[center][h2][color=steelblue][b]These Dark Stars[/b][/color][/h2][color=dimgray][i]A Feudal Space Roleplay[/i][/color][/center][hr]
[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/fzJpKqsl.jpg[/img][/center]

[color=lightblue][i]Text[/i][/color]


[h3]Eclipse[/h3]

[indent]The Lord of the molten planet walked the web work of titan-metal bridges spanning the volcanic ravines of his domain. A black cloak flapped at his back in the thermal winds, and he carried a long, thin, cruel blade on his hip. Orange light cast strange shadows along the walkway, and gleamed across the runes engraved on the blade. 

[center][i][color=dimgray]"Yori mu kravni il Xor."[/color][/i][/center]

[i]"I am the sword of the Emperor,"[/i] thought the Lord. Close at hand strolled his steward, a native of the fiery planet. It waddled beside his master, the trait of some cruel disfigurement inflicted upon him by the last Lord of the Planet, which he carefully concealed beneath dour robes. From his pointed ears hung a breathing apparatus that covered his churlish face. A single oculus of glowing red peared out beneath its' dark cowl. 

The Lord wore a breathing apparatus as well, this one adorned with gold and platinum and carved in the likeness of a lampreys' jaws. Spiny teeth embossed on the mouthpiece gave the man a demonic appearance. "Come along Greely," said the Lord through his mask. The syllables he spoke were digitized, and rolled out of speakers concealed beneath the decorative lampreys' teeth in a rattling tone. 

 Nearby, the rocky ground cracked and a fissure of magma erupted a hundred feet into the air. To touch it was death. The Lord paused and extended his hand towards the fiery column. Greely paused just as he was about to collide with his master, and pulled from his robes a rectangular data pad with a slick glossy green glow. His fingers tapped expertly across the runes displayed. 

"Forgive me, m'Lord. The eclipse is almost upon us. It may be wise to make a public appearance before the event. You know how superstitious the peasants can be," rasped the beast.

A hundred rivers of lava cut ravines across the heavily shadowed valley and gathered in immense lakes that extended for hundreds of miles. The Lords factories straddled these lakes and stole their heat to power his forges. The bulbous structures produced titan-metal through a carefully guarded process and were powered by cheap local labor. 

"[i]Much cheaper than artificials[/i]," thought the Lord. 


As Darkstar to his Holiness, Emperor Reva Xem III, it was his duty to produce, profit and to pay taxes. Heavy taxes. For this, the Lord suffered the superstitions of his peasant workers. As long as he gave them leeway to perform whatever primitive rituals they required for peace of mind, the better they would perform in his factories.

"An eclipse you say Greely?" said the Lord through his breathing apparatus. He pulled the face mask free and breathed deeply the searing hot air of his dominion. White-hot tendrils of pain shrieked down his lungs. He coughed, and put the mask back on as tears gathered at his eyes. 

"...four-hundred and seventy five years since the last triple eclipse, m'lord. I could record a simple broadcast if you wish to address your subjects. It may help to assuage any superstitions your subjects may hold about the eclipse. Prophets of doom and all that..." Greely bowed his head deeply as he spoke, not wishing to offend his prickly master.

The Lord raised a black gloved hand and the servant fell silent. Iron studs adorned the knuckles, and the servant knew at least two vibro-blades were concealed within-one for each hand. Maybe even an atomic-dart...

"Let them have their superstitions, Greely. I rather enjoy it. I wonder if they'll work up such a fervor as to initiate a panic-induced pogrom." said the Lord chuckling. His laughter chirped digitally through his breathing harness.

Greely cringed. "I certainly hope not, m'Lord. Production of titan-metal was down 7% last quarter and our workforce is still recovering from the last riots. An envoy from the Emperor is due to arrive at the morning meal. Our spies tell us the envoy does not bring kind words from the Emperor..."[/indent]
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[b][h3]Races of the Empire[/h3][/b]
[hider=Template]
[b]Name (in color)[/b]
[b]Scientific Name[/b]
[b]Flavor Text[/b]
[b]Description[/b]

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[hider=Phageon]
[color=red][b]Phageons[/b] [/color]
[sub]([i]Sanguiaphagia Dominus[/i])[/sub]

[center][i]Who would have thought the mere by-product of an archaic bio-engineering protocol would evolve into their own species?[/i][/center]

[indent]A race of humanoids that act as diplomats, spies, ambassadors, assassins and negotiators at every level of the bureaucratic hierarchy. They possess immensely powerful psychic abilities, and a preternatural insight bordering on precognition, skills that have made them indispensable to the empire despite their monstrous appearance and barbaric customs. They are greatly mistrusted, feared and hated by the common citizen of the Empire.

They are also effectively immortal.

In the earliest eras of the Empires founding, the scientist-sorcerers of the day still fiddled with the preposterous notions of immortality, and after countless centuries of tinkering and meddling with the nature of nature itself, they created the phageons. Hailed as a scientific leap forward in the realm of empathic research, yet discarded for their biological limitations, the phageon project was halted almost immediately after it began (probably due to a reshuffling of resources to fight one of the countless wars of the early eras of Empire). However, an isolated colony of the species survived the immolation of the purge-squads and so began a self-imposed path of evolution that continues to this day.

Whatever door to immortality was unlocked within the phageons biology also holds the species downfall. Without the continuous consumption of blood, a phageons biological functions begin to deteriorate rapidly. Some phageon approach this problem clinically, through complicated blood transfusion operations while others prefer a more...primal approach to their disposition. Ancient folklore has turned the layman and ignoramus against them, the common folk insisting they are demons or monsters. To them, the Phageon are simply 'darklings', (a colloquial term meaning demon or monster), a creature to be mistrusted, hunted, or even killed. 

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