Fiscbryne

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Sounds great! I’m definitely still interested.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Thank you! That sounds really good to me. I had mainly been concerned with 'savagery' and that sort of stereotyping but it sounds like that won't be a problem! Much appreciated.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

Something just came to me—since you mentioned Skrælingjar in the OP, how will you depict them? Given the RP setting in the real Americas, will they be based on real Native American/First Nations peoples? And with that in mind, how do you see their conflict with the Norse being portrayed? I think that sort of a conflict is interesting to play with, but I'm a little concerned over the possibility of perpetuating settler-colonialist myths about indigenous people within the RP.

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

@Fiscbryne, great! Any questions at this time?

@Pagemaster

Cheers! I mainly wanted to ask where you wanted to go in terms of history vs. myth, if you wanted to lean more into the historical/archeological record for inspiration or the literary record like in the sagas of Icelanders. Are there magic runes, draugr, elves, dwarves and their like? If not, do people still believe in them?

The Unknown Lands: A Viking Saga

I’d definitely be interested! This sounds really cool.

Star Wars: The Heretic

The following is a collaboration between @seonhyang and myself.

---

Mardji’s Cantina, the Bitter End

When freshly-grilled tip-yip skewers arrived to the tavern booth, Jomu Sathwe stopped in the middle of talking to snatch one onto a plate already piled high with stir-fried garlic noodles and deep-fried soypro. “So—as you were saying—you are looking for a bad man?” the Guardian of the Whills asked between bites. “I didn’t take you to be that kind of woman—but I would not judge your heart’s desires.”

He laughed teasingly between bites of the tip-yip, though all the while his eyes remained fixed on Sira Hayan’s features as he felt for her feelings through the Force. The skewers he ate with his hands, pulling one piece of succulent tip-yip off of the skewer after another. He had nearly wiped his greasy fingers on his disheveled kasaya robes before quickly reconsidering and settling for a napkin instead. “I don’t understand what the problem is—but it is always hard for a man to understand problems when he is so terribly hungry and parched! What Brother Jomu is looking for,” he replied with a look towards the empty bottle on the table, “is a refill of Corellian lum. And further explanation.”

Sira glanced out into the tables beyond them, all awash in a fluorescent glow, before looking back towards Jomu. “‘Bad’ may or may not be an understatement,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “And that's not what my ‘heart desires.’ Perhaps all the booze has been getting to you, Brother.”

She smiled before standing, beckoning a server over with a sweep of her hand. The air around her was almost sickly sweet; despite that, the scent was almost soothing before it mingled with the grease of the food stacked between them—mostly on the monk's side of the table.

“Hey, can we get the good Brother here a refill? On my tab.” Flashing a grin, she leaned back in her seat. "And a bitterfruit liquor for me, please!" After the server wrote down their orders, Sira waited for her to walk off before continuing with an impish glimmer in her eye. “You might be the only person I know who understands problems better after a few drinks.”

She plucked a single skewer off the plate between them, twirling it in her hand. “Now, don't get this twisted, Brother Jomu—this isn't personal, just professional. But in the glamorous life of a smuggler, one sometimes comes across... obstacles. I've been having an issue with a supplier, getting things through Empire ports ever since they tugged on the leash and tightened regulations. Come to think of it, I don't think there's one person in this business without this problem by now.”

She took a bite from the skewer, humming at the taste before adding, “I heard there's a man here at the Bitter End who might be able to help, but he doesn't exactly have a clean record—not even by my standards. I'm not sure anyone or anything could wipe the red from his ledger. But for all I know, he's the only person who could help me with this job.”

“There are so many people passing through here day by day,” Jomu said, his voice suddenly turning more serious. “Perhaps he got away while we were drinking—just slipped right by us—and you had to do the job without him. I wouldn’t fault you if that were to happen, sister. Mistakes happen, even to the best of smugglers. Would that satisfy your conscience and your honor?”

While Sira shook her head, her lips were still fixed into her usual blithe smile. “I'm sorry, Brother, I'm afraid that isn't it. The point is—I need him for the job, but he's no saint. If I find him and he agrees to be my... associate, am I complicit in everything this man might have done? Or will he have to slip right by, out of my clutches, and will I have to follow up on an opening created by the mere coincidence of this man's arrival?”

“Let me tell you a secret, Sira: I killed a man yesterday,” Jomu suddenly said, his tone not yet betraying if this was a true story or yet another one of his parables. He lowered his voice as he set down his cleaned skewer, wiping his hands before continuing. “It was over the last bottle of Corellian brandy in the cantina. I was in such a rage that the bartender would let a mere scoundrel like him have that drink and not I, the holiest man in the Bitter End, and so I did the only rational thing I could: I whacked him. Cracked his skull open—and now he’s dead. But you, sister—you have just filled my belly and quenched my thirsty, unfortunately. Are you too complicit in this foul murder for giving me food and drink, for being kind?”

The monk sat back in his seat. “Of course, you knew nothing of the murder. But now you do, and it begs the question: where else would you find such advice in the Bitter End? Not from Adamantious Xen, surely, nor from pirates or smugglers or their ilk. Shall you keep the company of a murderous Guardian of the Whills whose savage deed betrays the compunctions of his order—betrays your own morals—to keep his counsel? Or shall you go without advice at all, venturing friendlessly into the firmament full of stars?”

For a few brief heartbeats, Sira fell quiet. Then she tossed her head back; the silvery trill of her laughter blended in to the routine noise of the cantina, the dull hum of conversation in which words slurred into one another. “Oh, Brother Jomu. While I am sure you would be most wronged to be deprived of the last Corellian lum, I wonder... do you take me for a fool?” A wry grin cracked across her face. “Has the good Brother Jomu been begging for bail and not alms for all the time I have known him?”

She opened her mouth to continue only to bite her tongue when the Twi'lek server was circling by. Sitting up straight in her seat, Sira accepted their drinks, both the bottle—which she quickly set in front of Jomu—and the orange bitterfruit liquor. Only when they were alone once more could she continue. “Surely a good and pious ascetic like yourself wouldn't toy with a guileless young spacefarer by telling her that you're a murderer!” Her smile sobers slightly, tightened at the edges. “She'd have to admit that she knew nothing of your true nature. A generous soul would say she'd be at fault for nothing except for her own foolishness. A Hutt might say that she's too stupid to be of much use-though from all I've seen, idiots rarely fail to find work somewhere in the Galaxy.”

Jomu chuckled back at her, flashing an eager grin before he cracked open the bottle with a sharp hiss and downed a gulp of lum. “Any idiot finds work,” he replied. “A smart man sits with his alms bowl in hand and sings the day away—but clearly some of us haven’t yet learned that.”

“A smart man must be raking in credits. It’s especially easy for him because he doesn’t have to pay for his own drinks.”

“But the point of what I was saying is that the choice is hard; you had to think about it, didn’t you?”

Sira popped the collar of her jacket, pursing her lips ever so faintly as she found herself drifting off in thought. “Yeah, it’s not the easiest choice to make, especially for someone like me who likes to think as little as possible.” She grinned again, creases of mirth lining the corners of her eyes, and leaned forward in her seat.

The monk ate before speaking again, slurping down nearly half of his noodles. With her elbows resting on the table, Sira waited for him to finish eating and continue. A few sips from her drink made the moment of quiet pass faster.

Jomu wiped his mouth and soon continued. “I find that thing you said to be funny: ‘true nature.’ There is no such thing! Are you a good person, Sira? Are you bad? I suspect the answer to that question depends on who you ask. And I suspect that your answer is not constant from day to day. The truth is that life is full of change and uncertainty. Life is filled with difficult choices and it is often when we cannot stray from cruelty. Especially in these parts of the Galaxy. To speak of what one is serves only as a false and illusory comfort.

“Let me teach you a poem of the Toribota for when you become smart and give up smuggling for a career of mendicancy. Perhaps it will provide you comfort that is more true:

In darkness, I follow
the light and find my way
to the beginning
again,
and again,
and again.

“Even in the darkest of places you may go towards the light. If you need him, and if your cause is just, then do what you must. But keep your heart focused on that which is good in the world—remember that the Force binds us all, and that through its bonds what is done unto the one shall affect us all.”

While he continued remarking on Sira’s words, she remained silent, tracing the rim of her glass with a single fingernail. She knew more of difficult choices between multiple options, all cruel in their own ways, than her easy smile would betray. False comforts were no strangers, either. “A career of mendicancy,” she mused. “Imagine that, a Zeltron monk. Perhaps I’d put you—and a few bars—out of business, what with my livers, if I spent my days that way.”

Taking another long sip of sweet liquor, Sira glanced aside, scanning the crowd in the cantina for any familiar faces. “The Force binds us all,” she echoed. “That makes enough sense. Pain, injustice, deprivation—those things don’t exist in a vacuum. What one person endures isn’t completely isolated from how those who surround them—and then their own circles, and the circles of the people in their circles—will live. We share suffering, but we could also share a little goodness. Something done right in this corner of the Galaxy, for once.”

“Lum in my belly is a little goodness in my book,” Jomu jested, taking another swig. He peered at her over the top of the bottle for a moment, feeling for and then processing her emotions the Force. “You have kindness in your heart, Sira. It means much that you consider these questions so deeply—that you seek out advice. For what little a beggar’s opinion is worth... I do not think you will be so easily led astray.”

Nodding to his words, she took a long drink of bitterfruit liquor before setting her cup down. Only a bare trace of orange liquid remained in the bottom. “Well, I understand that spiritual guidance doesn’t come free,” she teased, smiling. “A beggar’s opinion can mean quite a bit at the right time, Brother.”

Sira’s idle gaze drifted out over the crowd of patrons filling the bar. While she once again searched for any familiar faces, the calm set of her smile, eyes half-lidded as if addled by drink, betrayed none of her intention. Her skewer, half of which was still untouched, was abandoned on her plate.

Star Wars: The Heretic

Name: Jomu Sathwe
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Profession: Mendicant; ostensibly a Guardian of the Whills
Reason for being present in the Bitter End: Jomu is an itinerant monk who begs for alms, sings half-remembered prayers of the Disciples of the Whills, and—for the few who will accept it—offers spiritual advice in the Bitter End. He lingers in the Bitter End because of the kyber trade there—the kyber provides him a stronger connection to the Force while Adamantious Xen’s opposition to the Empire allows him to practice his faith freely.

Looks:
A jovial mendicant garbed in the charcoal kasaya traditional to the Guardians of the Whills. Though he diligently crops his black hair short like other monks, his clothing is often in disarray with his robe usually half-open and the red antaravasa underneath darkened at its hem from years of begging, fighting, and travel. Regardless, he remains quick-witted and strong with his tongue sharp, his body honed, and his movements those of a well-trained fighter.

His dark eyes are quick and perceptive; as a Guardian he has ever been fonder of the here-and-now than the mysteries of the Force, though historically that has often meant nights at the tavern. His face flushes quickly with drink—when not begging or singing, he is usually seen pink in the face with a bottle of Corellian liquor in his hand, bent-double over some game of dice.

Not to remain unarmed when begging or when gambling among pirates and outlaws, he bears the traditional weapons of the Guardians of the Whills: a powerful lightbow (its accompanying impeller gauntlet on his left arm), a staff of uneti-wood with a kyber sliver in its cap, and an unerring faith in the will of the Force.

Portrait of Jomu Sathwe

Personality Description:
For a monk, Jomu is terribly unorthodox. He is a Guardian of the Whills fonder of his nightly Corellian liquor and sabacc than his daily begging. Though usually amicable, he is quick to argue when it comes to matters of faith, eager to probe others for their thoughts and to play devil’s advocate. He is suspicious of both the CIS and the Republic but reserves his ire for the Empire’s brutality. Above all else he believes in oneness with the Force, stressing the interconnectedness of all living beings. Though he recognizes the necessity of violence at times, he has a distaste for killing and prefers to avoid bloodshed if possible.

Character Bio:
Born on Jedha, Jomu Sathwe was inducted into the Guardians of the Whills as a boy and completed the seventh duan of the order after a decade of practice much to his master’s chagrin. Like others of his order, he had become skilled in body and mind—but he grew fond of drink and other luxuries uncharacteristic of the Guardians, eschewing much of the order’s traditions as an ill-favored iconoclast. Much of his time was spent not in the Temple of the Kyber but rather in the surrounding bars of Jedha City. Despite his irreverent attitude, however, he was tolerated because of his knowledge of the Force and his genuine desire to help pilgrims to Jedha wherever they might be—but just barely. Soon after completing the seventh duan of the Guardians of the Whills and constructing his lightbow, he became dissatisfied with life on the isolated moon of Jedha. Without any warning, he set out from Jedha with no possessions save the robes on his back, his alms bowl, and his monk’s weapons, feeling for the will of the Force and helping those in need—and giving the other Guardians back on Jedha a sigh of relief.

In his travels, he has made something of a name for himself—though more as a reprobate gambler than as a monk. Still, he professes to be a Guardian of the Whills in spirit if not in name, offering both spiritual guidance to the few at Bitter End willing to entertain his musings on the Force as well as protection for those who cannot défend themselves.

Star Wars: The Heretic

Name: Jomu Sathwe
Species: Human
Sex: Male
Profession: Mendicant; ostensibly a Guardian of the Whills
Reason for being present in the Bitter End: Jomu is an itinerant monk who begs for alms, sings half-remembered prayers of the Disciples of the Whills, and—for the few who will accept it—offers spiritual advice in the Bitter End. He lingers in the Bitter End because of the kyber trade there—the kyber provides him a stronger connection to the Force while Adamantious Xen’s opposition to the Empire allows him to practice his faith freely.

Looks:
A jovial mendicant garbed in the charcoal kasaya traditional to the Guardians of the Whills. Though he diligently crops his black hair short like other monks, his clothing is often in disarray with his robe usually half-open and the red antaravasa underneath darkened at its hem from years of begging, fighting, and travel. Regardless, he remains quick-witted and strong with his tongue sharp, his body honed, and his movements those of a well-trained fighter.

His dark eyes are quick and perceptive; as a Guardian he has ever been fonder of the here-and-now than the mysteries of the Force, though historically that has often meant nights at the tavern. His lean face flushes quickly with drink—when not begging or singing, he is usually seen pink in the face with a bottle of Corellian liquor in his hand, bent-double over some game of dice.

Not to remain unarmed when begging or when gambling among pirates and outlaws, he bears the traditional weapons of the Guardians of the Whills: a powerful lightbow (its accompanying impeller gauntlet on his left arm), a staff of uneti-wood with a kyber sliver in its cap, and an unerring faith in the will of the Force.

Personality Description:
For a monk, Jomu is terribly unorthodox. He is a Guardian of the Whills fonder of his nightly Corellian liquor and sabacc than his daily begging. Though usually amicable, he is quick to argue when it comes to matters of faith, eager to probe others for their thoughts and to play devil’s advocate. He is suspicious of both the CIS and the Republic but reserves his ire for the Empire’s brutality. Above all else he believes in oneness with the Force, stressing the interconnectedness of all living beings. Though he recognizes the necessity of violence at times, he has a distaste for killing and prefers to avoid bloodshed if possible.

Character Bio:
Born on Jedha, Jomu Sathwe was inducted into the Guardians of the Whills as a boy and completed the seventh duan of the order after a decade of practice much to his master’s chagrin. Like others of his order, he had become skilled in body and mind—but he grew fond of drink and other luxuries uncharacteristic of the Guardians, eschewing much of the order’s traditions as an ill-favored iconoclast. Much of his time was spent not in the Temple of the Kyber but rather in the surrounding bars of Jedha City. Despite his irreverent attitude, however, he was tolerated because of his knowledge of the Force and his genuine desire to help pilgrims to Jedha wherever they might be—but just barely. Soon after completing the seventh duan of the Guardians of the Whills and constructing his lightbow, he became dissatisfied with life on the isolated moon of Jedha. Without any warning, he set out from Jedha with no possessions save the robes on his back, his alms bowl, and his monk’s weapons, feeling for the will of the Force and helping those in need—and giving the other Guardians back on Jedha a sigh of relief.

In his travels, he has made something of a name for himself—though more as a reprobate gambler than as a monk. Still, he professes to be a Guardian of the Whills in spirit if not in name, offering both spiritual guidance to the few at Bitter End willing to entertain his musings on the Force as well as protection for those who cannot défend themselves.

Star Wars: The Heretic

I’m interested in this! It sounds like a great premise.

Wal Quest - Interactive Post Apocalyptic Quest

[X] - A premium Wal-Pachinko lottery card. Many an aisler died attempting to get their hands on a lottery card and fewer have found a usable Wal-Pachinko machine. If you could find a working Wal-Pachinko machine, you would receive treasures that the Tronic Temple would gleefully sell entire tracts of their Department to buy.