Bounce

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

I like the YV-666, but for the sake of tossing options out there there's also the Ghtroc 720 light freighter, which apparently has bunking for 15 (but they're stacked 5 to a room, 3 rooms, and one shared refresher). So much for privacy.

Vampyre Plus [Undead Casual/Advanced RP]

Sounds wonderfully freeform. :)

Hopefully some more people express interest.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

Apologies for the double post, but I was looking at Caboose's last post again and it occurred to me... what knights are Krayton referring to?

Gat dropped out. Heat hasn't posted in 2 months. So if we assume Kalmi and Rego aren't with them, then our only knights are Kraytan and Vor'loch (who has a PC padawan already). Plus our jimmy knight, Deja. We have Master Sorni and then everyone else is writing a padawan (Erin, Kolinn, Alaric, Jerek, and Keilara... if Jaeda is still with us, she hasn't posted in a bit either).

So we have 4 padawans, 3 knights, and 1 master. That breaks even, if we include Caboose's NPC knight Deja. But that's not counting the PC youngling. If we toss in Zak, then the numbers no longer work, whether we count the jimmys or not. So, the only way the concept of pairing up works is:

Option 1: A knight/master is allowed to have more than one apprentice.

Option 2: A padawan advances and takes an apprentice for themselves.

Option 3: We move to a three-tiered apprenticeship in which an apprenticed padawan is allowed to take a youngling as his/her student-to-be.

Option 4: We unleash Spaceballs 3: Attack of the Jimmys and create NPC knights for our student characters.

Am I looking at this right or have I missed something?

Vampyre Plus [Undead Casual/Advanced RP]

Interested, but there's so much different vampire lore that I'm curious what you're basing your concept of the vampire upon. That is, the works of Anne Rice or Stephanie Meyer? Tomas Alfredson? DnD or White Wolf? Historical Vlad Tepes or Nosferatu urban myth? Or even your own conceptual design.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

In we're including the younglings in the "adopt a student pool" here's some additional info on them in case that's helpful to anyone.

Zak Dymo is a tactile learner. He experiences the Force through action rather than reflection, primarily during lightsaber practice. In my first post, he's the student who is fluidly using Soresu to hold off three training droids while Sor-Jan is having difficulty with proper form and technique. I had in mind when I created him that he'd grow up to be a Jedi Guardian, but he's the outdoors-y type of kid who'd rather be camping so he'd make an equally good Sentinel in my mind. He kind of looks down on Consular Jedi, because he regards them as people who read too much. Zak learns more by experiencing something than he does by reading out it. He's basically the stereotypical "jock" of the school-based plot setting.

And if anyone wants to "adopt a Jimmy" (or maybe have our NPC Deja pick up an NPC student), Sor-Jan is the opposite of Zak. If there's a chess team at the Jedi Academy, Sor-Jan's probably on it. He loves to read and experiences the Force through meditation, so he's better at cognitive Force powers than Zak is. He's the dean's list student who is also on the science club, debate team, etc, etc. In other words, he's the poster child of the Consular Jedi.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

The head tendrils of the young Nautolan drifted from side to side as the greenish-gray boy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as he rested his chin on the uppermost box and continued to watch the Jedi and Jacen debate taking place on the floor of the cargo bay. The two younglings had an excellent vantage point, but there was just one problem.

"Can you hear what they're sayin'?" Zak inquired, glancing over at the black haired Anzat beside him.

"Kinda," Sor-Jan answered, giving the Nautolan an odd look. "Can't you?"

"I don't have ears like you do," Zak complained sourly, which was the first time that Sor-Jan realized he was right -- the Nautolan didn't have ears, just the head tresses, several of which had a series of gill-like slits near where they joined his head. The lesson on Nautolan anatomy was diverted, however, as both boys caught a glimpse of someone new walking into the cargo bay and turned their attention to this interloper. "Hey, Master Sorni's up," Zak noted brightly. He wasn't certain of why, but seeing another Jedi walk into the cargo bay was immediately reassuring to him.

But, while the Nautolan had excellent vision, he still couldn't hear for crap in the acoustics of the cargo bay. Vibration in a gaseous atmosphere just didn't resonate the same way it did in the youngling's aquatic home environment. "What are they sayin' now?" the youngling asked.

"Master Sorni's talkin' somethin' 'bout Nar Shadda," Sor-Jan answered.

"What's a nar sharda?" the Nautolan youth inquired, as the answer to his question only bred more questions.

The Anzati youngling turned and gave his frenemy a sour look. "It's not a what, it's a where, droyk!" Sor-Jan declared haughtily, the Corellian insult tacked on at the end immediately prompted the Nautolan to whip his head around to return the nasty look. "We learned this is seventh year cartography. It's a moon in the Y'Toub System," the Anzat stated flatly, smirking with obvious pride for demonstrating his superior knowledge.

Swinging his hip to the left, the Nautolan youngling took a side-step to the right as he swung his weight around to slam into the side of the Anzati boy, knocking the black-haired youth from off their shared perch. "Droid brain," Zak uttered, adding insult to injury as SJ tumbled onto the floor. Lifting himself up onto his toes, the Nautolan resumed watched the padawans, knights, and Master Sorni -- except now he was doing so to make sure they hadn't seen that.

A sudden sensation, like an electric pulse chasing up his spine, gave warning as the Nautolan's preternatural sense through the Force provided a millisecond of forewarning of what was coming. In that fraction of time, Zak turned and countered Sor-Jan's attempt to use the telekinetic technique known as the feather push against him with one of his own. The Nautolan's Force push pressed against the Anzati's and, for a moment, it seemed as though both younglings had managed a concrete and stable effort at manifesting the Force.

This promptly blew up in both of their faces, as Zak and Sor-Jan each went flying backwards in opposite directions, smashing into the sides of their box-and-crate fort as a sound like thunder echoed loudly through the cargo bay while the children's fort collapsed in on itself in a rain of containers. And, there, standing in the middle of the commotion and rubble, were two younglings. Each of which managed to look more guilty than the other as the two boys looked over and realized that several of the Jedi were now looking at them. Sor-Jan pointed at Zak, Zak pointed at SJ, and both clearly indicated the classic non-verbal expression of youth that said: He did it.

And then the Sector Ranger named Jacen waved at the two boys.

Wait, so they weren't in trouble?

The two boys looked at each other, then at the collective group across from them, then at each other again. Zak gave a slight shrug and the two younglings both waved back at the Sector Ranger-hero-dude. Then they went to the task of surveying the array of containers around them, as though divided between asking themselves how they were going to clean up the mess or contemplating how they would re-design their imaginary fortification. While Zak took the practical approach of using his own physical strength to lift and move the boxes, Sor-Jan adopted the imminently more Jedi-lazy approach of using the Force to lift and move the clutter around. Lifting a box and setting it aside and atop another, the Nautolan reached down and picked up a training lightsaber, holding it in his hands as he tried to tell by looking at it whether it was his or SJ's.

Neither of them really had a lightsaber though. Just training lightsabers, which were all constructed the same. Finally, Zak depressed the activation switch in the side of the handle, revealing the bright green blade that was most closely associated with the Consular branch of Jedi Knights. Making a face, as though disgusted by the revelation, the Nautolan promptly shut the training shoto back down and handed it over to the Anzati.

It wasn't that Zak had anything against green. Far from it as a matter of fact, not to mention a matter of skin tone. But his favortist color was blue. Not bright blue. Not azure blue. But Jedi Guardian Blue, because the most awesome-ist Jedi duelists were Jedi Guardians. Those were the real guardians of peace in the Republic. So Zak always picked a blue training shoto for himself when he went to saber practice. And then, one day, when he was bigger and got to build his own lightsaber, he was going to make a purple one -- like Master Windu. And he'd become a Vaapad master, like Master Windu.

And then no clone army would ever hurt anyone again.

As the Nautolan shuffled through the ruins of Kilo Base in search of his training shoto, the young Anzat perked his head up and looked over at the adults for a moment. "They say we get our own room to share," SJ remarked, taking a break from the salvage efforts.

"Astral!" Zak cheered brightly.

"And then somethin' 'bout us being the future of the Jedi."

The Nautolan's nose wrinkled slightly as a look of confusion became visibly apparent. "What does that mean?"

"I dunno. Adults always say that stuff," SJ provided with a shrug, resuming the salvage efforts for their stuff among the rubble. "It usually means we have to clear our room or somethin'" the Anzat added.

"Clean our room," Zak whined plaintively, adopting a pained expression. "Don't we have droids for that?"

Ultimate Comics: DC - Shadows Among Us

| P L A N E T • G R A X O S • I V |

The two Lanterns stood within the Guardian ship Sentinel, standing on opposite sides of the central, round work table over which a holographic detailing of the crime scene was depicted in horrifying detail. The young monk was still visibly unsettled by the experience of having witnessed such a travesty, while the grizzled H'lven merely chewed on one of his odorous cigars in apathetic disregard for the emotional fetters which lay like landmines before them on their mission. Inbetween the youthful inexperience and the jaded outlook of the veteran, the ship's artificial intelligence processed the raw data from Ch'p's ring with perfect, stoic detachment. Aya had no feelings on the matter, either for or against. Information was merely a collection of numbers, calculations, statistical probabilities, and logical hypothesis.

"There were three Bolovaxians," the computer's detached voice supplied, as three indistinct shapes appeared in the holographic recreation, drawing Kai-ro's attention for the familiarity of the form.

"Bolovaxians?" the Chinese monk echoed, obviously not wanting to believe his ears. "But... they don't leave their homeworld," the boy stated, somewhat haltingly for the implication that left regarding the one Bolovaxian which both of them knew. And knew well.

Kilowog lived in exile for the honor of having been chosen by the same ring which had chosen them.

"Not if they're known criminals," Ch'p noted dryly, barely sparing his trainee a glance as he spoke. "Bolovaxians like to take a shit in the galactic backyard. Repeat offender? Just toss him off-world. Let the fracking universe deal with the problem."

"Blue Lantern's assessment of the Bolovaxian criminal justice system is crude, but correct," Aya noted, the synthetic, disembodied voice echoing around the interior of the ship. "Homeless, unaware of the galaxy at large, and seeking means by which to satisfy the basic needs of organic lifeforms, exiled Bolovaxians become easy targets for Consortium recruiters who desire them for their imposing physical characteristics."

"What about the Tamaranean?" Ch'p inquired sharply, staring hard down into the holographic image.

"It is feasible that the hair could have come from a legitimate visitor to the home, and may not be connected to the crime."

"We're a long way from Tamaran," the H'lven retorted with a snort. "Inquire with the dock masters. Ask whether any ships passing through have carried three Bolovaxians and a Tamaranean."

"Processing," the computer responded obediently.

"What's a Tamaranean?" the young monk inquired finally, looking over the crime scene projection at the floating rodent. "I've never heard of that world."

"Trouble," Ch'p supplied in answer, the cryptic response eliciting a non-verbal expression on the human's face which clearly illustrated he had expected something more. "Warrior society fueled on emotion. They get stronger the more pissed off they become."

"Blue Lantern, a vessel arrived two days ago from the Antedaen System. Passenger manifest included three Bolovaxians and a Tamaraen."

"Where's that ship now?" the H'lven demanded.

"The ship no longer appears on any manifests; however, it's departure was not logged by any star port authority."

The chipmunk-like Blue Lantern swore under his breath. "Aya, where was the ship last recorded?" Kai-ro asked.

"The ship landed at docking port ninety-four."

"Please send planetary coordinates to my ring for docking port ninety-four," the young monk requested.

"Someone could just have deleted the departure data from the records," Ch'p commented dryly.

"Correct, in which case the local star port may still have physical copies of records," the young monk countered politely. "Even if not, someone may recall witnessing the ship depart. In either case, a likely avenue for investigation."

The H'lven snorted, spitting tobacco into a trash receptacle. "Frackin'-A. You're starting to sound like a frellin' cop." Dropping what remained of his gnawed cigar into the bin, the Blue Lantern gestured for his Green trainee to move out. "Aya, see if you can do a trace-back on the records. See if anything was deleted or modified."

"Acknowledged. Good luck, Lanterns."

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

What what what? More youngling randomness you say?

I hear. And I obey.

:)

Star Wars - Jedi Exile.

Removed from out of the highly structured and sheltered environment in which the two youngling boys had lived their whole lives as either remembered them, and struggling with feelings of guilt, grief, and loss that adults would have difficulty coping with, the children had gone from friends to fighting in less than twenty-four hours. For what reason? Neither boy could have said. Simply, at some point, Zak had either declared Sor-Jan to be a butthole, or perhaps it had been SJ who had first called the Nautolan Squidboy, or perhaps the name-calling had started later and something else entirely had started the fight.

Whatever the case may have been, in the somewhat bi-polar nature of younglings, the fighting had been brief and the two were again friends as suddenly as they had stopped being so. Albeit, the black-haired Anzati now sported a black eye and the moss green Nautolan had a split lip whose red scar stood out against the gray-green flesh.

To be sure, both boys were thoroughly confused. Without a night or a day, neither youngling had any notion of time. Without their clan master, neither knew to whom they were beholden. Were they supposed to meditate? Were they supposed to study? Was there going to be a test later?

And so the two younglings did largely as they pleased. They went to sleep when they were tired, they ate when they were hungry, and they played as they saw fit. The pair always kept somewhat near where the knights and padawans were meditating or talking, just in case one of them had something for the boys to do, but it seemed that they were passing their time on the journey between themselves.

For their first task, which had been the one they’d been undertaking when their friendship had abruptly soured, the boys had constructed a fortification by using the Force to manipulate and move a series of crates and boxes from around the lower hold of the ship. This structure was known as Kilo Base and it was surrounded by an imaginary moat of lava. One had to know the right deckplates to step on and the proper order for stepping on them in order not to get burned by the lava. From out of their self-made sanctuary of Kilo Base, the two younglings played at being Sector Rangers – a game which seemed to involve harassing padawans (space pirates) and zipping around knights (asteroid fields) while making starfighter noises. Whatever those were.

One of the real Sector Rangers had provided the younglings with a sleeping bag, which was large enough for the both of them, and old shirts, which fit the boys like a tent, so that their Jedi clothing could be patched and refreshed. On at least one occasion, someone had even managed to get the boys themselves into the fresher.

“Beskad Maximus?”

Large, dark, opaque eyes blinked open. Dark gray swirls moving like storm clouds in the black orbs of the Nautolan’s eyes as the youngling woke from out of a nap that he didn’t recall lying down for. Zak and SJ had returned to Kilo Base to review top secret plans detailing a space pirate invasion – which also happened to be a holocomic saved on SJ’s datapad. Zak could remember everything up to about page twelve, at which point he must have dozed off.

True to form, as the young Nautolan pushed himself up off the deck with his arms, he felt a dead weight shift against his side and realized that Sor-Jan had dozed off as well. The datapad slipped from out of the sleeping Anzati’s fingers, clattering to the floor with a sound that made the near-human Anzat jump awake, the sight of which immediately sent Zak into a fit of giggles. And the sight of the Nautolan laughing at him sent the embarrassed Anzati pouncing on top of the other youngling as the pair descended into play-wrestling.

“He is a potential ally Kraytan.”

The two younglings stopped their play at the sound, or rather the tone, of the voices echoing over to their crate-and-box fort. Were the adults arguing?

Disentangling themselves from one another, the two boys pulled themselves up on crates that they had stacked inside of the walls of the fort, allowing each to stand on a box and so peer over the sides of the fortification’s wall. The moss green head of the Nautolan appeared first, followed shortly after by SJ’s piercing blue eyes, as the two boys peered from over the walls of their imagination castle and watched the discussion taking place among the knights.

Ultimate One Universe: Marvel/DC RPG

“The king is dead. Long live the king.”

The boat moved through the mists, a tidal chop lifting and dipping the bow of the Nordic dingy as it moved over dark waters and stranger tides. The youth wasn’t certain of at what point he had become consciously aware of his existence on that boat, for time was a concept which now seemed to elude him. What was moments ago seemed no different than what was happening now. Or perhaps what was – what had been – was all that was important in this place.

He was.

He had been.

And now? He wasn’t even certain that there was a now, let alone whether or not this was now. This did not even seem to be a moment, but perhaps, instead, he was in the moments between moments.

And so, for how long he had drifted, he knew not. There was a light upon the horizon, a light like that of a fisherman’s village upon the shore, and so he journeyed toward it. A journey of seconds, a journey of a thousand lifetimes, a journey in which the journey was meaningless. It was all the same.

The bottom hull ground into sand, the boat beaching itself in a shoreline which dipped into the dark waters and gave rise to an ancient village with spear towers and palisades, dirt streets on which Aesir, frost giants, elves, and dwarves mingled and mulled. It was a place quite unlike any he had seen in life.

“You, there, boy!”



The child looked up from the bow of the ship, as gray ash from the fires burning in the village began to snow down around him. Red eyes peered outward from out of a face that was a midnight blue, the color of his skin having been a fixation. Because he realized, this was his flesh. This was his true color. And he had never seen it before.

A dwarf, the owner of the voice that had called out to him, appeared from out of the mists and smoke on the shore, wading through ankle-deep water as the bearded warrior took hold of front of the boat and got a better glimpse at its sole passenger. “You’re a wee one for a frost giant,” the dwarf offered by way of greeting, a meaty arm stuck out to help the youth ashore. “Welcome to Hel.”

As the boy’s bare feet sank into the wet sand the sensation of the coarse silt crunching between his toes made an immediate impression as to how very real this was. And, yet, none of it seemed real. Not his blue flesh. Not spontaneously waking in a boat somewhere on a dark ocean. Not landing here in the spectre of so many yesterdays. He felt empty, as though there was a void somewhere in his very being – his very blood – and he knew it to be the absence of magic.

He had no power here.

“Startling, eh?” the dwarf rumbled, clapping the youth on the shoulder. “Aye. Aye, it is,” the bearded creature offered simply. “But, let’s get you with the maester. You don’t want to put off the scales of fate.”

The maester was an actuary of souls, a man who looked as though he might have been the personification of time itself, a withered body of an elder man whose pock-marked skin was stretched taunt across a hunchbacked frame of brittle bone. His beard trailed the ground as he hobbled between book shelves teeming with tomes and scrolls; the accounts of the living, the deeds of the dead, the sins of the damned, and the libram of heroes.

In was in a round, animal skin hut that he was to meet judgment. The judgment of his fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers. It was daunting to try and fathom how many had gone before this man. Had Loki done so before? Another chapter in life, another story...

”Your name,” the maester demanded simply, holding a quill pen and looking down at the youth as he prepared to make another entry in the voluminous scroll whose parchment overflowed the simple wooden bench on which he labored at his scribe.

Holding himself proudly, proud like he hoped Thor might be of him, the boy held his head high and answered, “I am Loki, son of Odin.”

Laughter.

It crept through the walls, through the shelves, through the books. An eerie, otherworldly sound, as though souls of a thousand reckonings were looking down now upon him. And the maester? The man set his quill aside and folded his spindly arms down on the table. “We have no sons of Odin here, little man,” the actuary stated, in a very matter-of-fact tone. Looking the child up and down, the man stood on trembling legs and made his way to a shelf, from which he procured a large, leather and iron-bound tome, the cover of which was marked by the symbol for Jotunheim. Dust flew from out between the pages of the book as he spread it open on the table and looked back at the youth. “And Odin has no son named Loki,” the man stated in the same observational commentary, as a witch’s finger trailed down a list of names. “But, let’s see if you’re here...”

In some ways, the boy found himself terrified of what might be written there. He was Loki Odinson. He had been Loki Odinson from the time he could first walk. It was Odin who taught him to lace his own tunic, to string his own bow, to hold his own in the hunt. It was Odin who had calmed a child’s nightmares, soothed a child’s fever, and encouraged him to not back down from his own fights.

But Loki was a frost giant. And so it was true. Odin could not be his father.

“Ah, yes, I see. You are Loki, son of Laufey,” the actuary announced, looking up from his book as the boy blanched slightly.

Laufey. Odin’s enemy. The barbarian king of the frost giants. And he was Loki’s true father?

The actuary had blanched somewhat as well. “You are the Odin ward. The frost giant who became king of Asgard,” the man stated, as the laughter suddenly hushed over the room. An uncomfortable silence ensued, in which the boy tried to wrestle with his own denial of his parentage and the actuary seemed to want to doubt that the frost giant child before him was the person he now knew the boy to be.

“What are you doing here?”

The question hung between them. Loki had no answer, and neither did the actuary.

“Bah! Things are such a mess with new management,” the man proclaimed gruffly, slamming the cover on the iron-bound tome in another flurry of dust.

“Hela did not return from Asgard,” the young giant noted aloud. It hadn’t been a question, even though the boy was fishing for something that would confirm suspicion sparked by the man’s last comment.

“No. Heimdall now rules in Hel in her place.”

“Heimdall?” the boy echoed, in disbelief. And, yet, it made sense. Heimdall’s eye was everywhere. Heimdall, alone, could have witnessed Balder assassinate the young King of Asgard. That made his presence in Asgard a problem for Freya and Balder, aside from which, their new Loki likely wanted to leverage dignitas and prestige for herself by claiming Heimdall’s role as Observer. And Heimdall’s Observatory was likely the only place in Asgard where Loki could be reassured that Freya didn’t have agents. That was the thing about Asgard. Even the walls had eyes, and all of them loyal to the All-Mother.

“Aye. Strange eve it is, even in the long night of Hel,” the actuary offered candidly, before giving a snort and waving at the boy in a dismissive manner. “But, ours is not a fate you should concern yourself with, young king,” the man said, as the dwarf who had led Loki to the man now reappeared through the doorway. Looking at his Hound, the actuary said, “Light the signal flame. This one belongs in Valhalla.”

“Wait,” Loki commanded, the request clearly a demand as the boy still spoke as though he reigned still. He heard it as well, the sound of his own voice immediately making him mindful of the fact that he was no longer king. And he had no power in Hel. In Hel or in death, and so what he did now he would have to do with the assistance of people. And not because he was king.

“You do not wish to go to the honored halls of the All-Father?” the dwarf asked, clearly in disbelief at being commanded to stand down from such an august task as to led one to Valhalla.

Turning back to the old man, the boy said, “Someone should have passed through Hel not long before I. A handmaiden of Asgard.”

The old man did not move. He merely peered down impassively at the youth as he asked, “You would stay in Hel for a handmaiden?”

“Her name is Leah,” Loki stated, ignoring the question. Or answering it. To be truthful, the answer seemed obvious.

“I know this name,” the actuary responded. “A Valkyrie awaited her arrival. I could not judge her.”

A Valkyrie? Waiting on a handmaiden? “Then she has passed to Valhalla?” Loki inquired hesitantly. Already, he felt a knot of dread in his stomach. His being here was no mere accident of fate. Neither, then, should he assume Leah or the Valkyrie’s presence to be mere coincidence.

“No.” the actuary confirmed. “They are here... as though they await something,” the man remarked, hesitating as he came to the final thought as though achieving a realization there. Looking down at the boy, the actuary asked plainly, “My king, are you betrayed?”

“All the Nine Realms betrayed, maester,” the boy affirmed firmly, as in his mind he began to put the pieces of his own life together in such a way as he had never viewed them before. “In life, my mother saw fit to lay a trap for me. She does so again in death,” Loki stated, as he turned back toward the door and prepared to take his leave. “And I shall not disappoint her,” the youth added in a quiet, reflective tone.

“My child, to be destroyed in Hel is to be destroyed in totality,” the man warned in a stern voice, pausing the youth’s brash step as he warned further. “Your story will be over.”

Turning his head, Loki looked back at the old man and smiled a smile that was as deep in sorrow as it was in pity. “It was never my story, maester,” the boy-king stated, and then he left to meet his fate.