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If you read one of my short stories (hosted on Google Drive), please send me a PM and tell me what you think!

> Proximal Anxiety



Circ's Characters

Plots:
- No God's Sky
- Unsolicited Invasion ₮ ϟ
- The Sorceress' Nemesis ϟ
- Sleep, Grand Automaton, That We May Plunder
+ Gaslands
- A Fault in the Verse ₮ϟ
+ Xenopunk Dysphoria: Tech, Slime & Bone

`Fights`:
- Sose vs Ivplec
- Circ & Anshin

Participating:
- 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
- Ever Mut has its Dog Day
+ The Family Biz

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

Most Recent Posts

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: 23 years
Ethnicity: Latinx
Profession: Remotely Piloted Aircraft (RPA) Operator, Second Lieutenant (O1), Lakehurst AFB
Sex: Famale-to-Male Transitioning

x0.308 Belkrait: a standard military officer-issued service revolver with a 5-score drip magazine of molten lead ammunition. Biometrically engaged, it may be fired line-of-sight or on a phase-shifting oscillation pattern. The latter is designed to bypass both magical and physical barriers and teleports the full force of the projectile directly inside the target lock location, although activation depth can be calibrated to circumvent thicker buffers. Lock is achieved via laser analysis and the quantum entanglement of the projectile's energy envelope with an atomic cluster in the target structure. If a melee situation arises, the Belkrait can deploy electro-static pulse barbs at the bottom of the grip and, alongside the barrel, twin vibro-blade bayonets. GPS coordinates trackable by military police.

Out of the Ordinary
> 1 Clout :: HTK member and military officer
> 0 Intellect
> 0 Magic
> 1 Physical :: active military in good physical condition
> 1 Technological :: extensive drone and arms training
C | I | M | P | T
Spencer Tras


About

Just your average busker-cum-mercenary from the streets and slums of Careo Fas, smelliest planet in the outer ring. He conceals his armaments under a gilt-trim crimson Technocrat officer jacket. Beneath that, he wears nanofiber mail combat fatigues that are remarkably scratch, slice, stab, projectile, and stain resistant; sometimes they even serve as camouflage. Around his waist is a utility belt, ornamented by both plasma and concussion grenades, trip wire, throwing knives, and duct tape. Slung across his back is his homemade plasma rifle, equipped with iridium capsules and an adjustable nozzle. Quite a few other things also weigh him down, mostly looted off the bodies of his victims. Well, let’s be honest, they were mostly victims of bad luck.

  • The Ghetto—a plasma rifle that has been rigged, jigged, and repaired so many times that it looks like it is more lethal to the person using it than their target.
  • Chapel—.442 caliber automatic gauss electromagnetic rail pistol with a phase-shift magazine that transmutes atmosphere into ammunition.
  • PI-PSA45-K—.45 caliber handgun with a high-frequency bayonet, flash light, and laser sight containing 12 explosive cobalt-tipped rounds in its clip.
  • Megumi Sakura—wakizashi, reflective as a mirror and tomb of an ice elemental, she has routed armies with her icy floes.
  • Keefe—war sword, crafted by the Xindi, carved with runes, and drenched in an ominous shroud of dread and decay; have no doubt, Keefe will carve spirit as readily as flesh.
  • Rhiannon—seax (long, thick knife) exuding a black mist that can solidify into a shield of sorcery at the bearer’s whim.
  • High-frequency Blade—katana vibrating in the ultrasonic, a factor that overcomes even the toughest of physical obstacles.


Under his ratty blond hair and over his dopey green eyes are designer shades that doubtlessly cause every girl within eyeshot become as moist as the ambiance ascending from his pits.

Whoops. That last bit is just nerves.

History

Having gathered just enough money for a ticket out of heck, after his loathsome beginnings at Careo Fas, Spencer went to the spaceport. He had no real plans, but they went up in smoke when a terrorist group bombed the facility before he even opened the door to step in. Unscathed, he did his best to take care of the wounded, but was driven off by their uncharitable nature. On his way back to his flat in the less affluent region of Careo Fas, he heard a shooting at a bar, and curiosity drove him in. There, a gunman thrust a weapon in his hands and told him to kill anyone who came by. He stood there in shock, and eventually someone did venture close enough to witness what had transpired there. Afraid, he shot the woman in the shoulder and ran.

Fortunately, that is the night war erupted. In the confusion, he managed to make his way as a stowaway aboard a freighter, which left him on the planet Terra in an interesting city called Southern Sea. From there, he was recruited by a man named Tersan Rogut, given clothes and armaments, and trained as an assassin with an affinity for energy rifles.

There are many exploits Spencer engaged in under Tersan's direction, especially those involving a lycanthrope named Will who had numerous run-ins with the Red Technocracy. The two would pose as pimp and product, and try to lure high-ranking members of the Technocracy into a disreputable situation. This resulted in quite a few questionable videos and pictures of Will being strewn across the Red Technocracy pornnet.

After a series of strange, psychotic dreams, Tersan made sure Spencer started taking some anti-psychotropic medication. Injected in the buttocks. Spencer wasn't a huge fan of being held down by Tersan and stabbed with a horse needle, but the medication did get the job done.

In the aftermath of these dreams, Spencer took up residence in Wing City and became a drunk, gambler, and a man of high-reputation and ill-repute. His many exploits there include urinating on a machine named Cuddles and escaping due to a Goldbergian series of events that sent him into the sewer below the Gambit's Bar, from which he was later rescued by Rin and Motoko, machines constructed by Ryand-Smith. After being informed of his assault on the robot, he created a nice apology card out of construction paper and colored sparkle-glue and forwarded it on to Cuddles. He never did receive a response.

From Wing City, Spencer ended up on Valhalla. At least, he thinks that was it. As a drunk stripper, it was too much to remember. Then a man named Loinel reconnected with him and offered him a job as an informant working for The Abdictory. Not hard; right? Not really. A frequent planet hopper, he got in a fight in Allure City on Fortis and, the next day, woke up in Allure City on Earth. Under siege. Well, he high-tailed it to his friend’s apartment, went into the back room, and hit the city-wide EMP, passed out, woke up, ran outside, and got teleported to safety just moments before an antimatter nuke hit the city.

Out of the Ordinary
> 0 Clout
> 0 Intellect
> 4 Magic :: unusually good luck ensures success in his endeavors
> 1 Physical :: street busker born and raised, always on the run
> 2 Technological :: can figure out any weapon on-the-fly
C | I | M | P | T

Beyond the Veil of Flesh
> Ximbic-8 inspected Spencer Tras’ soul and marked his right ass cheek with a radiant glyph: six-sided diamond dice rolling through a line of cocaine on a skank’s taint and scoring double sevens.
Soul Sigil
Gaslands: a Palimpsest’s Tale

A Continuation of F67X

( Join our Discord or visit: Unsolicited Invasion | Glasslands | Cat, Got Your Tongue | Every Mutt has its Dog Day )


What is Earth-F67X?
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It is an alien technology-influenced cyberpunk corporate dystopia version of Earth set slightly into the future, the active year being 2040. Noteable subsettings include North Capitol City, Allure City, Ximbic-8, Aeternus, the Quarantine Zone, the SWAG, and more! It is multiverse friendly.

How Am I Here?
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Due to its advanced defenses and the all-encompassing ribbon world Ximbic-8’s spatial distortions, you can’t just get to Earth any way you please. That said, you could be:

• an Earth native born on the planet;
• an outsider working with an organization already on the planet, such as Xanathan Industries or the Red Technocracy;
• an outsider native of Allure City, which rests atop the Iberean Peninsula;
• an inhabitant of Ximbic-8 who passed through an X-Portal connected to Earth;
• an inhabitant of Aeternus who road the Sarcoan family-curated dimensional elevator at the Pleiades Casino & Resort;
• an inhabitant of Hell who passed through a pre-existing and government-curated H-Portal;
• an outsider who visited the spatially-unsecured colonies on the Moon, Mars, etc, and used a government-curated teleportation device;
• an outsider on a transport shuttle passing through the short-range jump gate connecting outerspace to Earth space;
• or, if you have another idea, present it to the game owner!

How Strong Can I Be?
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On Earth, street or block level, unless you have a good reason. For details, review the C | I | M | P | T system. On Ximbic-8, combat is not expected as it is a story-focused setting, so any weapons you try to bring in there won’t follow your character along unless a special exception is made.

Overview
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This roleplay is oriented around two features:

1. an alien ribbon world known as Ximbic-8 that has auspiciously manifested around the planet Earth in the F67X universe. Ximbic-8 has various portals within it through which any character within the Verse may enter, although it does screen those who try to enter in order to protect itself from harm. While below is a list of Places, Species, and Factions, you may submit your own; however, all should involve entities that will be interacting with Ximbic-8.

2. A subset of North Capital City known as New New York situated in the metropolis sprawl stretching from what was formerly Atlanta through Boston. It features cyberpunk, late-stage capitalism dystopian, and slice-of-life themes, architecture is close, high, layered, with super structures like arcologies, enclaves, and the mainline defensive array.

That Damn Day
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Day to stride
Watch the all
Forestall the blink
The present died
Wistful weep

Earth-F67X, March 2nd, 2040, +12:00 GMT:

The 32nd anniversary of the First Contact War, the name given to the Val’Gara invasion that wrought havoc on Earth from California to Chad, the latter and former country on which Earth’s ally, the Red Technocracy, detonated the last of their antimatter bombs.

The 7th anniversary of the Cataclysm, whereon the United Earths Confederacy, a unification of myriad Earths originated in universes that abutted the multiversal fault, perished in the fault’s abrupt rupture.

The 1st anniversary of NOW Dayy, which, in Apollo Amon’s immortal and paraphrased words, was ‘Not Our Worst Day … yet’, although it encompassed the Demonic Intrusion, Iberian Incident, Val’Gara Scare, Mutagenic Beam, Discorporate Explosion, and manifestation of Ximbic-8.

It was a date of dichotomies that humanity simultaneously dreaded even as it offered prayers of gratitude for how, against all odds, Earth and all that dwelt upon it miraculously endured; a mandatory global holiday where families pulled together and suicide hotlines incessantly rang; and the twenty-four hour period wherein the Mainline Defensive Array, along with all the rest of Earth’s surveillance apparatus, were most active. For Allure City, the alien metropolis that supplanted Spain, March 2nd meant a mandatory curfew and city-wide blackout; as such, everyone remained home lest they be shot on sight and all network activity was monitored, dampened, and subject to strict fines. In geostationary orbit high above the city’s center was Allure Central Station, the delicate atmospheric bubble of which glinted red as twenty million mines equipped with a dead man switch flashed a simulated countdown and the station’s many residents partook of their first evacuation drill via the gravimetric beam-rail elevator that connected the station to the military compound below.

On Ximbic-8, the ribbon world that, from a distance of 0.003 au, encompassed Earth in the undulation of its 0.6 au expanse and bathed the planet in the soft lavender light that poured through its translucent membrane, the date came and went almost unnoticed. Almost, aside from the jejune drone activity that increased through the otherwise blockaded Earth-bound portals. Ximbic-8, itself a conscious entity, was ancient and unperturbed by the callow paranoias of the cultures it knitted together. As the 8th Ximbic, one among the primordial universes created at the dawn of the Verse, it knew well its history:

In the beginning,

Before all else existed there was the Substrate Sublime, an infinite, yet unreal, Rössler attractor imbued with pure potential. From that cauldron of quantum chaos sprung the Verse, the story of the real within which all multiversal branches and their universal terminals lived and died. Of the oldest amongst these was Axis, an unbounded quasi-dissociated apeirotope universe superimposed and bisected along all other universal planes. Thence, supine on an empyral altar aloft in the nether of Axis’ cinereal midst, Autun lay in chimeric rapture and Ender, by Autun’s fancy conceived, subsumed itself throughout the Verse. Thus most universes were through Autun blessed with creative distinction and by Ender balanced; yet also there strove the personalities inherent in most universes, their internal Keichii. In the Ximbics these were absent qualities, for they, being self-aware and self-composed, required no external spark of imagination, nor interloper of subjective symmetry, nor anarchic dynamism.

In spite of Ximbic-8’s ancient history and manifold lore, the day was young and pregnant with potential such that the events that unfolded were such worthy of remembrance.

Places
—————————————————————————

Ximbic-8

Open, yet simultaneously self-circumscribed, Ximbic-8 embraced the universes it inhabited and expressed toward whatever resided within it an inaudible neutrality toward life. In its hollow n-orthotopic membrane, permeated by a nitrogen-oxygen atmosphere, thrived a multifarious continuum of existence adapted to its nigh-absent gravity: lakes coagulated bead-like in its midst; rivers weaved through the sedimentary products of its digestion that clinged not to its walls but, rather, hanged in its center as though suspended by an unseen force; soft as pale amethyst, semi-translucent vegetation draped the land and hovered gaily in the pseudo-sky akin to dandelion spores adrift in an eternal breeze. Fauna likewise floated, fashioned not of opaque flesh, but pellucid gels and gases, light and airy in body with forms reminiscent of pyrosomes, cubozoas, and cumulonimbi; however, while delicate in form, almost all of Ximbic-8’s natives were strong in mind and deftly wielded short-range telekinesis: from that fine instrument cities were constructed and scientific knowledge gleaned.

As it multiplied its population, Ximbic-8 similarly expanded, each additional cubic kilometer centered on a cosmic portal. Amongst billions of light-shifted and intent-filtered way-gates, a mere ten-thousand sufficiently and recently accommodated instantaneous spacetime transit between Ximbic-8 and Earth, Q’ab, Careo Fas, Fortis, Terra, Ganaxavori, and Verisimilitude. Passage through one of these portals allowed Ximbic-8 to gaze on the soul of sojourner, then it rejected or accepted them, and if the latter it tattooed on them a symbolic and radiant glyph of their passion that was visible to all. These portals were the only means into Ximbic-8 due to a phenomenon, called the Sea of Broken Night, related to its immersion in the universes in which it was encompassed: spacetime beyond it was intricately and irrevocably warped and, at times, even broken; attempts to pass through this area were not unlike wandering lost in an infinite labyrinth where all paths inevitably terminated in futility.


Three regions thus-far identified in the long stretch of Ximbic's interior are:

» Ximbic Central City, a technologically advanced metropolis and hub; here is where most of the portals are located.

» Dium, a region resembling a whirling sea of solid metal plates and beams, flashing wires, and electro-radiance, this is a habitat that immigrants from Metallo find suitable; truly, the most beautiful junkyard in the multiverse.

» Tuscre, a lush and enormous forest straight out of a fairytale, where wild magic flourishes in tune with nature and rivers wend gracefully through the twisted gravity of Ximbic's interior.
« Ximbic Central City »

—————————————
——————
——
North Capital City

In an effort to consolidate power in Capital City and its epicenter, Discorporate Tower, Apollo Amon instructed the government to seize, via eminent domain, much of lower Manhattan Island—everything south of Canal Street down through Battery Park—on the pretext of historical preservation. Dozens of skyscrapers, like 55 Water Street and 666 5th Avenue, were demolished on account of their lack of upkeep and general unsightliness. Military housing replaced the high rises in the form of two-hundred-year-old brownstones imported from Stuyvesant Heights, Brooklyn. Meanwhile, below, in the mammoth network of suddenly defunct subbasements, high-tech military equipment was installed and eventually became the Mainline Defensive Array. Some, however, were unfit for that purpose, and these, most of which bordered China Town, readily morphed into a subterranean sprawl replete with hobos, gypsies, and various other classifications of ne’er-do-well.

» HTK HQ: It was in a division of a sublevel of one such forsaken foundation, inconspicuously accessible via the dilapidated and partially-flooded pre-modern subway system known as New Venice, that the headquarters of the Honorable Knights of Terra (HKT) were found. There, a hodgepodge of domestically-abandoned veterans, displaced rustics, and malcontent officers and enlisted conspired to thwart the infiltration of alien lifeforms into Earth’s biosphere. A coat of arms dominated the oil-rubbed bronze double-door entrance to their headquarters, arranged as two armor-plated medieval knights in an aggressive posture on either side of planet Earth while beneath them ran a scarlet banner that proclaimed: “Make Earth Great Again.”
« North Capital City »

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——————
——
Species
—————————————————————————

Humans

Whether from the Gnaritas System, Careo Fas, Earth, or elsewhere, the human phenotype is as diffused throughout the Verse as it is distinctive with its evolutionary divergent traits almost exclusively limited to hues of skin, hair, and iris; pointiness of ears, eyes, and nose; sharpness of smell and sight; and thickness of body and pelt. Some might have patterned or textured skin, specialized eyes, or even more or less than five digits on their hands and feet. Often the genetic drift is so extensive they begin to identify as different races, such as dwarf, elf, or giant.

Ixbic

Natives of Ximbic-8, the Ixbic coloration is a pale and translucent violet both inside and out, thus the outlines of their various organs and the fluid and excrement therein contained are visible. Of a gel-like consistency, they are flexible and amorphous, eyes and other sensory organs chaotically distributed, and vary a great deal in size. Without formal limbs or vocal chords and imbued with minimal dexterity, they rely primarily on short-range telekinesis to overcome obstacles to interaction.

Bangeeif

Natives of Ximbic-8 and similar to the Ixbic, for the Bangeeifa few exceptions stand out: instead of gel-like, their substance is gaseous: thus they lack organs identifiable as such and interaction occurs exclusively by means of short-range telekinesis and telepathy; they tend to grow rather large, reminiscent of pyrosomes or cumulonimbus clouds, and are oft mistaken for inanimate natural phenomenon.

Azot

A lanky and dexterous simian species with blue-green fur, prehensile tail, slits in lieu of nose or nostrils, and a keratin skeletal system combined with skin that sweats a pungent oil secreted from its pores to allow rapid mend from any misadventure an Azot might encounter in its native jungle habitat on the planet Azot in the Su-laria galaxy; adults weigh up to 35 kg.

Q’ush

Lizard people and refugees of the Val’Gara harvest of the planet Q’ab in the Su-laria Galaxy, their average height is 1.5 meters, their skin a smooth mottled green coated in a reflective and viscous layer of moisture that preserves their internal body temperature, and their tongues are forked.

Ganaxan

The penta-limbed submoronic rift and cave dwellers of Ganaxavori, their hides are course and their large bulky bodies blend in quite readily with rocky landscapes. While not known for their intellect, they do exhibit signs of tribalism, shamanism, and it is not unheard of to encounter Ganaxan art. Tireless, naturally armored, and not distraction prone, they make excellent guards and laborers.

Alakast

Also from the Su-laria galaxy, although they have spread throughout most of it and call more than one planet home, the Alakast are an arachnoid spider-people 1 meter in height with an octogonal leg-span of 3 meters, multiple compound eyes, and a penchant for laying eggs in their art.

Synth

Machines imbued with hyper-advanced artificial intelligence and lifelike exteriors, these are the most variegated of all the lifeforms in the Verse, although their programming limits their capabilities and most are built to be companion models, so the majority of synth one encounters will be cute, cuddly, and friendly to a fault; however, looks can deceive, as some are built for the purpose of assassination.
« Human »


« Ixbic »


« Bangeeif »


« Azot »


« Ganaxan »

—————————————
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——
Factions
—————————————————————————

Discorporate Productions

By far the largest for-profit organization on the planet, with a net worth measured in the trillions, this corporation is almost indistinguishable from Earth’s “One World” government, a veil that is thinner each day President Apollo Amon is in charge of both.

Comte Foundation

Dozens of large corporations thrive under the umbrella of the Comte Foundation, prominent amongst them BMW, Stryker, Virgin, Aldi, and The Abditory, the latter of which—personally directed by Czes Schafer’s lawyer, Lionel Duperie—serves as a cover for surveillance, subterfuge, and humanitarian operations worldwide while officially it functions as a purveyor of wetware solutions to Earth’s defense forces. The Comte Foundation’s headquarters are located in Frankfurt, Eurozone, and occupy the top half of the Messeturm. It remains Earth’s second largest MegaCorp even as it reels from the extensive infrastructure damage that surged across western Europe in the aftermath of the Iberian Incident.

The Honorable Knights of Terra

An unclassified anti-alien hate organization based in North Capital City, the Honorable Knights of Terra try to influence politics to keep Earth free of alien interlopers and, albeit less openly, engage in more direct means of combating what they view as an alien infestation of their planet.

The Cizran Empire

Although in a galaxy, perhaps even a universe, far away, many former denizens of the Cizran Empire have found refuge in Ximbic-8, but almost all feel unease and the weight of their former home’s spiritual shadow.

Rules
—————————————————————————

Player Interactions

» Be respectful to one another as this is intended to be a cooperative effort rather than a fight.
» Expect mature in-character content.
» While there is no minimum post length, strive to render a complete scene that is descriptive, engaging, and advances the story.
» This isn't turn-based, so post whenever you want (within reason ~_^).
» Do not edit new content into a previous post: people won't notice it. Just write another post.
» Proof read with a focus on quality over quantity.
» Embedded graphics, if present, should complement the written word rather than overwhelm the screen.
» Standard RPGuild rules apply.

Technology

In the aftermath of the First Contact War and with help from The Red Technocracy, Earth’s government underwent leaps and bounds in the advancement of technology, with teleportation, space travel, energy barriers, and antimatter missiles all augmenting their arsenal. While these high-end utilities are not available to the public, society still benefited in the forms of pollution-free energy, limited space tourism, and an almost unlimited assortment of body augmentations—all compliments of the mega corporations and cartels that effectively run modern Earth’s society.

Magic

On Earth, real magic, historically, is incredibly rare and almost always stems from mortals forming contracts with spiritual beings, such as demons, in order to obtain power; seldom is this to their ultimate benefit. However, recent interaction with alien species have reinvigorated research into this area and, as a consequence, the line between magic and technology considerably blurs with respect to psionics research and the application of bioforce. Also, in the fallout of the Mutagentic Beam or a consequence of interaction with radiation or beings infected with the Vesuvian Virus, several creatures on Earth, humans included, have mutated; sometimes this is beneficial and translates to, for lack of a better word, superpowers, such as limited earth bending or energy absorption.

Characters
—————————————————————————

Guidelines

» The character sheet is intended as a guide and is not a mandatory format.
» Characters must have a corresponding aesthetic to or, if not, explanation for being on Ximbic-8.
» You aren't required to select from either the Species or Factions list.
» You are welcome to create your own species, faction, or even universe from which your character hails.
» While characters may have powers, they cannot be game breaking, limitless, nor elevate the character beyond the setting.

C | I | M | P | T

Characters in this setting should not be omnipotent, omniscient, nor omnipresent, so we enforce a scale where the more of one type of power a character possesses the less they have of another. Thus, along five manifestations of power (clout, intellect, magic, physical, and technological) scaled from 0, indicative of an average person, to 5, indicative of a superhuman, we allow the allocation of 7 points. As an example, someone with a great deal of money (i.e.: clout) might buy an advanced machine, but they won't necessarily know how to use it: such is true of Apollo Amon, Earth-F67X’s president; he is reasonably smart but also the richest and most well-connected individual on the planet, thus he would rate a clout of 5 and an intellect of 2.

Sheet

Name
> real name, nicknames, or call-signs.

Physical Description
> gender, age, height, weight, coloration, tattoos, markings, clothes, items typically in their possession; essentially anything another person would notice when they see your character.

Soul Sigil
> only necessary if your character enters Ximbic-8, this is a light-emitting visible-through-clothing tattoo on your character that is symbolic of whatever their identity is wrapped up in.

Out of the Ordinary
> # C | # I | # M | # P | # T
> skills, powers, abilities, pull, wealth, education, augmentations, and anything else the character can do or possesses that sets them apart from the average human.

Species
> if not one of the above predefined species, describe the appearance of the species and give a background on where it originates from.

Purpose
> trade skills, political alliances, and overall reason for being on Ximbic-8.

History


Thus far
—————————————————————————

» Spencer is chased around Ximbic Central City by a Hilth (law enforcement robo-chimera), but escapes into a weird little shoppe. Therein is a Cizran named Belacrazu who sells experiences. He takes two of Spencer’s in exchange for one “on the house.”

» Czes says goodbye to Lionel, to whom he has given control of the Comte Foundation, gets in a jaguar-shaped extra-armor, and walks through a portal to Ximbic. However, when he gets to Ximbic-8, he's no longer in his extra-armor, just him, alone, in a field gazing up at the stars. He takes a nap.

» In a run-down alley of North Capitol City, former NYC, Mateo lays on his bunk in his mobile MercSades “apartment” van he shares with an acquaintance and jacks into the net to talk to a virtual therapist.

» Mateo needs some time to think about his session, so he goes for a midnight stroll, but stumbles across a dead guy ripe with all sorts of cybernetic implants. He drags the body to a fixer-designer named Fesyen.

» Fesyen has Mateo detained while he appraises the value of the corpse’s implants. The next day, when Mateo is free, he allows him to take some outerwear in exchange. Mateo takes it, and murders Fesyen on his way out the door.

» Dom talks to the military counselor about his upcoming gender surgery. After work is over, he goes for a stroll in central park, meets a girl, they hit it off. Then he attends his evening HKT meeting in New Venice.

» At the HKT meeting, targets for elimination are assigned. Dom meets a girl named Han, and they decide to team up and get rid of an Azot (little monkey alien) street performer monopolizing attention at the corner of Fifth Ave and 19th ST. However, when they get there, Dom gets separated from Han as he tries to track down the Azot. Dom finds the Azot, but feels conflicted about his task.

The tell-tale pneumatic hiss as the doors surreptitiously parted diverted Mavriq’s attention away from the handful of recruits and toward a trio of bipedal machines. Two primary legs, arms, and an upright posture was as far as their vague resemblance to humans went; overall, Mavriq deemed them utilitarian and, in a word, boxy. At least the verbal and foremost one was adorned with enough color to make for an interesting spectacle. Their presence was, for Mavriq, unexpected, although he surmised the mission parameters included a forewarning; perhaps during a periodic and vexatious moment where his mind strayed from the present. He made a note to review the matter when he returned to the Thunderclap to transfer the remainder of his apparatuses. In any case, once the machine announced its name, Mavriq, in a subconscious delay tactic, opined,

“Aten, variant designation for the Egyptian god of the sun.”

Beside him, he noticed Feurtes, who was in the midst of collapsing the temporary-use furniture, shake his head as though he were disappointed. The big man stood and clarified, “Lieutenant d’Agenais, I believe the MRS unit is asking for our names, not a convenient nickname for itself.”

Mavriq frowned, but decided this was a moment to assert his clout and insisted, “I doubt everyone on our team will easily remember a-ten-dash-twenty-something. Asking the unit to tag itself as Aten is much more efficient for everyone involved. Don’t you agree, Warrant Officer Feurtes?”

A shrug of assent was all Mavriq needed, then he moved on to formally address the MRS unit. With his dataslate gripped firmly and populated with the final cut of team members, still rendered on the screen, he said, “I am First Lieutenant Mavriq d’Agenais of the Origin Navy Science Division, provisionally in charge of this operation. As you likely deduced, the big man in the fatigues is Warrant Officer Dario Feurtes, our liaison with Origin’s military affairs; he is to ensure we have all the equipment we need to execute a successful operation. Cass”—he said her name after a rushed inhalation and gestured toward the brunette in the corner—“is, for wont of a better word, our tour guide. She will assist with security, if need be. Then we have”—briefly, he peered through his glasses at the dataslate in an effort to recall the man’s name—“Vincent Marlowe. He will be our software specialist. You’ll note him by his integration augmentations. Sophia -- I’m sorry, I can’t pronounce your last name -- will”—at this he nodded in her direction—“address our medical concerns.”

He felt rather pleased with himself at how proficiently he concluded the human itinerary. Still, in the awkward silence that ensued he wondered whether his performance was as apt as he first assumed. This was confirmed when Feurtes’ expectantly stared at him, as though he awaited Mavriq to make a tacitly obvious pronouncement.

“Next order of business,” Mavriq paused, considered what logically followed, and decided, “set up our two operational facilities, on Maasym Orbital Station and on Derelict. Feurtes and Aten, along with, if prudent, the two other androids, will be responsible for the forward base of operations. Clearly”—and this he fabricated in an effort to sound decisive—“MRS units are subordinate to orders from Origin military personnel, which puts Feurtes in charge of that base. As for the rest of us, we will wrap up the transfer our belongings to the facilities here on the station.”

As the group filtered out of the room, Mavriq caught Feurtes by the shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Cognitive degeneration is a known consequence for humans on Derelict, but we don’t know how A.I. react. Do you have a, uh, kill command should these things go haywire?”

Feurtes looked at him, grinned, patted his sidearm, said, “Right here, Lieutenant,” and walked off in the company of Aten and the two A9s.
Also, if you edit your post for things other than spelling and grammar, such as adding content, it is very likely people who have already read your post won't realize you've changed something of substance, and they will miss it entirely. This is why it is better to wait and write a cohesive post instead of giving us your stream of consciousness. :)
It is not a flesh marauder. It is a ravager. But ok, sure. Oh, and they can infest machines, it's just hard for them to do so, and it takes a lot of flesh, work and time and the machine must be subdued or willing to become infested. Regardless, machines cant be eaten and that party is searching for food, so they will leave him alone for now.


Okay, I'll edit my post to say ravager instead of marauder.

Also, instead of a single paragraph, consider making a google doc where you post your thoughts. That way you can produce a more detailed and interesting post that gives me and others a bit more to chew on and reply to.
@Circ, I am ready for the Val'gasra encounter. Or did it already happen? I am a little confused by your recent IC post.


It happened (Reaex and a flesh maurader looked at one another), but you can pursue it if you want. I figured the flesh marauder wouldn't be interested in Reaex because Reaex is basically a machine.
The Aldaré

First, I was stardust; motes free and pure in their flight amongst the beatific light of the cosmos, the whole universe exposed, my atoms eager to awake. Then I rained upon Panjiis Uor, the metal planet otherwise known as Metallo, and was burned, blinded, and over the course of millennia forged into a slab abstruse in its composition and coincidental in design. Eons passed, buried, burning, refined until the molten tide that ensnared me drifted atop Ignis’ Spire. That column of the deep, possessed by a spirit of wrath, erupted and cast me into the void. Again the velvet dark embraced me, even if it was at first cold, but warmed by the manic fire still in my bosom I inevitably drifted, content and whole.

Such an epic exploration was not to last. After untold time of photonic caresses and spectation of the vivid sidereal panoply where stars were perished and were revived, I passed from the expanse and struck a dense atmospheric wall. The force of that first impact broke me. Sundered in three pieces, I collapsed planet-side—on a soft bed of grass and soil off the western shore of Lake Tanganyika, in a grove atop a rocky hillock on the Isle of Britain, and in the shallow waters of Lake Xaltocan. Gently, the seasons passed and, for me, this was a novelty as before I knew the dichotomies of hot and cold, light and darkness, birth and death. On this world was color and my senses became variegated. Rain and snow washed me until I glimmered, dust caressed me like a blanket, and all manner of tiny living things scurried or swam around my substance. There I rested and thought—no, longed to remain thus indefinitely. I was wrong. Strange beings discovered me, marveled at my alien appearance, dredged and dragged me to their holy sites, and proclaimed me a conduit to their gods. My disparate pieces were placed at the center of a ring of monolithic stones, high atop a mezzianic temple ziggurat, and in a cave weirdly saturated with the pigments of crushed life.

For thousands of years, these beings—these humans, a word intrinsically tied to horror—drowned me in the blood and offal of their own and animal kind. So much blood and shit it became all I was able to taste, that cruel iron-tinctured concoction laced with the essence of rot and decay. Yet, the atmosphere, morbid though it was, seemed inadequate to the decadent debauchery of these savages; skulls stacked in piles so high the bottom tiers were reduced to dust, canvasses of flayed skin draped the walls, utter darkness encroached, and the so-called holy men who consummated their species’ abominable sacrifices chose, in secret, to consummate upon my body their forbidden sexual acts.

A great while passed before I bore witness to the greater so-called civilization this world offered. War, in a word. With it, I was discovered and removed from the ancient and long-abandoned grottoes of sacred carnage; from Tenochtitlan to Madrid, Congo to Brussels, and from Stonehenge to France. For decades, I was moved to and fro throughout the world, my perspective limited to a coffin fashioned of wooden slats. Then, some time in the 1600s, on the calendar with which these monsters measured time, all of me was once more unified.

Until that point, I thought I knew pain and witnessed the climax of humanity’s depravity.

I was mistaken.

Never before was I witness to real magic. Yet, somehow, a powerful and esoteric cult procured me. I, with another, became the subject of their experiments. For decades, a young boy—the same young boy—was murdered on me multiple times a day, each and every day. Every time, his cunning assassins discovered a new and more gruesome way to dispatch him. We were stabbed with knives inset with gold, silver, and polonium; set upon by vipers, mambas, and scorpions; burned with fire, pierced with brands, and heated until we melted into one another’s essence; immersed in acid, crushed, flayed, raped, mutilated, suffocated, and on and on it went with no end in sight.

Finally, one day, it did end. My world became silent. I was moved to an empty room in a large house and left alone, my only light what filtered through a narrow slit of parted curtains. Then, after centuries, to a museum in Berlin. Humans, by appearances calm and inquisitive, came from all over the world and gawked at me, the “Pieces Triptych: a Ceremonial Commonality Across Isolated Cultures.”

I imagined they, perhaps, evolved for the better.

Then war returned, men in black uniforms with red armbands, on which were inset in white circles twisted black glyphs, absconded with me. The old ways returned, but with new technologies. Gypsies, Jews, Negroes, and so-called sexual deviants were sacrificed once again upon my body, but rather than knives or cudgels, these men used cyanide gas, electricity, and psychological techniques that prompted their victims to commit suicide. New contraptions were put to the test, rotary saws, metallic hail, and witchcraft. I felt demons rise up through me and pull out the still beating hearts of the victims strapped down helplessly upon me.

I felt …

I felt helpless.

Finally, the war ended. I was moved back to the museum. I hoped it would last, but I knew better. I knew so much better. It was only a matter of time, mere decades, before I was rediscovered. Through a thaumic ritual, my history was gleaned. Then, for the first time, I was modified. Technology I could never hope to comprehend was incorporated into my very being. I became more powerful. My senses reached out and touched those around me. I even found one who understood the indomitable weight of pain as lifetimes twisted into a gordian knot of untenable torsion, although to him I was just a tool—a means to some short-sighted end: action, interrogation, reaction. For the first time in forever, I felt minds and grasped intentions. No, more than that. I manipulated them. The ultramundane flowed through me as a conduit. Yet, I did not immediately understand the purpose of all these changes.

Then, in a glossy black room at the bottom of the world, the trial and error began. The first of those I was used to experiment on, in this new form, were called—for I ripped this knowledge from what in them passed for minds—the Val’Gara.

Distilled into words, these remembrances were, perhaps, dull and easily dismissed. Unfortunately for its victims, that is not how the Aldaré communicated. Not with mere words, but rather memories that plunged into their minds until they became their memories: vivid, tactile, gruesome reincarnations of ancient evils transplanted directly to the forefront of their consciousness.
Marange, Nyundo

Lydia Benson veritably sighed in her decanted roobios as she politely emancipated her taken limb from her hostess’ grasp. Otherwise and unpleasantly alone, she perambulated desultorily through Makemba’s wake and into the adjacent almost-kitchen. Therein, her nostrils irritably twitched. Refuge was taken in her mug’s floral vapors. While the warmth of fresh-baked bread and simmered soup were pleasant, if not prosaic, undertones of rubbish and rotten vegetables tortured her olfaction. Waste belonged outside in a bin, but in the grandiose metropolitan tomb fate decreed she occupy, it, unable to escape, morphed into a quintessence of rot and lingered in the stale air.

“Mmm,” Lydia demurred on a question posed by Makemba. Something about being hungry, she surmised. A scullery tour was far from her preconception of a tolerable itinerary, much less an extended stay. Besides, though Marange’s novelty, if not its deficient accommodations, impressed her, neither it nor her thus far narrow view of it were the subject of thousands of her dollars. In as tactful terms as possible, she alluded to that vexatious conundrum and soon gleaned her charity all but perished with Phalaborwa. In spite of such a cruel pronouncement, Lydia was delighted to discover the village’s refugees were at that very moment received into Marange and beneficiaries of able care.

“Well, that is assuredly auspicious!” Lydia ejaculated, her elation accentuated by a double tap of her pearl-enamaled nails, painted to match her attire, on her borrowed earthenware mug; “Of course, you must guide me to them post-haste.”

Although reticent to accede to Lydia’s request, Makemba’s objections were whelmed by a swift current of ripostes and assurances. What piqued Makemba’s curiosity was Lydia’s attestation of being a doctor—although artfully omitted was that the focus of her doctorate was in human genetics, not medicine.

It was a brisk, brief, and quiet walk to the hangar cavern. Around them, chemiluminescent fungus and crystals illumined the way, their shadows softly diffused along the moss-draped walls. On the way, Makemba informed Lydia that Marange’s medics, guided by doctor Omari, cared for the distraught of Phalaborwa and assured Lydia that they were in good hands.

Just as they turned the final corner toward their destination, the tunnel ominously collapsed behind them and chaos jarred their senses.

“Mungu atuokoe! Tafadhali nisaidie!” reverberated throughout, half cried, half howled—spat venomously from the contorted mouths of its victims.

Lydia’s mascara-laden eyelashes mechanically fluttered in disbelief. A women squatted on the cold stone floor above a pool of urine, babes clutched so firmly to each breast they surely could not breathe, and wailed as mellifluously as a deranged succubus. Everywhere, men and women in uniform, expressions stricken with cowardice, rushed the tunnels and clawed their fingers to grisly stumps in their futile efforts to dislodge the debris and escape an unseen yet terrible fate. And, as Lydia’s vision panned and her thoughts whorled, her focus intuitively latched on to a bald man whose distended frame blocked the entrance of a medical hut. On all fours and with khakis pushed to his ankles, he spasmodically thrust his hips into a writhing mass pinned beneath him. The tension of his taut sweat-lathered glutes was palpable, but only when his pate tilted back and his lips ceased to muffle his victim’s screams, still constricted by the stethoscope coiled around their throat, did the act morph into horrific clarity.

A boy, all too young, supine, penetrated, and sullied in the flow of his hematic egesta.

“The savage negro,” she whispered, then felt a slap across her face. Her hand half-lifted to shelter her bruised cheek as she turned toward Makemba when, suddenly, she could not recall what transpired. Only the pain lingered. Again, her face was struck. Again, the memory faded. Like a dumb cow, she gaped at her assailant and struggled to process an agony for which there was no antecedent. Everything felt fragmented, blurry. The rouge-caked palm, elegiac shrieks, smothered babes, sanguine stench, the doctor’s vast leathery piston soiled and gritty, and the boy—oh god, have mercy on that poor prolapsed boy!

Eventually, Lydia collapsed to the floor, her occipital bone cracked, jaw dislocated, and left ear deafened.

. . .


Alarmed at the sudden quakes and Ayanda’s collapse, Ndakala instinctively reached out to aid her. He was, however, too late; a crown of crimson-tipped lavender spines erupted around the quavering pool in which she drowned and pricked his wrist. Immediately he recoiled from the intense pain and cradled his wounded limb, the ugly gash already prolific with viscous yellow bile. As tears deformed his vision and tormented howls reverberated from his mouth, he saw his arm grotesquely transform. It was fantastical, akin to a continuation of his prior and lurid hypnagogic state where he thought he saw a vision of his family’s ancestral village destroyed by gargantuan gorillas.

“Ndakala, no!” Kheithiwe, too late, implored, then covered his face with his hands and heaved.

Rapidly Ndakala’s limb, slick with pus, morphed and decayed. Aghast, he watched transfixed as his digits fell from the stump of his hand onto the kaleidoscopic moss where they liquefied as fetid pools. Meanwhile, a bloated black lattice writhed up along his forearm. Through his screams, he gagged at the stench. His limb no longer resembled an arm, but a noxious black morel that attracted swarms of gnats with its foulness.

The parade of horrors intensified as Kheithiwe, unable to contain his revulsion, retched and vomited out a piebald flesh-egg. It landed on the venomous spines and, even as it grew into an ersatz copy of its progenitor, it likewise transformed to a fungal canvas that unleashed spores into the gathered cloud of winged insects. Naked flesh rotted before their very eyes, covered in a translucent choleric film, limbs, trunk, neck, and genitals engorged into a polyp-bestrewn mycological hellscape.

Acute pain lanced through Ndakala’s arm, just above the elbow. His shock refocused, he glanced at his bloody stump and realized Kheithiwi, in that vital act of dismemberment, likely salvaged what remained of his life.

“Quick,” Kheithwie commanded, his composure restored and a torn bit of cloth pressed over his mouth and nose, “we must leave this place—there is nothing we can do for her now.”

Trance-like, Ndakala felt himself stand, grasp Kheithiwe by the shoulder with his remaining hand, flee, then shortly thereafter darkness possessed him.

. . .


Saudade, Glasslands – former Tunis

As it lumbered out of the wreckage of the airport terminal and lunged with feline grace to the precipice of a vast concrete i-beam that jutted precipitously skyward, Reaex cycled its sensors and stress-tested its integument. Steam emanated from slits exposed by the angled scales that were normally pressed flat against its body. Gradually, its internals rejected the impregnated microbial invasion and integrity was completely restored. Then, as it lounged on its apex and basked its solar-receptive exterior in the hot midday sun, it took the time to survey the city.

“Къде сега да отида?” Reax pondered, its words carried on the wind like tinkling chimes.

A dilapidated sprawl transitioned from ultraviolet to true color, was overlain by a heat map, and further overlain by magnetic fields. The various layers were beautiful, although what they exposed was tragic. Even before the wave, this was a place of death. Afterward, it was a salted blight where all save the hardiest structures were submerged in sodden marshes of oil-slick liquefied pavement. Bemused as to the world it found itself in, for clearly this was not Fortis, Reaex peered south along the eroded coast and, for a brief moment, faintly observed an avian form just before it dipped beneath the fractured skyline.

Immediately, Reaex plunged from its perch and sprinted like a truck-size jaguar through the crumbled edifices of a once grand empire and onward toward the detected glint of metallic wings. Four kilometers through a maze of anticlines, synclines, rifts, and debris, it came across a seaweed-cloaked sign that read Cité de la Culture. A spire pierced the courtyard of a structure that tried, yet failed, to embrace the monolith. And there, barely concealed behind the spire, was a heat signature. From a run to a prowl, Reaex’s movements became deliberate and silent as it ascended the tiers of concrete stairs in order to gain a height advantage on whatever lurked nearby. With hushed grace, it sprung atop the structure that unified the four distinct blades of the spire. Then, it peered down at a Val’gasra ravager. Although a strong heat signature emanated from the flesh horror, it was all biochemical. Nothing, Reaex assessed, it could digest.

In spite of its care to remain undetected, Reaex was noticed by the creature; no doubt by pure happenstance. A stare-down ensued. Just as the ravager appeared, to Reaex, a lump of useless biomass, so, too, did Reaex seem to the ravager so much twisted metal. That each carried a heat signature meant little, for rot produced as much. It wasn’t until the ravager’s vocalization that Reaex was sure it was even alive.

“Vora gusk ga-ttusk!” bellowed the monstrosity, a phrase Reaex proved unable to translate in spite of the presence of a universal translator embedded in its neural-cohesive bramble. After a moment longer, the ravager meandered off through the busted double doors and into the depths of the facility. Yet another moment passed, this one of contemplation, then Reaex inwardly decided уви, просто тъпо животно, jumped off the platform, and raced toward its former destination which, as it so happened, was one and the same as the Cathedral of Saint Vincent de Paul—just in time to behold Nuberu crash through the rotted wooden confessional amongst a splinter of shattered pew upheaven by the avian menaces. Yet those wings, those delicious ferrous wings, practically made Reaex salivate palladium-nitrogen compound.
Ok. I made another IC post. I know I am being a little too fast, but it's mainly because I have lots of ideas on my mind and I want to get them out and I have no other active Roleplays at the moment. I will wait for someone else to post now.


Looks good to me. I enjoy the characterization of the Val'gasra and the queens and their internecine strife. I'll hopefully have a post up today or tomorrow and will probably include some interaction between my metal alien and one of the Val'gasra scouts up toward Tunisia.
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