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Circ's Characters

Plots:
- No God's Sky
+ Unsolicited Invasion ₮ ϟ
- The Sorceress' Nemesis ϟ

Participating:
+ The Glasslands
+ The Meatspin ₮ϟ
- The Darkness Encroaches
- Into The Abyss

Watching:
- Expanding Horizons
- Sea of Ignominy ϟ
- Cataclysmic Ending ϟ
- Awake
+ Cat, got your togue

Key:
+ = active
- = inactive
ϟ = Val'Gara
₮ = Earth-F67X | Discord
☫ = Cizr Empr

Most Recent Posts

I agree @ZAVAZggg, time to give this one it's last rites. Not really interested in a Discord RP.
Allure City—In their penchant for the pseudo-anarchistic, Allure City’s citizens dubbed the lone hypermax security prison within city limits the D-Vault, an unnecessarily abbreviated subriquet where D implied Dread, Dead, Desolate, Detestable, Devastating, and so on. Just under three quarters of the city's radius southeast from the city’s center, near former Murcia, a number of residential towers twisted up over the faceless plastisteel edifice the prison presented as its sole public facade. Through and an unknown depth below the entrance was the primary complex that allegedly contained Allure’s most violent and socially disruptive citizens—most held in cells tailored to their specific gifts and physiology.

Amongst the prisoners was Reaex, a silicon-based entity from the planet Metallo guilty of prolific and wanton ferrous infrastructure destruction.

Locked in a cell deep in the D-Vault, where the electromagnetic force was utterly neutralized, Reaex spread across the floor, its actuators unable to synchronize with its distributed nervous system due to the environment. Amethyst arcs of violent energy and erratic crepitations disquieted the acid-charged and ice-flecked mist that obfuscated the cell’s interior surface of frozen helium-4. The very air corroded the senses. Therein, across the frigid floor in a digitized reinterpretation of the kalachakra mandala, was itself—a reflective gray soot centered on an iridescent bramble connected by a central knot like a horrid vitrified, petrified, and immobilized ratking.

Then power went out across the entire city.

The D-Vault’s generator ignitions clicked impotently. Without energy to maintain the environment, the helium-3 sublimated. Filled with steam, relative visibility in the cell was usurped by an utterly opaque wall of white.

Minutes later, a beam of strange energy struck the city’s center and radiated energy throughout the world.

Suddenly, the cell vibrated with a loud bang against the wall—as though a cannonball violently exploded against a concrete barricade. A second and third bang followed. Then silence. Almost an hour later, with the power finally restored and the helium-3 redisposed, sensors indicated the cell was empty, although there was something new: a large ugly hole in the plastisteel wall.

Meanwhile, Reaex, its actuators and nervous system resynchronized and the bramble covered by a shiny dark gray quadrupedal exoskeleton, ran south like a mad dog, reached the elevated edge of Allure City, and threw itself into the Mediterranean.
Tel Aviv—Tristan tersely acknowledged General Millheiser’s instructions over the holographic relay.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll head out post-haste.”

Atypically hectic, Earth was on global high alert, all military leaves canceled and all operatives fielded. Abuzz with activity, the Tel Aviv station ran a frayed nerve away from professionalism’s descent into bedlam. As such, Tristan proved an unexpected and potentially fortuitous resource. Ad-hoc, command slated in his mission and indefinitely postponed his opsec reactivation interview—along with any vacation dispensation. The deprioritization surprised him, given he remained an unknown quantity and, as far as anyone—himself included—knew, a potential risk. Even so, given the circumstances, the two hour nap he received as medical validated his biosignature and scanned him for abnormalities, with him sedated as a safety precaution, stretched credulity as an ill-afforded luxury. Minutes after he awakened, he was back in his U-9 supersoldier armor and teleported to his destination.

Allure City“Former Prime Minister Iedereen,” Tristan said just as his armor’s stealth deactivated in tandem with the thud of a handful of individuals who, unconscious, struck the floor of the broadcasting studio atop one of Allure City’s tallest buildings, “I’ve been commissioned by Earth’s government to be your security liaison. Think of me as the physical manifestation of President Amon’s figurative hand in your arse, eh.”

Margaret suddenly found herself alone with a seven-foot-tall suit of contoured matte black armor that loomed above her in a deliberately aggressive posture. An Aussie accent rudely emanated from a face plate and the thing leered through a small crystal disc set toward the top of a metallic dark gray lamella that vertically cleaved along its anterior segment.

“Former?” Margaret snapped out of her reverie and sprung up from beside her chaise lounge with an unnatural combination of rigidity and celerity, “I’m not accustomed to being escorted in this manner. At least tell me your name.”

“No name necessary, ma’am,” Tristan replied, “I’ll know when you’re addressing me. For now, you need to call an emergency session of Allure’s parliament. The spice must flow. Hah!”

The look she gave him would have withered anyone who empathized with her feelings. Of course, he knew that she couldn’t see the look of enjoyment he wore behind his mask. With a glance down at her wristwatch he saw her take a moment to assess her situation and then she pegged the question, “How soon?”

“As soon as possible,” Tristan answered, “That’s why it is called an emergency session. Unless you want our military to mistake civilians rioting in the streets for enemy combatants.”
Ndakala trekked, cautious and momentarily alone, into the vast morel declivity. He sought insight, but movement into the marsh merely compounded his confusion. “Helmesi—surely a clone, but living or animated?” he murmured, perplexed as to whether its demise ought to be mourned. His former guide, Khethiwe, seemed unperturbed. The mystery remained just as unraveled as his journey’s ungrasped purpose. Even the environs, loud and variegated, colluded against comprehension he felt as he brushed a beetle off his brow, grunted, and trudged onward.

While lovely, the way was cumbersome. Every apprehensive footfall depressed another magenta cobble of his so-called path unevenly into a nigh-liquid bed of teal-striped clubmoss. The longer he followed it alongside the stream, the shallows of which were inundated with argent slivers of bioluminescent kelp, the more unsettled his equilibrium became. Humidity clung to his ebony skin like sap. Sweat-drenched and languished, he rolled up his sleeves and unbuttoned his khaki safari shirt, but the act assuaged none of the relentless heat or humidity.

Soaked to the shins from errant steps, he paused and inhaled the spore-rife atmosphere. How far was he from his destination? What even was his destination, this Kicahka Siri? Unsure, he peered through the milieu. Milky dandelion spores haphazardly waltzed alongside technicolor fireflies. Cicadas noisily and indefatigably chirped from hallows unknown. Beyond the din, a distant fall gushed from a fissure in the cavernous firmament. The pristine column cascaded violently onto a celadon spire, diverted to sundry pools and streams, then surged onward and sustained the subterranean refuge. Yet it was the crisp and mountainous stalagmite, a formation that vibrated supernaturally throughout his marrow, that captured his attention.

“That,” Ndakala panted, hands on his knees as he struggled to breathe, “must be the Kicahka Siri.”

Shirt abandoned and shoes and socks siphoned off by the viscous terrain, he collapsed. Shaded by an enormous shiitake’s cap, he heaved himself up and noticed his reflection in the stream. There a tired old fool of a pygmy scowled back, face as dark and wrinkled as a hippo’s ass, naked pate encircled by a terse piebald bramble, and eyes that longed for something he couldn’t articulate. Either a tear or bead of sweat dispelled the vision. In its stead manifested a wild kaleidescope of color. It reminded him of light twisted to a sheen by spilled oil.

Distraught, he tried to focus on something—anything. He failed. Even mundane meditation seemed, in this place, impossible.

He was thirsty, Ndakala thought, as he suddenly remembered the man in the water.

No, that isn’t right, realized Ndakala, I am thirsty.

Dehydrated, he cupped his hands, dipped them into the flow, and splashed his face and chest. Exhilarated by the shock and relief of the frigid moisture as it struck his flesh, he abandoned decorum and plunged his face like a wild animal into the tie-dyed slick of vitality. It was the purest water he ever drank, yet he remained parched—an addict for whom the fix never sufficed. Again he drank, even as his tongue swelled up to unbelievable proportions and his mouth became drier than a eucalyptus-stuffed husk. His head felt cloudy, insects buzzed hypnotically in swarms around him, and life pulsed tumescent to the beat of earthen drums. It was euphoric. Below, the soil undulated and rolled him around like a prismatic orb on a neon-striped concourse. Suddenly light-headed, he collapsed into the fetal position, eyes wide and pupils dilated. Above him, the shiitake loomed, its outline crisp. Black. Brushed over with sumi-e strokes. Suddenly its structure transformed to an enormous azobé tree. The thick and indomitable trunk challenged the clouds—the very sun above the canopy. There, near its apex, it stretched out its innumerable limbs, from which Ndakala saw, impossibly, the huts of his ancestors.

“Baba,” he crooned, fingers outstretched toward the silhouette of his grandfather.

From their tenuous vertiginous hovels asway on striated vines, his people celebrated life as they sang, clacked beads, gyrated shekeres, and blew into algaitas. They danced in a procession from hut to hut on bridges of braided xylem.

They were happy and at peace.

Then his symbolic grandfather, chieftain Gyele, caretaker of the tribe, looked down at him from his heights of glory, frowned, and chided, “Where are my descendants? What offspring offer you that brings life to the Tribe?”

Fire danced on Ndakala’s cheeks even as prurient images reeled through his mind fierce as a rhino charges—as Digbo, a naked juggernaut whose powerful stampede cratered mountains. He was shaken to his core—tossed about by the violent upheaval of earth.

Fire darkened their delight. It brought with it shadows. He no longer saw his ancestors. His cheeks burned. The rhino was gone. He refused to contemplate what else was absent. Now flames spiraled up the azobé trunk, as if it were assaulted by a furious nest of crimson pythons. Hulking hirsute forms, black as nightmares, swung from the limbs, juxtaposed against the livid glare. Their shrieks and howls terrified Ndakala, but his hands—he couldn’t find his hands to cover his ears and his eyelids were likewise absent. Unable to refuse the vision, he averted his gaze toward the tree’s mighty canopy, but instead of leaves and light he beheld Mount Diaba aglow with lethal radiation. Atop the mountain stood a man, a stranger whose body was haloed by green energy.

The man pulsed and coruscated like a toxic star.

He exploded.

Then all went dark.

A lifetime later, Ndakala felt the ground swell again beneath him, this time gently as it urged him onward. His cheek plopped on a soft bed of moss. His muscles ached. He rubbed his eyes, which seemed sealed shut ages ago by a mineral plaster.

“Wake, scion of Gyele. Shake loose the burden of the zijonge, sit, and listen,” spoke a woman’s voice in a tone that soothed yet yielded nothing. It was firm—solid as the vitreous formations that erupted from the walls around him. Ndakala blinked. No longer was his vision obfuscated by a monstrous shiitake, gargantuan azobé, or Mount Diaba’s awful profile. Instead, he was in a cave, just at the entrance. Within, small pools of water reflected the world perfectly back, and deeper he saw the woman. She, too, sat in a pool. The entire chamber resonated to a barely audible melody.

He knew he was at Kicahka Siri, but this woman—she he did not know.

“Who are you?” Ndakala pensively inquired.
So it's been 2 months. And I'd like for this to keep going, but it doesn't seem like the person I had planned on interacting with intends on posting anything. I'll hold out for a bit longer, but if this doesn't pick up soon, then I'm afraid I'll have to drop.


Actually, if we're going by posting order, it looks like maybe you're next -- unless something else is joining?
So it's been 2 months. And I'd like for this to keep going, but it doesn't seem like the person I had planned on interacting with intends on posting anything. I'll hold out for a bit longer, but if this doesn't pick up soon, then I'm afraid I'll have to drop.


I've been waiting on Arawak. Who were you hoping to interact with?
@ZAVAZggg Everyone even this far off in the future will be giving off some form of heat signatures people with tech like ours will most likely detect.

With the huge spans of time there is good chance prior interactions have occurred, like it's why I am certain the administrators had some historical troubles with my civ.


I don't think a blitzverzerrung would typically give off a heat signature, based on its design and the fact it exists outside of "normal" spacetime, but you'd see localized gravitational waves as the warp bubble moves around. And definitely a heat/energy signature when it does its scan.
Dominic Ruiz-Malavé

Xenomisia-tainted patriotism smouldered in bosoms world-wide in the aftermath of the Iberian Incident, an event typified by Allure City's unprecedented manifestation and apparent permanency of presence, and that dark humor was poignantly exhibited in the subsequent surge of young men and women recruited into Earth-F67X's armed services. Born twenty-two years prior, Dom, a young man, although phenotypically female, was one such individual and his hatred of aliens ran deep. Recent events, for him, merely galvanized a long-present undercurrent of rage toward extraterrestrial intelligence after their first incursion, known as the First Contact War, left his father and hero on disability with permanent paralyzing nerve damage along the left side of his body. Pride in his father's sacrifice made Dom's military career all but inevitable. The deaths of millions of Spaniards merely accelerated the timetable. Within weeks of graduating air force boot camp and being assigned to Lakehurst Air Force Base as an O1 drone operator, he was recruited into the anti-alien hate group Honorable Knights of Terra (HKT) and helped brainstorm their slogan "MEGA -- Make Earth Great Again."

Appearance: While relatively small of stature and structurally androgynous, Dom does his best to project masculinity, sometimes to the extent that it is obnoxious. With irises as dark as his black hair and humor, his gaze is steady, haircut trimmed close to the scalp, and jokes obscene. Three hours in the gym each day along with hormone therapy make up for the remaining shortcomings of his unfortunately female body; thus, his secret pride and joy are his abs, biceps, ever-deepening voice, and the fine dusting of black hair on his upper lip -- all at the relatively minor cost of some acne scarring on his cheeks that he is convinced make him look even more rugged.

Height: 160 cm
Weight: 66 kg
Age: 29 years
Ethnicity: Latinx
Profession: Remotely Piloted Aircraft (RPA) Operator, Second Lieutenant (O1), Lakehurst AFB
Sex: Famale-to-Male Transitioning
A quadrillion standard cycles formed the wake to their present. Egotistically derived from the traversal period wherein their once and former planet circumnavigated its star, the measurement’s relevance persevered as well as its progenitors; which is to say only as electromagnetic discharges along a series of ordered ionized particles preserved perpetually in em-quartz crystal; or, more succinctly, as mostly abstract concepts bereft of useful application. Subjugated by elastic computational cycles, time now waxed and waned based on heuristically-prognosticated calculations of the net energy reserves required for the minds to fully experience an eternity of virtually-perfected banality. Quite conservatively, they possessed an experienced history already an order of magnitude lengthier than the physical universe’s quaint quadrillion cycles that followed their civilization’s collapse. As a result, their perceived reality was a monotonous nightmare of which the minds were utterly weary and their delphic wish of life eternal deeply regretted.

Constrained by the artificial intelligence that designed the blitzverzerrung network, which they derided as Anansi—a folklore demon who wooed mortals by satisfying their petitions via invariable tragedy—their virtual bodies and likewise the simulated world in which they dwelt was inflexible, for change, to Anansi, was antithetical to continuity, and continuity loomed as a necessary component of immortality. Thus, the minds roamed what passed itself off as Akan, their planet primordial, in digital proxies that in near perfect detail, except the capacity to sustain mortal harm, simulated their former organic husks. Even perpetual sleep, via suspended animation, was denied them, for prolonged inactivity from the minds was, to Anansi, indistinguishable from death. Instead, they spent as much of their time in meditation as possible—a state between consciousness and the absence of thought. All of them now spent the majority of their time in this state and awakened only when it was their turn to monitor Anansi’s ports for meaningful events from the outer universe that they might, with any luck, leverage to end their mundane existence.

One such mind, dubbed Cavrandiok, sat on a white beach, just beyond reach of the iridescent noontide, and gazed up through instruments implanted her so-called organic body. The target of her inspection was the artificial wormhole that orbited Akan and facilitated communication between the minds and Anansi and her assignment, by lottery, was to cycle through the approximately 175 billion nodes of the blitzverzerrung network, execute a warp bubble oscillation scan of the night sky, and assess whether there was anything out there—anything at all. The entire process, although exceptionally efficient, took a billion cycles to execute along the entire network. Once she was finished, another mind would take her place in the rotation.

From outside a blitzverzerrung, the oscillation scans flashed for a picosecond, bright as a supernova throughout the night sky—the real night sky. Cavrandiok surmised that it made Anansi temporarily vulnerable to detection, but that assumed there was anyone or anything out there able to decipher the randomized sequence of omni-spectrum wavelength blasts.

She was in the midst of her 138th billion scan evaluation when she noticed an anomaly. Coincidentally, two separate oddities located within close proximity to another within the same sector. It was the sector node Zitoda occupied, named for the em-quartz crystal that stored the digital representation of a mind named Zitoda. Even as she almost entered a state of amazement at this change in her trillions of cycles of monotony, Anansi helpfully pinged her with the appropriate protocols for this situation—something the minds reprogrammed it to do should such a situation as this again arise, one of their minor victories in regaining self-determination.

Cavrandiok accessed Zitoda’s location from Anansi’s tracking database, stood, drew a circle in the empty air before her, and opened a portal. Lithe as a panther in spite of her centuries of motionless analysis, she stepped through the shimmer of digitized spacetime and found herself atop a mountain summit on which Zitoda meditated.

Softly, she rested her hand on his shoulder and said, “There is something new.”

Every mind knew the meaning of that phrase, for within the network there was nothing new. It meant something outside needed to be reviewed. Meanwhile, Anansi pinged them again, this time the flow of details it picked up on as it conducted its threat-analysis of that sector of space.
@Arawak and @ZAVAZggg -- if I conducted a full frequency scan of surrounding space, would I be able to detect anything specific about your characters? I'm assuming, for this RP, we should be able to at least notice something out of place to at least begin the process of interaction, but I'm wondering if there is anything more specific we'd notice.
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