Helios

Orion Asunder (Space Opera NRP)

~ Ilovačić Mining Array ~

In Orbit of Dralloth - Rogue Planet - Outer Rim

The slim jeweled finger of Claire clicked upon her glass; a strange chartreuse liquid that faintly smoked. She sat amongst a crew of smartly dressed cyborgs in high collared black robes. Together they looked forward out of the command module of the destroyer Whispered Breath, all dabbling in similar elixirs. In their vista was a planet with dense blue forests enlarged to show the globe’s details and intermittent flashes of plasma scarring its surface.

“I do hate invasions.” The delicate voice of Claire quipped. “Why do they even bother? A rogue state adrift in the galaxy. Why would one elect to become an orphan, especially in times such as these?”

“They are lost, High Soul.” Came the sickly cool voice of Admiral Vok. “Wayward creatures who have lost taste for the struggle. At one time Dralloth was a backwater world filled with fringers fighting against their very world to survive. When civilization found them, they fell to its vices, its… comforts.”

“Yes but who gave them the pestilence!?” Claire retorted as she drained the contents of her chalice, smoke licking gingerly out of her nares.

“Perhaps the Augustans…” A young ensign from among the crew conjectured hesitantly.

Claire dropped her glass. “Do not utter such vile ideas. The Augustans know better than to deal in the ilk of artificial intelligence on our borders.” The word intelligence dripped from her tongue as if the creation of it were putrid. “Besides, we need them. The FORMAN needs them. Enough so to adjure their company in this little foray. The FORMAN–in its infinite clarity–has found their participation to add to our legitimacy. To smite a single pathetic system alone screams of colonialism. A civilized coalition ridding the galaxy of anarchy’s metastasis, now that is the work of saints.”

“Will the Imperials come, High Soul? Have you word of them?” Admiral Vok asked. His piercing pale eyes lanced the previous ensign. A quick nod of his head saw the gangly cyborg be ushered away. Admiral Vok returned to pacing inches in front of the projected planet, as if to study its every canopied inch hungrily.

“I do not know. The Auggies are a fickle quiddity. Tied up with their dealings in the Outer Rim, the Concordat, their own self loathing of oligarchs vis-a-vis dictators. The normal ilk of people who cater to the opinions of others, not a divine truth. Just today's truth. Someone’s truth. I trust them as much as I enjoy wearing their footwear; sometimes not at all, yet with the perfect dress they are an accessory that can amaze.”

“If they do join the opening beachhead, I shall see to their arrival personally.” Admiral Vok said with a low bow. “The invasion of Dralloth will not be easy on our own. As you know the resources of our people are highly consumed on the barbarian front. I do hope that this venture will provide a wellspring of support from the Augustans. Proof that our two peoples are united in our needs and capable of sharing our burdens.”

Claire arose from her throne and sauntered over to the tall pale figure, her rapturous red dress clashing with his black robes fiercely. She gave a small kiss on the top of the bald, bowed head and made her way to the exit. “I am trusting you, Vok. The FOREMAN is trusting you. Do not let the toil of these souls go to waste. I am off to charm the diplomats and aristocrats of the galaxy.” she gestured to the air as if to mockingly waltz. “I do hope they are less boring than you all. If nothing else, better dressed. Should you meet the Auggies, do try to add a bit of *zest.*

Kisses!”

—--

A handwritten letter on fine black parchment arrived each of the heads of state and prominent oligarchs of the galaxy. To add to the financial burden of this galactic postage came a present, a small bottle of vibrant green liquid with a slight smoking hue. Fine gold calligraphy wrote:

“XX

Great Citizens of the Galaxy. You are cordially requested to attend the Gala of Souls this coming fortnight at Repository 12, well placed in Penal District 3 of your Ilovacic Mining Array. Together we will bask in the civilization and culture that these many millennia have curated throughout our galaxy. A time to greet old friends and acquire new respect for the children of Orion. Though we cannot and may not wish to rebuild the Federation, we can weave the fibers that once connected its great friends and families. Let us enjoy the company of each other, exchange gifts, and come to understandings that once permeated this galaxy. To shine light on our commonality that–no matter how barbarous or civilized–we are all souls on the same journey through the cosmos. A journey best spent with good company and an aperitif.

I trust you will dress your best and have a present.

Adoring love, XX

Claire Ilovacic”

Orion Asunder (Space Opera NRP)

~ Ilovačić Mining Array ~

Volčić (Ecumenopolis) - Outer Rim

“Is it not beautiful, Claire?”

Delicate fingers laced across the visage of a small porcelain face. The hands belonged to a creature, not entirely human. His body was like that of a marionette. Symmetrical soft lines and crept over his ivory skin; he was a man assembled. In those hands lay something like himself, something real and yet soulless.

A soft female voice responded. “A thing can be beautiful, and yet the creation of it can be an abomination.”

The woman was strikingly elegant. Her dark locks hung about the shoulders of a fine red dress of Augustain make. A peplum hung smartly about her waist with a small clutch bag of priceless Mansadom leather lazily tucked in the nape of her elbow. She stood with an air of presence–or at least self importance. She rocked the penciled heel of her white lace stiletto impatiently. Yet the figure remained at his bench, aweing at the small bodiless face. The porcelain creation.

“She made me too, you know that, Claire. The inspired Lady Ilovacic. I was her first creation, Claire. Does it not honor her to create others in the same way?”

“Robots are an abomination.” The expensive figure retorted sharply. “Surely if she had wanted more of you she would have made them. And yet you were the first and only. The only soulless metal she ever graced with a conscience–”

“--do you not serve a synthetic conscience?”

“It is not.” The venom of the woman cut the air. “The FOREMAN is a program. It is a passage, a community, a grand ideal that is coded into the very fiber of this empire. It has no form, it has no bounds. It is an unstoppable virus of logic and it is the only hope for this galaxy. You may have been the first invention of Josephine Ilovacic, but the FOREMAN was her last; her magnum opus; her final product. You are the miscarriage of brilliance. A soulless mistake. Hiding in the Outer Rim—in a fucking patissere shop.”

The mannequin sat motionless as it absorbed the lashes of Claire. Indeed they sat in a quaint pastry shop, somehow suspended in time. No customers filled its empty booths. And yet it was pristine as if furbished for opening day. The smell of rich cinnamon and buttery delights hung in the air as if the morning rush was dawning. And yet it was all a facsimile. Just like its curator. A perfect moment preserved in perpetuity.

“I am not hiding Caire. She loved to be here. Just like I love it.”

“You cannot love. You can only destroy. You destroy the meaningfulness of life. True life. You are antimatter.”

The stooping robotic figure left its plush seat at the booth and walked entrancingly to the counter. From a small oven he produced a tray of fresh delights with the warm hint of apple. “Lady Ilovacic would come in here every day and sit, just there.” He gestured to his previous rest.

Claire took no notice, still standing like a javelin thrower intent on another assault.

“She would order these beignets and pour over her beautiful work. She made this galaxy a better place, Claire. She created; not just like a scientist, but like an artist. And there one day after a lifetime of truth, and art, and love, in that seat, she died.” He gently separated a pastry, a rich red alluvium running from its warm dough, offering it gingerly to his guest. “It is only right that this place be maintained after her passing. That we sanctify the homely halls of this shope and all that it was in those moments. It is a holy place, divinity runs in the cushion of that seat, in the rich air, in each morsel of this food. It is a part of the greater picture, the divine inspiration. I have kept it this way for over a century now. Just as she left it. And one day, inspiration will strike. She will strike. And the truth, and art, and love of her mind will find a way to reenter this world. She will be the final ingredient to create something to save the entire galaxy, not just the souls of convicts… Do try the beignets.” The delicate hand held the pastry aloft to Claire.

“I am Lady Ilovacic now. Your master is dead. All that will ever come from her is what we have now. All we can do is obey her design. This place is just a sanitarium for your circuit brain. You work to maintain it, to cook, to labor, to give yourself meaning. But these seats are as empty as your soul. You will never matter, your work will never matter, because you are a robot.” Claire stepped to the counter, heels agait, shoulders like the flight of a swan. She snatched a half of the morsel from the lacey metal fingers.

“Have you ever tried eating it, robot? Ever tried being inspired?” She nipped a bite off of a corner, careful not to spoil her thick red maquillage. The vehement look of disgust seeped from her face. “Your work, just like that sugary shit-bread, is a waste. Because you are no more real than rocks in the soil. You will never create truth, or art, or love like an Ilovacic. Your existence is simply a tremor of the earth, rearranging the worthless atoms of dust without purpose. Work is for the soul. Living souls. One day I will convince the FOREMAN to shut down your little museum, shut down your worthless little circuits, and finally return to the dirt every obstacle to Josephine Ilovavicic’s true vision. Unless the Barbarians get to you first. Perhaps when they burn this place to glass you will finally be worth something. A small blip of dopamine in the endless void. Thanks for the beignet. Inspiring.”

Orion Asunder (Space Opera NRP)

Ilovačić Mining Array

Ilovačić Mining Array

"Welcome to the Ilovacic Mining Array, laborer. Your path here was destined, your soul unclean. But through toil you will create goodness. You are the means to the divine end. Your body is a beautiful creation. When your soul has earned a leave from this cruel galaxy, the beauty you create and the beauty you are will live on in perpetuity."

Government Type: Benevolent Autocratic Prison

The FORMAN, the greatest program ever written. An AI that can harness the mortal refuse of the galaxy into something greater. Designed by Josipine Ilovacic for the Federation long ago to service its penal needs, the sentient AI created a sprawling empire in the wake of the Federation's downfall. System by system the masses of unworthy were found, and in the FORMAN’s wisdom and truth harnessed to work the sins of their flesh into the dust of the stars.

The FOREMAN

—

The FORMAN, however, does not serve as the face of this sprawling carcass of an empire. He choses one sentient among his flock: an uncleaned woman of pure flesh, a small visage of hope for the people of this galaxy to see and reflect upon. This chosen is the voice of the great mission and translate the will of the FOREMAN to the galaxy at large. Some say it is the machine's way of finding its own creator, Josephine (who has long since passed). Surely a woman so perfect as to create the greatest creator must be understood, must exist, must always exist, must always be adored. In this era her name is Claire.

Claire Ilovacic

Demographics:

The Mining Array takes in the sentient life of all walks and shepherds them through their short mortal transition. However, the FOREMAN was programmed with very specific code. Those brought into the fold must of its benevolence must:
- Have committed sin.
- Must be made to labor, yet compensated for their toils. Slavery is sin.
- Their flesh cannot be altered unless being “repaired.” See Cleaning
- No robot shall be created or allowed to exist in the Array. Nothing shall pry the Great Labor from the souls of its deserving denizens.
- Only after the death of their soul are they released from this bond, their carcass may be disposed of or repurposed in whatever fashion the FORMAN sees fit to further the Great Labor.

Cleaning: The process of becoming whole again for the purpose of the Great Labor. As its name is fitting, the vast denizens of the Mining Array find their work in the dangerous bowels of terrestrial soil, to the bilious plumes of gas giants, and the frozen crags of comets. The nature of their sacrifice often lends to bodily harm, disease, and other such maladies of the beautiful flesh. These such specimens are cleaned. Cybernetic and genetic enhancements can be used to shepherd the creature back into their labors; however, they come at a price. The modest wages of the the denizen (slavery was illegal by Federation law coding) pale in comparison to the debt of these cures. Thus their labors intensify, their tasks more grueling, the Great Labor more cleansing of their soul. Those who are uncleaned are fresh flesh just newly embarking on this great and beautiful sacrifice. They will come far.

Military:

The Uncleaned - Those of intact flesh are rarely seen in military service. They enjoy the toils of their day and the sleep of their night. Bread and games bates them through the few hours they serve “off the clock.” Yet ever the clock ticks. Ever closer the burdens of the Array close with each rockfall or malfunctioning plasma torch.

The Cleaned

- Those brave souls who still cling to life yet much sacrifice of the flesh has befallen. They are beautiful enhancements like a mural on a slum wall, well on their way to their final breath toiling for the Great Labor.

The Liberated

- Hark! The Great Labor is won! Your soul has ascended and the great and beautiful flesh lies like rotting fruit upon the ground while you are firmly planted in the ether! Behold a Reflection of your great journey! Your flesh shall not go to waste. It shall be cleaned into a great and beautiful masterpiece. It shall serve and protect your fellow laborers until the last cell of your carcass has become again–like you once were–stardust.

Through the Rifts: Progeny [Open!] [Co-GM Run]

Fens of Lochlund

~ Lochlund ~

~ - ~

Government

The voice. They call her Clíodhna. It is the gentle song in the night that all men and women hear in their minds and amongst the evening breeze. She keens to them at dusk when deep mists draw through the moors. She leads them without direction. She pulls at their heart each in their own separate way. Legends say no one has ever seen her, save the suitor she pines for each night. The people have long murmured that she lives on a small bog, deep in the loch where the fog and the faerie light hang like breath. Yet none venture to find her. The only man she will see is the one that belongs to her. Death awaits all else.

Demographics

Lochlund holds host to many races. The disheveled lot that landed here in the time of the Great Rift found quickly that their means to survival lie within each other. Dwarves make up the heaviest weight, with elves, gnomes, ogres, and other such folk a minority in their keep. The woodlands around – with their reaching birches and thick, homely willows – are the lands of the fey. Few see the sight of them, and the denizens of this realm are harassed and worse by their incessant mischief. Pixies have been known to consort with townsfolk the most, though their intentions are never pure. They are an essence integral to this world, larks bent misfortune of its prisoners.

Population

Small and uncounted. The wharf holds enough souls to count as a viable city though humble in wealth and resource. Those who survive these lands are blessed. Those who perish... have a less decided fate. Rumors stir that thousands of souls lost to the deep make their bed in the fen across the loch. A great craft stands in that haunted pace. Even the woodland fey fear it.

~ - ~

Plane Description

The lands of the Loch are harsh, though comical they may be at first glance. In total, the plane is a great fen, bordered by fey-kept wood, further bound by a circle of mountains so high and sharp that they cut through the sky. Dragons and giants are said to tend her cliffs, though no man has ever survived her peaks. They are perhaps nothing more than the night tales mothers give their children to keep them warm in their beds, safe from the sound of the wind. Those poor souls who have survived this prison live in a single wharf town on the edge of the Loch. They keep well away from the folly of the deep and dancing woods, and live from the bounty of the waters beneath and around. They fish her keep and harvest her flora. However, these waters are not kind. No predators roam the lands, but death comes to many who swim weakly or do not heed what words Clíodhna calls in the night.

History

Nothing is left. No books have survived the damp, no wood has survived the rot, the stories that remain are those which kept the people of these lands alive here and now. They are the tales that guide stray minds from the witchlight. They are the paths that harvest a small catch, the mushroom that feeds without turning your child blue, the bogweed that you can pull out of the depths without it pulling you back.

Culture and Society

“Pixies only laugh at blood, and not their own. Stay out of the wood lest you be a joke.” - The first lesson a Loch mother gives. Life revolves around the Loch, the wharf, the small pleasures of this life: still waters and the twinkling lights of the fey from a distance. The lost souls of Lochlund are a miserable lot, and yet they find a kinship and humor in their plight. Small competitions of the muddiest boot are held each night and broken bones are mended with a well concocted bowl of stew. Tales of what one should not do are generally the crux of every conversation. The peak of this advice is staying away from the Big Boat. Its wreckage lies far away opposite the shores of the wharf. And for good reason. It is said that the dead live there, amongst the old ship. The Loch, in its mischievous cruelty, will not even let souls die. They simply gather by the giant craft awaiting passage to the next life in realms beyond.

~ - ~

Governance and Politics

Though the voices of the Loch and pressures of the wood guide the lives of the wharf folk, there is still an unspoken structure within her midst. Quarrels are dealt with at the local pub and boat races are frequent amongst the neighborhoods (to much fanfare). More chronic disputes are settled by the women at meal times, the greatest form of trail in these parts. Most folk pull their weight and realize their plight in a world. Their neighbor is the key to their survival, or at least necessary for hope at a laugh.

Technology and Magic

Magics of the fey twinkle even along the dingy boarded streets of the wharf. It dances in the sky and amongst the constant fog that weaves its arms through every crevice of this realm. It is bounding everywhere and even possesses food and drink. Magic is something of a nuisance to people forced to live through its vexing effects. Drinking a pint might well grow your toenails out of your boots if the brewer chose the wrong seed or crossed the wrong pixy in his travels. With the wrong wax, candles are liable to float bottom up. They fey around torture the people of these lands. They are the stumped toe of every joke. And they know it.

Yet a more sinister magic also lies in these parts. Far across the loch lies the Big Boat. There amongst the runes of ancient trolls and glyphs of great fishes slumbers a hermit. He is perhaps the only townsfolk to ever use the magic of these lands against the lands themselves. There he gathers a herd of those drowned and lost to the loch. There they wait and drink and make merry within the great halls of that gargantuan wrecked boat. It's not known how he came upon this curse. None even know him by name. Many say he walks among the people of the wharf, studying them and listening to their woes. And at night when he hears the keen of Clíodhna, he learns who he will recruit next.

Military Overview

The fighting body of the citizenry is slim. Perhaps a spare drunken dwarf, one hand with a frog gig and the other with dark ale. Yet the powers of the Boat Man are a great cause for concern. How many generations have fallen dead in these lochs? How many could be called upon should the time come?

~ - ~

Additional Info

Don’t let this be a literary mystery. There definitely are dead folk in that boat. And it's a Big Boat.

Through the Rifts: Progeny

Fens of Lochlund (WIP)

~ Lochlund ~

~ - ~

Government

The voice. They call her Clíodhna. It is the gentle song in the night that all men and women hear in their minds and amongst the evening breeze. She keens to them at dusk when deep mists draw through the moors. She leads them without direction. She pulls at their heart each in their own separate way. Legends say no one has ever seen her, save the suitor she pines for each night. The people have long murmured that she lives on a small bog, deep in the loch where the fog and the faerie light hang like breath. Yet none venture to find her. The only man she will see is the one that belongs to her. Death awaits all else.

Demographics

Lochlund holds host to many races. The disheveled lot that landed here in the time of the Great Rift found quickly that their means to survival lie within each other. Dwarves make up the heaviest weight, with elves, gnomes, ogres, and other such folk a minority in their keep. The woodlands around – with their reaching birches and thick, homely willows – are the lands of the fey. Few see the sight of them, and the denizens of this realm are harassed and worse by their incessant mischief. Pixies have been known to consort with townsfolk the most, though their intentions are never pure. They are an essence integral to this world, larks bent misfortune of its prisoners.

Population

Small and uncounted. The wharf holds enough souls to count as a viable city though humble in wealth and resource. Those who survive these lands are blessed. Those who perish... have a less decided fate. Rumors stir that thousands of souls lost to the deep make their bed in the fen across the loch. A great craft stands in that haunted pace. Even the woodland fey fear it.

~ - ~

Plane Description

The lands of the Loch are harsh, though comical they may be at first glance. In total, the plane is a great fen, bordered by fey-kept wood, further bound by a circle of mountains so high and sharp that they cut through the sky. Dragons and giants are said to tend her cliffs, though no man has ever survived her peaks. They are perhaps nothing more than the night tales mothers give their children to keep them warm in their beds, safe from the sound of the wind. Those poor souls who have survived this prison live in a single wharf town on the edge of the Loch. They keep well away from the folly of the deep and dancing woods, and live from the bounty of the waters beneath and around. They fish her keep and harvest her flora. However, these waters are not kind. No predators roam the lands, but death comes to many who swim weakly or do not heed what words Clíodhna calls in the night.

History

Nothing is left. No books have survived the damp, no wood has survived the rot, the stories that remain are those which kept the people of these lands alive here and now. They are the tales that guide stray minds from the witchlight. They are the paths that harvest a small catch, the mushroom that feeds without turning your child blue, the bogweed that you can pull out of the depths without it pulling you back.

Culture and Society

“Pixies only laugh at blood, and not their own. Stay out of the wood lest you be a joke.” - The first lesson a Loch mother gives. Life revolves around the Loch, the wharf, the small pleasures of this life: still waters and the twinkling lights of the fey from a distance. The lost souls of Lochlund are a miserable lot, and yet they find a kinship and humor in their plight. Small competitions of the muddiest boot are held each night and broken bones are mended with a well concocted bowl of stew. Tales of what one should not do are generally the crux of every conversation. The peak of this advice is staying away from the Big Boat. Its wreckage lies far away opposite the shores of the wharf. And for good reason. It is said that the dead live there, amongst the old ship. The Loch, in its mischievous cruelty, will not even let souls die. They simply gather by the giant craft awaiting passage to the next life in realms beyond.

~ - ~

Governance and Politics

Though the voices of the Loch and pressures of the wood guide the lives of the wharf folk, there is still an unspoken structure within her midst. Quarrels are dealt with at the local pub and boat races are frequent amongst the neighborhoods (to much fanfare). More chronic disputes are settled by the women at meal times, the greatest form of trail in these parts. Most folk pull their weight and realize their plight in a world. Their neighbor is the key to their survival, or at least necessary for hope at a laugh.

Technology and Magic

Magics of the fey twinkle even along the dingy boarded streets of the wharf. It dances in the sky and amongst the constant fog that weaves its arms through every crevice of this realm. It is bounding everywhere and even possesses food and drink. Magic is something of a nuisance to people forced to live through its vexing effects. Drinking a pint might well grow your toenails out of your boots if the brewer chose the wrong seed or crossed the wrong pixy in his travels. With the wrong wax, candles are liable to float bottom up. They fey around torture the people of these lands. They are the stumped toe of every joke. And they know it.

Yet a more sinister magic also lies in these parts. Far across the loch lies the Big Boat. There amongst the runes of ancient trolls and glyphs of great fishes slumbers a hermit. He is perhaps the only townsfolk to ever use the magic of these lands against the lands themselves. There he gathers a herd of those drowned and lost to the loch. There they wait and drink and make merry within the great halls of that gargantuan wrecked boat. It's not known how he came upon this curse. None even know him by name. Many say he walks among the people of the wharf, studying them and listening to their woes. And at night when he hears the keen of Clíodhna, he learns who he will recruit next.

Military Overview

The fighting body of the citizenry is slim. Perhaps a spare drunken dwarf, one hand with a frog gig and the other with dark ale. Yet the powers of the Boat Man are a great cause for concern. How many generations have fallen dead in these lochs? How many could be called upon should the time come?

~ - ~

Additional Info

Don’t let this be a literary mystery. There definitely are dead folk in that boat. And it's a Big Boat.

Into the Rifts: The Reawakening

-- Kroak Top Land --

A long drawn *Hummmmmmmm* consumed the air. The swamp, festering with all of its smells, and sounds, and vibrations became controlled by the ethereal call. The wind and water and time moved in sequence with her presence like still water after a pebble's strike. And then it was gone.

The swamp remained still for a moment more. Even the beams of light, dancing on stilts atop the water, held their pose for a brief refrain. It was a meditation. A digestion of the Voice which ruled this bog; ruled this this space and time. Its maker was unknown. But what was it to know, when one could feel.

A sharper, more earthly croak cut the air. Impatience was palpable in its voice. Atop the weathered porch of a hut sat two frog-like figures. They relaxed in wooden chairs slouched and cross legged, juxtaposed to a game table. A small tub of briny water held floating figurines. They bobbled loosely in the murky bowl, their placement just barely noticeable amongst the checkered features of its glass walls. Within this grid the two figures played a game. Pieces moved and took other pieces. Each with a turn, casting aside the lost figures like garbage. The game was familiar: strategy, maneuver, risk, reward. And yet like all things Kroak, it was played in three dimensions. The real fight took place in the depths below.

“They dishonor us. They dishonor the Voice.” A whisper came from a purple Kroak, very old and frail much like their speech. Her people called her Guunghnoknok, and she was a venerable voice amongst the swamp. “Let us cast upon them like the gnats they are, creeping upon their short sight toward that which would end them.”

The figure across from her did not stir. He sat a green toadkin, grizzled with the scars of a hard life and various trophies of rotting bone and flesh. Xnokylynya, the chief of the Top Land. Between his fingers hung a small roll of foul smelling fungi. It danced glowing embers into the firefly-dappled sky. He took a drag of the biri and filled his generous sized sac.

Xnokylynya held the smoke for what must have been an hour, staring, watching the floating figures in the bowl.The sounds of the swamp had grown louder as the air cooled and darkened around them. Faint wisps of blue smoke began to trail from his nostrils. The high pitched trills of small insects. The altos of life amongst the canopy. The low croaks of his countrymen hidden yet thriving deep in the swamp’s fold. His smoke joined the early evening haze that was beginning to cloak the surface of the pond below.

His opponent sat patiently. By now the mist of night had constricted their view to only each other and the still floating figurines before them, all else was a warm haze. The same blue smoke trailed upwards from his nostrils, yet glowed like sapphires in the dwindling light of the day. Without warning something flew into their vision from above. A black figure, dancing wings the only clear sign that it was alive. The green scarred Kroak unleashed himself at it. Amidst a puff of incandescent blue soot shot a tongue. It wrapped around the flying creature and drew it into his clutches. And yet the captured foe was bigger than the Kroak. It scrambled and writhed its insectoid features as he gripped it with his hands. Its wings dashed frantically before one was torn off with a wrenching bite. The violence of the tussle betrayed the looks of the old battered toadkin. He held on with all his might casting wood and dirt into the sky. Without hesitation, the purple Kroak picked up the chair that had been her perch and broke it across the face of the insect. The beast was stunned for a moment, and in that moment it found its fate. Xnokylynya, chief of these lands, ran the creature's head into the murky bowl of figurines. The creature frantically tried to escape his grasp. Yet he would not relent. He held firm, his tongue slowly pressing its head deeper and deeper into the watery grave.

At last it ceased. The air turned quiet again; like it had after the Voice. And yet no hum cut the silence. Time and space crept along in the humid fetor of the bayou. The last whispers of light still danced amongst the lightning bugs. This time, only the deep, baselike song of Xnokylynya croaked into the night air.

“Tell the Talan we feast.”

Into the Rifts: The Reawakening

Kroak

Government: The Kroak are a primitive people. And like all primitive people, they have been subject to manipulation by those more advanced--and in the case of the Kroak brains that work a bit better. But do not confuse their lack of intellect with a lack of spirit, culture, or the fundamental chutzpah it takes to survive in a world such as theirs. To survive you must harness forces more powerful than yourself, adapt them to your needs, and use the flow of the world around you even if you do not understand it.

Chief among these manipulations in the recent age is simply known as “the Voice.” Something-- a craft, an asteroid, a monstrosity-- tore into the marsh many ages ago and sunk deep into her loam. It fashioned a creator the size of a lake, and a lake it became. The Kroak, at the dawn of their bronze age, claimed the carapace of this great thing. They call her the Gular, the creator of the greatest song. Whether the cities were built on top of the artifact, or the artifact being a city itself is lost to the old croaks. All that is known is that this structure and the harmony it produces leads the people of the Kroak diaspora mind and soul.

- --- -

Demographics: The Kroak are an amphibious race of vagabonds, story tellers, and cold blooded killers. They do not prescribe to the common “moralities” of wind breaths. Theirs is a world of survival against nature, the rifts, and themselves. Quick to ally and betray in the same sentence. When those you deal with may evaporate overnight into the ether, so too do useless promises. Songs are not sung of those without action, drama, or conflict. For those who cannot survive, songs are not sung at all.

Kroak

- The Top Land: All the lands that surround the Gular Pond. They are heavily waterlogged fens. Fungi are her cheif life and their perpetual spores hang about the air like glowing chafe. Flying insects infest her swaths, and the top predators (even to the Kroak) are her flora.

Top Land

- Gular Pond: Warm darkness and a voice.

- --- -

Society: A simple chorus of simple people. Yet those who live their feeble lives with a raging hunger. They hunger for glory, purpose, and a path to take their people to the next tomorrow. They bound this path at any cost. And those who can find the path no longer help in its retelling. It is a path that has ebbed and streamed for thousands of generations. It is a symphony with the cruel world around it. The beauty it tells is all its own. Like the marsh they have spread. They are a tidewater that will see itself reach every corner of these lands. It is not an option, it is a force. Like creeping tides, it is their nature. It is called to them by their very existence. Called from the great Gular song beneath.

- --- -

Military: Quite... amphibious.

-- Land --

The Kroak operate in small bands with emphasis on speed and aggression. Their simplicity of dress and design betrays the technology they hold. Though aesthetically and functionally spears, the primary armaments' of Kroak Marine Raiders are particle long rifles.

Pitthuu Mount

Voice Spirits

-- Marine Air-Grung Task Force --

Epipalegic

Kraok Sacs

Wind Swim

Dragfyr VTOLs

Mosqmusk Interceptor

-- Naval --

Water Lungs

Big Nuuk

Gaga Nuuuk

- --- -

Characters:

Xnokylynya

Guunghnoknok

Nthhhyethhaht

Pouok

Eden 2.0(Space NRP/Closed, see OP for details)

^{_________________________________________________________
Nine-Oh_One Control Room _________________________________________________________}

The smooth smoke of menthol and cannabis danced in tandem toward the ceiling. In a large, musty control room sat an unassuming man. He took another long draw on his spliff. His hand hung loosely about the tool as though years of practice had made it a spare limb. Tom Dop was in charge of this place, the maintenance of it at least. An abandoned chamber of seats and lights, and buttons and switches. It was an amphitheater with no performance to be had. The once plush chairs of the senate were in disrepair. Try as he might, Tom could not keep 120 year old furniture from its inevitable decay. And no amount of griping would change the funds for something so useless; in fact, no amount of griping would change anything around here, and so Tom did little of it. He simply sat in a vacant seat, one that still functioned without total collapse, and enjoyed his 15 minute break from cleaning the rotting carcass of this once great palace.

He scrolled aimlessly on his datapad. The vibrant lights of the life outdoors seeped into his eyes. The highlight real of every one he had ever made the acquaintance of greeted him, and yet these manicured images paled in comparison to the vibrance of Kawasaki adverts, catastrophes in foreign slums, genocide in Taloset. Short videos displayed images of horror with closed captioning at its base to explain. He appreciated the large font. It was kind of the world to keep him so well in the loop. Kind of the Architects to make a system of intergalactic jump gates. Though ironic that the only thing these jump gates brought to this simple man’s life was a couple wasted minutes scrolling on his already thinning lunch break.

Tom peeked at the clock above, three minutes left. Damn. His joints ached knowing they would soon be called back into action. One last scroll, one last post to sooth and gelatinize his brain. It was the image of a little girl from her hospital bed. She stared longingly out of the window on the bustling streets of New Memphis. Tom immediately noticed the area was a nice district, the kind only good rich families could afford--perhaps that is what made the post so much more moving. She was dying from cancer. Already much of her body had been replaced with cybernetics. Her hair was thin and her frame all together pitiable. “Please help us pay for our daughter Ella’s treatment.” The post mentioned, a crowdfunding link glowing in the periphery. Comments, emojis, and video replies hung loosely about the cyber canvas to display the population's concern for this child and the family’s predicament. Greatest of all the attention --in Tom’s opinion-- was that the image had been re-shared by the intergalactic influencer Liona Le Master. This perhaps doubled his care for the subject.

Please help Ella

Tom gruffed silently to himself. “Someone should do something about this. Young people die too much. And the world pays. Family pays dollar, world pays watching.”

A faint pink light in the center of the room glowed as the clock struck 2am. Lunch break was over.

---------------

The next day Tom opened his phone. A quick break. One last rush of dynorphins before the next shift. His eyes locked on the barrage of trending data. Data so important that even Liona Le Master had confirmed it.

Literally speechless. @Nine-Oh_One has covered the cost of all pediatric healthcare in New Memphis from this day on. So blessed to live in such a dynamic and moving time. So humbled to bring awareness of this issue to the galaxy. I once visited this hospital once and did all I could to help. So glad the voices of New Memphis could be heard.

- @RealLiona

Tom too was speechless. However a centimeter of scrolling revealed others who were not.

@Nine-Oh_One is a fucking socialist pig. WHO IS PAYING FOR THIS???!

- @TylerVanderjack14

Eden 2.0(Space NRP/Closed, see OP for details)

"You gonna get got out here. You just gotta get yours more than you get got though.'"<br>-@Real_NewMemphis

^{_________________________________________________________
_{N E W M E M P H I S} _________________________________________________________}
_{Core world, capitalist bordello. Humans and everyone caught in between. Loud music, bright lights, fast money.}

_{N E W M E M P H I S}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

New Memphis

Know how many fake watches you can sell in a 97 km deep city? A lot.

^{G O V E R N M E N T
________________________________________________________________________________________}

AI governance, namely the supercomputer Nine-Oh_One. The nation is run by this AI designed eons ago to create laws, move money, and distribute justice all by algorithm. However, the machine was never designed to be run the way that it finds itself today. It was designed to have the input of the populace, intellectuals, officials, senators and the like to provide it wise council, a heartbeat of the people, the emotional intangibles that no machine can replicate. But over the centuries neglect, corruption, and misinformation campaigns set in; the populace and eventually the government itself began to assume that the input of “flesh minds” mattered for nothing. The people unanimously assumed their voice was never heard and thus not worth offering. Anyone claiming that it did matter was said to be “just looking for a seat at the table,” raking in the cash rewards of “fake-ass government” funding. As such, the only voice that Nine-Oh_One hears now, in the entire sector, is Tom’s, the facility janitor.

^{D E M O G R A P H I C S
________________________________________________________________________________________}

Mostly humans. In reality a vast number of other alien species live in New Memphis’s sentient chattel house, both registered and undocumented. There is little concept of “citizenship” in this nation. Those who come and make money are welcomed. No one really has a concrete voice, no votes are cast, taxes are levied by automated currency exchange, civil projects are contracted out electronically by Nine-Oh_One’s choosing among private industries. The peoples of the universe are free to mingle, trade, and create without limit. Those who are sub-profitable, are quietly managed.

_{E C O N O M Y}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

Bustling, noisy, smelly, beautiful, tragic, vibrant, scary, New Memphis. The world is a metropolice with every level of what it takes to “make it” in a modern universe. A world shrouded by kilometers of habitable manufabed layers, there are hustles at every level. Banking is done by the central computer Nine-Oh_One and the credit accounts attached to each resident are the only real markers of citizenship. Culture is vibrant and varied, reflecting the underserved and overworked populations of refugees, wanderers, and pseudo-serfs born in and tied to this endless turbine of the sentient experience. New Memphis is constantly creating, constantly growing, constantly starving. Food, minerals, tech, fuel. She is like a growing teen monstrosity, tearing at its very flesh on the climb upwards. New Memphis has its share of stretch marks: blackmarkets, gangs, trafficking, corruption. She is a city, the size of a system. Noisy, fury, and lights that empty out into the infinite abyss.

_{M I L I T A R Y}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

While sentients hold their place in the military, the majority of the true fighting force is automated. Wipers, the constructs are called. An air-space fleet of drones that are designed to police and protect the naval commerce of New Memphis. No one is really sure how they work but they certainly are the hivemind of Nine-Oh_One. By rule, their primary weaponry takes the form of radiation cannons with a pinch of EMP. Designed to shut down their prey and cook the sentient degenerates inside with minimal damage to the external structure of their craft. One simply can’t have debris floating around in front of the jump gate--ghastly for commerce. An entire economy exists around salvaging these “cooked” ships and repurposing them to the needs of whoever has the tech savvy and radiation tolerance to claim the cancer buckets. Labor laws are not a New Memphis strong suit. If you want it and you can sell it, fair game.

The police force, admittedly made up of sentients, is a small army unto itself. And yet despite its size, the hubbub of New Memphis often requires more thorough support of the peace from external sources. Private military companies make a killing--quite literally-- from controlling the unruly crowds that spring up from time to time. In the spirit of the free market, many such international industries set up shop in the global city. International trade corporations often find the robust centralized banking, little if any taxation/regulation, and cheap labor force to be rather enticing; as such, many high end military contracts are established simply to keep the riff-raff of New Memphis out of the penthouse spas.

Cruiser

Destroyer

Cutter

_{H I S T O R Y}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

To ask a commoner on the streets, the response would be, “we been here.” A comment made with pride and a certain wily swagger that is seldom found except on these neon throbbing streets. The reality is that New Memphis was made with blood. It was filled with natives once who lived in the massive aqueous innervation of the prime planet. The soil was rich, waters clean, and lifeforms of all sorts thrived in abundance. Then it was found by humans. The global delta and its riches were settled, used, abused, adopted, formed, claimed, fought over, everything that happens when a sentient species finds something for the taking. Natives were whipped out, buildings were erected, greatness was born. New Memphis’s story is the same as any other. Ain't nobody give a shit. New Memphis is alive--now--and nobody can take back what it took to get it there.

_{C H A R A C T E R S}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

Tom Dop

Tom Dop - Nine-Oh_One Environmental Services, Janitorial Staff

Liona Le Master

@RealLiona - Intergalactic influencer, frequent social voice of New Memphis

Eden 2.0(Space NRP/Closed, see OP for details)

"You gonna get got here. You just gotta get yours more than you get got though.'"<br>-Jamal Q.

^{_________________________________________________________
_{N E W M E M P H I S} _________________________________________________________}
_{Core world, capitalist bordello. Humans and everyone caught in between. Loud music, bright lights, fast money.}

_{N E W M E M P H I S}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

New Memphis

Know how many fake watches you can sell in a 97 km deep city? A lot.

^{G O V E R N M E N T
________________________________________________________________________________________}

AI governance, namely the supercomputer Nine-Oh_One. The nation is run by this AI designed eons ago to create laws, move money, and distribute justice all by algorithm. However, the machine was never designed to be run the way that it finds itself today. It was designed to have the input of the populace, intellectuals, officials, senators and the like to provide it wise council, a heartbeat of the people, the emotional intangibles that no machine can replicate. But over the centuries neglect, corruption, and misinformation campaigns set in; the populace and eventually the government itself began to assume that the input of “flesh minds” mattered for nothing. The people unanimously assumed their voice was never heard and thus not worth offering. Anyone claiming that it did matter was said to be “just looking for a seat at the table,” raking in the cash rewards of “fake-ass government” funding. As such, the only voice that Nine-Oh_One hears now, in the entire sector, is Tom’s, the facility janitor.

^{D E M O G R A P H I C S
________________________________________________________________________________________}

Mostly humans. In reality a vast number of other alien species live in New Memphis’s sentient chattel house, both registered and undocumented. There is little concept of “citizenship” in this nation. Those who come and make money are welcomed. No one really has a concrete voice, no votes are cast, taxes are levied by automated currency exchange, civil projects are contracted out electronically by Nine-Oh_One’s choosing among private industries. The peoples of the universe are free to mingle, trade, and create without limit. Those who are sub-profitable, are quietly managed.

_{E C O N O M Y}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

Bustling, noisy, smelly, beautiful, tragic, vibrant, scary, New Memphis. The world is a metropolice with every level of what it takes to “make it” in a modern universe. A world shrouded by kilometers of habitable manufabed layers, there are hustles at every level. Banking is done by the central computer Nine-Oh_One and the credit accounts attached to each resident are the only real markers of citizenship. Culture is vibrant and varied, reflecting the underserved and overworked populations of refugees, wanderers, and pseudo-serfs born in and tied to this endless turbine of the sentient experience. New Memphis is constantly creating, constantly growing, constantly starving. Food, minerals, tech, fuel. She is like a growing teen monstrosity, tearing at its very flesh on the climb upwards. New Memphis has its share of stretch marks: blackmarkets, gangs, trafficking, corruption. She is a city, the size of a system. Noisy, fury, and lights that empty out into the infinite abyss.

_{M I L I T A R Y}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

While sentients hold their place in the military, the majority of the true fighting force is automated. Wipers, the constructs are called. An air-space fleet of drones that are designed to police and protect the naval commerce of New Memphis. No one is really sure how they work but they certainly are the hivemind of Nine-Oh_One. By rule, their primary weaponry takes the form of radiation cannons with a pinch of EMP. Designed to shut down their prey and cook the sentient degenerates inside with minimal damage to the external structure of their craft. One simply can’t have debris floating around in front of the jump gate--ghastly for commerce. An entire economy exists around salvaging these “cooked” ships and repurposing them to the needs of whoever has the tech savvy and radiation tolerance to claim the cancer buckets. Labor laws are not a New Memphis strong suit. If you want it and you can sell it, fair game.

The police force, admittedly made up of sentients, is a small army unto itself. And yet despite its size, the hubbub of New Memphis often requires more thorough support of the peace from external sources. Private military companies make a killing--quite literally-- from controlling the unruly crowds that spring up from time to time. In the spirit of the free market, many such international industries set up shop in the global city. International trade corporations often find the robust centralized banking, little if any taxation/regulation, and cheap labor force to be rather enticing; as such, many high end military contracts are established simply to keep the riff-raff of New Memphis out of the penthouse spas.

Cruiser

Destroyer

Cutter

_{H I S T O R Y}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

To ask a commoner on the streets, the response would be, “we been here.” A comment made with pride and a certain wily swagger that is seldom found except on these neon throbbing streets. The reality is that New Memphis was made with blood. It was filled with natives once who lived in the massive aqueous innervation of the prime planet. The soil was rich, waters clean, and lifeforms of all sorts thrived in abundance. Then it was found by humans. The global delta and its riches were settled, used, abused, adopted, formed, claimed, fought over, everything that happens when a sentient species finds something for the taking. Natives were whipped out, buildings were erected, greatness was born. New Memphis’s story is the same as any other. Ain't nobody give a shit. New Memphis is alive--now--and nobody can take back what it took to get it there.

_{C H A R A C T E R S}
^{________________________________________________________________________________________}

Tom Dop

Tom Dop - Nine-Oh_One Environmental Services, Janitorial Staff

Liona Le Master

@RealLiona - Intergalactic influencer, frequent social voice of New Memphis