Helios

Through the Rifts: Progeny [Open!] [Co-GM Run]

Fens of Lochlund

~ Lochlund ~

~ - ~

Government

The voice. They call her Clíodhna. It is the gentle song in the night that all men and women hear in their minds and amongst the evening breeze. She keens to them at dusk when deep mists draw through the moors. She leads them without direction. She pulls at their heart each in their own separate way. Legends say no one has ever seen her, save the suitor she pines for each night. The people have long murmured that she lives on a small bog, deep in the loch where the fog and the faerie light hang like breath. Yet none venture to find her. The only man she will see is the one that belongs to her. Death awaits all else.

Demographics

Lochlund holds host to many races. The disheveled lot that landed here in the time of the Great Rift found quickly that their means to survival lie within each other. Dwarves make up the heaviest weight, with elves, gnomes, ogres, and other such folk a minority in their keep. The woodlands around – with their reaching birches and thick, homely willows – are the lands of the fey. Few see the sight of them, and the denizens of this realm are harassed and worse by their incessant mischief. Pixies have been known to consort with townsfolk the most, though their intentions are never pure. They are an essence integral to this world, larks bent misfortune of its prisoners.

Population

Small and uncounted. The wharf holds enough souls to count as a viable city though humble in wealth and resource. Those who survive these lands are blessed. Those who perish... have a less decided fate. Rumors stir that thousands of souls lost to the deep make their bed in the fen across the loch. A great craft stands in that haunted pace. Even the woodland fey fear it.

~ - ~

Plane Description

The lands of the Loch are harsh, though comical they may be at first glance. In total, the plane is a great fen, bordered by fey-kept wood, further bound by a circle of mountains so high and sharp that they cut through the sky. Dragons and giants are said to tend her cliffs, though no man has ever survived her peaks. They are perhaps nothing more than the night tales mothers give their children to keep them warm in their beds, safe from the sound of the wind. Those poor souls who have survived this prison live in a single wharf town on the edge of the Loch. They keep well away from the folly of the deep and dancing woods, and live from the bounty of the waters beneath and around. They fish her keep and harvest her flora. However, these waters are not kind. No predators roam the lands, but death comes to many who swim weakly or do not heed what words Clíodhna calls in the night.

History

Nothing is left. No books have survived the damp, no wood has survived the rot, the stories that remain are those which kept the people of these lands alive here and now. They are the tales that guide stray minds from the witchlight. They are the paths that harvest a small catch, the mushroom that feeds without turning your child blue, the bogweed that you can pull out of the depths without it pulling you back.

Culture and Society

“Pixies only laugh at blood, and not their own. Stay out of the wood lest you be a joke.” - The first lesson a Loch mother gives. Life revolves around the Loch, the wharf, the small pleasures of this life: still waters and the twinkling lights of the fey from a distance. The lost souls of Lochlund are a miserable lot, and yet they find a kinship and humor in their plight. Small competitions of the muddiest boot are held each night and broken bones are mended with a well concocted bowl of stew. Tales of what one should not do are generally the crux of every conversation. The peak of this advice is staying away from the Big Boat. Its wreckage lies far away opposite the shores of the wharf. And for good reason. It is said that the dead live there, amongst the old ship. The Loch, in its mischievous cruelty, will not even let souls die. They simply gather by the giant craft awaiting passage to the next life in realms beyond.

~ - ~

Governance and Politics

Though the voices of the Loch and pressures of the wood guide the lives of the wharf folk, there is still an unspoken structure within her midst. Quarrels are dealt with at the local pub and boat races are frequent amongst the neighborhoods (to much fanfare). More chronic disputes are settled by the women at meal times, the greatest form of trail in these parts. Most folk pull their weight and realize their plight in a world. Their neighbor is the key to their survival, or at least necessary for hope at a laugh.

Technology and Magic

Magics of the fey twinkle even along the dingy boarded streets of the wharf. It dances in the sky and amongst the constant fog that weaves its arms through every crevice of this realm. It is bounding everywhere and even possesses food and drink. Magic is something of a nuisance to people forced to live through its vexing effects. Drinking a pint might well grow your toenails out of your boots if the brewer chose the wrong seed or crossed the wrong pixy in his travels. With the wrong wax, candles are liable to float bottom up. They fey around torture the people of these lands. They are the stumped toe of every joke. And they know it.

Yet a more sinister magic also lies in these parts. Far across the loch lies the Big Boat. There amongst the runes of ancient trolls and glyphs of great fishes slumbers a hermit. He is perhaps the only townsfolk to ever use the magic of these lands against the lands themselves. There he gathers a herd of those drowned and lost to the loch. There they wait and drink and make merry within the great halls of that gargantuan wrecked boat. It's not known how he came upon this curse. None even know him by name. Many say he walks among the people of the wharf, studying them and listening to their woes. And at night when he hears the keen of Clíodhna, he learns who he will recruit next.

Military Overview

The fighting body of the citizenry is slim. Perhaps a spare drunken dwarf, one hand with a frog gig and the other with dark ale. Yet the powers of the Boat Man are a great cause for concern. How many generations have fallen dead in these lochs? How many could be called upon should the time come?

~ - ~

Additional Info

Don’t let this be a literary mystery. There definitely are dead folk in that boat. And it's a Big Boat.

Through the Rifts: Progeny

Fens of Lochlund (WIP)

~ Lochlund ~

~ - ~

Government

The voice. They call her Clíodhna. It is the gentle song in the night that all men and women hear in their minds and amongst the evening breeze. She keens to them at dusk when deep mists draw through the moors. She leads them without direction. She pulls at their heart each in their own separate way. Legends say no one has ever seen her, save the suitor she pines for each night. The people have long murmured that she lives on a small bog, deep in the loch where the fog and the faerie light hang like breath. Yet none venture to find her. The only man she will see is the one that belongs to her. Death awaits all else.

Demographics

Lochlund holds host to many races. The disheveled lot that landed here in the time of the Great Rift found quickly that their means to survival lie within each other. Dwarves make up the heaviest weight, with elves, gnomes, ogres, and other such folk a minority in their keep. The woodlands around – with their reaching birches and thick, homely willows – are the lands of the fey. Few see the sight of them, and the denizens of this realm are harassed and worse by their incessant mischief. Pixies have been known to consort with townsfolk the most, though their intentions are never pure. They are an essence integral to this world, larks bent misfortune of its prisoners.

Population

Small and uncounted. The wharf holds enough souls to count as a viable city though humble in wealth and resource. Those who survive these lands are blessed. Those who perish... have a less decided fate. Rumors stir that thousands of souls lost to the deep make their bed in the fen across the loch. A great craft stands in that haunted pace. Even the woodland fey fear it.

~ - ~

Plane Description

The lands of the Loch are harsh, though comical they may be at first glance. In total, the plane is a great fen, bordered by fey-kept wood, further bound by a circle of mountains so high and sharp that they cut through the sky. Dragons and giants are said to tend her cliffs, though no man has ever survived her peaks. They are perhaps nothing more than the night tales mothers give their children to keep them warm in their beds, safe from the sound of the wind. Those poor souls who have survived this prison live in a single wharf town on the edge of the Loch. They keep well away from the folly of the deep and dancing woods, and live from the bounty of the waters beneath and around. They fish her keep and harvest her flora. However, these waters are not kind. No predators roam the lands, but death comes to many who swim weakly or do not heed what words Clíodhna calls in the night.

History

Nothing is left. No books have survived the damp, no wood has survived the rot, the stories that remain are those which kept the people of these lands alive here and now. They are the tales that guide stray minds from the witchlight. They are the paths that harvest a small catch, the mushroom that feeds without turning your child blue, the bogweed that you can pull out of the depths without it pulling you back.

Culture and Society

“Pixies only laugh at blood, and not their own. Stay out of the wood lest you be a joke.” - The first lesson a Loch mother gives. Life revolves around the Loch, the wharf, the small pleasures of this life: still waters and the twinkling lights of the fey from a distance. The lost souls of Lochlund are a miserable lot, and yet they find a kinship and humor in their plight. Small competitions of the muddiest boot are held each night and broken bones are mended with a well concocted bowl of stew. Tales of what one should not do are generally the crux of every conversation. The peak of this advice is staying away from the Big Boat. Its wreckage lies far away opposite the shores of the wharf. And for good reason. It is said that the dead live there, amongst the old ship. The Loch, in its mischievous cruelty, will not even let souls die. They simply gather by the giant craft awaiting passage to the next life in realms beyond.

~ - ~

Governance and Politics

Though the voices of the Loch and pressures of the wood guide the lives of the wharf folk, there is still an unspoken structure within her midst. Quarrels are dealt with at the local pub and boat races are frequent amongst the neighborhoods (to much fanfare). More chronic disputes are settled by the women at meal times, the greatest form of trail in these parts. Most folk pull their weight and realize their plight in a world. Their neighbor is the key to their survival, or at least necessary for hope at a laugh.

Technology and Magic

Magics of the fey twinkle even along the dingy boarded streets of the wharf. It dances in the sky and amongst the constant fog that weaves its arms through every crevice of this realm. It is bounding everywhere and even possesses food and drink. Magic is something of a nuisance to people forced to live through its vexing effects. Drinking a pint might well grow your toenails out of your boots if the brewer chose the wrong seed or crossed the wrong pixy in his travels. With the wrong wax, candles are liable to float bottom up. They fey around torture the people of these lands. They are the stumped toe of every joke. And they know it.

Yet a more sinister magic also lies in these parts. Far across the loch lies the Big Boat. There amongst the runes of ancient trolls and glyphs of great fishes slumbers a hermit. He is perhaps the only townsfolk to ever use the magic of these lands against the lands themselves. There he gathers a herd of those drowned and lost to the loch. There they wait and drink and make merry within the great halls of that gargantuan wrecked boat. It's not known how he came upon this curse. None even know him by name. Many say he walks among the people of the wharf, studying them and listening to their woes. And at night when he hears the keen of Clíodhna, he learns who he will recruit next.

Military Overview

The fighting body of the citizenry is slim. Perhaps a spare drunken dwarf, one hand with a frog gig and the other with dark ale. Yet the powers of the Boat Man are a great cause for concern. How many generations have fallen dead in these lochs? How many could be called upon should the time come?

~ - ~

Additional Info

Don’t let this be a literary mystery. There definitely are dead folk in that boat. And it's a Big Boat.

Into the Rifts: The Reawakening

-- Kroak Top Land --

A long drawn *Hummmmmmmm* consumed the air. The swamp, festering with all of its smells, and sounds, and vibrations became controlled by the ethereal call. The wind and water and time moved in sequence with her presence like still water after a pebble's strike. And then it was gone.

The swamp remained still for a moment more. Even the beams of light, dancing on stilts atop the water, held their pose for a brief refrain. It was a meditation. A digestion of the Voice which ruled this bog; ruled this this space and time. Its maker was unknown. But what was it to know, when one could feel.

A sharper, more earthly croak cut the air. Impatience was palpable in its voice. Atop the weathered porch of a hut sat two frog-like figures. They relaxed in wooden chairs slouched and cross legged, juxtaposed to a game table. A small tub of briny water held floating figurines. They bobbled loosely in the murky bowl, their placement just barely noticeable amongst the checkered features of its glass walls. Within this grid the two figures played a game. Pieces moved and took other pieces. Each with a turn, casting aside the lost figures like garbage. The game was familiar: strategy, maneuver, risk, reward. And yet like all things Kroak, it was played in three dimensions. The real fight took place in the depths below.

“They dishonor us. They dishonor the Voice.” A whisper came from a purple Kroak, very old and frail much like their speech. Her people called her Guunghnoknok, and she was a venerable voice amongst the swamp. “Let us cast upon them like the gnats they are, creeping upon their short sight toward that which would end them.”

The figure across from her did not stir. He sat a green toadkin, grizzled with the scars of a hard life and various trophies of rotting bone and flesh. Xnokylynya, the chief of the Top Land. Between his fingers hung a small roll of foul smelling fungi. It danced glowing embers into the firefly-dappled sky. He took a drag of the biri and filled his generous sized sac.

Xnokylynya held the smoke for what must have been an hour, staring, watching the floating figures in the bowl.The sounds of the swamp had grown louder as the air cooled and darkened around them. Faint wisps of blue smoke began to trail from his nostrils. The high pitched trills of small insects. The altos of life amongst the canopy. The low croaks of his countrymen hidden yet thriving deep in the swamp’s fold. His smoke joined the early evening haze that was beginning to cloak the surface of the pond below.

His opponent sat patiently. By now the mist of night had constricted their view to only each other and the still floating figurines before them, all else was a warm haze. The same blue smoke trailed upwards from his nostrils, yet glowed like sapphires in the dwindling light of the day. Without warning something flew into their vision from above. A black figure, dancing wings the only clear sign that it was alive. The green scarred Kroak unleashed himself at it. Amidst a puff of incandescent blue soot shot a tongue. It wrapped around the flying creature and drew it into his clutches. And yet the captured foe was bigger than the Kroak. It scrambled and writhed its insectoid features as he gripped it with his hands. Its wings dashed frantically before one was torn off with a wrenching bite. The violence of the tussle betrayed the looks of the old battered toadkin. He held on with all his might casting wood and dirt into the sky. Without hesitation, the purple Kroak picked up the chair that had been her perch and broke it across the face of the insect. The beast was stunned for a moment, and in that moment it found its fate. Xnokylynya, chief of these lands, ran the creature's head into the murky bowl of figurines. The creature frantically tried to escape his grasp. Yet he would not relent. He held firm, his tongue slowly pressing its head deeper and deeper into the watery grave.

At last it ceased. The air turned quiet again; like it had after the Voice. And yet no hum cut the silence. Time and space crept along in the humid fetor of the bayou. The last whispers of light still danced amongst the lightning bugs. This time, only the deep, baselike song of Xnokylynya croaked into the night air.

“Tell the Talan we feast.”

Into the Rifts: The Reawakening

Kroak

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.

Kroak

- 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.

Top Land

- 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.

Pitthuu Mount

Voice Spirits

-- Marine Air-Grung Task Force --

Epipalegic

Kraok Sacs

Wind Swim

Dragfyr VTOLs

Mosqmusk Interceptor

-- Naval --

Water Lungs

Big Nuuk

Gaga Nuuuk

- --- -

Characters:

Xnokylynya

Guunghnoknok

Nthhhyethhaht

Pouok

Eden 2.0(Space NRP/Closed, see OP for details)

^{_________________________________________________________
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.

Please help Ella

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???!

- @TylerVanderjack14

Eden 2.0(Space NRP/Closed, see OP for details)

"You gonna get got out here. You just gotta get yours more than you get got though.'"<br>-@Real_NewMemphis

^{_________________________________________________________
_{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}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

New Memphis

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.

Cruiser

Destroyer

Cutter

_{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

Tom Dop - Nine-Oh_One Environmental Services, Janitorial Staff

Liona Le Master

@RealLiona - Intergalactic influencer, frequent social voice of New Memphis

Eden 2.0(Space NRP/Closed, see OP for details)

"You gonna get got here. You just gotta get yours more than you get got though.'"<br>-Jamal Q.

^{_________________________________________________________
_{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}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

New Memphis

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.

Cruiser

Destroyer

Cutter

_{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

Tom Dop - Nine-Oh_One Environmental Services, Janitorial Staff

Liona Le Master

@RealLiona - Intergalactic influencer, frequent social voice of New Memphis

The Reign of Sorcerers

Ulfrag Thokkson

Hestavíg

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.

The Reign of Sorcerers

Ulfrag Thokkson

The Boy

Ulfrag Thokkson

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Potency:

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.

Conflicts of Eae't (Dark Fantasy Nation RP)

Dokkir - (WIP)

Dokkirvidbjodslegur

“The Dark, Quiet, Wood”

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.

Whispers in the Rain

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• 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

History

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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?

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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.

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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.

Territory

Terrain

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.



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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.

Culture

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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.

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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.

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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.

Religion

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.

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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.

Military

The Immortals of Vajl

Vajl Oathsworn

Vajl Levies

Vajl Druzhina

Vajl Mammaluts

Oprichniks

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Northern Moors

Elk Cavalry

Moorish Jarls

Moorish Huscarls

Moorish Oathspears

Moorish Warband

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The Deepwood

They Who Whisper

Characters

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Viscount Naezerios

Appearnace

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Our Mother

Appearance

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Government

Factions

Economy