Abstract Proxy

Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

---

Dominika Kovač Pignatelli

---

Forcing herself to breath, Dom felt the room spinning around her. It was as if all her fears had been realized in one fell swoop of uninvited horror. To live in interesting times was bad enough. The bloody celebration that haunted them all, even months later, was painful memory enough. Dom had barely registered anything following the related prophecy. Bits and pieces had reached her, beneath the blanket of fear that had enveloped her. She knew nothing of the new Scion, save his name. She had paid no heed to the rumors, whispered as they were. All the same, the newest Scion advocated a reasonable course that seemed mercifully underdeveloped in terms of violence. Sara's fervent faith struck a familiar chord, an unexpected response from the steadfast Templar. There was steel in her words, and Dom wished she possessed such confidence and certainty in her own beliefs.

She had always held onto a dutiful piousness, a simple, childlike view of religion, rooted in the long recalled superstitions spoken of by sailors as they crossed the seas. She had attended services regularly at the simple chapel buried in a corner of the dockyards. She had donated appropriately. She had carried Incepta in heart with boundless love and given the same affection to the Church. She had listened unquestioningly and without much thought. To be a Scion, to be so touched by the hand of the Goddess herself, had made it impossible to deviate from this course. And yet, she found no relief in the prophecy Lucas offered, only a new horror, now named, that loomed beyond the horizon.

"We are in this together, then, we must protect the Princess," Dom said, discovering to her own surprise that she was speaking, her voice steady and clear as she rose to her feet. She met Holly's eyes gratefully, finding some comfort in her manner. Her Templar offered hope and Dom sensed the truth in Jannick's words. Still standing, she reached gracefully for a portion of the gift ham that Holly had once again brought to the forefront, selecting a modestly sized slice and placing it on her plate. The dearly departed pork was something simple, something she could understand, and something she could measure.

"We must set aside our differences and dedicate ourselves anew to this holy task," Dom said, sitting down and burying her hands in her lap as she cast a desperate glance at Jannick, Sara, and then Holly, looking for any reassurance, any indication that she had not gone too far, that she had no said too much.

Mechwarrior: Disposable Heroes

Ziska

"You're still alive."

"Still alive," Ziska replied, running a hand through her sweat plastered hair. She closed her eyes and let the exhaustion tug at her body, pulling on the thin threads carried only by fading adrenaline.

Blood trickled along the edges of her lips. She had a new bruise. Several even. She had new cuts. And worst of all, she could have sworn her lips were chaffed from the heat of the cockpit. Ziska frowned. The bottle cradled in her arms felt suspiciously light. She suspected Witchcraft. Witchcraft, not just witchcraft. Ansi couldn't be trusted. Not when it came to matters of drinking.

Davids was uninvolved. The pair had left him fuming, swearing up a fresh storm of hatred as he stood in front of the battered RVN-3L she had returned to him. Sunther was too busy calculating, mapping out the damage, and measuring to care. He had a new task, another job to do. Licht had been crestfallen, Ziska thought that he might have cried had she not been there. Lyrans always had strange ideas about the chain of command. Kan and Minhas had been more worried about the weak flesh, the battered MechWarrior piloting the bird of prey. It would have been sweet if it wasn't so inconvenient. And so embarrassing.

She was alive. She was still alive. That was all that mattered.

"You were a bit too daring."

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta be."

"Tsk tsk, Ziska. Cutting it awfully close aren't you? Over and over again. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were trying to prove something."

Ziska shook her head, irritation burning across her cheeks in a burst of red, "It's just math. A Hunchback and a Catapult. A medium and a heavy mech. 115 tons for 35. A battered Raven for two fresh BattleMechs. A good trade. An excellent bargain that any commander would be happy to make in any battle."

"Ah, but what about you? I'd have lost you, my dear friend. They'd have lost you. And your work has only just started. There's much for you to do here. I sense the merciful hand of Blake, blessed be his memory, in all of this. The prophet has not forgotten you."

"Thomas."

"Yes?"

"Shut up

"You wound me, Ziska. I came to congratulate you. You should be happy. You should be celebrating with your...ahhh friends."

"Somehow I don't think there's going to be much celebration."

"Tell me you aren't pleased? With all of this."

"Oh, I am. But they aren't. You think the Colonel wanted this? You think Ingrid was happy to lead a kill squad? Marit, mmm, she might not have minded as much as I thought she would. She's more mercenary than she seemed when Wayne hired her. Rivers is...Rivers. He's out of his fucking min-"

"He's playing his own game, a different game," Thomas interrupted, his grating laughter shaking Ziska's head. "Oh, do not be too harsh, dear Ziska. He has been dealt a poor hand and is locked in a gamble with stakes far higher than yours."

"Not my problem. Besides, you now how this is going to end Thomas. You always knew."

"Perhaps, but so did you."

"Yes."

---

"Ziska?"

The voice was familiar, and Ziska felt her senses returning. Slowly drifting back to baseline as she listened to the soft words. Stern, but not unkind. Calming somehow, despite the unwelcome context and the uncomfortable table.

A distant memory threatened at the edges of Ziska's awareness. A Long buried recollection. A week of R&R. A week that had turned into two weeks and then a month. Too much saké. Too many designer drugs. And all together, too much fun. Chu-i Matsumoto had been one of a kind, she mused. It was a shame things had ended like they did. Like they usually did for Ziska. Badly. And with a gun pointed at her. Several guns if she remembered correctly. They'd always have Solaris though. No one could take that from her. Not even Chu-i Matsumoto.

"Yeah."

"Who are you talking to?"

"No one."

"Right."

"So what's the damage this time, Doc? What do I owe you?"

"Ziska..."

"Don't hold out on me, Doc, the suspense is killing me."

Sitting down on a bar stool that the junkyard rats had helpfully provided for her makeshift office and surgical suite, Doc Nakajima sighed,"Another set of bruises. Moderate. Some cuts. You'll be fine. But you should really get some rest."

"No time for that Doc, I got places to be and people to see."

"You're exhausting, Ziska. You know that, right?"

"That's what they tell me, Doc, but help me up. I need to find my lance. There's a party. And best of all, they're all invited!"

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

@Theyra I’m willing to if you need it, I was honestly working on building up the courage to do my own Shadowrun roleplay on the guild too.

@Abstract Proxy the only warning I have for you is that Shadowrunners and SINners are pretty much opposite sides of the magnet depending on the chosen climate of the roleplay; in oldschool, punk, neo-anarchist, or Hooder vibes it tends to be a ‘great, once a corp rat always a corp rat’ brand and a huge shadow of doubt put onto someone. This is NOT me telling you to NOT do this; exiled corpos are a great source of alternate perspective, and what you’ve described is perfectly valid as the origins of a Runner. It just means you’ve got an uphill reputation battle if anyone finds out about your SIN, and some people may basically treat you like a walking potential Great Betrayal waiting to go off.

That being said, a good modern representation of this is Takemura from Cyberpunk 2077; at the beginning of the game he gets burned in a similar method to what you describe, and his only choice is to work with the scum mercenaries he used to fight. It’s a GREAT trope and storyline and I support it, I just wanted you to have a bit of the shadowrun culture around the SIN without bogging you down with the other risks like ‘suddenly you have a potentially secondary corp looking into your actions’

On the topic of the discrete upgrades, synthetic and bio ‘wares are very ideal for the corporate suit high end security. Unobtrusive limbs that don’t look dangerous at first blush, organs souped up to the nines, and headware to make a decker blush, are all very corpo appropriate vibes for a ‘Samurai’ archetype.

Something important for everyone to keep in mind is Shadowrun hyper-emphasizes the loss of ‘Essence’, or soul/humanity, that cybernetics entails. People who mod a lot of chrome on eventually approach the ‘Uncanny Valley’, make people uncomfortable, lose social graces and emotional empathy, etc. Synthetic rather than hard chrome can supplement this somewhat, but heavy Bio is the ‘best’ way to represent someone with access to very high end resources. Obvious Chrome is for power, Synthetic is for trying to hide that power and sacrificing some potential power for that attempt to disguise it, bio is for subtlety and surprise but the benefits aren’t as extreme.

@Fading Memory

Thank you for that great reply!

I saw a bit about Corporate Born SINs being both a blessing (and a curse if the character starts running), but your elaboration was super helpful. I definitely like the RP potential it offers and the potential consequences. I think the character would be very "the feeling is mutual" in terms of any negative responses should her corpo background come up (or out).

Her original corporation starting to look into her runs and potentially getting involved would be amazing down the line.

I'm definitely getting a feeling that bioware/synthetics is what I'll lean into, just going through the lengthy list now of options. I really like the idea of some corporate VIPs insisting they have bodyguards that don't ruin the vibe at some social event by looking like walking murder.

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

I’ve been dabbling for like a decade or so, and been specifically faffing with 5e for a long time. I have a very broad and situationally deep knowledge of the setting and will gladly help anyone who needs info :)

@Fading Memory

I'm powering through the various 5E information (it was the easiest edition to find), but my concept so far is a "washed up corporate bodyguard, an elf cast out for failing to keep her charge alive, and now looking for any job to get back on her feet".

I sort of imagined some discreet cyberware/bioware (that makes sense for a bodyguard that needs to be unobtrusive, but still be able to tango when things go bad), probably a Corporate Born SIN (why they'd be trusted in the first place and be able to advance up the corporate ladder).

Any thoughts appreciated here or in my inbox.

Shadowrun: Lost Heir

I'm just here for a fistful of nu.

вжух

Interested, obviously, but you knew that already!

The Whispering Grove

Finally have some time, so will drop a post in the next day or two so Vaelyn.

Given her proclivities, Vaelyn will no doubt head towards the music.

The Whispering Grove

Vaelyn Silverstride

Portrait

Full Size Portrait

Name: Vaelyn Silverstride
Ancestry: Human
Heritage: Aiuvarin (Half-Elf)
Class: Bard
Subclass: Multifarious Muse (Maestro / Enigma)

Personality:

An exiled musical prodigy, Vaelyn is consumed by her love of music and need to create a great work of art. She lives to entertain others, to delight them with her music, and to share the manifold emotions that she can summon. Enthralled by her senses, she seeks pleasure in doses both large and small, leading her at times to stumble into the realm of hedonism. Supremely dedicated to creating and performing music, Vaelyn is inordinately lazy in most other contexts, abhorring physical labor, and channeling the unwavering laziness of a domesticated cat.

There is something enthralling about the young half-elf, a delicately cultivated allure, an effortless magnetism, that she wields like an assassin's dagger. Vaelyn radiates warmth, appearing candid, so very kind, leaving her conversational partners basking in the afterglow of small joys, and a pleasing interaction. Any ideas, any notions to the contrary are quickly swept aside in the whirlwind of additional performance. Vaelyn carries herself with effortless confidence, believing so much in herself and in her talent, that she is convinced that no matter what she will survive to compose a work to remember.

Obsessive in all matters related to her craft, Vaelyn possesses a fiery temper kept in check by her privileged upbringing. Prideful to a reasonable measure, especially concerning her musical performances, Vaelyn can be vain, prideful, and spiteful even, when given cause to find offense. For all her charm and social graces, Vaelyn keeps others at a safe distance, always remaining wary of encountering unwelcome reminders of her past. Behind the mask of her artistic persona, she is reluctant to allow anyone to become acquainted with her true self or to share any deeper moments of intimacy. Buried beneath many layers and more stories, are the faintest traces of a noble upbringing and a life far different from that of an adventuring bard.

Appearance:

A figure painted with delicate brushstrokes, Vaelyn has a graceful, slender physique. She plays subtle notes with her appearance, weaving a visual orchestra that blossoms into a beautiful symphony. Swathed in layers of fabric, her fair skin bears few marks, and is spoiled only by the temporary exposure to the grime familiar to any traveler. Touched by the blood of her elven ancestors, Vaelyn has pointed ears and fine features that easily mark her as a half-elf. Her eyes are pools of pale violet, bright mirrors that shine with determination, and an inescapable flash of merriment. Her dark brown hair, falls in long cascades, and she keeps her tresses pinned in elaborate buns using extravagant hairpins.

A fashionable dresser in all but the most dire of circumstances, Vaelyn dresses to impress, maintaining or creating an impressive collection of outfits well-suited for performance. Beyond the stage, Vaelyn dons traveling clothes, that while functional, are bold choices that most seasoned adventurers would judge far too fine for the wilderness. Too discover Vaelyn without an elegant gown, matching jewelry, and a tasteful amount of makeup is to discover Vaelyn in distress.

Vaelyn's Character Sheet

Pirates of the Darkening Skies

Hopefully we, as a party, will be less willing to sell out a beloved party member.

The Symphony - A Fated Quest

---

Zarathia

Necromancer.

The word cut Thia deeply with unintended and unknown accusation. The halberd resting lazily against her chest, burned in right hand, her fingers squeezing the cold metal until her knuckles turned a pale white. Gazing into the distance, from where the sobbing stranger had come, she saw smoke slowly beginning to rise on the horizon. There had been no small amount of violence committed, but there could always be more.

Too late, she thought, her anger fading as she drank slowly from the waterskin she held in her left hand. Her deliberations shifting to the doom that the villager was mournfully recollecting.

Who was there to save? The dead were dead. The undead were undead. The unfortunate souls ensnared by the foul magic of a necromancer could not be saved, they could only be freed, delivered to their deserved rest.

She could have kept going. She had no need to follow the road. She had not particular place to go. She did not believe in any destiny save that of the grave. She sighed and remained on the rock on which she was perched, studying the wretched, bloodied man in front of her with a look that revealed moderate irritation. She felt no pity, merely anger. It was always the same. Begging. Wailing. Desperate calls for help. The horror no longer moved her. It no longer touched her. She saw little more than weakness, cast in a painfully common pattern. Everyone expected to be saved. Everyone was waiting for a hero.

There was a hum, the rhythmic pulsing of power, a infernal orchestra that seemed to echo through the air. It pulled at her. It called to her. The feeling was familiar, a sensation that tugged at her buried memories, and filled her with a most unwelcome feeling. Longing colored by hatred, most desperately invoked, sent a shiver rising up her neck. She had no interest in encountering any reminders of her past. The Lady of Death had been right about one thing, the dead had no place in the world of the living, not even as specters.

Replacing the stopper in her waterskin and tying it to her belt, Thia rose from the moss covered stone, shifting her halberd until it loomed in front of her, ready to strike with the smallest of motions. With her free hand she brushed the dust off her robes, faded gray reappearing from underneath shades of brownish dirt with each motion. Her armor offered welcome resistance beneath the thick cloth. And her helm clattered mutely from where it hung slung over her shoulder.

The corner of her lips shifted into a lazy smile that never traveled close to her eyes, "Coin. How much? How much are you willing to pay? How much can you pay?"

The words tasted wrong, sharp barbs that cut the inside of her mouth, leaving her mouth swirling with a metallic flavor, like blood. And still she swallowed, accepting the bitterness, heedless anger driving her forwards. The Fates might have trapped her. The three witches might have ensnared her with their dark magic, but she would not work for free. She was no servant. She was no guileless believer. And she was no hero. Not by any measure.

The Whispering Grove

Just pure dedication to dispensing justice.