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Sorry, work has been real shitty. I'll be posting soon.
Work just shit on me but I'ma post too.
Posted. Anyone who wants to try a Tindrel character has a prime opportunity now; just about to set off on a jaunt over the Dead Planet's surface. Put a CS up and Cat n I will consider it. I'm not going anywhere so it's a safe bet your Tindrel will see action, and not just as a separate thing either. We're cooking up something big and the Hyperion is going to play a part.
About half an hour after the Mongrel ship docked alongside Hyperion, the umbilical cord connecting them was severed and left to float in space like a listless tentacle. The larger black spaceship powered away and it’s rear guns open fired, blowing the Mongrel to smithereens. The rest of the Dead Planet’s rag tag armada soon followed suit or fled out of the system. Next Hyperion bombed the rock colonies, eradicating anything approaching a workable space craft. They would need some time to investigate the planet without being harassed from orbit. Satisfied that there was nothing else threatening them besides the small arms fire shooting at them from the various ranches, Ganka turned his attention to the Dead Planet itself.
As a child he had always imagined what it would be like to return to the birthplace of the Tindrel. Truth be told the reality was less than amazing. The planet’s surface was barren, he was sure nothing could survive down there; Hyperion’s sensors agreed with him. He would take all the crew down there with him save a couple of essential staff, just in case. Their equipment included radiation kits, breathing apparatus, drills and guns. Helping them out was renegade Mind ‘Schixr’, rated a long time ago as a three point four on Humanity’s Artificial Intelligence Function Index. She had mounted herself into a standard humanoid droid casing; the main modifications were attached to the upper half of her body. Most prominent was the large backpack-like thing attached to her metallic back. It glowed softly from its own power source and made the droid look decidedly hunchbacked as it’s legs compensated for a seemingly dead weight. Less noticeable was the almost invisible crown mounted on her head. With seven points, the wire mesh that made it up appeared translucent but pulsed with the same mysterious iridescence.
Ganka marched over to her as the landing party assembled in Hyperion’s main loading bay. “So you know what you’re doing?” He asked, holding his Changde VII Laser Rifle to his chest till his environment suit’s magnetic holster took hold. “Of course, Captain. Do you ever think i’d enter a combat situation unaware of what my role was?” Schixr snapped, turning on the Tindrel who raised his hands defensively.
“Sorry, i didn’t mean it like that.”
“Neither did i.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I’m just nervous, that’s all.”
“Why are you nervous, there’s nothing to be afraid here.”
“Well you realize that fifty gunmen seems rather...extreme for a simple archaeological dig.”
Ganka scratched his chin, looking around quickly. None of his men seemed to be taking a particular interest in their conversation.
“Just relax, we’re taking a full complement to scout out the ruins. When that’s done they’ll all return to the ship and it’ll just be a few of us and some more heavy duty mining gear. Besides, life signs scans came up negative.”
“The ‘Dead Planet’ has a high level of lead under the surface, that scan would go down no more than thirty metres and you know it.”
“Well let’s just hope we don’t need to go down that far to find what we need.”
They were interrupted by the helmsman speaking through the communicators in everybody’s ear/Mind. “Touchdown in two minutes.” Everything was still in the loading bay, Ganka wasn't even aware they had passed through the atmosphere yet, let alone cruising a couple of hundred meters off the planet’s surface to reach their destination. Pushing his way to a raised gantry at the back of the bay, Ganka looked out at his crew. “We’re blessed with a smooth and relatively bloodless (there was a chorus of lewd cheering) journey to our civilization’s birthplace. Let’s try and keep stuff the way it was before we arrived.” There was a stunned silence. “I’m kidding, let’s fuck shit up.” There was a more characteristic cacophony of childish chanting as the bay doors began opening and Captain Sciarker activated his breathing apparatus.
As a child he had always imagined what it would be like to return to the birthplace of the Tindrel. Truth be told the reality was less than amazing. The planet’s surface was barren, he was sure nothing could survive down there; Hyperion’s sensors agreed with him. He would take all the crew down there with him save a couple of essential staff, just in case. Their equipment included radiation kits, breathing apparatus, drills and guns. Helping them out was renegade Mind ‘Schixr’, rated a long time ago as a three point four on Humanity’s Artificial Intelligence Function Index. She had mounted herself into a standard humanoid droid casing; the main modifications were attached to the upper half of her body. Most prominent was the large backpack-like thing attached to her metallic back. It glowed softly from its own power source and made the droid look decidedly hunchbacked as it’s legs compensated for a seemingly dead weight. Less noticeable was the almost invisible crown mounted on her head. With seven points, the wire mesh that made it up appeared translucent but pulsed with the same mysterious iridescence.
Ganka marched over to her as the landing party assembled in Hyperion’s main loading bay. “So you know what you’re doing?” He asked, holding his Changde VII Laser Rifle to his chest till his environment suit’s magnetic holster took hold. “Of course, Captain. Do you ever think i’d enter a combat situation unaware of what my role was?” Schixr snapped, turning on the Tindrel who raised his hands defensively.
“Sorry, i didn’t mean it like that.”
“Neither did i.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I’m just nervous, that’s all.”
“Why are you nervous, there’s nothing to be afraid here.”
“Well you realize that fifty gunmen seems rather...extreme for a simple archaeological dig.”
Ganka scratched his chin, looking around quickly. None of his men seemed to be taking a particular interest in their conversation.
“Just relax, we’re taking a full complement to scout out the ruins. When that’s done they’ll all return to the ship and it’ll just be a few of us and some more heavy duty mining gear. Besides, life signs scans came up negative.”
“The ‘Dead Planet’ has a high level of lead under the surface, that scan would go down no more than thirty metres and you know it.”
“Well let’s just hope we don’t need to go down that far to find what we need.”
They were interrupted by the helmsman speaking through the communicators in everybody’s ear/Mind. “Touchdown in two minutes.” Everything was still in the loading bay, Ganka wasn't even aware they had passed through the atmosphere yet, let alone cruising a couple of hundred meters off the planet’s surface to reach their destination. Pushing his way to a raised gantry at the back of the bay, Ganka looked out at his crew. “We’re blessed with a smooth and relatively bloodless (there was a chorus of lewd cheering) journey to our civilization’s birthplace. Let’s try and keep stuff the way it was before we arrived.” There was a stunned silence. “I’m kidding, let’s fuck shit up.” There was a more characteristic cacophony of childish chanting as the bay doors began opening and Captain Sciarker activated his breathing apparatus.
Is this the inspiration for that whole Tower situation?
Dromulus Stenomylus - Known as the Common Dromelar to most.
The average life expectancy of a Dromelar is 40 to 50 years. A full-grown adult stands 5.48 m (18 foot) at the shoulder and is usually over 8m (26 foot) from tail to nose. Dromelar adults are stronger than they look (though ungainly and requiring a skilled rider to stay in the saddle) and can run at up to 65 km/h (40 mph) in short bursts and sustain speeds of up to 30 km/h (18 mph). The male Dromelar has in its throat an organ called a dulla, a large, inflatable sac he extrudes from his mouth when in rut to assert dominance and attract females. It resembles a long, swollen, pink tongue hanging out of it's huge mouth. Dromelar do not directly store water in their tails to survive long periods without drinking as was once commonly believed. It's long tail is actually a reservoir of fatty tissue: concentrating body fat in their tail minimizes the insulating effect fat would have if distributed over the rest of their bodies, helping the Dromelar survive in hot climates. Moreover, they have evolved a kind of second mouth on the tip of their tail. Operated with a very strong suction mechanism, a Dromelar will often opt to dip it's tail in any water it finds to drink rather than kneel down and leave itself vulnerable. Most Dromelar surviving today have been domesticated by various factions as well as tribes who have reverted to more primitive times out in the vast Deserts of Outremer and beyond.
The average life expectancy of a Dromelar is 40 to 50 years. A full-grown adult stands 5.48 m (18 foot) at the shoulder and is usually over 8m (26 foot) from tail to nose. Dromelar adults are stronger than they look (though ungainly and requiring a skilled rider to stay in the saddle) and can run at up to 65 km/h (40 mph) in short bursts and sustain speeds of up to 30 km/h (18 mph). The male Dromelar has in its throat an organ called a dulla, a large, inflatable sac he extrudes from his mouth when in rut to assert dominance and attract females. It resembles a long, swollen, pink tongue hanging out of it's huge mouth. Dromelar do not directly store water in their tails to survive long periods without drinking as was once commonly believed. It's long tail is actually a reservoir of fatty tissue: concentrating body fat in their tail minimizes the insulating effect fat would have if distributed over the rest of their bodies, helping the Dromelar survive in hot climates. Moreover, they have evolved a kind of second mouth on the tip of their tail. Operated with a very strong suction mechanism, a Dromelar will often opt to dip it's tail in any water it finds to drink rather than kneel down and leave itself vulnerable. Most Dromelar surviving today have been domesticated by various factions as well as tribes who have reverted to more primitive times out in the vast Deserts of Outremer and beyond.
Maybe with a wee smidge of Stalker Anna Fang in the mix? Posted but did a double, sorry.
Double post, ignore.
After a time the largest of the visiting craft, a homemade runt cobbled together from bits left over from travelling merchants, hove into view in front of the Captain. It sidled up slowly, connecting via a long walkway with the Dead Planet as a backdrop. Sickly green lights blinked along its hull as the connection was finalized. Ganka blew air through his nose, his teeth bared while he looked the vessel over. Content, he turned sharply and left the storage room. The corridors were buzzing with crewmen, all headed in the opposite direction to him. Ganka pushed his way through to the bridge, grabbed a ceremonial coat covered in medals and gold tassels before making his way in the general direction of the reception area.
The Hyperion sported four rooms kitted out to receive visitors and house guests if they intended to stay aboard for an extended period of time. Three of them had been repurposed as a garrison quarters for all the workers and soldiers the Hyperion employed, and subsequently degraded to rubbish filled cesspits. The one remaining proper reception area was relatively garbage free, save a few piles of filth in the corners and under furniture. Furniture had been upturned and some of the paintings hanging up had been defaced, but at least the graffiti had been lasered off and the chandelier was still intact. When Ganka pushed past two guards at the door he discovered a large group of Tindrel clustered in the middle of the reception room, looking at him expectantly. Mostly male, though there were a few women and even some children present. They were clad in rags and looked extremely thin and malnourished.
An Eliazoph stepped forward, she have been the leader but Ganka was unimpressed. She was shorter than most of her kind, and her horns (a sign of status) had been sheared off entirely. An old looking Gorrompek and a Chirrix with one arm made a half effort, standing in front of the crowd but behind the young Eliazoph. Ganka left two metres between them and they both bowed respectfully. “I am Captain Ganka Horza Outremer Sciarker. I welcome you on the behalf of my crew and i to the Hyperion.” Ganka grunted, taking a step forward which was matched by the Gorrompek and Chirrix behind their chosen representative. “I am Bon Mooy Tindgaard Venpele. We in turn welcome you all back to our homeworld.” The formal greeting over, Bon slouched back over, unwell enough to continue the regal posture most Eliazoph managed. “What is it that you seek?”
“We’re going down onto the Dead Planet. We’re...archaeologists.”
Bon looked around at the crew of the Hyperion. Despite Ganka’s request that they stay out of sight to avoid agitating the guests, a gaggle of the crew had leaked in through the various doors and were staring at their visitors. “I’m afraid we can’t allow it. The Dead Planet is very unstable and should be sacred for us, for all of us.” She said, motioning to Ganka himself. All three races of the Collective came from different systems, but they picked the Dead Planet to be their cultural hub. A middle ground where they could share ideas and pool resources. “Very noble of you. May i ask who appointed you as the Guardians of our planet?” the Captain asked, peering round at the huddled group of Tindel behind her. Bon’s lips tightened. She avoided the question. “What is it exactly that you wish to find on our Dead Planet? She asked, the bristle of metal in the hands of every crewman had caught her eye. “I’ve been led to believe that the Remnant wasn’t evacuated off the world, that it’s still here.”
This elicited a chorus of laughter from the assembled guests, Ganka growled angrily. “That is what every treasure hunter says, we turn them all back. The Remnant was destroyed in transit off the Dead Planet, all those hundreds of years ago.” Bon laughed condescendingly. “That’s untrue, i know where it’s hidden.” Ganka blustered. “Is that right? Would you care to explain how you have such intelligence?”
“Someone told me.”
“Who?”
“Voices from our past.”
“That’s nice, but i’m afraid you won’t proceed, not without clearance from the Council Collective on Outremer. “ Bon giggled, looking back at her flock, who were besides themselves with laughter. They thought him a fool. Ganka looked around and found his own crew hiding grins and guffaws; the young captain ground his fangs. Motioning with one hand in a signal well known to his ensign, Ganka grasped the machine gun that was thrust into his hands. “You can ask them yourself when you meet them, and may the gods rest your filthy souls.” Ganka laughed, opening fire on the congregation. When they all lay dead on the reception room floor, the only contribution being a pack of new bullet holes in the wall, he threw it back to his second in command. Everything was silent. “Destroy their ships and bombard the colonies, we set down in an hour.”
The Hyperion sported four rooms kitted out to receive visitors and house guests if they intended to stay aboard for an extended period of time. Three of them had been repurposed as a garrison quarters for all the workers and soldiers the Hyperion employed, and subsequently degraded to rubbish filled cesspits. The one remaining proper reception area was relatively garbage free, save a few piles of filth in the corners and under furniture. Furniture had been upturned and some of the paintings hanging up had been defaced, but at least the graffiti had been lasered off and the chandelier was still intact. When Ganka pushed past two guards at the door he discovered a large group of Tindrel clustered in the middle of the reception room, looking at him expectantly. Mostly male, though there were a few women and even some children present. They were clad in rags and looked extremely thin and malnourished.
An Eliazoph stepped forward, she have been the leader but Ganka was unimpressed. She was shorter than most of her kind, and her horns (a sign of status) had been sheared off entirely. An old looking Gorrompek and a Chirrix with one arm made a half effort, standing in front of the crowd but behind the young Eliazoph. Ganka left two metres between them and they both bowed respectfully. “I am Captain Ganka Horza Outremer Sciarker. I welcome you on the behalf of my crew and i to the Hyperion.” Ganka grunted, taking a step forward which was matched by the Gorrompek and Chirrix behind their chosen representative. “I am Bon Mooy Tindgaard Venpele. We in turn welcome you all back to our homeworld.” The formal greeting over, Bon slouched back over, unwell enough to continue the regal posture most Eliazoph managed. “What is it that you seek?”
“We’re going down onto the Dead Planet. We’re...archaeologists.”
Bon looked around at the crew of the Hyperion. Despite Ganka’s request that they stay out of sight to avoid agitating the guests, a gaggle of the crew had leaked in through the various doors and were staring at their visitors. “I’m afraid we can’t allow it. The Dead Planet is very unstable and should be sacred for us, for all of us.” She said, motioning to Ganka himself. All three races of the Collective came from different systems, but they picked the Dead Planet to be their cultural hub. A middle ground where they could share ideas and pool resources. “Very noble of you. May i ask who appointed you as the Guardians of our planet?” the Captain asked, peering round at the huddled group of Tindel behind her. Bon’s lips tightened. She avoided the question. “What is it exactly that you wish to find on our Dead Planet? She asked, the bristle of metal in the hands of every crewman had caught her eye. “I’ve been led to believe that the Remnant wasn’t evacuated off the world, that it’s still here.”
This elicited a chorus of laughter from the assembled guests, Ganka growled angrily. “That is what every treasure hunter says, we turn them all back. The Remnant was destroyed in transit off the Dead Planet, all those hundreds of years ago.” Bon laughed condescendingly. “That’s untrue, i know where it’s hidden.” Ganka blustered. “Is that right? Would you care to explain how you have such intelligence?”
“Someone told me.”
“Who?”
“Voices from our past.”
“That’s nice, but i’m afraid you won’t proceed, not without clearance from the Council Collective on Outremer. “ Bon giggled, looking back at her flock, who were besides themselves with laughter. They thought him a fool. Ganka looked around and found his own crew hiding grins and guffaws; the young captain ground his fangs. Motioning with one hand in a signal well known to his ensign, Ganka grasped the machine gun that was thrust into his hands. “You can ask them yourself when you meet them, and may the gods rest your filthy souls.” Ganka laughed, opening fire on the congregation. When they all lay dead on the reception room floor, the only contribution being a pack of new bullet holes in the wall, he threw it back to his second in command. Everything was silent. “Destroy their ships and bombard the colonies, we set down in an hour.”
Frontier Space. A forgotten planet orbiting a White dwarf star. A belt of rocks, asteroids and moons hung in its orbit like a horizontal avalanche against the eternal backdrop of the universe. The planet itself looked still, dead and lifeless. The God Weapon had completely written off most of the world as uninhabitable centuries ago. The once vibrant ecosystem it maintained had been turned to glass, it was the only planet of the three to survive the bombardment. The other two became unstable and fell apart. Bright lights illuminated the orbiting debris surrounding the planet; crustacean-like ranches clamped to the sides of rocks barely bigger than the colonies themselves, self sufficient homesteads populated by Tindrel too proud or too poor to leave their old home’s presence. The system didn’t get many visitors, so when the Hyperion exited hyperspace dangerously close to the Dead Planet, all of the colony-group’s meagre vessels flew up to greet it.
The Hyperion was originally built by humans on Earth as a kind of Royal Yacht , to ferry various dignitaries around known space on goodwill trips, publicity stunts and conferences. Several years ago it had gone missing. All the crew were sent unconscious back down to Earth in a lifeboat as the Hyperion zoomed away. It had undergone a makeover since then; the regal red paint job was gone, replaced with a menacing matte black. The eagle perched atop the Earth insignia was gone too in favor of the three curls of the Tindrel Collective. The inside had retained most of it’s luxurious fittings, but had been misused by the crew. The antique 25th century furnishings were tarnished with food stains and blood. Wrappers, old ammunition casings and all manner of detritus littered the carpeted floors. Lewd graffiti was scrawled on the walls, ‘No room for humans’ and ‘Dyjranja eats skag shit’.
The Hyperion’s bridge on the other hand was spotlessly clean. All of the navigation and control equipment had been vastly upgraded; a new console had been added directly behind the Captain’s chair (which had been modified to suit the various Tindrel physiologies) to accommodate the new suite of ship’s weaponry that had been installed. The Hyperion had not originally been considered a craft created from combat, so the bridge looked out directly into space through a curved plate of toughened glass rather than hide in the belly of the beast. To counteract this weakness an ugly shield generator that sat on the Hyperion’s nose now protected the craft via kinetic barriers. It was a multi-species ship now, but each different alien detachment had their own sleeping quarters. However slight, the Tindrel had superiority, with their quarters being closest to the bridge.
Captain of the Hyperion, Ganka Horza Outremer Sciarker, stood at ease in one of the observation rooms. The Dead Planet sprawled out below him from behind a thick plate of glass. A big Gorrompek, he wore a network of scars up and down his arms from a past J’arden’tor, Trial of a Hundred Cuts. The observation room, once a place of relaxed luxury with lots of soft couches facing an artificial fireplace had been converted into a storage room. The Captain still enjoyed coming here occasionally, to get away from the constant noise and people asking for direction. Unfortunately he couldn’t avoid it this time as his number two, Brabat Kang Outremer Flitch, buzzed his way in and stood to attention by the door. “Captain, people are requesting to come aboard.” Tindrillian, the manufactured language of the Collective, was a very harsh and brutal sounding tongue. It encompassed a combination of very precise clicks and other throat sounds with long sweeping words and animalistic vocal ranges. "Bring them aboard. Make them comfortable in the least shitty reception area; i will be with them soon." The Captain replied, waving his lieutenant away. As the door buzzed closed he returned to his thoughts, staring down at the Dead Planet below.
The Hyperion was originally built by humans on Earth as a kind of Royal Yacht , to ferry various dignitaries around known space on goodwill trips, publicity stunts and conferences. Several years ago it had gone missing. All the crew were sent unconscious back down to Earth in a lifeboat as the Hyperion zoomed away. It had undergone a makeover since then; the regal red paint job was gone, replaced with a menacing matte black. The eagle perched atop the Earth insignia was gone too in favor of the three curls of the Tindrel Collective. The inside had retained most of it’s luxurious fittings, but had been misused by the crew. The antique 25th century furnishings were tarnished with food stains and blood. Wrappers, old ammunition casings and all manner of detritus littered the carpeted floors. Lewd graffiti was scrawled on the walls, ‘No room for humans’ and ‘Dyjranja eats skag shit’.
The Hyperion’s bridge on the other hand was spotlessly clean. All of the navigation and control equipment had been vastly upgraded; a new console had been added directly behind the Captain’s chair (which had been modified to suit the various Tindrel physiologies) to accommodate the new suite of ship’s weaponry that had been installed. The Hyperion had not originally been considered a craft created from combat, so the bridge looked out directly into space through a curved plate of toughened glass rather than hide in the belly of the beast. To counteract this weakness an ugly shield generator that sat on the Hyperion’s nose now protected the craft via kinetic barriers. It was a multi-species ship now, but each different alien detachment had their own sleeping quarters. However slight, the Tindrel had superiority, with their quarters being closest to the bridge.
Captain of the Hyperion, Ganka Horza Outremer Sciarker, stood at ease in one of the observation rooms. The Dead Planet sprawled out below him from behind a thick plate of glass. A big Gorrompek, he wore a network of scars up and down his arms from a past J’arden’tor, Trial of a Hundred Cuts. The observation room, once a place of relaxed luxury with lots of soft couches facing an artificial fireplace had been converted into a storage room. The Captain still enjoyed coming here occasionally, to get away from the constant noise and people asking for direction. Unfortunately he couldn’t avoid it this time as his number two, Brabat Kang Outremer Flitch, buzzed his way in and stood to attention by the door. “Captain, people are requesting to come aboard.” Tindrillian, the manufactured language of the Collective, was a very harsh and brutal sounding tongue. It encompassed a combination of very precise clicks and other throat sounds with long sweeping words and animalistic vocal ranges. "Bring them aboard. Make them comfortable in the least shitty reception area; i will be with them soon." The Captain replied, waving his lieutenant away. As the door buzzed closed he returned to his thoughts, staring down at the Dead Planet below.
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