Bentus

Lancer [mechs, magic, and intrigue]

Interested, and I have some ideas for a character.

@Theyra

Interested, I might have an idea for a character.

@Rynagria

Glad to have the interest! Let me know if you have any questions about the setting, or feedback on the current state of the OOC. I've just added an example app in the form of the Prince for y'all's viewing pleasure. I'm hoping to get a second NPC up at some point and am debating whether to add some extra details to expand on a few of the major factions in the sector.

Lancer [mechs, magic, and intrigue]

By direction of His Imperial Highness, Prince Cassian, you are hereby invited to join a Lancer contingent aboard the voidship Indomitus. This designation confers upon you the authority to act on behalf of the Prince and, by extension, the Sol Imperium, in matters relating to security, diplomacy, and the enforcement of Imperial writ.

Your commission carries with it full access to the resources, personnel, and machinery required to execute your duties within the Procyon sector. This includes, but is not limited to, deployment of armored cores, command of auxiliary forces, and the use of Imperial vessels as operational necessity dictates.

Should you choose to accept this great honor, then you must respond within the period specified in the accompanying schedule. All subsequent orders and directives will be issued through the Prince’s appointed representatives and the sector command structure.

By the authority of His Imperial Highness, this writ is binding and recognized throughout all systems of the Procyon Sector. Your actions will reflect both upon yourself and upon the office of the Prince.

Issued this day under the seal of Prince Cassian Ardentis, Sol Imperium.

---

To its citizens, the Sol Imperium is a beacon of civilization amidst a sea of barbarians. To its foes, it is a conquering hegemon, wielding a fearsome and unrelenting might. Laying claim to the legacy of Ancient Terra, the Imperium has embarked upon a grand re-unification of humanity beneath Earth’s banner. Through war, diplomacy, and the slow grind of inevitability, vast stretches of the gate network now fall under Imperial rule.

But empire is easier to claim than it is to govern. While the Imperial military is formidable, it doesn’t have the power to watch over every noble house, or every border garrison. Instead, the Emperor’s will is most often enforced through his Lancers: warrior-pilots granted Imperial writ, privilege, and authority to act in his name where fleets cannot linger.

And yet, the Emperor’s reach is not infinite. As the Imperium’s borders have expanded, so has the challenge of ruling over it all from a distant throne. Internal politics and intrigue consume the throne’s attention, allowing piracy, insurgency, and heresy to grow within the frontier. Nowhere are these threats more pressing than within the Procyon Sector: the latest of Earth’s sweeping conquests to be formally integrated into the Empire. It is a region of strategic value, rich in resources and littered with artifacts from the time of the Ancients. Given time, many believe that the territory will become a formidable jewel in the Emperor’s crown. If only he were able to tame its frontiers.

---

OOC Intro

Welcome to Lancer, a character-driven mech RP set in a distant, war-touched future. Inspirations are all over the place, but I'd love to especially shout out Rogue Trader, Scum and Villainy, Dune, and the Lancer RPG as some that have been front-of-mind. The RP is focused on the adventures of a newly formed team of Lancers: elite mech pilots granted Imperial writ to act in the Emperor’s name along the fringes of civilization. With that writ comes influence, prestige, and danger.

Not every member of the party must be a Lancer. You might instead serve in a vital supporting role: a voidmage whose arcane power is both awe-inspiring and feared; a hardened commander leading the squad’s auxiliary forces; or an engineer tasked with keeping ancient machines running through grit and genius.

Whatever your path, it comes with both opportunity and responsibility. Your voidship, your machines, and the Emperor’s authority give you great reach. But you will be far from the core, where law and loyalty are more fragile than most would admit. Out here, ambition festers. Alliances shift. And everyone, from noble lords to planetary governors, will want something from you.

Setting and Lore

The Sol Imperium

“And so Earth must reach out to her scattered children, and bring them back into the fold.”

Imperial Unification Doctrine

The Sol Imperium claims descent from Ancient Terra, and with it the mantle of humanity’s rightful steward. From the Imperial Court on Earth, the Emperor and his noble houses rule over a growing web of systems linked by the gate network, bound together by law, trade, and force of arms. To Imperial citizens, this is the Pax Imperialis: an era of stability hard-won after centuries of collapse, fragmentation, and war.

In practice, the Imperium is vast, unequal, and distant. Earth is wealthy, crowded, and politically dense, while its frontier territories are ruled at arm’s length by governors, noble proxies, and chartered interests. In theory, Imperial Law is absolute, but in reality it is interpreted, bent, or ignored depending on how far one stands from the Throne. Loyalty is expected everywhere; enforcement is not.

Power within the Imperium is shared uneasily between the Emperor, the noble houses, the military, and the great commercial guilds. Each claims to act in service of humanity’s unity, and each advances its own interests in the process. Intrigue at court and within the Senate is constant, and even minor shifts in favor can echo outward across entire sectors.

To manage its borders, the Imperium relies on delegation. Beyond the core worlds, authority is often exercised not by armies or administrators, but by individuals granted extraordinary latitude to act in the Emperor’s name. These agents are symbols as much as soldiers, proof that the Imperium still watches, even if it does not always intervene.

The Procyon Sector

“The Procyon Sector stands as a testament to the Imperium’s civilizing mission beyond the core worlds. Once fragmented by local rivalries and inefficient governance, it has been brought into the Imperial fold through decisive action and careful stewardship.”

Excerpt from A Traveller’s Guide to the Outer Sectors

After the Imperium’s scientists established a connection with the Procyon Gate, the Empire mounted a concerted campaign to bring the sector’s worlds under its dominion. Slow-and-steady expansion through both diplomacy and conquest culminated in a major war with a coalition of planets calling itself the Union. Though the fighting was bloody, Imperial forces emerged with a decisive victory.

Yet Procyon remains far from pacified. Piracy, insurgency, and heretical activity persist in the outlying systems, while rival noble houses and commercial guilds maneuver for influence over resources and territory. Despite these dangers, the sector has proven a powerful draw for migrants and adventurers alike. Procyon is already home to riches and opportunities, waiting for those bold enough to seize them.

Lancers and the Imperial Writ

"“By the authority of His Imperial Majesty, the bearer is granted exemption from the ordinary laws of the Empire while executing this mandate, so long as their actions are in service to the future of the Imperium.”

Excerpt from The Imperial Writ

Although mechanized warfare has become a staple of modern conflict, not all pilots are equal in either skill or status. Lancers are those rare professionals who have risen to a level of ability that few can hope to match, warrior-pilots whose experience, adaptability, and reputation set them apart from conventional forces.

Within the Sol Imperium, Lancer is not merely an informal distinction, but an official title bestowed by Imperial authority. To be named a Lancer is to be granted an Imperial Writ: a legal and symbolic mandate to act in the Emperor’s name beyond the safety of the core worlds. Lancers are tasked with enforcing peace, suppressing threats to Imperial stability, and resolving crises too distant, politically sensitive, or deniable for the regular military to address directly.

The Writ grants its bearer broad latitude. Lancers are empowered to bypass local authorities, requisition resources, and intervene in disputes where Imperial interests are at stake. How they choose to exercise that authority varies widely between teams, some act as diplomats or investigators, others as shock troops or executioners. The Imperium concerns itself less with methods than with results.

That authority, however, is not limitless. The Writ protects Lancers from most local laws, but not from the consequences of their actions. Noble houses, governors, guilds, and generals all watch Lancers closely, eager to exploit success or weaponize failure. A Lancer who oversteps may find their actions questioned, their support withdrawn, or their patron suddenly disinterested.

To the public, Lancers are often celebrated as heroes and icons: living proof of the Imperium’s strength and unity. In reality, few Lancers are true paragons of virtue. Chivalry and honor may be valuable in the Imperium’s interior, but pragmatism and ambition reign in the frontier. To be a Lancer is to court danger, but in return they have the power to chart their own destiny across the stars.

The Imperial Army

"Earth reaches out. Will you answer the call?"

Recruitment Poster

The Hammer of the Emperor. Feared and lauded as one of the most powerful fighting forces in the galaxy, the Imperial Army is the Imperium’s professional military. Serving the Imperium as a whole rather than any particular House, the Army is primarily responsible for defending the realm against external threats: be they barbarian kingdoms, or wayward heathens. It also serves as the ultimate deterrence against rebellious Houses, or those who seek to break the Imperium’s sacred pact of unity.

But despite its strength and reputation, the Imperial Army doesn’t have the resources to police and defend the whole empire. In times of conflict, the Emperor can call upon the levies of his vassals and the Great Houses to bolster the Army’s strength. In exchange, the Army’s ability to operate within a House’s fief is deliberately curtailed. Largely relegated to their garrisons whenever there is no immediate threat, the Army is intended to be the Imperium’s sword against its enemies, not a tool with which to oppress itself.

Technology and Magic

Mechs and Armored Cores

Coming in a variety of shapes and sizes, Armored Cores (colloquially referred to as “mechs”) have been the dominant weapon of war for generations. Predominantly humanoid, and in general commanded by a single pilot, different mech models can be designed for different battlefield roles: from the slow and bulky siege weapon, to the fast and nimble close-quarters fighter. Experienced pilots often go out of their way to customize their mechs, tweaking them so that they best suit their preferred piloting style.

While mechs are commonplace throughout humanity - from interplanetary armies to roving pirate bands - the Imperium has been uniquely successful in incorporating Ancient Terran technology into its most advanced models. These mechs, and their frighteningly advanced capabilities, are only accessible to pilots who have earned the privileges of Imperial favor. Each of these advanced mechs is unique, with prominent Houses often maintaining an inventory that can stretch back decades.

These advanced mechs, and the Lancers who pilot them, have been the tip of the spear during the Imperium’s conquest. While the Imperium’s dominance is reliant upon a suite of Terran technology, it is their mechs which have become the face of their superiority.

Despite the dominance mechs wield over the battlefield, they are often deployed with auxiliary support. An armored core without any support is vulnerable to ambushes and well-prepared aggressors. It is a short-lived pilot who dismisses the heroics of the grunts fighting at their feet.

Gate Travel

Even for the few relativistic craft maintained by the Imperial Army, traditional travel times between star systems are measured in years. It is only through the Gate network that humanity has been able to tame the vast distances of its domain. Left behind by the ancient empires of Old Earth, the Gates are vast structures that allow ships to transition into the Drift - an extradimensional domain, where interstellar travel becomes feasible in mere days or weeks.

While the underlying technology used to build the Gates has been lost, the Imperium has poured vast resources into trying to recreate it. As the inheritors of Ancient Terra’s legacies, the Imperium sees the reactivation of all dormant Gates and the expansion of the network as crucial for the reunification of humanity. To this end, Imperial scientists are famed for their ability to strengthen and stabilize particular travel routes in the Drift. Through the use of anchors and beacons, the Imperium has been able to reduce travel times between specific systems. The restoration of the Procyon Gate has so far been the Imperium’s greatest achievement in this field.

Magic and the Drift

"Can't you hear it? The voices are learning our names."

Intercepted transmission from a suspected Drift Cult, moments before destruction

The Ancient Terrans were, according to surviving records, the first humans to pierce the veil of the Drift. Through that alien expanse, they bridged the void between stars and laid the foundations of interstellar civilization. In the ages since, humanity has come to rely upon the Drift as a matter of necessity. And yet, the Drift remains only partially comprehended, a realm where the familiar laws of physics falter and causality itself can fray. On rare and terrible occasions, its influence bleeds into realspace, warping matter, mind, and fate alike.

Those rare individuals capable of sensing and shaping the Drift’s energies are known as voidmages. Their abilities defy conventional explanation: gravity bends, space twists, and impossible forces are momentarily given form. Yet such power is inherently unstable. Without rigorous training and iron discipline, a voidmage risks disaster: history is replete with examples of uncontrolled manifestations that left cities scarred and ships lost.

The Imperium, ever pragmatic, has sought to control the risks of using the Drift. Phenomena are studied, catalogued, and constrained within tightly regulated institutions. Sanctioned academies train voidmages for Imperial service, while select Lancer teams and research divisions may be assigned a caster where the tactical or scientific value outweighs the risk. Their use is governed by an extensive body of Imperial law, and violations are met with swift and uncompromising reprisal.

Among the wider population, voidmages inspire unease at best, and outright terror at worst. Superstition and suspicion cling to them, reinforced by centuries of cautionary tales and state messaging alike. Yet power has a way of reshaping fear. Certain bloodlines, those whose control has proven reliable across generations, have risen to prominence. These mage dynasties are courted by noble houses and shielded by privilege, trading their talents for wealth, influence, and protection. For voidmages outside such sanctioned lineages, however, the Imperium’s tolerance is far thinner, and the margin for error vanishingly small.

Major Factions in the Sector

This part of the RP is still something of a work in progress! The Procyon sector is host to countless groups jostling for influence and control. Each of them have their own aims and agendas, which may or may not align with the Lancers’ own ambitions. I’ve provided a shortlist of some of the major players below, but which ones will feature prominently in our story depends upon how the party interacts with the sector. The list below isn’t a complete representation of all of the factions that could be at play, but they are ones that your characters are likely to have heard of - at least in passing.

• The Procyon Garrison
• Sector Governor
• Rebel Alliance
• Commerce Guild
• Drift Cults and Heretics
• Local Noble Houses

Character Creation

Archetypes:
Below you can find some example archetypes to help define your character(s). They’re not intended to pigeon-hole you, so feel free to come up with new ones if they better describe your character’s background. Also feel free to use multiple together. For example, a scoundrel/speaker may be a fast talking smuggler, while an operative/voidtouched could be a lethal psionic assassin. Please don't hesitate to pick archetypes that might already have been taken by another character - there's plenty of ways that each of these could be interpreted, and I'd hate for folks to have their creativity stifled.

Mechanic/Scientist

You are a master of machines. Perhaps you’ve trained at the most prestigious of academies and have a list of inventions and accolades to your name. Or perhaps you simply inherited a natural understanding of the mechanical, and were plucked from the masses by those who recognised your talent.

Soldier/Warrior

The galaxy is a violent place. You know that better than most. Whether by choice or circumstance, you have proven yourself to be a reliable and fearsome fighter. You might have served in one of the Imperium’s armies, or as a zealous warrior from one of its religious orders. Whatever your origin, men and women like you are forces of nature on the battlefield, highly prized by your allies and feared by your enemies.

Voidtouched

You wield powers that defy common reason, and the galaxy eyes you warily because of it. You know the power of the Drift and have demonstrated a keen ability to ply your poorly understood trade. Perhaps you are the scion of one of the great mage dynasties, having been born-and-raised amidst the political scheming of the nobility. Or maybe you are a prodigy from the Astropathic Orders, able to cast your mind out across distances so vast that they are difficult to comprehend. Or maybe you’ve simply learned how to turn the energy of the Drift against those who wrong you, unleashing violence from your mind rather than the barrel of a gun.

Commander/Speaker

Charismatic and charming, you are a natural born leader and communicator. Whether it’s from the bridge of a mighty warship, a command post just behind the frontlines, or the treacherous hallways of civilian power, you have an eye for the bigger picture and know how to get others to do what you want. Maybe you were a successful merchant or Commerce Guild envoy, or an ambassador for some other noteworthy institution. Perhaps instead you are a military officer of great renown, known to lead those under their command to victory even in the face of impossible odds.

Operative/Scoundrel

The shadows are everywhere, and you are at home among them. While others wish to write their name across the stars, you prefer to keep a lower profile. Assassins, spies, and informants can topple kingdoms more easily than entire armies. Entire dynasties with storied pasts and generations of privilege can be brought to their knees by a dagger’s blade. This is the role of masters of disguise, thieves, and assassins alike.

Character Interest:
[b]Name:[/b]
[b]Age:[/b]
[b]Archetype:[/b]
[b]Gender:[/b]
[b]Appearance:[/b]
[b]Occupation:[/b] (What do you do? Are you one of the team’s Lancers, or are you in a supporting role?)
[b]Affiliations:[/b] (What connections do you have?)
[b]Skills and Abilities:[/b]
[b]Faults and Limitations:[/b]
[b]Personality:[/b]
[b]Biography:[/b]

NPCs and Example Apps

Prince Cassian Ardentis

Name: Prince Cassian Ardentis, Sixth Son of the Emperor Aurelius
Age: 25
Archetype: Speaker
Gender: M
Appearance:
Image
Prince Cassian cuts a striking figure, even by Imperial standards. He is meticulously groomed, favoring tailored uniforms and formal attire that would be more at home in the Imperial Palace than the dust-choked docks of the frontier. Jewelry, signet rings, and subtle marks of status are ever-present, reminders of his lineage and privilege. Though physically fit by courtesy of an elite education, there is a softness to him, along with an ease born not of discipline, but of comfort.

Occupation: Imperial Prince, Lance Patron
Affiliations: The Imperial Dynasty
Skills and Abilities:
Royal Privilege - The word of an Imperial Prince carries great weight, even from one as low down in the chain of succession as Cassian. His name grants him significant influence over those wishing to curry favor with the Throne, or to avoid its displeasure.
Patron of the Lance - It is under Cassian’s nominal authority that the Lance was assembled and granted Imperial Writ. Though the Lancers do not answer to him in matters of tactics or daily operations, their legitimacy - and their legal protections - flow directly from his patronage. So long as Cassian remains their sponsor, the Lance enjoys the full privileges and immunities afforded by the Emperor’s writ.

Faults and Limitations:
Inexperienced - Cassian’s education was exhaustive and expensive, but largely wasted. He proved an indifferent student in matters of strategy, command, and piloting, absorbing just enough to pass his tutors’ scrutiny. Worse still, he possesses no meaningful real-world experience. He has never faced violence without ceremony, nor made decisions where failure carried true consequences.

Princeling - Cassian lacks the hunger that drives most of the Imperium’s great figures. Concepts such as duty, sacrifice, and ambition hold little appeal for him. He finds leadership tedious and responsibility burdensome, preferring instead a life of comfort, indulgence, and curated freedom. As a commander, he is unreliable at best. It is fortunate for all involved that he has little interest in exercising direct control over the Lance.

Personality:
Charming, evasive, and deeply self-interested, Cassian prefers to smooth over conflict rather than confront it. He is quick with flattery and excuses alike, and possesses a talent for making problems someone else’s responsibility. While not cruel or malicious, he is profoundly careless with authority, treating Imperial power as a shield against consequences rather than a burden to be borne.

Biography:
Cassian Ardentis was born into greatness, and never quite understood what the fuss was about. The youngest son born after Emperor Aurelius’ ascension, he grew up in the long shadow cast by older siblings whose ambition, discipline, and political instincts far outstripped his own. Where they sought legacy, Cassian sought comfort; where they plotted futures, he indulged in the present.

His adolescence was marked by scandal and excess. The Palace worked tirelessly to maintain a polished public image, but among the noble elite Cassian earned a reputation as a charming liability: a socialite, a philanderer, and a perennial disappointment. For a time, the Emperor indulged his youngest son, confident that maturity would come in due course. It did not.

As Aurelius aged and the question of succession grew increasingly urgent, Cassian found himself dragged into the web of palace intrigue. Though far removed from any serious claim to the throne, he became a useful pawn in the maneuvering of his siblings. He despised every moment of it, caring little who would one day inherit the crown so long as it was not him.

And so Cassian devised an escape.

If his father demanded service to the Imperium, then Cassian would provide it: far from Earth, far from the court, and far from the endless games of dynastic power. By sponsoring a Lance and accepting a posting in the volatile Procyon Sector, he could cloak his retreat as duty. The Emperor would finally have something proud to say about his sixth son, his siblings would look elsewhere for rivals, and Cassian himself would gain distance, freedom, and access to the many indulgences the frontier promised.

In Cassian’s mind, it was the perfect solution. Of course, many of the usual candidates who would form a Lance soured at the idea of serving under that Prince. But the Imperium was a large place, and Cassian was certain that there would be those out there who would answer the call.

Paradise Lost

Fihlyn Numosath

Bridge of the ESS 3822-01

---

“So maybe someone can figure where we have to go. Then we can head that way so we don’t have to wait in orbit for years and get thawed out by some inept salvage crew.”

Beneath her helmet, Fihlyn winced. The bitterness in the pilot’s tone stung, even though she knew his frustration wasn’t truly aimed at her. She was their navigator, and the responsibility for their lack of heading rested squarely on her shoulders. A part of her wanted to offer an apology, to explain herself, but she hesitated when she met his bloodied, exhausted gaze.

Instead, she turned back to her instruments and began running projections on the system he had chosen at random. It was one of several possibilities she had short-listed during their rushed preparations: a small, poorly documented system on the fringes of Eden’s exploratory reach. Sparse surveys, minimal data, and ultimately deemed unsuitable for colonization.

But all that wasn't what she was looking for in a destination, anyway.

The Metacer had not confined themselves to Eden. They had swept across all of colonized space, moving from world to world with terrifying ease. Any system that Eden’s explorers had catalogued was, by definition, within reach of the hive. Settling anywhere familiar might buy them a few decades, perhaps a generation, but no more. If this ship was to be more than a delayed death sentence, their refuge would have to lie far beyond known space, somewhere cold, distant, and forgotten.

Velia’s comment about the captain being dead felt like another twist in her chest. A part of her had silently believed that the man could have made it onto another escape craft, or that he was stowed away somewhere on the ship, unable to make it to the bridge before their departure. But with the immediate danger behind them, she could look at their situation with a clearer head. Only she and the comms officer remained of the original command crew.

As Velia and John had their exchange, Fihlyn glanced around the bridge. She didn’t know any of her new crewmates beyond the experience of the past few hours. They all looked like they had been through hell. Fihlyn could only imagine what they had endured, while she had remained safe behind consoles and bulkheads. She stole another glance at the pilot’s bloodied uniform.

It must have been awful.

“If you all wish to rest,” Fihlyn said at last, her voice gentle but steady, “I should be able to manage the vessel until we reach the jump point.” She offered a faint smile, an invitation rather than an order. It’s not like they had anything like a chain of command at this point, anyway. “You have done more than enough for one day.”

Paradise Lost

Fihlyn Numosath

Bridge of the ESS 3822-01

---

The bridge of the ESS 3822-01 felt cavernous without the command staff. Consoles that should have been manned by half a dozen officers sat dark, their chairs pushed back in the haste of evacuation. Fihlyn moved among them with brisk precision, but the emptiness made every footfall sound too loud.

Focus, Fihlyn. Do the next step. Then the next.

“Primary systems alignment is progressing,” she murmured. Talking aloud steadied her nerves and kept the silence at bay. “Navigation lattice…” she frowned at the instrument, “you will cooperate now, please.” A gentle tap coaxed the flickering indicator into proper calibration. “Excellent. Thank you.”

A soft chime rose through the stillness. Her link to the orbital station was still active, although the connection seemed to be intermittent. As far as she could tell, there was only a single controller still at their station. “Station control, this is 3822. We are receiving you. Things are still well, yes?”

The reply arrived through a wash of static. The young voice quivered behind a forced smile. “Y-yes, I’m still here. Sorry, the power grid’s fluctuating again. We just lost two more decks. I’m rerouting, but nothing’s staying up for long.”

Fihlyn softened her tone. She felt a pang of empathy for the young man on the other side of the comms. She got the impression that she was one of the only other voices still on the line for him to talk to. “You are doing wonderfully. Let us look together, perhaps I can help. I am sending you my sensor telemetry.”

She brought the ship’s planetary-survey array online. It felt strange to turn it toward an inhabited station, but today nothing resembled normal procedure. The station’s internal layout blossomed across her screen, a lattice of red and amber warnings causing her to wince.

“The reactor on deck seven is over-heating. It may be that the grid cannot handle it with all the damage.” She didn’t want to think about what anyone on that deck might be experiencing. That reactor would probably melt down in the next few hours. Assuming the station itself was still around by then.

“The reactor?” There was a pause. “I - I don’t know anything about that. Lois was in charge of that, but now she’s…” The voice trailed off, but Fihlyn could hear the man’s breathing become quicker and heavier.

She hastily filled the silence, not wanting him to completely succumb to panic. “How about you tell me what you see?”

Hearing her voice seemed to bring the man back to the present. “Right, yeah. I’m seeing an error saying something about the coolant manifolds not responding.”

“Ok, do not worry. I can guide you.” Fihlyn said firmly, trying to keep her tone calm. “You should be able to divert power from some redundant systems to stabilize the grid. Is the station still providing power to my ship? We do not need it, so that could be a good place to start.”

“Trying it.” The tech’s voice wavered. A series of frantic clicks sounded through the channel, along with hurried whispers she could not quite make out.

Fihlyn continued her own work while offering reassurance. She moved from console to console, validating autopilot parameters and thruster alignment. Her hands operated with trained precision, even as she kept half her attention on the trembling voice in her ear.

“You are doing very well,” she said as the reactor temperature began to dip on her scans. “Truly, we are making a good team, yes?”

The tech gave a short, breathless laugh. “Thanks.” There was a nervous pause. “Honestly, I’m not even supposed to be on comms. I just started about a week ago.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then the tech inhaled, steadier than before.

“By the way, my name’s -”

Light bloomed across Fihlyn’s screens before the sentence finished. A brief, violent flare. Her console flooded with shock readings and a harsh burst of static that strangled the comm link. She felt the ship shake beneath her, as her scan reported a series of explosions erupting along one side of the station.

“Station Control, please respond.” Fihlyn leaned forward, adjusting the channel. “Your signal is fading. Answer if you are able.”

No response. Not even background hum. The silence felt absolute.

How close was Station Control to that explosion? If it started on deck three, then…

No. That train of thought wasn’t going to help anyone now.

Red alerts blinked across multiple displays, demanding her attention as she heard the sound of groaning metal reverberate through the hull. The structure of 3822 wouldn’t have been harmed by an explosion like that, which meant that she was hearing the pained echoes of something else. A quick glance at her scans told her all that she needed to know: the station had been crippled. Life support, power, thrusters, they were all shutting down, one by one. The anti-gravity docking clamps that had held the colony ship in place were all failing, gradually putting more and more load onto the physical docking tubes - thin metal cylinders, never designed to hold a ship as massive as 3822 on their own.

Others began to enter the bridge as Fihlyn frantically tried to coordinate the ship’s thrusters and control systems. The kiel priestess from before practically dived through the doors before clambering into one of the cockpit stations.

“Keep that tunnel open until we need to crush a bug with it.”

Fihlyn glanced over towards the woman, nodding firmly as she focused on her task. Having a sister of the faith aboard helped to steel her resolve, but it also threatened to bring some of her feelings of panic to the surface.

The longer she kept the ship in concert with the station, the more time any survivors had to reach safety. But she could only delay the inevitable. At some point, something would nudge either the ship or the station too hard for the thrusters to account for, at which point the docking tubes would be ripped apart. There’d be nothing between anyone unfortunate enough to be inside them, and the cold vacuum.

Another kiel entered not too long after, clearly fatigued and with a shocking amount of ichor staining her uniform. It sounded like the external doors were nearly all sealed, which meant that it wouldn’t be long until they were able to depart from the station. It would be none too soon, as the degrading state of the station made it harder and harder for Fihlyn to hold the colony ship in its position.

A voice crackled over the comms.

"We're hooked. Clear to disembark."

Her fingers hovered for a heartbeat before she confirmed the command, almost allowing herself a quiet sigh of relief. Activating her ship-wide comms, she broadcast a message as she felt the ship start to accelerate beneath her.

“Attention all crew, we are departing from the station.”

Paradise Lost

Fihlyn Numosath

---

There was no better distraction than difficult work. At the console, piecing together how to coax a ship this vast into flight without missing any of the thousand details that could go wrong, Fihlyn could push everything else aside. The end of Eden would wait. For now, she could lose herself in charts, numbers, and routes, where precision left no room for fear.

With John and Velia having left to collect their helmsman’s craft, the bridge had largely fallen quiet as the remaining crew had gone about their roles. It wasn’t like there were many people left for their Comms Officer to communicate with anyway, nor would the helm have been of much use before the engineering team made the ship operational.

Under normal circumstances, a navigator at this stage of the voyage wouldn’t have had much to do either. The colony ship’s course had been mapped well in advance, with hyperspace weather monitored by a lattice of satellites and probes. Normally, the central authority gathered that torrent of data into clean, reliable forecasts. Navigators simply verified what the computers already knew.

But Fihlyn wasn’t so lucky.

With Eden’s government gone, there was no one left to tame the flood of raw telemetry. Some probes had fallen silent. Others still broadcast, but not in any format she could easily parse. Fihlyn was left stitching broken signals into something usable, a process equal parts engineering and patience. It was manageable, but maddeningly slow.

Being so engrossed in her work, it took a moment before Fihlyn registered the beeping coming from the communications station. At first, she was confused why nobody had already answered the call, before realizing that there probably wasn’t anyone else in a good position to do so: none of the others on the bridge had been part of the original crew, after all.

Putting down her stylus, Fihlyn hastily made her way over to the communications station, hoping that the call wasn’t anything too critical or important. Her heart sank as she saw the collection of armed guards in the camera feed, one of them pounding their gauntleted fist on the docking tunnel’s door.

"We've got Station Security at the end of the docking tunnel. They think we're stealing the ship, they may want proof."

Her chest clenched. Maybe if she didn’t answer, they’d move on. Maybe they’d find something else to occupy their suspicion. Or maybe silence would only make things worse.

Fihlyn swallowed, forcing herself to clear her throat. She flicked the microphone on, voice striving for a polite tone that would put any concerns at ease.

“Hello, this is Assistant Navigator Numosath of ESS 3822-01. I can assure you that there has been absolutely no stealing of the ship. There is no need for unnecessary threats of armed violence or aggression, thank you!”

Paradise Lost

Fihlyn Numosath

---

She dreamed of kelp gardens.

Vast strands curling in the current, thick with darting fish and soft-filtered light. Her fingers brushed the fronds as she swam past, chasing the sounds of her sisters laughing just out of view. Then came the hum of engines, low, constant, not quite right for the water. And a sudden tone.

A flat chime, followed by the familiar clipped voice of the station’s automated comms systems.

“Thank you for your patience. Our records indicate that you have been on hold for two hours, forty-three minutes. You are currently in position one thousand, two hundred, and seventy two in the queue. No staff are currently available to answer your call, and we are experiencing technical difficulties in our customer service hotlines. Please continue to hold.”

Fihlyn blinked herself awake, the soft hiss of her hydration suit reminding her where she was. The recycled moisture in her bubble helmet had begun to fog at the edges, and her stomach growled. She rubbed at her side absently, glancing at the small wall screen in the station berth. Still no updates. No orders. No pingbacks from the command crew.

And no word from Eden.

The hold music hadn’t played in hours. Maybe the line had dropped. Maybe no one was left to answer it. That silence sat heavier than she liked to admit, hanging over the eerily empty bridge. She had hoped that someone might have arrived while she slept. A commanding officer, a pilot, even a comms tech. But no. Just rows of dormant stations.

For a long moment, Fihlyn sat there, arms crossed loosely as the silence pressed in. The smart thing would be to stay: wait for official orders, for confirmation that it was safe, for someone in charge to finally make contact. But how long had she been waiting already? The bridge was still empty. The crew was still missing. The planet still silent. If no one else was coming, then she couldn’t afford to just sit idly by.

A knot formed low in her stomach. What if the station wasn’t safe? What if she left, and the ship launched without her? Or worse, what if it didn’t launch at all? What if everyone just kept waiting, and waiting, and waiting until it was too late.

After a moment, Fihlyn forced herself to her feet. Her hydration suit hissed gently with each movement, the sealed environment humid against her skin. She passed the sealed crew quarters, the darkened mess. No signs of life. No orders. No footprints left behind.

Whatever had been meant to happen here, hadn’t.

She didn’t know if that made her late, or early.

---

The docking umbilical shutters closed behind her with a metallic thud. The station’s interior felt tense, as if everyone was standing on the edge of a knife. It also felt…warm. Even through her protective suit, Fihlyn felt discomfort at the blast of hot air. She frowned, not the first time glad that her hydration suit was able to keep the worst of the outside environment at bay.

Fihlyn made her way through dim hallways, dodging supply drones and clusters of displaced passengers. Here and there, people spoke in low voices. A few glanced at her hydration suit with the usual mix of curiosity and unease, but none stopped her. Fihlyn felt the knot in her stomach tighten as she saw the ragged collection of survivors. How was it that the colony ship was sitting there, empty? They had a chance to help these people, but instead time was being allowed to waste away.

She asked about command. About coordination. Evacuation.

The answers were vague, conflicting, or absent. Some hadn’t heard anything. Some were sure someone else was handling it. One technician shrugged and told her people had started gathering at the bar.

The bar.

It was the best lead she had to go on.

---

The Drink was well-lit with its neon sign, and it seemed to have become a refuge for those seeking respite from the unfurling apocalypse outside. As Fihlyn stepped inside, her hydration helmet caught the light oddly, a shimmer playing over her scaled skin. Her stomach growled as she picked up on the smell of food from the kitchen, and her eyes rested for a moment on some of the liquor sitting behind the bar. Now wasn’t the time, not when there was a chance that they’d have to leave at a moment’s notice.

As she glanced around, Fihlyn’s eyes lit up as she recognized one of the Edenites sitting by the bar. The dark-haired dhasath had been listed as one of the bridge crew - one of the faces that Fihlyn had taken the time to memorize before being properly introduced. She’d found the Edenites usually appreciated the effort, especially when it came to figuring out the pronunciation of their names.

Walking over to Velia, Fihlyn’s excited smile was easily seen through her helmet.

“You are Communications Officer Velia, yes?” The Quessir’s voice sounded relieved, even as it was transmitted through her suit’s speakers. “It is a pleasure to meet you! I am Assistant Pilot Fihlyn. Flynn, if that’s easier.”

Fihlyn’s suit had been adorned with a patch from the CSF, with the colony ship’s number readily identifying her as part of the crew. It registered that the other woman wasn't wearing her uniform, but Fihlyn brushed her confusion aside. She looked around at the other figures that were standing and sitting around the officer. Her friends, perhaps? Other members of the crew, if she was lucky.

“I have been trying to contact the station for instructions, but I have not heard back. You are an officer of the ship, yes? Does this mean that you can give commands? We have space for more people, we should be trying to help those that we can.”

Fihlyn’s stomach growled again, louder this time. She glanced down at the CSF card sitting in front of Velia.

“Although, perhaps there is still time for a snack?”

Paradise Lost

Fihlyn

Character Description

Name: Fihlyn “Flynn” Numosath
Species: Aquarian (Quessir)
Sex: F
Age: 29
Role/Job: Assistant Pilot
Appearance: Like most Quessir, Fihlyn has smooth-scaled, iridescent skin that shifts hue in the light—her own tending toward shades of blue and violet. Her fingers and toes are long and webbed, and her eyes, wide and dark, are adapted for low-light vision. Outside of water, she wears a compact hydration suit that leaves her humanoid form visible, but maintains a delicate sheen of moisture over her skin. The suit includes a clear bubble helmet that maintains a humid microclimate around her head, at least allowing for her expressions to be seen.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:
Piloting and Navigation - Fihlyn is the first Quessir certified for deep-space piloting. While she excelled at theory, her access to practical training was limited - most systems were never designed with her physiology in mind. Her current assistant role aboard the ESS 3822-01 is the closest she’s come to operating a true starship, a position earned only after tireless lobbying from her family.
Swimming - While Fihlyn isn’t considered exceptionally skillful among her kind, the Quessir are naturally gifted swimmers and divers. Her biology allows her to breathe oxygenated water, and to dive tens of meters without much effort.
Low-light vision - The Quessir evolved to live in the shallows of their watery planet, where the sunlight can be significantly diminished. As a result, they adapted to see better in dim lighting, although bright lights can lead to disorientation and discomfort. Their vision is not quite as well-suited for the night as the Kiellar’s, since the Quessir can also rely on their other senses while in the water.

Weaknesses:
Dehydration - Like all of her kind, Fihlyn cannot survive out of the water for extended periods without technological assistance. While a Quessir can go for days on dry land in the damp and humid regions of their homeworld, this isn’t the case in environments built for the species of Eden. Particularly dry and hot landscapes, like deserts, can be a swift death sentence.
Outsider - Fihlyn is a fish-out-of-water, both literally and figuratively. Among Edenites, she is treated as a curiosity at best and an inconvenience at worst. Her hydration suit marks her as different; every hiss of its compressor, every awkward button-press with webbed fingers, reminds her that this world wasn’t built for her. She tries to hide how exhausting it is to always smile through dismissive stares.
Fragile- Compared to the Edenite species, Quessir have a fragile physiology. Their bones tend to be more delicate, although their warriors are capable of building significant muscle through training. It goes without saying that Fihlyn is not one of these warriors.

Background:

Backstory:
When Fihlyn was a girl, she would gaze up at the night sky from the surface and imagine herself swimming among the stars.

Born into a prominent mercantile family, Fihlyn had more contact with the offworld Edenites than most of her kind. The Quessir were still adapting to life in a broader interstellar community, even a century after first contact. But Fihlyn never knew a world without aliens. Her father’s trade expeditions often brought her close to the dry-land colonies, where strange creatures walked and spoke in clipped, foreign syllables. She was fascinated. While most Quessir remained beneath the waves, content in their cities of coral and glass, Fihlyn wanted to understand the ones who came from above.

Despite decades of predominantly peaceful trade and communication, contact between the Quessir and the Edenite colonies was still limited. The dry-lands that the Edenites preferred to settle were of little interest to the Quessir, and the aliens themselves needed bulky equipment to visit the locals’ undersea cities. But Fihlyn’s father was a vocal proponent of increased cooperation, and he saw relaxing the restrictions on trade in technology as a way to accelerate his world’s industrialization. Fihlyn inherited her insatiable wanderlust from him, alongside a stubborn work ethic. Without any translator nanites, she forced herself to learn enough of the Edenite’s language for basic communication. The effort earned her praise from her father’s prominent contacts, who took to Edenyzing her name to “Flynn”.

Eventually, Fihlyn came of age and had to decide upon the course of her life. For a woman of her standing, a strategic marriage was the traditional path. But Quessir society was changing as it industrialized, and there were other ways in which Fihlyn could fulfill her duty to her people. She’d always been smart, and had consistently performed well in her studies - she wasn’t quite ready to put a stop to her education when there was still so much more to learn.

With her parents’ support, Fihlyn enrolled in university to pursue her studies further. She had her eyes set on a particular prize, though: a new program that allowed a limited number of Quessir to cross-enroll in an Edenite college. As part of her acceptance, Fihlyn would finally be provided with translator nanites of her own - albeit with their efficacy dulled after being injected into an older host. She made no secret of her intention to go on to fulfill all of the requirements needed to fly and navigate a starship. It was a qualification that no other Quessir had obtained before, and she was determined to be the first.

While Fihlyn hadn’t expected the program to be easy, she wasn’t prepared for the isolation. Although she made friends among the other Quessir students, she was the only one of her species pursuing her particular program and it took time for her to make friends among the Edenites. Worse, while Fihlyn could pour herself into learning theory, she found that she struggled to gain any practical experience. Nothing had been designed with a Quessir’s biology in mind - none of the training simulators, nor any of the craft that they were being taught to pilot. She wore a hydration suit that clung uncomfortably to her skin, always too hot or too cold. Her webbed fingers slipped on touchscreens never meant for her. Her instructors barely concealed their reluctance to accommodate her needs, and while some students were curious, many kept their distance.

There were days when Flynn considered quitting. But she kept showing up—early, soaked, tired, alone. She learned to observe more closely when she couldn’t participate. She shadowed her classmates. She filed appeals. And she found an unlikely ally: a human lecturer with ties to her father’s trading network. The woman became a mentor, quietly bending rules to let Flynn into restricted sessions, advocating for her when others wouldn’t.

In the end, Fihlyn’s experiences didn’t deter her. She learned how to stand up for herself among the Edenites, and how to treat things with an optimistic attitude. She graduated close to the top of her class, much to the surprise of those peers who had all but dismissed her. The achievement gave her a small dose of celebrity among her people, and she even received a congratulatory letter from the Emperor himself. Fihlyn would find opportunities to speak to younger Quessians - with some going on to follow in her footsteps - while promoting a keener interest in space travel among her kind’s leaders.

But the reality wasn’t quite as grand as Fihlyn had hoped.

Though certified, Flynn had no true flight hours. Her physiology remained an obstacle. Interfaces, seat designs, safety protocols, all calibrated for dry-land species. Even the most forward-thinking Edenites hesitated to hire her. Why reconfigure a cockpit for one Quessir, when dozens of qualified Edenites stood ready?

She spent years grounded, working odd positions on short-range craft, watching the stars from orbit but never reaching them. Her role as an assistant on a low-orbit tug was technically historic, but to her, it felt hollow.

Then, at last, the tides turned.

The Edenite colonies on her world had expanded, pushing toward the sea. Tensions flared over access to deep-sea resources, and negotiations followed. As part of the resolution, the Emperor offered a gesture of unity: a new colonial expedition, with Quessir among the settlers, and one Quessir on the crew. Flynn’s father had a hand in brokering the deal. He made sure his daughter’s name was at the top of the list.

And so, Fihlyn would finally get her chance to travel among the stars. Her first destination: a shipyard in orbit of Eden itself, where a colony ship was waiting for her to join its crew as an assistant pilot.

Paradise Lost

Pretty much good-to-go, although to be honest the backstory felt like it got a bit too ramble-y for my liking!

Fihlyn

Character Description

Name: Fihlyn “Flynn” Numosath
Species: Aquarian (Quessir)
Sex: F
Age: 29
Role/Job: Assistant Pilot
Appearance: Like most Quessir, Fihlyn has smooth-scaled, iridescent skin that shifts hue in the light—her own tending toward shades of blue and violet. Her fingers and toes are long and webbed, and her eyes, wide and dark, are adapted for low-light vision. Outside of water, she wears a compact hydration suit that leaves her humanoid form visible, but maintains a delicate sheen of moisture over her skin. The suit includes a clear bubble helmet that maintains a humid microclimate around her head, at least allowing for her expressions to be seen.

Strengths and Weaknesses

Skills:
Piloting and Navigation - Fihlyn is the first Quessir certified for deep-space piloting. While she excelled at theory, her access to practical training was limited - most systems were never designed with her physiology in mind. Her current assistant role aboard the ESS 3822-01 is the closest she’s come to operating a true starship, a position earned only after tireless lobbying from her family.
Swimming - While Fihlyn isn’t considered exceptionally skillful among her kind, the Quessir are naturally gifted swimmers and divers. Her biology allows her to breathe oxygenated water, and to dive tens of meters without much effort.
Low-light vision - The Quessir evolved to live in the shallows of their watery planet, where the sunlight can be significantly diminished. As a result, they adapted to see better in dim lighting, although bright lights can lead to disorientation and discomfort. Their vision is not quite as well-suited for the night as the Kiellar’s, since the Quessir can also rely on their other senses while in the water.

Weaknesses:
Dehydration - Like all of her kind, Fihlyn cannot survive out of the water for extended periods without technological assistance. While a Quessir can go for days on dry land in the damp and humid regions of their homeworld, this isn’t the case in environments built for the species of Eden. Particularly dry and hot landscapes, like deserts, can be a swift death sentence.
Outsider - Fihlyn is a fish-out-of-water, both literally and figuratively. Among Edenites, she is treated as a curiosity at best and an inconvenience at worst. Her hydration suit marks her as different; every hiss of its compressor, every awkward button-press with webbed fingers, reminds her that this world wasn’t built for her. She tries to hide how exhausting it is to always smile through dismissive stares.
Fragile- Compared to the Edenite species, Quessir have a fragile physiology. Their bones tend to be more delicate, although their warriors are capable of building significant muscle through training. It goes without saying that Fihlyn is not one of these warriors.

Background:

Backstory:
When Fihlyn was a girl, she would gaze up at the night sky from the surface and imagine herself swimming among the stars.

Born into a prominent mercantile family, Fihlyn had more contact with the offworld Edenites than most of her kind. The Quessir were still adapting to life in a broader interstellar community, even a century after first contact. But Fihlyn never knew a world without aliens. Her father’s trade expeditions often brought her close to the dry-land colonies, where strange creatures walked and spoke in clipped, foreign syllables. She was fascinated. While most Quessir remained beneath the waves, content in their cities of coral and glass, Fihlyn wanted to understand the ones who came from above.

Despite decades of predominantly peaceful trade and communication, contact between the Quessir and the Edenite colonies was still limited. The dry-lands that the Edenites preferred to settle were of little interest to the Quessir, and the aliens themselves needed bulky equipment to visit the locals’ undersea cities. But Fihlyn’s father was a vocal proponent of increased cooperation, and he saw relaxing the restrictions on trade in technology as a way to accelerate his world’s industrialization. Fihlyn inherited her insatiable wanderlust from him, alongside a stubborn work ethic. Without any translator nanites, she forced herself to learn enough of the Edenite’s language for basic communication. The effort earned her praise from her father’s prominent contacts, who took to Edenyzing her name to “Flynn”.

Eventually, Fihlyn came of age and had to decide upon the course of her life. For a woman of her standing, a strategic marriage was the traditional path. But Quessir society was changing as it industrialized, and there were other ways in which Fihlyn could fulfill her duty to her people. She’d always been smart, and had consistently performed well in her studies - she wasn’t quite ready to put a stop to her education when there was still so much more to learn.

With her parents’ support, Fihlyn enrolled in university to pursue her studies further. She had her eyes set on a particular prize, though: a new program that allowed a limited number of Quessir to cross-enroll in an Edenite college. As part of her acceptance, Fihlyn would finally be provided with translator nanites of her own - albeit with their efficacy dulled after being injected into an older host. She made no secret of her intention to go on to fulfill all of the requirements needed to fly and navigate a starship. It was a qualification that no other Quessir had obtained before, and she was determined to be the first.

While Fihlyn hadn’t expected the program to be easy, she wasn’t prepared for the isolation. Although she made friends among the other Quessir students, she was the only one of her species pursuing her particular program and it took time for her to make friends among the Edenites. Worse, while Fihlyn could pour herself into learning theory, she found that she struggled to gain any practical experience. Nothing had been designed with a Quessir’s biology in mind - none of the training simulators, nor any of the craft that they were being taught to pilot. She wore a hydration suit that clung uncomfortably to her skin, always too hot or too cold. Her webbed fingers slipped on touchscreens never meant for her. Her instructors barely concealed their reluctance to accommodate her needs, and while some students were curious, many kept their distance.

There were days when Flynn considered quitting. But she kept showing up—early, soaked, tired, alone. She learned to observe more closely when she couldn’t participate. She shadowed her classmates. She filed appeals. And she found an unlikely ally: a human lecturer with ties to her father’s trading network. The woman became a mentor, quietly bending rules to let Flynn into restricted sessions, advocating for her when others wouldn’t.

In the end, Fihlyn’s experiences didn’t deter her. She learned how to stand up for herself among the Edenites, and how to treat things with an optimistic attitude. She graduated close to the top of her class, much to the surprise of those peers who had all but dismissed her. The achievement gave her a small dose of celebrity among her people, and she even received a congratulatory letter from the Emperor himself. Fihlyn would find opportunities to speak to younger Quessians - with some going on to follow in her footsteps - while promoting a keener interest in space travel among her kind’s leaders.

But the reality wasn’t quite as grand as Fihlyn had hoped.

Though certified, Flynn had no true flight hours. Her physiology remained an obstacle. Interfaces, seat designs, safety protocols, all calibrated for dry-land species. Even the most forward-thinking Edenites hesitated to hire her. Why reconfigure a cockpit for one Quessir, when dozens of qualified Edenites stood ready?

She spent years grounded, working odd positions on short-range craft, watching the stars from orbit but never reaching them. Her role as an assistant on a low-orbit tug was technically historic, but to her, it felt hollow.

Then, at last, the tides turned.

The Edenite colonies on her world had expanded, pushing toward the sea. Tensions flared over access to deep-sea resources, and negotiations followed. As part of the resolution, the Emperor offered a gesture of unity: a new colonial expedition, with Quessir among the settlers, and one Quessir on the crew. Flynn’s father had a hand in brokering the deal. He made sure his daughter’s name was at the top of the list.

And so, Fihlyn would finally get her chance to travel among the stars. Her first destination: a shipyard in orbit of Eden itself, where a colony ship was waiting for her to join its crew as an assistant pilot.