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Current Back From The Ashes. Again.
5 yrs ago
Don't sweat the small stuff, it's all in your head
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5 yrs ago
Back From The Ashes


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The music blared at a volume approaching intrusive. If not for the modern specifications of the Galatea and the heavy modifications she'd overseen to this room's structure, it certainly would have filled the halls outside with the heavy instrumentation of the punk rock music that throbbed from the walls of Banshee's room. The Microcamera whirrs silently in its housing and takes in the scene thus;

Banshee was dressed casually in a slim tanktop overtop a form-fitting bodysuit. Her muscular frame and squared shoulders were prominently featured in this attire, and her hair curled in its perpetual wisp-state at a medium length about her shoulders in a desperate attempt to maintain a semblance of peaceful positioning as she bobbed her head from side to side with the beat of the music.


She murmured along with the lyrics, kneeling before the hulking mass of her armored plating. The modular system was arrayed on its arming station, waiting to be attached to the nearby Military Suit which rested on its own display. Both were wired together, the devices communicating intangibly, as Banshee shook a spray-applicator in one hand, the other tracing over a battle-gouge in the armor place that would be over her stomach on the right side.

"I see...A world...Dy-ing..." Her voice quietly intoned the choir-esque chant of the song's chorus. She brought the spray-applicator forth, and in slow and deliberate movements coated the armor plate in delicate lines of paint. For now the armor was an array of chaotic lines and unintelligible patterns, but she knew what she was doing. She'd seen the pattern arrayed in the three-dimensional overlay, and was just following her design template at this point. But the work had to be done. Her soft voice continued even as she patiently crafted a gradient shade within a delicate arc against the battle scarred armor plate; "...Of an...Assisted suicide..."

She whirled the applicator in hand and stepped back. She appraised her handiwork with a prideful air, a gentle satisfaction at completing a personal hobby goal filling her. The array of armored plating was finally done. It'd been months since her last combat scenario, and she'd decided to use that time to put some personality into her persona. She shut her eyes, her body moving subtly into the writhings of a dance before she energetically jumped into the next verse of the song, kicking a leg into the air and twirling about the room strumming at an invisible air-guitar.



"Rise and shine, crew. Get your asses to the Mission Deck in ten, gotta brief everyone before we touch down."

The captain's voice cut the music down to a whisper of background noise, and with its declining crescendo so too did Banshee decline; she groaned quietly, whirled about in place one final time, and fell back into her bed as she waved a hand and triggered her Holo to halt the music. For a few moments, the quietness surrounded and filled her. She breathed it in, the gentle smoky haze of her room filling her lungs. When she exhaled, she sat up straight and stretched her arms behind her head.

"Alright Banshee, finally got something to do." She said to herself as she peeled the tanktop off her bodysuit and approached her Pressure Suit. She stepped into its opening and felt the familiar sensation of the suit wrapping around her body, gently pulling her arms and legs into their correct positions as she rose into its interface. The helmet flared to life as the back plating sealed shut and the entire suit thrummed with life. After a moment, a loud hissing sound filled the air as the suit pressurized itself and began to regulate and circulate Thetos-Atmosphere within for Banshee's benefit. Flexing her arms within their articulated servo-joints, Banshee acclimatized instantly into the senseless interactions of her Pressure Suit. She took a single step forward, rapped her knuckles upon a nearby armor plate for good luck, and in the next step strapped her Laser Pistol to her hip.

"[Contextual Translation: People-Ender, Approach This One]" She commanded to the orb, flickering it to life with the command phrase. It rose off her bedside table in a gentle thrum of its mechanisms, then flew rapidly towards her and slotted itself into its housing at the small of her back. She never went anywhere without the Attan-ta or pistol; business was just business, after all, and this crew was still new to her...

She stepped into the airlock to vent the toxic gas she inhabited, rolled her neck, and stepped into the unbreathable world of the Galatea.

The six-foot-eight-inch tall military suit walked its way into the Mission Deck on light footfalls. Despite the weight of the suit, Banshee was a skilled pilot of the mechanism and without the extra weight of the full set of armor she was able to wield her body's natural agility extremely well. She demurely dragged a hand along the wall, her helmet's HUD scanning and noting those already present.

"Hope I'm not late. Girl's gotta be careful these days, one wrong stroke of the brush and 'fwoosh', whole makeover's gone up in smoke." She joked, opting to rest against the wall near the door she entered. "But at least my ass arrived in one piece. I do remember that being specifically requested, captain. Sorry the rest of me had to come with."

Her movements were casual and accented by the soft sounds of complex and powerful servos maneuvering the powered suit around her limbs, and her final posture was that of crossed arms over her chest and one leg propped against the doorframe. Casual and comfortable.
Happy US Thanksgiving, my companions.

Hmm. In this circumstance I don't think there's anything too crazy to really reveal; it's an item small enough to be held in one hand, and appears to slide into a groove carved into the Farmer's hand to be secure. This is unlike the Rose in the Prince's hand, which is simply set into his hand and loose.


A religion check would be what I need for that; go ahead and roll again :)
I love that because of Battletech Er, Warhammer, er… Dune, everyone who’s mentioned shields in any sci fi influence follows the rules of ‘slow things beat shields’.

As my musings advance, I have to come to terms with the fact that the closest comparable suit of armor for Banshee I’ve been able to find is Spartan Mjolnir armor from Halo, meaning that if I ballpark armor weight to intended fantasy of defensive power she’d weigh in at roughly 750-1,000 pounds in her pressure suit when it’s fully kitted and armored. I’ll make note that the bulk of armor can be modularly attached so she’s not casually chilling in the ship in a half ton of ass kicking gear trying to eat dinner or something.
I’m making steady progress in my elaborated backstory, but am making a trip this weekend so delays in my writing are to be expected. I know this is purely extra at this point because I hit the high points on Banshee’s sheet, but I’m having fun with this and figured I’d just make an update.

On the silly side, the more people get approved the more ammo I get in this longform fanfiction I’m crafting for galaxy details /s.
You FOOLS. Capitalism is ALIVE AND WELL in SPACE. Who else would be FUNDING the LAW which we are OUTSIDE of, HM?
Excellent. A pilot. Someone to do my zero G shenanigans with.

There’s ‘Using art’, and there’s ‘crediting artists’, then there’s ‘drawing your own art’. You’re a king/queen, keep up the efforts. Mad kudos to anyone who has the inclination for visual arts. As someone with an inability to visualize images in my mind, I respect it.
I have fulfilled my obligation to the lords of this land and regretfully must now go fulfill my obligations to the lady of my own manor. I must do chores. Huzzah.
Entering The Barrow-Hill

With the collective strength of the party, as well as the awareness of custom endowed by Dag'Tyr's religious knowledge, the required haste to avoid detection by the River pirates is met. The capstone reacts to Dag'tyr's hymn and trembles, and with the assistance of the party's physically powerful companions is removed. A ramp of dry earth descends down into the stale air and darkness of the tomb. As if drawing the first breath in time untold, the warm air of the day is sucked into that dark tunnel. The descent is dim, but the Noctem eyes in the group see a clear path that soon gives way to carved stone steps. Whether guided in the dark by their dark-vision possessing companions, or by way of producing a light source, the way is safe.

The earthen ramp gives way to the sureness of stone steps, the steps lead down into a widening, circular, room. The darkness of this place is heavy and thick- but presuming a light source is produced, the party sees the antechamber of the tomb;

The walls and floor are a smoothed stone. Alcoves are carved into the walls at regular intervals, housing statues preserved by the tomb against the elements and time. The statues are complex depictions of humanoid figures, man and woman, all kneeling with outstretched hands.
The statue opposite the entrance is a lordly figure, depicted in chain armor and holding a Warhammer aloft whilst leaning upon a shield to his front. The shield is cracked, a deliberate bit of artistry from the carver rather than the wear and tear of elements, but is held together by a growth of vines. These same vines coil about the Lordly Figure's boots, and rise up his armored legs as if the stone vines are climbing his personage.

The statue to the left of the Entrance is a robed woman, hands clasped as if in prayer. Nothing stands out about her, her hood is drawn over her head and she has no facial features whatsoever. The silhouette within the hood is blank and featureless, and the only thing that assures the party this statue is not unfinished is the immense detail in the clasped hands; her nails curl into the backs of her own hands, where they dig deep scores into her 'flesh' and the stone fingers are even detailed to depict, in frozen macabre, dripping blood from this tightly gripped prayer.

The statue between the Robed Woman and the Lordly Figure is a man whose gaze focuses upon the ground in front of him, a farming hoe leaned upon one shoulder while his other hand lies empty and angled towards the ground. {Passive Investigation: I'Rajith} The hand is clearly meant to be grasping something- but whatever tool or object is supposed to be in his grasp is missing.

The statue to the right of the entrance is a woman with ropes bound about her arms, depicted in the uniform of a lord's yeoman. It is clear the intention of the statue is to depict someone at work on a boat. {Passive Perception: Iris, Amaryllis} The statue appears gripped by sorrow, even in its stony features. The ropes of the ship are shackles. The uniform is prisoner's garb. The detailed work of this statue rivals that of the Lordly Figure, but is far more subtle and focused on capturing this understated and soft eminence of sadness. Smile lines give way to wrinkles of worry; calloused hands grip the ropes tightly as they descend into the stone floor at the front of the statue; is she raising anchor, or fighting with her bonds? Someone cared for this woman greatly.

Between the Sailor Woman and the Lordly Figure is a youthful man. He is garbed in finery, and is poised in the midst of a poetic recital. His outstretched hand offers up a singular rose, stem adorned in thorns. His other hand touches upon his own breast in a display of tenderness. {Passive Investigation: I'Rajith} The rose is stone, but is a separate piece of craftmanship; it can be removed from the Prince's hand.

Four paths [Five, counting the Entrance] extend outwards from this circular antechamber between the statues. Each descends downwards at identical angles. They each end in stone doors, hiding whatever lies beyond. For the sake of ease, these paths will be called Paths 1-4, radiating left from the entrance starting with Path 1 [Between the Robed Woman and the Farmer] and ending with Path 4 [between the Sailor and the Prince].

A silence grips this place. Your own footsteps and breathing fill this place. Stir it. And with the stirrings of your own lives, a gently rising wrongness seems to stir as well. Something about this place is off.
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