood with it. At the ancient mountain fort, Mount Grjuvjkar, the human kingdom made their last stand against the elven host. Their valor was the harbinger of their fate. They were slaughtered to a man.
Yet in the dying thralls of this nation emerged a plague. Conjured by the greatest magi the land had ever known. It is said that every ounce ounce of his being went into the spell as a spear rent his gut. In his last breath he would protect his people from ever taking heel to the elven scourge. That night, wolves that folded in and out of smoke tore through the elven ranks. Every breathe from a sentient tongue drew them to their feast like sharks in blooded water. When struck they would cry out into the night and vanish just as they came, in dark pungent smoke. But it is said that with each kill their ranks grew. These were not mindless fiends. They were hunters. They prayed on the weak. Those who went to relieve themselves, embraced loved ones at night, children playing in the fields. The monsters did not discriminate. Those who spoke words called them to the hunt. And so they spread. Entire villages and cities vanished in a slow leak of violent death.
The elven masters, seeing the rotten fruit that this nation was, left them to the curse. The battle for freedom against flesh was won, but at what cost?
-------
The Hearing.
Voices called them. The fiends could not see, they could not smell, but they could hear the soul behind a tongue for miles. The understanding spread too late. Thousands had joined the blackness, cities were in ruin. Anarchy had consumed them as long-winded nobles tried to stay their people's fears, summoning more death in its stead. The once great kingdom of men had become a feast. There was no hope but to leave. And so they did.
Countless souls fled to the south and east. At the crossing of each river was salvation from the haunting. These creatures, aberrations, were tied to the land of the original kingdom. Their magic coming from the very soil of its existence. An entire nation of refugees fled to all corners of the map. Most perished, still others clung to homesteads as far afield from Mount Grjuvjkar as they could. They marched miles with women and children and all the precious things of civilization in their arms. Those that could not or would not abandon their homeland attempted to adapt. They became voiceless. A silence that was enforced by the price of horrors they had witnessed. The tongues of children were often removed to keep them from acting, playing, speaking as children do. It was a half-life, but it was life. They still walk the forests; silent, both hunter and hunted.
-------
The Surge North.
The last great men of the land did not flee piecemeal. The eastern shores which had fed the lands for time immemorial rallied a fleet under one banner. It is said that a foreign people crashed ashore there with a great arc. They sallied the remnants of their nation, the body of the slain king, and tore northward. The truth of this tale is unknown, but the people of this coast landed enmasse in the Northern Moors. There they were met by the beastkin and monsters of the isthmus. With death behind them and death before them, the men landed and slaughtered the natives. There push into the north lasted years. Their lives became a war that lasted generations, but against a foe that they could see, fight, and conquer. As harsh winters claimed more lives than war, an uneasy pact between the men and beastfolk was forged. They began to commingle, cohabitate, and even comary as social and political bonds became easier to hold than freezing steel. To this day the Northern Moors is boiling stew of cooperation and conflict at every table. But one thing is sure, they answer to Vajl.
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The Great & Marvelous City of Vajl.
A trading metropolis. This city was once a stronghold and commercial lynchpin for the great elven empire. Located just north of the only navigable waterway between the Ice Bridge’s carving of East and West. This port city was an invaluable asset and with it came the riches of its worth. By the time of imperial collapse, it was already an indomitable scar on the land. With ease it shirked off the beast hoards that attempted its walls. The haughty refugee swine from the south crashed upon her gates and made meals for crows. The elven host ruled the land under the bedazzled hand of Viscount Naezeiros.
In time, the people of the region were brought to heal. Incursions into the Northern Moors were swift and profitable. At the bore of wasting their own soldiers, the Viscount began to buy the heathens' loyalties. Pitting rival clan against one another, corrupted the Jarls of every court, and seized their culture within his divine authority. All literature was outlawed. Only the words directly written by him could be transcribed. With the men of this land too afraid to speak and the beasts too dumb to read, their minds and mouths were his alone.
The elven host of Vajl were less inclined to forfeit their freedom of thought. And so Viscount Naezeiros, May His Myrth Reign, had them killed. One by one, the immortal flesh of his elven kin was sacrificed for the living novela of his power. The Viscount began surrounding himself with those he could trust, a number that slimmed with each night. Before long every elf, every threat to his power, was dead.
Viscount Naezerios became obsessed with his writings, the only intellectual company he could now muster. He imported his food, wine and pleasantries from the corner of the globe and so too did he pick his company. Dwarves from the far East, the Morjakjn Guard, became his harem. He was seldom seen without some forty of them in his company at all times. He claimed to be enthralled by them, creatures who could think and speak and live long enough to truly understand. Under pain of their oath, they were also the only souls in this land who did not wish him dead. He despised the mortal swine infesting his city, but like a feral child they would be kept warm and read to at night. His fatherly reign continues to this day.
The Deepwood.
Thick maples and pine. The roots that weave between her black soil are home to lush moss and ferns. In the wake of sentient life being torn from her womb, populations of elk, moose and caribou cover the hollows. But with prey comes predators, and they are many. It is said that even the trees have begun to fight back and return the forest to harmony.
-------
The Northern Moors.
An unforgiving land of wind and fog. Warm currents from the south leave it predominantly thawed but a dampness hangs like cold rags. The moors have always been the cauldron of strong souls and harry beasts. It is a land of refugees and one that only those without option would find suit to call it a home. Its soil is poor and so those who work this land make use of the herds: buffalo, sheep, pony, and mammoth. All of the creatures have their place in this tenuous cycle of freezing rain and snapping frost. She plays host to clusters of birch and aspen trees where the humans cling in huddled clans. They are an oasis of bark and a peoples last link to home.
-------
The way of the wood.
The culture of the Dokkir varies by region. Of exceptional note, those to the south, embedded in the haunting of their lands, use no spoken language. Their customs of ancestral rites, communion with the forest and soil, homage to wyr stones and other such rituals from before the collapse are very much alive today. It is said that observing these traditions is the only cure for the curse set upon their lands. Many feel that the sure is retribution for destroying their soil with the blood of so many slain in their fight against the elven tide. Still others have abandoned the old ways, claiming that their deliverance should have come by now if their gods were truly worthy of worship. Their constant dance with death from the Hearing has sapped them into little more than small villages, migratory bands, and marauding briggands.
-------
The way of the hill.
The Northern Moors have merged their human customs with the more “primal” tendencies of their beastkin compatriots. Drinking and violence are the norm. Testosterone is proven in parts per million by hunting game, winning challenges, and siring children of every breed. They still respect the earth, but when the soil is frozen they find their delights atop of it.
-------
The Great and Marvelous way of Vajl.
The Great and Marvelous City of Vajl, a hedonist dream. Though this land is held under staunch rule by the Viscount Naezerios, it remains a lucrative and cultured city in an otherwise intellectual wasteland. Novels and novellas written by the Great and Powerful Viscount Naezerios adorn every shoppe and trade stand. Plays written by the euclid playwright, Viscount Naezerios, are mimed at every street corner. Even the vestments of government figure from tax collector to gatehouse guard are wreathed in the compelling and provocative poetry of the humble genius that is Viscount Naezerios. It is an oasis of literature from one voice, the Greatest voice, Viscount Naezerios.
Gods
The Tonnikala
Represents bounty, good fortune, food, glory, and health. The god is personified by heroism in defeat, just as the fish must die to give the hunter life.
The Vulture
Selflessness, suffering, rebirth, duty, belonging, rest. She is personified by heroism in victory, the vulture mercifully cleans the world of death and decay so that new life can grow.
-------
Together they are symbolized by a vulture carrying a dying fish in its talons; wings pointing downward. The Tonnikala reaches upward snaring the wing in its mouth. The picture creates a circle, a continuum of victory and defeat bound by the struggle for life.
For those interested, this thread is still very much alive in the Discord. 11 active players that have already drawn up locations on the map, collaborated histories, and world built some interesting plot arcs already.
Definitely deserves a click on the Discord link if you want to see Oz behind the curtain.
The room was pulsing with rage. Its dimly lit interior was surrounded on all sides by glass walls which played host to dozens of eyes. The figures outside of the room beat against its thick glass in an unorganized rhythm. But the pulse of their minds was unanimous. The Ozil were not adept psionics. Like most things they were too base, too visceral to have any complex use of it. But they could transfer emotions like voice. In this moment they were not quiet. The audience around the square was howling frantically. Inside the soundproof room only the surging pulse of minds could be felt. It was lust of many sorts.
Inside the slick black floor was covered in a slithering pool of blood. A gargantuan Ozil, open wounds accenting every rivet of fur and lard, stood proud with glazed eyes. Below him hovled a creature, perhaps dead except for the occasional rattling breath. The furry mass was unrecognizable. The fight had rendered it little more than greasy, torn flesh. The victor attacked once more, thrashing it with a blood-sodden cuddle. The club articulated with each thud of damp flesh.
A howl half-laced with laughter, half-laced with rage echoed against the walls. The Ozil goliath raised the weapon for all of the audience to see. It was an arm, the arm of the Ozil that lay before him congealing in his own fluids and defeat. Though the windows he could see the elation of his kin. He could feel them. Their chorus had grown to a frenzy. The males thrashed against the windows as females proffered their organs to him. Surely their needs would be fulfilled in the celebrations to follow. All of the Primacy’s needs would be met, because he would return to them as the Prime Alpha.
Ingar Brazhnik, the richest Ozil of his era, sauntered from the carnage like a king. In this moment, that is what he could claim to be. The presidency of Ozil Thermal was won in this way. The audience around him was the Primacy’s Shareholder Council members. Each fiscal year, after the earnings of all quarters were calculated, a rival to the Prime Alpha position was chosen to challenge him in unarmed combat. The victor took all, often including the opposition’s life. This contestor had been of weaker make, a benevolent choice for third quarter profits. Ingar’s victory seemed assured, but stranger things have happened in this system. Whether by choice or by force, Prime Alpha Ignar had reigned supreme nine years to this day.
A door in the room appeared. With one last thrusting fist and show of gnashed teeth to his adoring fans, Ignar slipped into a quiet hall out of view. The dark corridor was lined only by the dimly illuminated busts of Prime Alphas who reigned before him. Their stern vissages stared forward into space. They were a reminder of the soul of his people: hard, humble, and hungry for the past. At times he wondered if they would approve of him. If he would be capable of making Zakarov, Zediah, or Krankinov proud. This hall was lined with men who earned their place in the galaxy. They had torn apart worlds to make a home for his people and fuel the Iron Star. Ingar had done little more than play sides at the bartering table, trading terrawatts for treaties. His bloody paw caressed the half-mutilated face of Valdiketch the Great.
“Blood and profit, brother.” Ingar offered through gritted teeth. “I will finish your mission. I will bring the First Ones back to us. Mine will be a star that shines brighter than all in the galaxy.”
With a sudden, furious heave, Ingar tore the bust from its resting. He breached through the heavy sanctum doors and into the vibrant party that awaited. Hundreds stood at their grey cubicles. Papers and notes were strewn out amongst the smattering of office holocomputers. Head down, Ignar strode through the onslaught of praise. Hands reached out to pat him. Still others lurched their giant figures onto desks to get a better view. Yet he marched through the headquarters office without eye contact, bust of his ancient predecessor in hand.
Finally he arrived at the front of the room. A table with refreshments was fancifully arranged, at its center was the festering remains of a whole Terran narwhal, undoubtedly bought at gratuitous price from Rolvius. Above the splendor sat an even greater jewel: a window from their station on Travulous Lost looking out onto the great blue mass of a sun. It was beautiful. Ingar could scarcely stop himself from weeping when he looked at her. She was the deliverance to his people, their purpose, and today his prize for victory. But she was a fickle mistress. The sorrow of her drama ran through him as deeply as his lust.
The Forge, a dyson array that the First Ones had left behind was in disrepair. Few spacehabs even worked. Everything had to be done in retrograde, as the technology of that civilization was so far beyond their capacity. Engineers were actually linguists. Architects were archeologists. The path forward for the Ozil laid in the ability to understand the past; and not even their own past. They had been pets of these great creatures, now gone from the galaxy. What they were now and what the Iron Star was now, was an embarrassment.
She needed fuel. The current demands were pressing at the needs of their economy. Still more dire, they were pressing at the needs of promised exports. If the investors learned of this, they would be in stock free-fall. Though much of this fuel was intellectual, and thereby far more scarce, mineral resources were poured in from all over the galaxy to help reconstruct the lifeline of their nation. Amassed before the mental haze of the Push, many of the contributor planets and peoples had become unruly once more. Just last week three million had been slaughtered quelling an uprising on Divarpov IX. Labor was a hard pill to swallow, and the reactors needed more hands to sift, clean, and ship the profits and waste of the Primacy. They were stretching thin. They needed to expand their holds or default on their economic presence in the galaxy.
This expansion had been stifled by the Treaty of Detente. And yet, the treaty of Detente had saved them. Perhaps even to some degree Ignar knew this too. It had allowed them to survive in a world of much bigger fish. But to argue its necessity was semantics. Trade deals, the true expansion of the Primacy, would have been impossible without a signature. Embargos hurt harder than the coalition forces that occasionally glassed his mining projects when their ambitions had stepped out of line. Even now, the Primacy was likely to be throttled by another coalition incursion once the next round of Treaty observers was turned over. A cocktail of blackmail and bribery had held off most reports. But it was difficult to hide the expansive pre-construction projects underway in the Ozil sectors. Final assembly of these printed parts would be a trivial step into swelling the naval power of the Primacy exponentially. Now was the time to get rich or get caught.
A thin line of blue dust stood on a plate amongst the delicacies. Ingar inhaled it sharply before leaping onto the table. He began to pace atop it as a female nervously offered him up a microphone. Ingar snatched the device, a familiar glaze in his eyes.
He paced more as the room grew silent. Stifled coughs intermittently cut the void as the entire room waited. On each face was a mix of fear and exhilaration.
“Detente. Cute word. Cute idea... He liked it,” Ingar pointed a trembling finger towards the arena where a huddled mass still laid prostrate. “CUTE, if you are a bitch in heat offering yourselves to the galaxy at large.” Ignar held the bloodied bust of their venerated hero aloft to the still silent crowd. “What would he say? What would he say if he found us with our wrists tied to our ankles? What would he say if he found us in soda commercials rolling down hills of snow, giggling like the galaxy isn’t ours for the taking? Like we aren’t predators…” Ingar choked the last words as he launched the statue at a nearby soda can perched atop an office cubicle. The two objects dashed together in a shower of brown froth..
The silence was humid.
“WE’RE FUCKIN LEAVING!”
The crowd erupted in applause. Poorly stacked file drawers were tossed asunder. Bureaucrats hugged each other and still more began to find their way onto disorderly desks. Problematic dances were being performed. The subtle symphony of Song 1, the anthem of the Ozil began to murmur as chests were beaten in unison.
“THE SHOW GOES ON!” Ingar ejected again through pulsing neck veins and a slightly bleeding nose. The chorus of Song 1 unified and strengthened. “We’re going to take this GALAXYYY! Get every fucking inspector out!” Ingar was heaving with sweat. He grabbed a spare bottle of Lokoid spirit and began guzzling it like water on a burn. The few races other than Ozil in the room hurriedly left or were wrapped in black plastic bags by unmarked agents.
“Supply and demand…” Ingar offered with mock calm. “I’m going to find what the Ashtar left. I’m going to uncover the secrets of the First Ones. I’m going to walk down to that weak little planet they left behind and take it ALL!” Ingar surged, recollected himself before continuing. “Then when I have the galaxy’s balls in my claw,” he gripped in demonstration, “they are going to come to us. They will turn out their pockets and each one of you,” he pointed to various individuals in the crowd, “ you, my brothers and sisters, are going to be filthy fucking rich.”
--------------------------------
Beneath Agdemnar
The engine hummed as it sifted and drove through the soft Agdemnar earth. Service personnel clambered through the confines of the drill, lubricants and coolant sprays constantly firing into the dusty machine’s bowels. A nameless mook sat on the edge of this chaos, a small radar perched on spare ration boxes. Hand on chin and eyes heavy, he stared at the small blips of the screen. Outside of the tunnel was a sensory array which would tell the sappers of oncoming threats to their tunnel system. Of yet, nothing but spare debris from the orbital conflicts above had offered any amusement to the post. A half dozen of the mining party had tried to flee once, but he had personally seen three of them shot and assumed the others met a similar fate before reaching the entry of the 80km long tunnel.
He pulled up the greater global map array. Lights danced all around the planet. The galaxy was at war on this world, but children slept at night none the wiser. He wondered if they had offspring like him. Small tufts of fur that would never see their father again. When he was abducted for this post, he knew that fate. Overnight he had become a Sales Associate for Blue Milk LLC, the company this entourage was officially attached to. The business was one of many galactic ratholes for money laundering by the Ozil elite. This one had a VPN out of FedNat, but he knew spray painting that onto Ozil gear, tactics, and personnel could only fool the most banal of galactic liberal media. The small freighter this mining company had arrived on was even stolen, at least intellectually. It operated on some off-brand, aftermarket version of Kadath cloaking. Or maybe it was Utopian? He wasn’t sure, the reality was that it probably didn’t even work. The entire planet likely knew they were here; knew that they had landed in a small canyon and had begun drilling headlong under the shield covering Point Jakurna.
Suddenly, the soil around them shook fiercely, small scraps of dust and debris fell through the gaps in the tunnel’s propping carapace. Frantic eyes of maintenance personnel began to peer at him. Some reached for their side-arms (useless) still others began to slowly position themselves towards the tunnel egress (more useless). The Ozil grabbed his empty box of freeze-dried potatoes and peered at the sensor screen. Nothing was showing but a small loading bar in the upper corner. He pushed open the empty container which contained not starchy foodstuffs, but a detonator. He gripped the rusty device and unclipped the safety. The loading dial in the upper corner spun onward in torment. Perhaps it was a surprise assault. Maybe someone with stealth technology that actually worked. With his dying breath he would click that damn button. Neutron bombs lined the canyon entrance, nearly half the freighter’s weight of them. If anyone were to assault their position it would be scorched earth and salted fields of the worst variety. It may keep the enemy out, but it would also lock him and his crew in. They would have no other choice than to drill onward. They had to get under that shield or this tunnel would be their grave.
The loading icon vanished. Small red dialogue appeared on the screen in First One cryllic, which he somewhat knew.
ORBITAL STRIKE
ENEMY ON ENEMY
CASUALTY GENOME: HUMAN VARIANT
THREAT TO FRIENDLY: 9% PROBABILITY
PROCEED
“Proceed!” The Ozil cried out in parrot. Small rivets of joy cracked through his voice. The workers said nothing, but he could feel their relief. They continued on as they were bidden. The hiss of coolant tore onward into the deep.
More words appeared on the screen. These, however, appeared in basic Ozil. He assumed they were from the orbital fleet. They had been told a small flotilla was amassing near the system’s sun, soaking up her energy in wait to strike once the shield was down. If he did everything right, maybe he would see his seven dozen children once more.
“Orbital strike from Asrian Ascendancy on target above tunnel structure.
Do not detonate.
You are meters from Ashtar shield array.
Prepare for mining craft to proceed under shield threshold.
Vector will adjust to 30 degree angle for crust breech.”
He looked out over his laboring kin and knew they felt his euphoria. They would be rich. They would be famous. They would survive.
Thuddddchhhhhh
Smoke billowed into the tunnel. The mining craft came to a halt.
--------------------------------
In orbit of Agdemnar
Discount offer: 20% Use code: STEALTH CRUISER
“Attention Hermione crew:
Your vessel is unstable and will destruct. Immediate necessary repairs are purchasable at bargain price, through PsyPay or vetted financial conduit. Order now while offers and supplies last. We look forward to future dealings of mutual benefit.
-Blue Milk, LLC. Routing PIN: 0938402384”
The message was sent to the FedNat hospital ship from a small contingent of clearly Ozil naval vessels in close orbit of the system’s sun. The routing PIN was traceable to an account seemingly located on the Terran Cayman Islands. Local officials, however, would find this not to be the case.
We are assured that this missive finds you ever strong and steadfast. It remains our highest pleasure to attest the exemplary efficiency of Ozil Thermal at all levels we have had the fortune of observing, and it is our fervent desire that we may continue to do so in the continuation of our transactions.
It cannot have escaped the notice of your organisation that many of the galaxy's potencies are on the verge of rearmament, as evidenced in their formal rejection of the Treaty of Madrigasa. While less stable and confident authorities may see this as a risk, we trust that you will convene with the judgment of the Joint Commissions of the Harmonic Conflux that this state of affairs offers new opportunities to those ready to exploit them. As so many polities refuse to hold themselves accountable to the Treaty's terms, they cannot expect recourse against any measures of defense and retaliation adopted vis-a-vis their actions.
On behalf of the Harmonic Conflux, we thus extend to your organisation an offer of partnership and cooperation in ensuring that neither sovereign body be adversely affected by hostile interference. Our organs of Trade and Distribution are ready to offer partners affiliated with Ozil Thermal preferential pricing on exported stock, to be determined by the parties involved. In addition, you have our assurance that any similarly beneficent policies undertaken on Ozil Thermal's side will contribute to bolstering the Harmonic Conflux's ability in defending our common interests by any means necessary.
Should you wish to discuss the particulars of such potential defensive actions, we would be eager to assemble a representative committee for a direct conference.
Regards,
The Foreign Connections Administration,
Commission for Beneficent Symbiosis
Attn: Commission for Beneficent Symbiosis,
Your missive finds us well on this eve of Prime Alpha Ingar’s reappropriation as Chief Executive Officer and firm confidant in the fiscal opportunities levied by the Harmonic Conflux of the Innumerate Suns. Your words strike true to his heart, and the heart of the shareholders in his steadfast.
We see this time as an undeniable investment opportunity with unlimited potential benefit and very little risk of fiscal loss. At this very moment, Ozil Thermal is decreasing its monetary parity to allow further foreign investment at bargain prices. We trust the Conflux will strike hard and fast at this once in a lifetime opportunity to link interests with the Iron Star as she sees her rise in both power and share value. As an act of good faith, for your fiscal and political investment we are already adjusting for a limited time 0.4% price reduction per exawatt of goods labor. A true steal, and lasting mark of friendship between our polities.
Furthermore, we must openly appreciate the friability of public image in these uncertain times. Though we fully appreciate the cultural framework of the Conflux labor markets, it must be noted that potential investors have made themselves socially and financially malaligned with such business practices. As such, we must request that large scale dealings be handled in a publically amiable way, both clandestine and through proxy. We furthermore offer our services as an intermediary company for goods and services of the Conflux hitherto banned from lucrative markets at a bargain commission.
Your goods and services are always of esteemable quality, our own Prime Alpha once offering in private conversation, “I love their damn shoes, I don’t care what sweat shop they’re made in.” Surely these joyous comments will be on the lips of our many well-served customers. The doors and share holds of Ozil Thermal are always open to you, and we warmly invite you to link appendages with us in the forthcoming market boon.
V/R,
Olga Ironthigh Undersecretary of Marketing Ozil Thermal Primacy
Attached was an advertisement for a shill polymer business dealing mainly in humanoid boot markets. The advert was complete with exact location of the foundry and an encrypted discount offer code.
Andreyich
Noctis
