A lot of what you wrote seems a bit unfamiliar to me though. Were you in the oldguild divinus and is mentioning lost content or is it new stuff in the old world?
I was in oldguild Divinus, but this is entirely new content. Either an alternate timeline or just a long time after the canonical events. The only real constant is some of the gods, which won't be particularly relevant anyway.
This was going to be a prologue to Osveril's introduction collab, but I realised that it was sort of irrelevant and, being dialogue, much longer than the content was worth. Also, no more double post, I guess.
Today we learn that Jvan has a surname, and that she originates from the Oldguild Divinus version of Galbar, complete with some very old but familiar gods.
"And yet, some spend weeks deciding on what to call their engines."
"Well, I did not."
"I presume it has no particular meaning, then?" Teasing.
"Of course it does, Ceeln." Unperturbed.
"The Horror. It's what people feel when they're swept away. When the beauty of the thing is too raw, too far beyond what they believe should and should not be. But it exists nonetheless. That's what I want to be, Ceeln. The awe that shudders."
"...That's so very you, Jvan."
Short sharp cackle."I am very me."
"I think not," said Jvan, as nonchalant about Ceeln's disability as only a sibling can be. Ceeln shrugged as if to say fair.
"Vowzra's beard, you have a touch for this."
"Try Achozaal's. I hear it's longer." Some thudding sounds. Jvan crawled out from inside the war engine. "Some say Vestec hides a goatee under his-AGH NO CEELN YOU BASTARD"
Sisterly laughter, lovingly cruel. "Oh, I definitely don't see you enough, Jvan."
"..." Resigned limpness, arms crossed.
"Eh, my apologies. I forget you're siblings." Light, gruff smile. "Senator Ceeln, then. The ambassadors."
A nod. Ceeln turned back from Prrhyi. "Farewell, Jvan."
@Commodore Also, while I'm fangirling over our gotta-go-fast animation millipede, here's something her theme brought to mind.
I really wanted to get an important post in before the end of the turn, but damn it, no one has posted since the Aitiraq/Toun collab. I may have to be a rude, uncouth, and downright savage person and double post in IC :C
Well, I've had a fully developed science fiction character floating around for a while now with no particular setting to his name, so I guess this is as good a place as any to dump him. Somewhat silly concept from a daydream.
Name: Giggles. Not a nickname or an alias, just Giggles. Barely-literate insurgents are bad at first names and assigning him a last name would have been stupid and tasteless, given the circumstances.
Height: Not quite short enough to make fun of at ~165cm. Weight: Probable has enough muscle to hold his own by now. Maybe 70kg? Age: Reckless and horny, though Giggles swears that he's out of his teens. (Don't believe him.) Race: Human, though nobody's managed to figure out where the hell those errant genes come from, and, knowing the agencies that designed them, no one ever will.
Tier: Lower end of mid. While Giggles is very clearly human in all the ways that count, the advantages bestowed on him by time, effort, equipment and vast amounts of blind luck cannot be discounted. To face off with Giggles expecting anything less than a wild ride is unwise, and Giggles's boots have stepped over no small number of people who judged him too quickly.
Appearance: Once more noticeably human, at least under his kit. In casual outdoor gear (which is, incidentally, also his insurrectionist gear) Giggles could be one of any number of alien or cyborg races. A hood covers his head and shoulders, a grimy armoured vest sits on his chest, and no skin shows through his gloves, (brown) sleeves or (slightly browner) trousers. His only visible weapon is his parang, which sits in a leather sheath in his utility belt. The Ophan kit on his back could be anything that involves LCD readouts, buttons and antennae, and is built into a backpack anyway. A metal plate with vertical slits forms a breathing mask over his mouth and nose, black leather bands securing it tightly around the back of his head, and two rubbery sacs fit over his eyes, extending into tubes that run into his pack. Everything is stained, everything is grubby.
Clothes off, Giggles doesn't look like much. Dirty ginger hair on a muscular body in desperate need of a bath and a tan. Though he doesn't sport much of a bust, Giggles is invariably assumed to be a girl, a notion he's never bothered to correct. When not in outdoor (slash 'no that burning building has nothing to do with me I'm just on my way to the strip club like everyone else') duds, Giggles usually wears a tank top and shorts with little regard for shoes or a bra. The gloves tend to stay on, though.
Wherever military unions form between multiple nations, there are bound to be those who feel threatened enough to form defensive unions of their own, thus solidifying a formerly diluted tension. Where tension grows, so the elites are all too easily called upon to take more power, and thus what began as protection soon becomes an sprawling monument to repression all its own.
And so there are those who seek to bring down these monopolies of power, preemptively or otherwise. Some are democratic. Others, with a far wider range of success rates, take a less complacent view of the law.
It came to pass that an anarchist collective passing by the name of the Interstellar Independence Front (or some other such generic and meaningless title) emerged in order to butt heads violently with the United Federation of Planets, the latest of a long string of such mobs, each recycling the scraps of the other going back to the first opponents of federation. Having grown when the UFP was strained by its most recent invasion, it managed to snatch some power before being beaten back down in the post-war days.
With annihilation looming, its last gasps of significance became increasingly brutal bids for recognition that was instead going into democratic reform. There were blockades, there were human shields. Biochemical weapons were deployed. High-ranking contractors of the UFP departments of defense were kidnapped and held for ransoms that could not be paid. In the belly of a military geneticist, to a man whose desperate futility had festered into aimless hate, Giggles was conceived.
He was a leader of the Interstellar Independence Front, and she was the enemy. Nobody, he assured her, would believe her testimony, and she would die in prison before the child could be born. But he was wrong.
The scientist dragged out her life for months, apparently out of sheer determination, and Giggles's existence became known. He- then she- was transferred to artificial gestation, and her mother died a few weeks later. When her genes were examined, her father was dragged into a basement and shot for sexual violence. Giggles was alone. Foster care would only have ended with her in the hands of the UFP.
In desperate times, it fell on an all-male band of insurrectionists that called themselves The Boys to raise this infant. Giggles, utterly unaware of her ancestry and strategic value, quickly earned her name. It only took about three years for them to realise that they had misplaced a pronoun somewhere, and Giggles was brought up, not as a space urchin, but as One Of The Lads.
The Interstellar Independence Front collapsed in the meantime, but The Boys are still around, doing odd jobs outside UFP borders. Since then Giggles has done a lot of learning and swearing and chaos-peddling.
Personality: Giggles isn't so much giggly any more, no longer being an infant, but spends a lot of time smirking. Like most boys his age, he is well aware that he is immortal and that the universe exists solely for his benefit, and anyone who thinks otherwise can meet him outside for a mouthful of concrete. Typically he isn't particularly violent, though, preferring to talk smack at every opportunity. His arrogance and disrespect has put him in more danger through the years than most of his criminal activities. Giggles is far from a leader of men.
Giggles has simple tastes in life. Drugs, fights, explosions, fast vehicles, girls, disrespecting the police and the megacorporations, sleeping away the workday. He's well accustomed to being left to fend for himself with nothing more than the lint in his pockets, though, and while he always finds his way back to The Boys in the end, he wouldn't have survived this long without a diligent streak. In fact, he spends more time in private study and exercise than he lets on to his fellow Lads, a trait he's rather embarrassed about (and, in turn, insecure about the embarrassment). Other such awkward qualities include his desire to play an instrument and the fact that sometimes he likes kissing boys as well as girls.
-Fission Accelerator Round Catalyst (FAR-Cat) pistol, custom model, and ammunition. Resembling an ornate flintlock pistol whose filigree has been repaired with bits wrenched from an already cobbled-together computer, Giggles's pistol is a relatively simple device used to activate and launch a fission accelerator round. Rather dull in appearance, these tarnished metal spheres are penetrative projectiles that use nuclear energy to generate massive amounts of energy for propulsion. In layman's terms, a fission accelerator round will accelerate until it runs out of energy, which can take over a minute. Maximum speeds of over ten kilometers per second have been recorded. Accelerators are extremely resilient and fairly good at maintaining their trajectory. Loading and recharging the FAR-Cat is a bitch, but its one shot is enough to make this illegal weapon the bane of tanks and bunkers the galaxy over.
-Thermo-optic sensory enhancement array, Ophan model. While the FAR-Cat is a horrifying weapon, especially in Giggles's hands, it has played a significantly smaller role in preserving his life than the crux of his insurgency gear. The Ophan kit is a fairly lightweight device worn on the back, with ocular attachments forming the tubular 'eyes' of Giggles's mask. Encoding data in the form of visual signals easily interpreted by an augmented brain, the device records all surrounding photon activity within a three metre radius and sends it to Giggles. This grants him a 360 degree field of vision with no blind spots and excellent magnification, capable of seeing far into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrum, as well as some level of heat vision.
-Other tools and firearms. The FAR-Cat is not an inconspicuous weapon, or a precise one, or even remotely easy to use. Giggles buys and steals what he can and makes do, taking the time to match his equipment to the environment before pulling something. Usually, anyway.
-Parang-style blade. It's a knife. It's an axe. In the right circumstances, it's also a spanner, a shovel, a hammer, a nail, a spatula, a spank paddle, or what have you. In other words, it's a machete. You can not go wrong with a machete.
Abilities: Giggles improvises well and has a fairly wide array of skills necessary for survival as a faceless rebel. He can pilot small spacecraft, load cyber warfare modules, plant explosives, deal drugs and cut down government pigs. In none of these things is he a particular expert, though the nature of the FAR-Cat has forced him to become a capable marksman. The only thing he can't seem to do nearly enough is get laid.
If anything really sets Giggles apart from the rest of the human crowd, it's luck. Sure, in the gambling pit he might lose twice as many rounds as he wins on any given day, but life often seems just a sliver easier for him than it should. That shrapnel flew past just a little bit further left than his face happened to be. That abandoned truck just happened to have controls he could manage. That guard's partner stopped for a piss just early enough into his watch. It's been hypothesised that the cryptic mechanisms in Giggles's genes are responsible for this slippery edge, but nothing is proven.
Don't practice historical european polearm techniques in the same room as your computer.
FUCK OFF MUM I'M TWELVE NOW I DO WHAT I WANT
Anyway all my stuff was already safe since Windows 10, despite the many flaws I had to shell out $150 for, somehow does know how to reinstall itself without laying waste to my meme vaults. I do gotta do that, though.
Other than that, things seem to be clearing up faster than expected. Damn tech giants and their constant data harvesting, I love it.
Did you feed it enough memes? Meme machines die without them.
My meme machine made the spontaneous decision to ram seven feet worth of Swiss halberd up its, uh, disk drive. I'm currently putting it through suicide counselling and have sent its five children to live with their great aunt far away from any central European polearms, but it looks like recovery's going to be, in the doctor's words, a massive bitch.
So don't expect too much from me for a few days yo.
@poog the pig I've researched it before and as I recall, Earth the planet was in fact named after dirt, but in a roundabout etymological way that probably took many years. It basically stems from a root that meant 'land' or 'ground'.
Dry land was the world plants grew and people lived, farmed and worked on, and I presume the sea was something kind of external to that. For most people the entire world was a vast expanse of earthy ground, plus (unreachable) sky and (uninhabitable, empty) sea. Eventually people figured out that the Dirt is a speck of dust in an infinite void but by then the name had stuck.
That's for Germanic languages and possibly also Latin, anyway. Other languages might not have the connection.
But damned if that list isn't useful, I already have ideas for what to do with chimes and iron roses. Urtelem might plant earthsouls on themselves in cities so that others can see an urt's mood as easily as an urt can sense theirs. For politeness.