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    1. Senor Herp 11 yrs ago

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If that's how it is, that's how it is. The only thing I'd say is that I would've wanted to know earlier if possible, since it seems like you might've made up your mind a good week ago. If you want to come back on later, that's open, as always.
Two days since a general call on the Discord without response. If you aren't bothering to launch and check the program, please do so. If you're in ghost mode, please be bothered to reply. Radio silence is a very disconcerting pet peeve. I can't do much of anything beside spin my own wheels if no one will collaborate or ask the questions they feel inclined to ask.
In the world of mortal man, one finds all life to be essentially preordained, deterministic and futile, without the intervention of the divine and the gigantic. This the result of mortal ignorance, born in formative chaos and an empty seat of rule. Bereft of guiding hand and miserably adrift in the causal sea, blind and grasping, who are we to neglect to grant Man keel, sail and wind alike? But we cannot see him informed of the greater workings of the world; we shall be informed for him. For small-minded men, too much knowledge is a poison. The death imposed by Truth, be it the first or the second or in whatever order, cannot be withstood and therefore cannot be imposed upon the multitude all at once.

Fools of a mind to speak of ‘freedom’ outside Sovereignty will decry such a course as manipulative or tyrannical, and they would be correct on both counts, though the latter only in the original sense of ‘usurper’ to that seat on high; and yet I see no reason to leave Man to an unknown fate, of unknown cruelty, as opposed to one of our own devisement. They cannot be free, for the world is not ready for a society of masters alone as we strive for, and to see ourselves chained to rulership and them in the chains of rule is only to their own benefit.

-Bhaskara Aniruddha Shyama, otherwise Asurishvara, Rites of Kings and the Right of Rule.





Rajazul, somewhere in the southeastern quarter streets, at dawn.

“To he whom has built the city…”

A familiar refrain begins from out of the switchback alleyway, accompanied by sitar strings. The player is swaddled, enmasked and dressed in chromatic rags, frayed but beauteous. As dawn breaks over the sharply cut spires and bulging domes, towering skyward as if to meet the sun halfaways, that refrain is echoed. At first, a few dozen lazing strings call back from faraway alleys and underhangs, out of rhythm. An ascetic voice sonorously rises some ways away from the first, perhaps a block away.

”To he whom has built the city,”

The dual strike of a twin-headed drum sounds from the nearby waterfront, and then more like it, rolling up into a light beat along the canals. Whining flutes, braying reeds and trumpets, more voices speaking and chorded call and respond and begin to play near the first singer, block to block, and other pockets of music afar begin in parallel with this one. More voices rise, now, and say,

”To he whom has built the city,”

The void of rhythm slowly works itself otherwise, taking to itself a shape. Strings plucked as one, to one chord, wind blowing with notes of hanging clarity, chime and rattle and struck wood chattering like hail, the drums rolling into a pealing thunderstorm of noise, rising, rising, and then nothing, as silence reigned; the players’ halt so abrupt that the specter of the music still seemed to ring out, living yet within the walls and the spires and the clear waters of the River Uma.

Ten thousand voices and more spoke then as one, unaccompanied and clear.

”To he whom has built the city, give praise.”

And the storm began anew, in full rhythm. Curtains draw, shutters are set aside, doors swing wide to air fresh and warm. The first bustlings of traffic begin to funnel outwards into the dye-stained streets. A second music begins alongside the first, that of idle conversation, greetings, callings, of endless footsteps, sounds of life. A few coins rattle into the dish at the end of the switchback alleyway, where the enmasked man plays. To the call of the Priests of the Mendicant Fable, the city lives, breathes, and awakes.




Washhouse, somewhere in the middle quarter, early morning.

Beneath a low roof, the churning and spattering of water underscored the din of chatter. Dozens surrounded the low basin, almost all women and girls, with a few grumbling boys, washing cloth and sheet. Above the rest, one conversation between mother and daughter begins to stand out.

“I tell you, Richa, don’t you ever yearn for the countryside?” beggared the mother. A woman by the name of Nishat, simply dressed, darkly hued, and unadorned.

“No, mother, not once have I,” was the immediate reply, sing-song with just a hint of irritation. This was neither the first nor the last Richa would hear of this, as her family and indeed many of those present had immigrated from the countryside during the last period of expansionary building through the decade. Contrary to her mother, she was dressed finely for their low-middling class, bejeweled and made up; ink ran across her skin in swirling script.

“But the open air and the uncrowded living?” Nishat queried. “They hardly compare to the splendor of Bhaskara’s city,” Richa shot back.

“Splendor, she says, as every morning we wake to a racket of mantras. It was novel the first time, but...”

“I have not tired of the beauty of it even a little, even now.”

“And yet-”

“Every day with this! Would you leave the poor girl alone, Nishat?” began a centennial looking little woman- hunched and olive-hued, her name was Parvati, and she had lived there in that neighborhood as long as any could remember, regarded as no one and everyone’s grandmother. “Racket or no racket, I don’t think you would relish returning to doing your laundering in the streambed. Hm?” A chorus of giggling resounded as the nagging was silenced. Nishat, glowering and sighing, turned her frustration towards wringing work, and began to drain one end of a heavy sheet.

As graywater spilled over the basin’s lip or was thrown out into the drains, Richa tugged down a heavy pull-chain, letting freshwater flow in through a pipe cut through the rooftop. She smiled, thinking to herself that this was one thing she might never have seen in the country. And yet, following that pipe over the rooves on which it laid, it spiraled up the pillared support of a great aqueduct, reaching high over the streets, stretching on through the whole city, and out from it beyond and over the coast.




Traders’ galley Chrysanthos, at a dockyard on the mouth of the Savitr, morning.

Gerasimos, at wits’ end, looked on his shipmate sternly. “I will tell you what I told you when we first embarked, Emilios; I am not getting off this boat.”

This elicited a sharp bark of laughter from his shipmate. “I don’t believe you. Do you not see it? This is the city. I póli! The conflux of nations, the jewel of the east, great center of worldly trade. The seat of a demigod, the Great Archon, Justinian’s own rival and suzerain to the mortal Basileus and master of Kyriakos both!”

“Oh, yes, indeed. Demon-king of a second Tushiena, itself a second Dratha, ruler behind a weak emperor, leash-holder of the butcher of the Tshrivs & hundred-man slayer. I am dearly impressed by his overgilded labors and the illustrious company he keeps.” A scowl turned their way at this remark, cast down from a tawny mariner resting at the taffrail of the twice-taller military galleas that was their neighbor at dock. Emilios excused his companion with no more than a shrug and a politely strained smile, which was enough to put the mariner on his bitter elsewhere on the ship and out of sight.

“You are a joyless ingrate, you know that? And seditious, too. You might be able to get away with that sort of talk in Bakt, but I wouldn’t go shouting it to the heavens here. The Bhaskara certainly live here in plenty enough number, and they named themselves for him, such was their love for all this- this gilding!

“Well, I hardly share in it, and I won’t have to shout if I don’t go into the city to begin with, will I? There’s plenty of accounting left to do below deck. It’s how I’ve avoided a tan for so long.”

“You won’t have anything to shout about if you don’t start ‘sharing,’ and I wouldn’t call transparence ‘avoiding a tan.’ Must you view life so dismally?” Emilios pinched the bridge of his nose tight enough to mark the skin, hoarsely irritated.

This sort of bickering had become quite familiar to the crew of the Chrysanthos. The rest of their shipmates and workmen had by now begun to politely ignore them as they set about their labors, or left for shore leave as Emilios clearly and dearly wished to. The two seemed to be eternally at odds; even their pallor was opposing, Gerasimos dark-haired and pale, Emilios blonde and rosey.

“Listen, I’ll tell you what. You come with me into the city. You hate it. You wish you’d never set foot in it. And you don’t get eaten by some ghastly Asura as you so deludedly expect,” Emilios began.

“And?” Gerasimos inquired.

“And in recompense, I’ll let you toss me straight into the bay soup for the merfolk to eat as you’ve kept threatening. I’ll even cooperate! Jump right into the maw of some great angler thing straight from the abyss.”

Gerasimos considered this for a moment. His face indescribably twisted in conflict. Then, a sharp outtake of breath as he stands, setting off from the ship. “If something goes awry, I swear, I’ll dive in there with you for my pound of flesh.”

Emilios clapped his hands, grinning ear to ear. “Well, I’m sure the Deep Ones will recognize you as one of their own. You certainly look pale enough to be a fishman out of water!” For this remark, he received an elbow in the ribs as the two departed down the wharf.
Yes, yes, by all means, place your sheet in. There's no fundamental changes or retcons, so there's no need to rediscuss the Widows.
NPC/Hiatus Sheets
Sheets marked NPC are under hopefully respectful handling by GM for plot scale actions and players for vignettes. Sheets marked pending have yet to have a player phone in their participation when it is plausible that they will, and their entities are to be left alone as far as too-direct actions until a 'yes' or 'no' answer is had to whether they will be presently rejoining.













The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.

-Lucifer, Paradise Lost




It has been four centuries since the end of what most of the commonfolk call the Old War. That which the Clerisy, the theocratic core of the Imperium of God-King Justinian- He of the High Seat- calls the Great Battle, in which the fate of the world was overturned, all souls ultimately saved from the iniquity and tyranny of the Dark Lord Daigon. That which the disparate followers of Daigon call the First Martyrdom, in which the Great Archon and his servants died in the attempted fulfillment of an ideal world, ken to neither death nor limits. All know it as that near-mythic conflict which broke the realm of Nagath, and scarred the whole of the continent of Geryon beside; its aftershocks felt through the whole of the known and unknown world.

It is indeed a matter of furious debate, and within Nagath and the Marcher-borderlands to the Imperium open, repeated and sanguinary warfare as to where the truth of the matter lies. From as far west as the republic-on-the-waters Wenesiam, where all things of wealth may yet be found and the gleam of gold keeps even the Imperium at arms' length, to as far east as the Drathan Union, where the bickering wizard-lords of the Congress of Masters quarrel amongst themselves almost without end within and with their teetering Salished imperial rivals without, questions are asked without any certain answer as to the true nature of Daigon, Nagath, her conquests and adventures abroad, and the circumstances of the Old War. It is questioned if ever Daigon existed at all, or Justinian for that matter; if both were not manufactured by the Imperium's theocrats, and their antagonist thence after fetishized by their enemies and utilized by those who wished power over them in like mind and method to the Clerisy.

What sees no debate is this; Nagath, at least in the material senses of extent of border, monument and mechanic, was a power near unequaled in her prime, rendering the quickness of her doom at the hands of Justinian's fledgling Imperium all the more puzzling. Black stone and steel, earth carved and rewrought, nature at her most wild harnessed by the engineers' masterwork; even now, much of the great architecture that was left fallow in the collapse stands, and some even functions yet. Arcane artifices of war, weapons dredged from a world lost and ill-understood even by those of necessary expertise, make for prizes unmatched, and are often bitterly contested in both the seeking and reclaimation of them. Its great architecture, shrines and temples, universities and government seats, haunted by demons, ghosts, familiar gods, orphaned monstrosities of all walk and make, speak to tragedy, and terror, to great and terrible majesty now lost.

Some of that majesty is preserved or at least squatted upon, in small part, by endless interlocking tyrannies, carved from the corpse of a once-great empire as its components balkanize, its leadership splits, and opportunists move in; and in the space between, anarchy is the order of law, and the sword reigns but does not rule, for it is beholden to none. Wild orcs and trolls, demihumans and once-men, scavenger bands and beasts of the earth, and all manner of mistakes of nature or things outside it run rampant and bring great misery. Into this land of woe do the Justinians deign to penetrate now and again, and to sow slaughter and ruin on the heads of their would-be enemies; for keen is the threat that would be offered by a strong and near power in Nagath, let alone a united continent, and many the men who would give their lives in fear for those behind them, in service of those who would sacrifice them and easily.

Many are the paths of adversity, and many are its sovereignties; may they be as one, by fated hand.

__________________________________________________________________________________

And there we are, hopefully off to a striding start. Rules and out-of-world pitch below. Let's hope to get things rolling and keep them rolling in the days to follow. A coherent worldscape is continually establishing tiself, and a pile of collabs are to follow in the next couple of weeks from now, at 4/21.









Current Discord here.
New thread here. I wanted to get the OP completely finished if at all possible, filling out all sections, but faction summary blocks/bullets and racial descriptions (paraphrased old ones or totally new ones) will have to wait. That information can be iterated and reiterated to new folks & rejoiners ad hoc in the short meantime, so all should be well; the alternative of waiting to try and chew through it all to post on probably a Sunday evening or worse to miss my deadline and get into weekdays, where it'll be far less likely to be peeked at than if I threw it up now, was not a pleasing one, and I will not break my pledge to have something up in this timeframe. A lot of the new text crawl is paraphrased, a lot of it is new setting information that's been pegged down or hooks imagined. I managed to fill out all the place sections. The faction sheet is a little bit better or at least more explicitly explained. In the minutes following from now, I'm going to throw my sheet hider in, and the previous games' sheets awaiting return player in hiders in the same character post.

Edit: Right, I should also do this, for those who aren't subscribed. Fuzzy brained, not taking enough time to think. @Flagg, @Legion02, @Aquamarine, things are hopefully getting off the ground again, as the effort poured into the OP and quite decently dedicated Discord activity (in spite of DMs for early gatekept concepting obscuring it) even with a small core should indicate. Phone in as to whether you'll be hopping along or not and when.

@Wernher, @Bright_Ops and @The Nexerus, whenever you get muse or time back, you're welcome as always. I'll try not to botch anything or see unfaithful writing put up in the meantime, especially if I decide it necessary to add onto a forked NPC version of your sheets.

In the case of Nexerus in particular, thank you for taking time from your presumably quite limited schedule the other day to clarify information and discuss bits & bobs again, and I do hope I'll be able to consult you again in this mild fashion in the future, as I rather value the work we've done or that I've witnessed you do in this short time.

I think that's everything, did I forget anything?
To those observing purely by watching the interest check; the relaunch in full is imminent. Fresh OOC/IC OP going up today, or over the weekend at worst. Onboard from the outset are myself, The Captain as co-GM (bounce enough ideas off each other that we may as well) and Genni, Gorgenmast and Willy Vereb from the original players; newcomers on board and with well-seated concepts in the Southwest and East of the map respectively are Chicken and ArisenMoon, as a scorned Justinian legion sent to the bleak frontier for political rabble-rousing at home and a league of Baktrian-Elladan city states, consumed in a merchant backed color revolution gone far awry from its original short-leashed intent into a full-blown violent secession as the plebs exterminate the original exoteric leadership of the operation. After that goes up and everyone is nicely established, I'll be hopping into collab posts to actually make an in-narrative mark already.

As other notes; occasional work is being done on an underlying metaphysic/cosmology arrangement, Justinian and Daigon have more or less taken shape as characters/plot devices and their nation-constructs likewise though room remains for further fleshing out, and I'm experimenting with the use of a simple Kanban board program to keep track of everything once we get into motion. It's not very full now, and thus not very necessary, but it's an idea at least to make GMing that little bit smoother or more organized. Keep posted, ye lurkers!

AHA. You! You were the no-name, no-sheet lich of the Fortress of the Damned. When I dug through the old Discords' posts, you were referred to as Zach, not Zell, and there just wasn't any trace of you I could dig up when I tried inbetween other things. I couldn't for the life of me remember whose avatar it was although I recognized it. Glad to have one mystery solved, you're welcome aboard if it please you.
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