Atutania was a paradoxical city. There was, without doubt, nowhere else in Lacorron quite like it; nowhere was grand in the same idyllic way, as tempered and bountiful in equal measure, as poised and peaceful. And yet, at the same time—and at especially this time—everywhere in Lacorron was exactly like it. Or, rather, Atutania was exactly like everywhere else. After all, a shield to the world, welcoming all behind it, could not help but reflect the peoples it protected. And so, on the Day of Heroes, Atutania was also Giellnal, Hahral, Ienarich, Itenaire and, perhaps, just a little bit, Viridian. City and Kingdom and Confederacy all at once, like everywhere and nowhere else.
Had Ionna not grown up on its streets, she might have gotten lost in the strangeness and clamor. The roads bristled with eager, uncertain traffic, carts and wagons and palanquins moved in staggered lines, carried by all manner of hoofed things. Guards ferried powdered nobility, merchant lords, eyed each other with mixtures of respect and unspoken challenge. Impromptu markets sprung up in the byways, parks became rest stops and meeting and greeting grounds. Confederate salesmen bartered with pelts and crude but unimpeachably sturdy tools; Hahral vendors hocked oils, wooden toys, beautiful paintings of places lost to the sands between the cities; Itenaire bravos offered expensive but assuredly crucial last-minute training to nervous initiates avoiding the trial grounds; here and there, street magicians wearing Giellnal colors drew small crowds to fill their hats with coin. Some, Ionna recognized, were Atutanian natives, but what did that really matter in the face of good fun?
And, she thought, good food.
The air was overwhelmed with foreign aromas, with smoke, fish, honeyed pork and roasting beef, with boiling oil, candied apples, chocolate and salt-and-caramel. In some places the tangle was so thick and unplaceable it could spoil the appetite, but from where Ionna walked, all she could smell was nostalgia.
She’d had almost all these foods once or twice, if not during the Day of Heroes, then in the lands of their origins, served at host tables or shared around communal, roadside campfires with other travelers. She thought of stories, and songs, and dances she’d learned. It was all she could do not to take a plate of curried chicken or steaming pilaf with her, but she couldn’t indulge yet. Today her meal had been quite utilitarian, and while she’d given herself time to wander and take in the quasi-familiar sights of her home, she still had a duty to fulfill.
So, dutifully, she bought only one modestly-sized packet of Hahral hard candy, and then pried herself from the cultural collage to follow a stream of hopefuls anxiously moving towards the proving grounds. The city officials were making good time processing them all, but by now Atutania had the Day down to a science, and the line hardly stalled enough to stand still in. Before long, she was ushered towards one of the sign-in desks, to an attendant who didn’t even bat an eye when she teasingly told him her name was ‘Ionathan’, but who suddenly found his sense of humor when he saw the Rielle crest on her shoulder-cloak.
“Will you be needing an explanation, milady?” he asked.
“Nah, I’m sure I can figure out a way to embarrass myself,” she said, and placed one of the candies on his ledger, before heading onto the grounds.
She popped another into her mouth as she walked, smiling at the memories its sweetness brought her. The trials were only just beginning, but already the range, the dummies, and the ring were teeming with competition. Ionna wasn’t averse to it, but by the end of the day there would be no shortage of bruised egos and broken dreams, people who had come from far and wide that wouldn’t make the cut, and would have to carry themselves home, hoping their drive would survive until the next Day of Heroes. That was the underside to all this celebration, the sobering realization that not everyone could be a hero.
But, Ionna liked to think, many people could—even those who doubted themselves. Especially those who doubted themselves.
For now Ionna wandered, observing the various trials, cheering on the meekest contestants, giving enthusiastic congratulations to the winners and rallying consolations to those who lesser performed. She offered candy to anyone who happened to make prolonged eye-contact with her, or who lingered too long within candy-offering range. Some accepted happily, others declined like she might have been offering them poison. She went on mingling anyway.
There would be time enough for trials, but in the back of her mind, Liura reminded her that she should never miss an opportunity to make some friends.
Ionna Rielle is a hopeful up-and-comer hailing from a family long embedded within the Order of the Glade. Raised on the compassionate teachings of her older sister, Ionna believes wholeheartedly in the chivalric ideals of knighthood; unity, companionship, selflessness, and the drive to protect those in need. Perhaps there is a place for her in the Lacorron of today, or perhaps she's spent her life lashed to antiquated codes and fanciful stories, hoping beyond hope that people like her can do good in the world. Compassion, after all, is nothing without forgiveness.
Age: 19 Race: Human Nationality: Atutanian Weapon of Choice: Longsword Elemental Affinity: Thunder Spiritual Affinity: Dark
C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y
Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military accolades, diplomatic achievements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, lauded for their swordsmanship, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations.
Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themselves, having developed a style of swordplay over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor.
Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the youths of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck.
When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her familial squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way.
Ionna tried that. As was the way of Rielle squires, she was gradually allowed to engage in the negotiations, and quickly found that she did not have her sister's social prowess. Attachment, empathy, these things did not come so naturally to her, and early on she found herself—with Liura's permission—having to answer for her faux pas with duels. It was frustrating. She could win disputes at the end of a sword without trouble, but more and more she found herself wishing she could disarm her opponents in Liura's way, making allies of them before they even knew they ought to have been enemies.
Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends and heard stories, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. With almost two decades behind her, only now did she finally feel she was beginning to learn again. Her social slips were fewer and fewer, and when they passed familiar places, people occasionally remembered her with a similar fondness as her sister. Understanding and connecting with those they met became easier, more fulfilling. Liura was right, and she did make more friends.
Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself.
In her eighteenth year, Ionna returned to Atutania alone, with her sister's sword and her affinity awakened. Liura was dead, killed on the road from Itenaire. She had died heroically, and been avenged, but when her grief-stricken parents pressed, Ionna said nothing more. For a long time there was bitter silence within their branch.
She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight.
Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore.
C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N
Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—it fostered prodigy.
Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and squirely disputes, to diplomatic duels, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a large-scale battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades.
Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her.
Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some bolting steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her grip on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.
Ionna Rielle is a hopeful up-and-comer hailing from a family long embedded within the Order of the Glade. Raised on the compassionate teachings of her older sister, Ionna believes wholeheartedly in the chivalric ideals of knighthood; unity, companionship, selflessness, and the drive to protect those in need. Perhaps there is a place for her in the Lacorron of today, or perhaps she's spent her life lashed to antiquated codes and fanciful stories, hoping beyond hope that people like her can do good in the world. Compassion, after all, is nothing without forgiveness.
Age: 19 Race: Human Nationality: Atutanian Weapon of Choice: Longsword Elemental Affinity: Thunder Spiritual Affinity: Dark
C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y C H A R A C T E R B I O G R A P H Y
Ionna was born with knighthood in her blood. For centuries, the Rielle family has served the Order of the Glade with loyalty, dignity, and an unwavering commitment to duty. While certainly not the oldest of the Order’s noble lineages, from their first knight the Rielle’s wasted no time in establishing themselves as worthy. Tracing their family line one finds no shortage of military accolades, diplomatic achievements, and martial renown. Some of the most famous duels in recent history were fought and won by Rielle knights, lauded for their swordsmanship, and to this day they are often among the first to be called upon when a matter would have to be settled with more pointed negotiations.
Ionna was shaping to be no different. Her mother and father, both accomplished knights, started her training early. The Rielles were a large family and so they often tutored among themselves, having developed a style of swordplay over the generations that served them well. Ionna happened to win the lottery; they assigned her older sister, Liura, as her mentor.
Of every Rielle branch, Liura was the most promising. She was only thirteen—eight years Ionna’s senior—when they were paired, and she was already outclassing the youths of other families within the order. She was talented, outgoing, always striving to better herself, but most of all she was kind. She never gloated, never condescended, and always took others at their word whether they deserved it or not. Friends came easily to her, even and especially among opponents. Liura Love, they called her, and it stuck.
When Liura ascended to knighthood—one of the youngest in the Order’s history to do so—she took Ionna as her familial squire, and their training continued. Ionna accompanied her sister across Lacorron, settling disputes from Itenaire to Hahral, and seeing first hand why their family was revered. Though she had yet to awaken an elemental affinity, she watched with awe when Liura would harness the power of the storm itself, moving like lightning, striking like thunder. But confrontations like that were rare. When it came to a fight, Liura settled most everything with just her sword, but the lion’s share of their work, Ionna came to find, was diplomatic. Violence was a last resort, and if it could be helped, it was always better to handle matters with words. You made more friends that way.
Ionna tried that. As was the way of Rielle squires, she was gradually allowed to engage in the negotiations, and quickly found that she did not have her sister's social prowess. Attachment, empathy, these things did not come so naturally to her, and early on she found herself—with Liura's permission—having to answer for her faux pas with duels. It was frustrating. She could win disputes at the end of a sword without trouble, but more and more she found herself wishing she could disarm her opponents in Liura's way, making allies of them before they even knew they ought to have been enemies.
Everywhere they journeyed, Liura seemed to leave more beloved than before. By the time Ionna was seventeen, she hadn’t seen her sister duel for almost a year. They traveled, they negotiated, they made friends and heard stories, they learned dances and songs and recipes that neither of them could execute particularly well. With almost two decades behind her, only now did she finally feel she was beginning to learn again. Her social slips were fewer and fewer, and when they passed familiar places, people occasionally remembered her with a similar fondness as her sister. Understanding and connecting with those they met became easier, more fulfilling. Liura was right, and she did make more friends.
Ionna had put off her own trials for knighthood—much to the annoyance of her father and mother—content for now to stay with Liura. The titles and glory, she realized, meant much less to her than the duty itself.
In her eighteenth year, Ionna returned to Atutania alone, with her sister's sword and her affinity awakened. Liura was dead, killed on the road from Itenaire. She had died heroically, and been avenged, but when her grief-stricken parents pressed, Ionna said nothing more. For a long time there was bitter silence within their branch.
She went on to squire for a cousin, who had not much cared for Liura, noting often and with annoyance how much Ionna reminded him of her. She was not deterred, and continued to spread her sister’s cheer and camaraderie wherever they traveled, until he eventually went to her parents and demanded she be dismissed. She obliged, and agreed with them that she had put off her duty long enough. It was time to live up to her family name. It was time To Become a Knight.
Even if she didn’t quite know what that meant anymore.
C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N C H A R A C T E R I Z A T I O N
Like all Rielle children, Ionna could keep a sword steady before she could properly hold a fork. Her first blanket was an oil-stained blade cloth, her first toy was a whetstone. Very normal. Under her sister’s tutelage, her family did what it did best—it fostered prodigy.
Now Ionna wields a sword with the ease and grace of a seasoned knight, which is fitting as she’s spent most of her life fighting them. From friendly spars and squirely disputes, to diplomatic duels, she has a habit of seeking out challenges and an aptitude for conquering them. Untested in a large-scale battlefield, Ionna abhors chaos and much prefers the Order’s penchant for smaller-scale, more delicate conflicts, which she has seen ended with words as often as she has with blades.
Though her spiritual affinity is inexplicably dark, she approaches her magic with a stifling level of control. The arcane arts are relatively new to her, and even with the Rielles’ continued mentorship she’s skittish to use it. When she does, it manifests in much the same way as her sister, which is to say, inwardly. Rather than hurl bolts of lightning, Ionna focuses on herself, infusing her body with elemental authority. This grants her incredible speed and thunderous power, making a veritable living storm out of her.
Or it could, perhaps, with time and training. As it stands, Ionna will hardly allow herself to tap her awakened affinity. She can manage some bolting steps, maybe a charged blow or two, but quickly her grip on the power tightens into a stranglehold and chokes it away. Like any weapon, it must be used to be learned, and until Ionna pushes through her own blockade, she’s unlikely to make any progress.
For a moment Selene had allowed herself to believe things had been going well. The spearmen’s ignoble assault had been rebuffed, and the squad seemed to be overwhelmingly alive. In her book, on any other day, that would be considered a clear and decisive victory, warranting some home-cooked celebratory meals and several dozen personalized Thank-You cards. Unfortunately they needed much more than simple survival at this stage, they needed battle-ready and more. The hardest stretch was still ahead of them and there would likely be no moment of respite from here on. Worse, those poor soldiers who had fought and lived but could not continue were stranded here, at the mercy of whatever Aberrant stragglers or reinforcements might circle their way. As valiant as they were, in their state she did not have high hopes for their survival.
As the groups began to divide themselves, her choice seemed clear: stay behind to protect the wounded, and hold off whatever came until evacuation was possible. But among the remainers she spotted Dunkirk—Howie, she recalled—and his purported experience combined with the prowess he’d displayed was enough to convince her that those staying behind would be well protected with him at their side.
So next she turned her attention to the Shrimp. She didn’t much care for shrimp, but perhaps channeling that distaste into physical violence could get her to come around to cocktails or tempura. Quickly though, Rudis was rallying the pilots to lead an assault on the walking fortress, and so she decided she would simply cook the dishes for someone else instead.
That left the princess, then, and Selene hesitated. Something writhed inside her, a bundle of knots winding tighter at the thought of stepping into the nest. What was that, fear? No. Silly. Fear never announced itself to her so boldly. What then—concern? Doubt? The knot twisted, dissatisfied. No. The shortness of breath, the twitch in her fingers, it wasn’t anxiety. It was anticipation. If she’d ever been to school, or knew what a prom was beyond its definition, she thought this might be what it felt like to be invited to dance.
The realization made her uneasy, but Sabine’s excitement focused her before it could do anything else. The pilot landed with every indication that she would not be staying for long, and Selene watched as Odessa wasted no time climbing aboard.
Right. That’s how it was, then.
Selene approached the Wyverne and could feel Nebulae still bristling with energy. She took deep breaths, telling it in their silent way that it was to be absolutely gentle with the friendly woman’s robot, before letting go of her hold with the simple instinct of going up. Several hearty thunks sounded against the metal hull as Nebulae pulled and clambered and indeed lifted her up, up, and finally on top along with Odessa. Selene nodded to her respectfully.
“Always a pleasure, ma'am,” she said, smiling, and then patted the Wyverne appreciatively. “I can’t seem to find the seatbelts. You may have to keep the acrobatics to a minimum, Sabine!”
For what it was worth, Ahkari and Odessa’s strategy had worked well. The patrol they encountered was surely magnitudes smaller than what they would have faced otherwise, though Selene found herself worried for whoever it was on the receiving end of the Aberrant horde. Whatever composed their ranks, the creatures always found a way to compensate for their shortcomings with bestial rage.
For now, however, it would do to focus on the task at hand. The patrol’s vanguard reached them quickly, swarming like locusts around the Pilots and infantry. She moved instinctively towards the latter as the wave of Pawns grew closer and more ravenous, but Ahkari’s orders stayed her feet. Bishop Spearmen. Selene’s eyes darted across the battlefield, searching out the beasts as they began to scale the surrounding buildings. Those who could avoid the commander did so, scattering out with clear intent: devastate the fragile backline of foot soldiers and damaged mechs.
Smart. Rude, but smart.
She looked for the closest one, but found herself distracted by the sonic crack of a spear embedding itself into the road. The Constellation who had deflected it scrambled to recompose herself, shivering like a leaf even with her sword in hand. Selene searched but could not find her name, so she was likely a lower rank, which meant that even disarmed the Bishop had better odds than her—and the Pilot.
Selene was moving before she made the decision, already dashing down the street towards the charging creature. It was, predictably, much faster than she was, and for as much training as she did, no amount of time on the treadmill would make her close distances so quickly without a little assistance. So, she would be assisted.
One hand clutched Pleiades’ hilt, the other extended out towards the stuck spear. Air twisted around the invisible force of her Anomaly as it shot out and took hold of the weapon; she could not feel the coldness of its alien metal, but she could feel the pressure of the grasp as if she were holding it in her own two hands. Another ghostly limb took hold of the haft, then another, and another, and she could feel in the muscles of her soul how they held taut. Selene braced, and some otherworldly force within her flexed.
Nebulae pulled, hard, and wrenched her forward off her feet with the force of an Aberrant-scale line drive that sent her rocketing down the street. Briefly, she did not know where she was. The drab Aloran ruins whipped by her in a meld of gray and brown and pallid blue and at some point in the extended moment of her leap she saw color in her periphery. The angry reds and yellows and oranges of fire, the chromatic splashes of Aberrant blood, the suffocating, brimstone whorl of a dying sky. Althea’s crumbled skyline morphed, she saw spires ablaze and writhing, as if alive, falling into the lake of fire the earth had become. It was easy to become disoriented, but Selene knew these feelings, these visions, and focused on only herself and the Bishop.
They collided, and Alora snapped back into focus around her. Nebulae cushioned the impact, and Selene crouched parallel to the ground with her feet planted on the Aberrant’s invisible barrier. Pleiades’s half-broken blade burst with ethereal AB energy as she drew it, simultaneously slashing and kicking herself away. The barrier fizzled into reality, straining against the blow and force combined. Nebulae pried the spear free as she sailed backwards; Selene clenched her fist, and as she landed she threw her arm forward in a pitching motion. The spear hurtled past her in a near-imperceptible blur and slammed into the Aberrant’s weakened barrier, shattering it like glass. The creature flew onto its back several feet away, skewered through the shoulder. As it scrambled back to its feet, Selene glanced at the Proto Constellation.
“Hello! That was a wonderful save, well done!” She smiled, resisting the urge to ask for her name. She could grab it and the Pilot’s later. “Would you go assist the infantry, please? I think they would appreciate it very much.”
And with that she returned her attention to the enemy. The Bishop pulled its spear free with a furious hiss, but Selene didn’t give it time to regain its composure. She was on it, feigning action that made the creature panic, and swing its spear like a club to try and swat her away. Nebulae caught it, but did not halt or slow its momentum at all. It pushed Selene along the arc, and when the apex of its swing tilted up, the ghostly arms brought her with it and sent her flying high overhead. The world spun and twisted and for a blink everything was fire once more. Nebulae gripped the ground on either side of the Aberrant, and she righted herself in the air, poised above the bewildered spearman like a storm cloud welling with lightning.
███, ████████, ███, █████, █████, ████, ██
Nebulae pulled Selene down with blinding speed and surgical precision, carrying her right past the Bishop’s neck. She slashed out with Pleiades, and her anomalous limbs helped her land with a soft roll back to her feet.
Alora. This was Alora.
The Bishop's head fell away from its body, and it collapsed in a heap.
Selene regarded her surroundings again, as if to reassure herself. Panicked calls for aid still rung through the comms, and with the threat partly reduced, she surveyed the battlefield for anyone else who might need a helping hand. With how small their group was, they couldn’t afford to leave people to fend for themselves. Everyone from the infantry to commander Ahkari counted. Everyone.
Sabine and Dunkirk—or “Howie”, it seemed. Selene scratched both of their names into her wall, so she wouldn’t forget. They appeared to know each other well enough, though she couldn’t have guessed which one was the superior, if either was. Howie had the gruff, commanding edge that she’d come to expect of MHA officers, whose stoicism was at once a weapon to be wielded against the Abberants, and a shield to guard their allies. But Sabine spoke with the casual candor that made Selene think she was high enough rank to get away with it. She supposed it could all break down in circumstances like this. Formality among Constellations wasn’t particularly rigid regardless, and it was refreshing, perhaps even a bit relieving, to see pilots who could both keep their cools and their senses of humor in the thick of an invasion.
Sabine made a joke, and Selene giggled, partly because she found it funny, and partly because it was the appropriate thing to do. She enjoyed banter, though she was only recently starting to engage with it. A mere few years ago she’d had trouble differentiating jokes from truth, sarcasm from seriousness. Clarity and social awareness came to her in bursts, where she would realize how stunted her outlooks were and grow incredibly embarrassed, only to lose her grasp on the concept shortly thereafter and need things explained to her. But over time, and with more socialization, she trained that muscle back into memory. It was that sort of effort, and those results, that had helped get her approved for active duty in the first place. Nowadays most people only considered her weird in the same way that all Constellations apparently were, which to her was quite encouraging.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I always leave my number, but they never seem to call,” Selene said wistfully, and added a wink of her own because it also felt appropriate.
Another joined them then, the hungry Constellation. She introduced herself as Rudis, or Rho Ophiuchi, so Selene committed them both to the wall just to be safe.
“Selene. Nice to meet you!” she said to the imposing woman, with a smile, and turned her attention back to the pilots. “I’m sure you two will manage to find your own fun. Like…crashing a house party!”
That was a guess, of course. Selene had never been to a house party. Perhaps she could add it to her ever-expanding list of to-dos.
As the remains of their little vanguard discussed the correct course of action, Selene sat quietly atop a discarded crate, listening intently and trying not to worry about how cavalier some of them sounded at the idea of a suicide mission. Five Bishop patrols, three Knight scouting parties, and two or more Rook encampments, all before even stepping foot inside the Nest itself, or facing the Princess. She didn’t doubt the capabilities of her companions, some of which she’d had the delight of fighting alongside before; unfortunately, the line between heroism and vainglory could be quite blurry. Yes, what else could Ahkari’s plan be considered but suicide? And she could not understand why.
She knew the reason, of course: to save Alora. To rid her home world of the Aberrants so that its people might return, rebuild, and regain their strength. It might take decades, maybe centuries. Entire generations of Alorans would grow up on a ruined world, working to recreate something they’d never seen themselves, and die hoping those that came after might be able to finish, so that their own children could enjoy the fruits of their labor. Planets were monuments, there was history rooted so deeply in the earth that could never truly be recovered if it was lost. People were tied to their homes in ways that defied the material. Not pride but duty, not heroism but instinct. She knew that, she knew all off that—she just didn’t understand it.
The civilians were safe, for now, evacuated or sheltered until they could be. The UAS and MHA had established themselves and while, true, there was resistance, progress was being made with each day, each hour even. Perhaps the answer was not to simply wait as long as they could, but surely vengeance was preferable to martyrdom.
She heard humming—or maybe she was humming herself—and felt inwardly ill. No, what a terrible thing to think. Terrible and callous to the suffering of people like Ahkari. Dr. Reom had told her—not dissuasively—that she might have been promoted a year ago, had she a habit of prioritizing the success of a mission over the wellbeing of her comrades, and not the other way around. That tendency had thus far failed to impress her superiors, but neither had it brought her any sort of court martial or official rebuke.
Still, it was best she hadn’t voiced those thoughts, and she was glad to hear a proposition that seemed to come from a place of similar—if more pragmatically-minded—sentiment. “I agree with Odessa too,” Selene said softly, hopping down from the crate.
She placed an extra ration bar beside Rudis with a smile, and then made her way over to the pair of pilots. She didn't recognize either of them, but then, protracted battles had a way of introducing strangers to each other, and she never turned down to the opportunity to meet new people. Though still in one piece, there was a weariness to the man—though Selene was not entirely sure if he simply looked that way normally—and the woman bore a scorch in her left side that Selene had noticed bother her more than once.
Reaching into her coat, she produced a small medipen. It was nothing more than an analgesic gel, but it was what she had, and it would likely serve the pilot better anyway. Sadly, she didn’t smoke and had already given her ration to Rudis, so had nothing to offer the man, but she made a note to remember in case they both made it back.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a proper burn kit.” she said, offering the medipen to her. “I’m Selene. I look forward to working with you both.”
B A S I C I N F O [Name][Selen̍e͊] [Callsign]Selene [Gender]F [Age]Early 20s [Rank and Designation]Main-Class Constellation [Place of Birth]Luna-1 [Official Statement] "I like to think we'll get along."
C O M B A T A B I L I T Y [Anti-Barrier Sword]#29 "Pleiades" [Anti-Barrier Quotient]70% (10% per fragment)
[Physical Description] An ancient greatsword with a chipped and broken blade, too brittle for true combat. Once wielded by the legendary Constellation known as [C͌͛͂a͊llist̘̘͊̚ȯ], its obsidian edge never promised salvation, but meted doom in abundance.
[Attributes] In its prime, Pleiades would engulf itself in ghostly AB energy. Now shattered, its fragments still thrum with power, which when channeled can manifest minor projections of its former glory. While the blade itself may be useless, each of the seven fragments can form its own copy at the cost of a diminished AB ratio. [Anomaly]Nebulae [Origin]Space [Ca͉ͮ̀͒̎ͤͅl͊l̗̒i͚̳̜͊sto Unit̿yͬ]
[Phenomena] [Sele͊n̑̏ͩ̔̆e͊]’s anomaly presents as expected: psychokinetic force mimicking the nascent strength of the Unity’s [fo̭̤r͓̥̈́êb̮̼̠e̙̹a̚r̯̜̭͍͊̊͆̓]. In reality, it manifests not as a direct telekinetic power, but rather as a multitude of long, invisible limbs. Able to fluctuate at will along the spectrum of intangibility, these hands can simulate the effects of psychokinetic phenomena, from simple pushes and pulls, to complex, dexterous maneuvers. Individually they display modest strength, but working in [un͚͈̗̦î̝̞̺͈̋̔s̪̲͕̳on] their impact can be much more devastating. Most often, [S̥̺̦̲͆ė̫̱̮̥ͅlene] utilizes her anomaly to wield her many AB sword projections at once.
[Limitation] Nebulae suffers from some predictable psychokinetic drawbacks. The mental and physical cost of her Anomaly increases with the number of ethereal limbs summoned, and this makes her more prone to rapid fatigue and exhaustion. However, at the same time it also presents its own unique challenges.
Firstly, while the limbs generally follow [Selḛ͆̐ͫne]’s will, they have also been shown to act independently, as if [r̞̖̩̾̉ͭ̃e̹̣̤̙ͫm̠e͋m̥̏̅̒̅b̌ͥe̼̠͈͌r̮̲̻̅ͯ̌ͅi̲̙͆ͅn̅̾g͍̯̔ͧ o͕̱͎̳͆ͩͯu͔̠̔ͫ̆̆r͚̫̹̝̘̓ͣs̒eͭ̃l̖͓͒ve̜ͫsͭ]. This occurs most regularly in relation to the amount of limbs summoned, with more limbs meaning less direct control. Sometimes this works in her favor, as the Anomaly seems intent on protecting her, but as early incident reports detail, sometimes there is unintended collateral damage.
Secondly, and most concerning, is the effect the use of Nebulae has on her amnesia. In most cases, activation results in some degree of mental agitation, manifesting as incomplete and often incomprehensible memories. These effects intensify with prolonged use, which can exacerbate the loss of control of Nebulae’s limbs, and trigger periods of dissociation.
[S̭̐̎̚he͍͋̓ ̣̹ẉäs͊] quiet as the void between stars, but not silent.
Nor frigid, though in her wake was [c̭̞ͅȍ͖̀ͦl͛d̔ and͌ s̽t̝̀̔̓̓i̖̗͓ͥ̋̑͆l͖ͤl̰̯͔ness̬̰].
Her [l͊͆o̬̮̾v͉̠͉̿ͬ̐eͦ͋] was gentle. Those who mistook it for indifference saw also [fur͓y̝̩̦] in her passion.
She never mourned, for [g̣̱̰r͕͍̿ͩ̑ie̓f̻̩̺̣ͪ̃̂ would have anchored o͑̔ǔ̙͊r͇̪̤̭] feet.
[He̐ͬr̬͚ ͔̦ͥ͆͊̆n̚a͖̺̗me̹͗̇ a̹͚ͫ̓͒n̜̓d̪ ͓͚͍̠̿̊̒̀f̩̩͋̓̀ͨ̋ả̬͕̬̲̆̓ͯc̾̂ẻͮ] were lost in the unmarked graves of the Pleiades.
There is a plaque above the door they can’t open, the door to an outside they’ll never see again — some of them never saw it at all. It reads:
[The ảs͚ͬ͐͆h̽ͣes of a th͍̑ͬousan̦̤ͦ͊̉d stars, adrift in H͓̫̆e̯͈̺̣̤͑ͣr̞͙ͦ image͍̬̮ͩ.]
Words they cannot escape. Words whispered to them in their dreams.
Yesterday at approximately 18:00, a cluster of Aberrant ships entered the Juno-29 system, disrupting the warp gate and passing harmlessly by several mining stations on a direct course for Megisto. Upon reaching the planet, the small fleet changed course and established a blockade around its smaller moon, Selene.
Selene was briefly host to a private mining operation in 120 IC, which was quickly abandoned due to a lack of actionable resources. Megisto itself has launched no lunar operations on its lesser moon, and Selene was assumed to have remained cold ever since.
However, at 19:23 a distress signal was intercepted from an installation presumably beneath the surface, identified as [L̦̣̥͙ṳ̝̰̿́͋̄n͖̰̝ͨa-1].
The Callisto Unity’s system-headquarters has begun evacuation procedures on Megisto and sent an armed repair team to the warp gate, but has otherwise made no comment on the station and its distress signal.
They scratch their names into the walls. At first there is plenty of room, but as the years go by, the etchings crowd and overlap and connect together in looping portmanteaus. A handful of names become dozens, become hundreds, become innumerable and inextricable. The letters are brushstrokes of a mural, their own conception of a 'family name.' There is no way to tell the ones who had been brought from the ones who were born, so they called themselves together what they were—what the caretakers called them.
Daughters of Callisto.
Aberrant fleet retreated from Juno-29 approximately ten system-hours prior to the warp gate’s repair. UAS Reconnaissance team encountered no resistance upon arrival, or en route to Megisto.
Distress signal intercepted by satellites on 01/01/276 IC was still active. Detected signs of life on Selene from orbit, which decreased rapidly when approaching Luna-1 Station.
Found destroyed Pawn-class Aberrants, which appear to have engaged with the installation’s automated defense systems, as well as assumed members of staff. Station suffered severe structural damage, as well as a 90% failure in life-support systems.
Recovered bodies of presumed inhabitants. Remains suggest a population of both children and adults, and multiple sealed dormitories show signs of long-term habitation.
Aberrant damage tapers off midway into the facility, suggesting the defense was partially successful. However, more damage and deceased were discovered beyond the blockade. Core data systems and all physical archives appear to have been destroyed by surviving staff members. It is unclear at this time how much was lost to Aberrant forces, and how much to sabotage. No identifying material remains, neither regarding the deceased, nor the owner of the installation.
One survivor found barricaded in what appears to be a crematorium. Teenage female, unconscious upon discovery. Numerous hand-prints and indents in the walls, floor and ceiling, but rapid scans detected no severe injuries. Retrieved without incident, but regained consciousness en route to the flagship and was unresponsive.
All samples and remains are being catalogued. Initial assessments indicate the installation was likely some sort of research center, but no conclusive answers regarding its purpose, anachronistic interior, or the attack can be given at this time.
There is no ceremony for death. They cast her ashes into Selene’s depths, to the desert of those who died before, where she will wait to accept the ones who will die after. Already, another sleeps in her bed, and eats at her table, and perhaps will carve a name into the wall over her own, connecting them in life until they meet in the Daughter’s Sea.
Initial regimen of anti-psychotics and behavioral conditioning proved counter-productive (which, I remind, Command was warned about — by me.) However, [Sel͉͔̇̈e̻͈͂̓n̤̘͒ͅe̞͙̺’s] lucidity has improved exponentially over the past nine months, I believe as a direct result of the altered treatment. As such, liberty was taken to conduct an impromptu re-evaluation, which I have summarized below.
Patient [Sel̩̮̘̤ēͫ̓ne] possesses the composed demeanor expected of a soldier. Field tests indicate she is capable of both following orders and working cohesively in a unit of Constellations and Mechanized Infantry. Socialization has caused a marked improvement in stability, consistent with records of other successfully rehabilitated Constellations. (See ‘On Anomalies and the Mind’, Konners et al, 275 IS)
During reintegration she was noted to take a keen interest in the physical and mental well-being of her squad mates, even under temporary conditions. Frequently applied self-sufficiency skills learned during therapy to cook, clean, and otherwise care for those in her vicinity. Cynical interpretations of this behavior deride it as ‘compulsory,’ but this diagnosis was unsubstantiated.
Symptoms relating to [S̼͓̖͔ͬ͐̍̀̈elene's a̿m͈̙̟̈́n̘e͈̠̙ͬs͆͊̾ȋ͉̪a̭] have not improved, but have also ceased to degrade as of the change in treatment. Concerns regarding frequent hallucinatory episodes should be tempered; these instances are often so minor they are only reported afterwards and by her, voluntarily. Severe cases have not impacted her performance, in fact I would point to ‘Incident Report 6,’ as well as the lack of incident reports since, as evidence that she is perfectly capable of navigating them without endangering [o̓ǔ̄͗ͬr̪̻͍ͤs͎̘̣͎͌̋͛̿eͪ̏ͮlv̠̱̏̂ͫ̑e̺͍̣ͬ͊ͪ́̋s͈̣̬ͭ] or those around her.
I will reiterate what I said upon her retrieval from [Lun̰̠̗̹̰ͬ̏͊a-̘͖̽ͩ̓̇1͔̻̪̙̯ͪ̾ ]: I do not believe these behavioral anomalies are symptomatic of any neurological disorder. Scans show no damage, and anomalous activity has yet to produce any tangibly harmful effects.
In light of these advancements, I am recommending she be folded officially into the UAS’ Constellation Branch while her treatment continues.
Signed, Dr. Reom
She doesn’t know what they find, when they do find her. What they take from the moon is not her, or rather it is only one of her, but she doesn’t know which. Images, sensations, places, people, all plague her mind from the first. She doesn’t know where the memories come from, or when, or to who — or how many whos — they belong.
The caretakers here are much different. They don’t poke and prod at her mind, or her soul, only her body. They ask her questions she can’t answer. They want to know what she is, and who she is. They want to know about her home, but she doesn’t have one anymore.
So they name her after it, her cradle and her grave, and she is a Daughter no longer. Now, they tell her, she is a Constellation.
[Luna-1] Nearly a century ago, Meridian Corp. abandoned its short-lived mining project on Megisto’s smaller moon, Selene, before being promptly liquidated in the ensuing financial collapse. Authorities now believe that no true mining effort was ever made, and that instead Meridian constructed the research installation known as Luna-1 using a largely automated workforce, before its owners vanished.
Built nearly a mile down into a man-made chasm, Luna-1 is separated into two main sections: the laboratory, and the estate. As the name implies, the laboratory sat on the upper level, and was presumably home to a host of scientific equipment. Laid out like a research park, there were multiple divisions whose purposes cannot be identified—in fact, in the wake of the Aberrant attack almost no machinery remained. All records, both digital and physical, were lost. Dormitory layouts suggest a modest population of potential researchers, as well as a small security staff.
Beneath several layers of reinforced plating and military-grade blast-doors, lies the estate, [h͓̯͉̼̉ͯͧ̈́o̹͗̔ͪ̉m͇̠͔͓̪̊͛e̗͑͒̃̒̉] so named for its anachronistic appearance. Here the architecture shifts entirely from clinical to Victorian. The vertical atrium sports a wide, spiral staircase traveling down a cylindrical hall of bookcases, filled with material ranging from educational textbooks and encyclopedias to fantasy epics. None were published later than Meridian’s departure, some appear to have been written by the estate’s occupants. Also found were piles of burned paintings, carvings, smashed statues, musical instruments, and many other recreational products, seemingly destroyed during the Aberrant attack.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the estate branches off into multiple rooms, including sleeping quarters, two gyms, a cafeteria, and enclosures which appear to have been used for some sort of combat training or [h͇̰̘̩̯̉ͥ̒͗å͆r͕̱̖̓̓ͭͭm̹̜͕̻̼͂͑̓o͉̦̠͔̥̍̈́ͨ͂͑ṉ̙͖̈́̈́ͨy̮͔̬̑͗̄̂].
Of note are the dormitory walls, which are marked with what at first appears to be meaningless scratching, but upon further examination, are in fact a collective mass of letters, presumably [n̾a̪̣̘̿ḿ̑͒̾͋e̞͔̯̠͆s͇͂͛]. Very few are legible, and none appear to connect to any established family or missing persons reports.
The area below the estate is only accessible via the laboratory. An elevator shaft runs down to the bottom face of the installation, beneath which is the pressurized depth of the chasm. Found what was believed to be a massive reservoir of sand, or moondust leftover from when the chasm was made.
Further analysis determined these were human ashes.
[The Callisto Unity] As Progenitors rose from the ashes of their fellows to lead humanity into a new age of war, the doomed world of Lycaon prepared for its end. Overwhelmed by Aberrant forces, its cities burned, its mountains crumbled, its oceans boiled, and its people were culled with unimaginable cruelty. On the precipice of obliteration, they say, it was not the survivors who cried out for salvation, but the innumerable dead.
None know why She answered. [Callͨ̎ͭi̦̦̒͐̉̄s̱̫͗ͧ͆ͦ̐t̮͕̯ỏ̾͊̅̎,̙͓͖̈́̉ͅ ͛̅͌ͮ͂tḧ̠̝eͨ̅ͩͯͬ ̻̗̠͙͔͛ͥ̋̇Mot͔ͤ͋̏ͬ̚h̋͂̍eͦͯ͒rͧ ͨM͙̬̖ͪö̦͕͇͓on̗͎̠̭̹ͨ̀], wreathed in silver and fury. She descended like a verdict upon the Aberrants, cutting with a ghostly blade, rending with powers strange and occult. From ruin to ruin, across broken landscapes, barren seabeds, through a crust of blood and body, merciless and unyielding, She never stopped. Those saved by Her slaughter could only follow behind, glimpsing from afar the calamity she visited upon the Aberrant invaders. They became revolutionaries, reclaiming inch by inch what was lost.
When it was done, Lycaon was quiet as if in mourning for its people, and for itself. There was no preserving a thing so utterly ruined. The survivors knew there had been no salvation, only vengeance for the death of their home. They left it behind, fleeing to distant stars where, eventually, they managed to forget what had happened. Lycaon, like so many lost worlds, faded from history. Some, however, chose to [r͇̗̪̀͂͐̉ͧḛ̳̼ͨ̎̂̽̾m͉͎ͪ̄̃̀̇ẻm͔̽̽ͬ̅̽bͣe̅̏̑ͦr̾̾̂͌].
Callisto vanished, never known by a [t̯̺̭̩͗ͣͥ̉̏r͎̍̆̄͊ú̙̩ͫ̉̽e̤͚̿ͧ ͎͈͔̤͐̈ͦ̓n̞̳̺͛̄́a͔̒͊m͎̟̦̍ĕ̥̦̪͎̆̈ͯͣ,̠̗̜͚ͅ ͌̿ȍ̺̜̠͙͇ͩr̀͗͊ ̻͉̼̥̈́̐ͦf̱̫̜͔ͅa̗̥͉̭ͬ͗͑c̎̀ͯ̃ë̖̻̙͖̻́], nor was She ever seen again. But at the site of Her final, pyrrhic victory over the Aberrants, She left one thing—three, things. Children. Infants, swaddled and silent as dead Lycaon. Her followers took them up and left with the rest of the survivors. But they did not forget.
The Callisto Unity formed in the shadow of the progenitors; the UAS and the MHA expanded their reach, while the Unity focused inward. They did not truly emerge until decades later, not as some cultish antagonist, but as a scientific organization bursting with medical innovations. Helmed by the descendants of their [forebe͔̜̤ͦ̉a̫̤ͫr͓], the Unity established itself in the human effort as a force for good. They sought to ensure no world suffered as Lycaon had, producing both powerful Constellations, and critical advancements in medical technology.
Some whisper that such altruism is merely a façade for a more nebulous cause. They say the Unity is still steeped in the [O̞̮̗̮ͮͅl͉̤̑ͪd͐̃̒ͪ Way̲̖̦̬̌͆s̝̼̱̪̠͊͑], that its highest echelons are driven by occult impetus, and that beneath their calm, collected exterior is a fanatical devotion to their lost Goddess.
But these are mere rumors. Lycaon may remember the cries of the dead, but it lays silent and bereft. The Mother Moon is gone, and now Her children bring cold, gentle love to humanity. They are a thousand stars across the sky, working in unison, and even in death their ashes scatter together, with purpose.
In [H̩̳̓̈́e͚͔̘̱̍͋r̖̞͊] image.
Notable Contact
[Name] Dr. E͈̗̲ͩ̄ͅ Reom
[Relation to Subject] Dr. Reom has been [S̉̄e̥̪͙͉ͪ͊ͥ̏̏l̲̗ͥͥe̘̤̿n̟̟̺͌͐͛̾e͂̇̔̒̑]'s MHA-assigned psychiatrist since her retrieval from Luna-1.
[Analysis] Reom is a clone, registered to a Megisto-based agency located in New Euclidia. Neither the first nor, likely, the last of his line, Reom's generational work with Constellations has made him indispensable in his field. He has, quite literally, written the book on many subjects relating to Anomalies and their effects on a Constellation's mental state.
Ally Contact
[Name] Odessa Ulani Thaddeus Isabella Samara
[Relation to Subject] A fellow Main-Class Constellation and Selene's senior.
[Analysis] Though new to Main-Class, Selene has known Odessa for a while. The two have worked together and in teams on a number of missions, none of which bore much note in comparison to the greatest struggles occurring elsewhere on the war front. Regardless, Selene respects the senior Main very much, and upon discovering Odessa had a daughter, makes a habit of asking after often. Whenever Selene gives her post-mission thank-you gifts to her team, she always includes little treats or trinkets for Thelema in Odessa's.
Selene does not expect they'll share a rank for very long. Of all the Constellations she's fought alongside, Odessa seems like a clear candidate for promotion. She only hopes they can keep in touch once she becomes a Red Giant.
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