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Phosphoros - Heroic Fantasy for fans of Conan, Greek myth and Antiquity

I agree that discord can be chaotic and leave some people out. Let's use it, but try and keep active lore and plot discussions or at least summaries here

Phosphoros - Heroic Fantasy for fans of Conan, Greek myth and Antiquity

Map sometime not today given its my birthday

Phosphoros - Heroic Fantasy for fans of Conan, Greek myth and Antiquity

Looking gooooood

Phosphoros - Heroic Fantasy for fans of Conan, Greek myth and Antiquity

Yeeeee

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Rostov

In distance, beyond the Don River and somewhere among the farms fields, the sun dipped languidly below the horizon. After bidding Nikolai farewell Pavel had stopped on the side of the crumbling road to watch its descent. It was not a decison made out of sentiment, or even exhaustion, but rather one born of anxiety towards a situation as old as man himself: coming home to the wife hours after you'd promised to. It had been a long day, but what man had that excuse ever saved? Even as he loitered in the open fields between Rostov and its airports as a result of that worry Pavel sought to purge it from his mind; after all if a sunset could not bring serenity to he, whose fears were trivial, what good was it at all?

Of course, the longer he was away the worse things would be, and as much as he didn't look forward to coming home the thought of frightening Yulia with his absence was worse. With a deep sigh he turned away from the pageant of colours dancing in the sky and began his walk, the majesty that he abandoned was one he'd never be deprived of, the same was not true of his family.

By the time he made his way into town twilight had set in with night on its heels. Candles burned in many windows, but others were dark still. Pavel often wondered if the men and women who'd lived in those homes were dead now, or if they'd made the journey to betters lands so many in Rostov had in the bad times. It was a great irony, that Russians would take refuge in places like Armenia. Pavel would have laughed at that, but the bitterness the thought brought forward overshadowed any mirth it might have provided.

Russia was a husk of its former self, and in a way he was too. He would admit it to nobody but Yulia, but before the Tsar had been butchered and his country broken Pavel had been a sociable, charismatic man. He'd attended all the parties his status permitted him to, and often ones it hadn't. He'd had more than his share of booze, women, and the high life. Now? Now he worked on old planes with a partner whose ramblings he tolerated only because they drowned out the thoughts that had haunted him for years now. He spoke as little as he could. He'd joked with Nikolai some days before that he'd have drowned himself in the river if he'd had a wife as terrible as the rusted write offs they worked on, but the truth was he'd been prepared to do that anyways. It had been having her, Yulia, that saved him from that.

Still, at times like this the memories came. The Governor had called him and his fellows heroes, the great defenders of Rostov! He knew better. In their mission to keep the animals out that was exactly what they became. When the food ran short they'd eaten their dead, when the communists had failed to break them they'd crucified a poor bolshevik no older than sixteen in the blindness of their rage. None of them had expected to escape with their lives, but then most hadn't.

Perhaps the dead were lucky, those that remained at the end had to live with what they'd done. He'd told the Presbyter, he'd done what he could to repent, but perhaps absolution wasn't on the table for those like him. He didn't know what Yulia would think if he told her what he'd done in those days, or what she'd learned from others already, but he'd long since resolved to never tell her, to let that part of his life die as he should have.

That, he had resolved long ago, was all he could really do. Regardless of his past he'd ended up with a beautiful wife, a child scarcely a year old, and going forward his only responsibility was their well being. Before he knew it he was deep into Rostov, nearing the old house he'd been awarded by the Governor. It had been a fancy thing, once. Now the once elaborate brickwork was covered in ash from the old coal furnaces that'd been restarted, it's decorative columns crumbling as their white plaster peeled off and revealed the wooden super structure below.

It was too large for him now, but perhaps one day he'd have a family large enough to fill it. After wallowing in his memories the thought brought a genuine smile to his face, perhaps life wasn't so bad. Without further adieu he ascended the houses steps and fumbled for his keys before opening the creaky old door.

It was less than a second before he heard her voice ring out from a hallway, “Is that you Pavel? Where have you been? You said you'd be back hours ago, did you run into some thugs? You know how the streets are at night!”

This, he figured, wasn't the worst thing in the world. As Yulia turned a corner and came into view he took a moment to appreciate how lucky he'd been. She was a taller woman, but in Pavel's eyes it suited her. Her hair wasn't perfectly blond, but darker yellow that contrasted well with her brown eyes and habit of wearing darker colours like the dark blue dress she wore now.

Before he had a chance to continue on that train of thought she all but ran into him, taking him up in a hug that was surprisingly forceful. There would be no fight then, just shame. She didn't cry, but as he returned the embrace he knew she would have had he been out much longer. She didn't speak, nor did he. Both understood that veteran or not, and patrols or not, the streets of Rostov were not safe at night and Pavel had taken a stupid risk without any real reason, but the deed was done and nothing had come of it but frayed nerves.

Yulia let him go and frowned, “Why must you work out there? We both know Nikolai isn't worth the grief he puts you through fixing those things.”

Pavel hung up the jacket he'd worn on his way home, taking his time in an effort to think of a reply, “We do good Yulia, better than most. The farmers thank us whenever we have a duster to sell.”

She shook her head, “You could do better without having to walk to the cities outskirts every morning! The Governor announced an effort to rebuild some of the old power stations, so we don't have to burn that wretched coal in our own homes and rely on candles like our grandparents! Why don't you sign up to do that? They'd bus you out and back, no more dangerous walks. Think of our child Pavel, what would happen to Anna if something happened to you? What would happen to me?”

There was no answer to that. Pavel didn't dislike his job, but he'd already seen men with pipes prowling the streets on his way to work. They'd left him be for now, perhaps because he struck the presence of a frightening man, but how long would that last when a crop failed and they needed money more urgently? In his heart he knew Yulia was right.

Instead of replying he simply nodded, putting a hand on Yulia's shoulder and embraced her anew, this time for the future rather than the past. Behind them the incoherent babbling of a young child half walking and half crawling towards them brought about a mutual smile.

Phosphoros - Heroic Fantasy for fans of Conan, Greek myth and Antiquity

Interest gained

Dark Matters (Open)

1st Fleet of Faithful Intent, Edge of Ecumene Space

After the prerecorded message had concluded Theodore was left in the relative silence of the fighters cockpit to muse the implications of what he'd been told. It wasn't that he disagreed with Lucien’s plan, quite the opposite actually, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of trepidation when he considered the myriad of ways this could all go so, so wrong. No, he knew that line of thought was a trap. The decisions being made were above his pay grade, he’d been given a job to do and it was best he focused on it.

Of course, there wasn’t a lot to focus on just yet. The Ecumene had called this meeting, and they’d have the initiative in whatever discussion took place; at least until he found an angle that let him push the agenda he’d been given. Well, if nothing else he could make sure he was composed. Before he’d left Theodore had tried his best to look prepared, but already he could tell the cramped journey was going to take its toll. The fighter wasn't hot but a mixture of nerves from his recent revelation and a rather poorly chosen meal, he'd been expecting a proper shuttle with facilities after all, had begun to worry him when it came to the state of his appearance. Finding a more reflective black screen to his side, its function a mystery he didn’t care to unravel, he surveyed himself. It wasn’t much a mirror, and the way it distorted his face hardly helped, but with a grimace he noted the already disorderly state of his once carefully combed brown hair. With little else to do he went about correcting that.

It was hours, of that there was no doubt, but still he managed to be surprised and unprepared when the HUD flashed a warning and the long range fighter dropped out of warp. He couldn't see them, but the small crafts sensors assured him a fleet equivalent to those that'd been fighting at the front back home was waiting for him, which was a tad disconcerting. Nevertheless he did his best to finish straightening out his suit as an Ecumene transmission came through, the fighter automatically recognizing the command and complying with the request to accept an escort.

The landing went smoothly, and Theodore stepped out of the cockpit with as much grace as he could summon, but at the end of the day climbing down a little ladder was only so dignified. Once he was out he made his way to the four waiting for him, at least two of which he could easily identify as guards and disregard when it came to the forthcoming greetings. The other two he identified by their dress. He knew enough about military trends to identify the officer, and the priest was a given considering the nature of the Ecumene.

There was a rather stark juxtaposition between Theodore and the two though; where he wore a simple black suit, the diplomatic uniform of ancient Humania, the Ecumene's delegation were rather unabashedly opulent in their fashion. A trifling detail, but one that spoke at length about who he was to negotiate with. The Ecumene officer spoke first, “Welcome aboard the Righteous Truth ambassador. I am Admiral Talaran Victrix, commander of this Fleet and High Lord of The Ecumene Navy. The individual next to me is his holiness Raynald Dagenais, High Priest of Orion.”

Theodore smiled cordially and shook the mans hand, “I am pleased to be here. Theodore Allard, designated and empowered representative of the Economic Council of the Great Resurrection.”

With that out of the way the priest invited him to follow the pair into the ship proper. The length of their walk spoke to the scale of the ship, the tapping of the Priest's staff serving to set a pace that while not rushed delivered them to their destination as expediently as could be hoped. The room they stopped at was clearly outfitted for relaxation, or more likley purpose built for diplomatic exchange, either way it was more luxurious in its furnishings than anything Theodore had seen on a military vessel in the past. Talaran ordered the guards to wait in the hallway and the three seated themselves, Theodore keeping a respectful distance but not going so far as to make conversation inconvenient. A minor, but important part of the game.

After Theordore sat Rynard began, “We can speak here for a time, afterwards you can proceed on into the sanctuary,” He motioned towards a pair of large elaborately engraved doors on the opposite end of the room that bore artistic depictions of Orion’s legendary life, “What happens in there then is between you and The Conclave.”

Theodore nodded as an android went about serving some minor refreshments. He partook, though not in excess. The candy he helped himself too was good, though a fair bit sweeter than he was accustom to, its centre filled with a paste that could only be lightly flavoured sugar.

“Your war with the Scorpines, it’s become quite the talk of the Coalition membership. How do your people fare against those….threats?” Raynald asked, his voice tinged with unmistakable disgust as he said the word ‘Scorpine’ almost as if he was repulsed at having to pronounce it.

“Ah,” Theodore paused a moment in thought, “I cannot attest to the details, I am not a military man of course, but favourably enough that the setback of two years ago was news. A layman I might be, but I cannot imagine a single hiccup in thirty years speaks to anything but the superiority of our forces.”

"We've heard scattered reports that you're mounting a successful counter-offensive. Although I imagine it may be some time before the Scorpines are broken completely," Talaran added, as he withdrew a small candied confection from the plate and popped it into his mouth, "We've received communications from various Scorpine military sources requesting to know why the Fleet is stationed so close to their territory. We've provided the same response each time: the Fleet of Faithful Intent is here to ensure that the war does not spill over into the Ecumene. Nothing more. A deterrent if you will. I'm not surprised they are uncomfortable however, considering the reputation of this fleet amongst non-human elements of the galaxy."

As the Ecumene officer spoke another android entered, this time bearing an assortment of drinks. Though he showed no sign of it, Theodore waited for his turn to seize one with the mad anticipation of a man who'd been thoroughly unprepared to sit in a cramped cockpit for hours on end with only limited food and drink. When he tried the drink it was fruity, and clearly expensive, but above all else it was refreshing enough Theodore suppressed the urge to grin.

"The Admiral had previously been assigned to the Cygnus V system," Raynald explained after the drunks had been passed out, "The fleet was deployed to crush the resistance against humanity there, and ensure it fell once again back into the rule of the heirs of Orion's Mantle. The treachery of the Alien can indeed be a devious prospect. Thankfully, the full firepower of the fleet's carriers made them see the error of their ways."

"A philosophical question Ambassador, if you would be so kind as to indulge me while we wait for your audience to begin," Raynald continued, "Where do you see the path of humanity's destiny leading? What is our purpose here now and throughout these long years of our existence? From the mists of our earliest days, through the misguided domination of the Empire, to now: where is our path taking us?"

Now that, Theodore thought, was an unexpected question. Of course, he supposed philosophy was the natural domain of priests, not that he was religious enough to have any real firsthand experience in the matter. Still, nobody lacked for opinions on matters like that, religious or not. In his case, Theodore held the same opinion as the man he was here to represent, “Our destiny? A large question, High Priest, but one that all have considered I suppose. I imagine you might expect a different answer from a Resurrectionist, after all in no part of the galaxy do the stereotypes about us fail to precede our arrival, but if I were to guess what our purpose is? I would say Prosperity. In ancient days wars were fought with resources in mind, and indeed what is the point of amassing resources is they are not used to better the lives of their possessors? It seems to me that in from our earliest days to now the greatest drive of man has been his own well being. Some would call it a selfish thing, but only if they fail to see the truth of it.”

Theodore took a greedy sip of his drink and went on, “To care for ones self is to eventually, inevitably, care for others. Our natural aim and our greater purpose are one in the same, to bring about prosperity for our species. The Empire was misguided as you say, and perhaps doomed because of it, but even it had that goal in mind. Ressurectionism, and many other ideologies besides, posit a great many things, but ultimately they suggest solutions to the problems which weigh us down and hold us back from attaining the utopia we have dreamed of for as long as we have existed.”

“But,” Theodore looked to the priest, “I must imagine you have your own opinion as to that question?”

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

@Dinh AaronMkAaron said I was cool on discord so I made a post while sitting here awake at night. Probably not amazing but passable?

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Tsaritsyn, Office of the Provisional Governor

With a heavy sigh Vasily leaned back in the old chair, its wooden frame creaking under the strain, and cast a weary look on his son before speaking, “What of it?”

Grigori was far too accustom to his fathers flippant demeanour for his composure to break, but Vasily took more pleasure than he’d admit seeing his boy go to such effort to avoid scolding him. Where he got the stone face that captured the respect of all the soldiers he’d come to command Vasily would never know, certainly not from him or Sasha. With a pause only just long enough to make his displeasure clear Grigori replied, “What of it? Father this isn’t like their campaign against the communists, the assault on Crimea is a blatant show of aggression. Their ‘Hetman’ has no intention of keeping to her supposed national borders.”

“I never assumed she did,” Vasily straightened up and scratched the bushy moustache that acted as a centrepiece for his broad face, “but just because she means to occupy Crimea doesn’t mean she has an eye on Rostov my son. Sevastopol is a prize, Rostov is a ruin. What our people have done in the years since its liberation is what gives me the strength to keep this little corner of Russia safe, at least until the day comes when I no longer have to. Nevertheless Grigori, we’ve managed to repair less than a third of the cities factories and refineries. There is no fleet at anchor here, nor great treasure for the taking.”

Vasily laid his hands on the old desk before him and stood with some effort, “All that Rostov has to offer is a people prepared to defend her. The Hetman has no designs on the east my son, and we would be wise to avoid provoking her into creating them.”

Grigori looked his father in the eye and spoke seriously, “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then,” Vasily locked eyes with Grigori solemnly, “we fight as we always have. Until that day comes I will not look to hasten it by amassing an army on my neighbours border, especially one we may come to rely on. If the Hetman takes Crimea she will control the Kerch Strait. We cannot be cut off from the black sea, what little we can bring to market means more to our people than we can possibly comprehend.”

Grigori nodded, but somehow Vasily knew the boy was unconvinced. It pained Vasily to see it, but it didn’t surprise him. His boy was twenty seven, and he’d been fighting for the better part of a decade, of course Grigori thought to plan for war rather than peace. It was, after all, what the boy had become so capable at. With a sigh Vasily stepped around the desk and embraced his son, the surprise on the boys face as rewarding as the simple feeling of human contact, “You must trust me Grigori, have I not managed to keep us afloat so far? Go back to your men, ensure they’re ready if the day comes, but join your old man in the hope that we may hold onto the fragile peace we’ve managed to grasp in the midst of this broken world.”

With a muttered, “Of course, father.” Grigori made his exit in the simple green uniform that’d come to symbolize the defenders of the south. Vasily watched him go, his gaze lingering past the departure of his only son and seemingly looking for something in door that shut behind him. He sincerely hoped peace would find his son before death did.

With the fullness of his fifty seven years weighing down on him Vasily slumped into the simple wooden chair he’d brought to the office when he’d taken up residence in it. It was, he reflected, unlikely he’d live to see either outcome. The doctors assured him he was fine, but years at war had taken their toll. He felt like a walking ruin. If not for all those who’d come to rely on him, all family in their own way, he’d have surrendered the post of Provisional Governor years ago. Hetmen, Tsars, Dictators, Presidents, what horrible illness had they contacted that drove them to want such a position, let alone pursue it so singularly and callously?

Some questions, Vasily presumed, didn’t have answers.

Outskirts of Rostov

The airports outlying buildings had been, miraculously, spared from destruction in the two year siege Rostov proper had suffered. There had been damage to the main complex, the runway itself only having been repaired in the last year, but the old warehouses around the site must have never proved interesting enough to warrant their annihilation. Which was a hell of a good thing, as would later be discovered.

Nikolai grinned broadly at the sundry of aircraft in the southern hanger as he entered it, raising his voice to catch the attention of a mechanic working on an old transport plane, “How does she look Pavel?”

Pavel, a thickly built man who seemed at home covered in engine oil yelled back irritably, “Like she did last time Nikolai, shit. If she was my wife I’d have drowned myself in the Don.”

“A shame she isn’t Pavel,” Nikolai chuckled, “We’d all thank her for it.”

Pavel grumbled testily but smiled nonetheless. Without another word Nikolai walked around the other side of the plane and started working on the other engine, swearing when he tried to move the prop only to find it seized. Without bothering to check if he was listening Nikolai rambled to Pavel, “How many of the damn things have we gotten flying again? Four? Five? I swear if the Governor bothered to look at the stuff crammed into these hangers he’d give us a whole crew. Selling the damn things to the farmers for whatever they can cough up is barely enough to feed the two of us, let alone get more of these old birds flying.”

Pavel grunted and Nikolai went on, “I mean, really. I hear the Tsar’s have whole air wings, and we have what? Seven or eight fighters and as many crop dusters as there are idiots like us working on them. Who cares about the damn wheat, what if that witch in Moscow decides to bomb us Pavel! Then the Governor will be down here shouting ‘Save me Nikolai! Save us all!’ and we’d have all the damn money and men we needed to get these things flying.”

Without acknowledging his partners tirade Pavel asked, “You have the 15mm wrench over there?”

Nikolai kicked the tool under the airplane before continuing, “I bet we could cut a big fucking hole in the bottom of one of these old things and use it to bomb those fucking Caucus assholes into the dirt too. Put an end to those idiots in a day. Then we’d have all the gratitude we deserve you know? Money and girls and land. We’d be proper nobility Pavel! We’d-”

Nikolai swore loudly as the prop actually spun when he yanked it, directly into his forehead. He staggered back, rubbed the sore bump, and cursed, “One of these days we’ll get what we deserve, you hear! You fucking hear!”

From the other side of the plane Pavel heaved a sigh.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Rostov-Tsaritsyn Provisional Government

Green Claim

History:

Rostov, ‘the forgotten stepping stone’. Or at least, that was what many came to see their home as. In the Great War armies had rallied there, and left, and so too was this the case when the Tsar looked to stamp out the communist menace. No matter the destruction around it the valuable port was left, more or less, unmolested to profit from the drunken soldiers and sailors that stopped there for a nights rest. It was, in the end, a fond saying.

Or perhaps it is only remembered that way. Decades of the relative prosperity that accompanied peace came to a screeching and abrupt halt upon the death of the Tsar all those years ago. The chaos that followed consumed the country and its people, but perhaps nowhere was it more evident than that once forgotten stepping stone on the sea of Azov. Anarachy came in the form of Cossacks, Communists, and worse. Rostov was besieged within months of the Tsars death, set upon by a sundry of enemies all hungering for its meagre riches. In the first year alone thousands died in the fighting, and thousands more starved when the cities remaining authorities failed to secure a consistent source of aid. The cities defenders were stalwart and without qualms when it came to demonstrating their mettle, but the wretches that came screeching from the Caucuses outnumbered them badly.

Rostov burned for two years before hope came, and when it did it came from a place none expected. For in the northeast the city of Tsaritsyn a man had risen to forge order from the chaos that threatened to consume the shattered remains of his erstwhile homeland. Vasily Sokolovsky, Tsaritsyns former chief of police, had repulsed the forces that sought to annex that city and now looked to do the same in the south, sending word that his army was coming to all who would carry it. Compared to the forces of the would be Tsars his was a motley army, composed of old soldiers and battle hardened peasants, but in spite of this it fought with a ferocity that overwhelmed those that stood in its way. It took a month before the army of Tsaritsyn cleared a path to Rostov, but and in a matter of weeks it beat back the communists who’d held the cities outskirts for years. Praised as saviours the men from Tsaritsyn were honoured with what little Rostov had left to give, and those who’d held the city for so long declared their loyalty to the man who’d risked so much to relieve them.

In the years to come the communists would try again, and again, but with the populations of two true Russian cities united behind a man some considered a more worthy ruler than the coward who'd failed to protect his own family the new southern state prevailed each time. A few short years ago the steel foundries were burning again and the mines were running alongside them. Fields were plowed without fear of their destruction. Hunger gave way, slowly and arduously, but with certainty. The people of Rostov and Tsaritsyn were no longer merely surviving, but working towards a brighter future under the direction of a man they trusted implicitly.

When the provisional government was declared many questioned why Vasily had not made himself the southern Tsar, but those who knew him only scoffed at the idea. He was a leader because his people had cried out for one, a general because his people had demanded one, but he would not be a Tsar even if they chained a crown to his head. While his public speeches are rare they have always echoed this sentiment, that he and all in his domain are Russians. To hell which Tsar is winning, or what the quarrelling dictators are calling their little fiefs, those who live under his protection need only work to the best of their ability, rebuild as much as they are able, and remember that when the day comes they are Russians above all else. In the end it matters not who rules her, for the spirit of Russia lives in the people of Rostov and Tsaritsyn as it does in the men and women of every Russian city.

Other: WIP