Helios

Of Serenity & Dread (OPEN ADVANCED RENAISSANCE-ERA FANTASY NRP)

Ye ole double post.

Of Serenity & Dread (RENAISSANCE ERA FANTASY NRP)

Interested!

Age of Broken Shackles(Closed: See new thread)

Pink Milk

Tanooknik, Industrial System
Svartnik Nebulae

~ Svart's Rest ~

A pair of figures nestled behind the screen of faint pink haze. With a certain amount of imagination, one may have been able to decipher the outline of a mother and her newborn child. They were short in stature, squats as the galaxy called them. In the corner of their pink silhouette croaked a strange, frog-like creature, tassels and feathers confusing her shamanistic frame.

Outside the glowing pink box slumped a man, or at least the crumpled husk of one. Slougk, a great leader of the squats, present now only as a man. He trembled as he wept into thick calloused hands, a kind of cry that was a vacuum of sound rather than a gift of it. His only son played aimlessly behind him. They were in a small hospital room. Short bursts of giggles cut the silent torture of his father, as stuffed figure of a Lokoid clashed into a Augustan Star Ranger doll.

Within the pink prison cell was trapped Slougk’s soul, the bloom of life born into hospice. Slougk’s wife and daughter lay behind the thin film of Oogma milk. It was a curious substance from the frog-kin of Oogmanik. More importantly, it appears to be the only substance in the galaxy impervious to the spread of the Desperation. During her pregnancy, Slougk’s wife had been infected with an atom, a spore, of the vile plant; a blind destruction like that had ruined so many and so much. It now grew in her and their newborn child. The plant, a parasite from the bowels of Oogmanik, spread prodigiously, atomically, and without need for the natural vices of flora: light, soil, oxygen. It was something different. It was a curse from beyond the void; or at least that was what the Oogma natives had claimed as they grew in tandem with the pestilence for a millenia. This room, cloaked in the pink milk of the Oogma, was a quarantine. Here they would die.

A stubby hand affirmed the back of Slougk. The figure who bore it was similarly dwarfish. His long black hair slicked to his shoulders, a large uncut emerald dangling from his chest. “How long did the shaman say they had?” The consoling figure spoke with a cold raspy voice, perhaps half-attempting empathy.

It was a great time before Slougk could rapture the strength of a voice. “Days maybe.. A week.”

“There is much to be done in that time, Slougk.” Spoke the looming figure.

He was right. Behind Slougk the Wise stood Gjorn the Mighty, a great businessman and donor to Slougk’s authority. Gjorn chaired one of the greatest holo-banking industries in Svart’s Rest, a Lokoid sympathizer and money launderer. His influence was valued equivalent to that of a senator. Gjorn’s station was only seconded on the planet by the man huddled on the floor: Slougk, Harold of Tanooknik; governor of a system and leader of his people. And yet in this moment, what could he lead? He could not even keep his own family safe from the blight that cursed his people. Everything he had fought for was trapped behind milk. Though, perhaps not everything, he bargained to himself, as another curt giggle cut the room. His son seemed inured to the death around him. He was oblivious to the despair, to the suffering of the squats, to the potential danger that laid in the silly toys he cherished. The woman who had brought him into the world, who had taught him to laugh, he would never hear her song again.

“I will take care of the boy Slougk, your family will have all the joys this short life can give them. Your wife will finally be able to taste the joys of real food, warm-sap desserts from the Simmie, sunbread from the Daxini; never again will the brine of Oogma milk be needed to preserve them from the curse. It will be merciful. I have gone through much to secure this for your family. The Oogma shaman will watch over her and the child. I have secured the beast at great cost, and it will need to be shipped back to that wretched planet while in this contraption… in due time. We have given them all that the nation can offer. You must think of the other’s in your care affected by the Desperation. You must give to the nation in turn.”

Slougk summoned the strength to rise to one knee. Every sinew of his muscle seemed devoid of energy, of worth. He did not want to serve, he did not want to breathe, he wanted to hold his daughter and walk into the heavens with his wife and family. He wanted to sing with them; to know their voice in the afterlife. He wanted to suffer with them. To die as they would die, too soon, too painfully, too usesely.

But he could not. They were forever departed from his world, trapped. And yet trapped together. The woman he loved was with her daughter. Their daughter. A piece of him. She would hold her blessing though every short breath. They would spend the rest of their lives together, a small infinity of joys. And what a woman to spend them with, even now behind the thin pink veil his girls were beautiful. He had been blessed, beyond belief, to have loved them. In a galaxy of curses, his miracles had been equal. And yet now he could not truly love them from this small, sterile room. If he loved them he needed to leave them, to help them, to end the cruelty of the Desperation, to find a way to Tar Yrra or die. Perhaps only then would he hear their songs, only then would his son be free. Slougk stood to his feet, heavier than the planet beneath him.

Summary

The family of Slougk (Governor) suffers from the great infestation of the Desperation. Their fate, like his nation's, are doomed if the status quo remains. At the behest and financing of Gjorn (senator, Lokoid lobyist), Slougk must leave to stand on business. Tar Yrra business.

Age of Broken Shackles(Closed: See new thread)

Svart's Rest: Space Dwarves, Milked Frogs, and Trans-dimensional Kudzu

Svart’s Rest

~ The Svartnik Nebulae ~

Once a great hotbed of mining and industry, these binary star systems played host to the might of squat-kin who swarmed to her rich prospects during the time of Pax Yrrani. The mining operation lead by the legendary squat, Svart, quickly turned into a capitalist bordello where labor laws of the empire were overlooked in the name of raw production, a quality of life that the squats claimed to value above all. Squat pilgrims from across the galaxy flocked, mined, trafficked, and died in the purple hazed fodder of the Svartnik nebulae.

The mercantile power heavily settled a number systems which they rotted and plundered -quite literally- to their cores. When a neighboring system, the Oogmanik, was conquered for its agricultural support, a great floral infestation was unleashed.

The Desperation, Pueraria Desporata, native to the Oogmanik system, ravished the holdings of the Svarts. Though appearing as a simple leafed vine of violet hue, the scourging vine grows rapidly without the observed need for light, water, or soil. It is capable of growing in space, leading to the destruction and abandonment of many Svart vessels and satellites. Unless destroyed at the atomic level it is capable of replicating. Early attempts at destroying affected systems (of which multiple were sacrificed) found the particles of the Desperation flung into neighboring areas, much less the craft that had delivered the salvos. It is presumed that the “plant” draws its lifeforce from some other dimension, that it is perhaps grown from “infected” connections of atomic particles, and –if one believes the acolytes of Oogmanik– that it is destined to spread through all matter in the galaxy.

The frog-like beasts, the Oogma, who have inhabited the Oogmanik system have suffered predation by the Desperation since recorded time. However, they do appear to have acquired a resistance to its growth within their bodies. Despite this resistance, all of the Oogma eventually die from its infestation; a fate which they hail as the natural course for all matter. The Oogma’s mammary milk (a purple hued beverage tasting like vinegary peat) appears to be the only substance in which the Desperation cannot replicate. As such, it has become the almost sole foodstuff consumed within Svart’s Rest by non-Oogma, the consumption of standard foods proving too risky for most. In fact, death from ingested Desperation and its internal replication has claimed lives of the vast majority of the once vibrant Svartnik realm.

Quarantine Isolet: Oogmanik Diaspora<br>The Desperation, Pueraria Desporata

~ Government ~

Since the spread of the Desperation, much of the Svart resources have been dedicated to the self (and intergalactic) imposed quarantine. Interactions with outside powers is often remote; media, banking, and other hyper-commed engagements being the primary export. Though scanning for the Desperation is quite possible, many polities have embargoed physical trade given the severity of risk to life and tech alike. Most incoming goods are seen as one-way trips. Once in the confines of Svart's Rest, it is never certain if one could (or should) leave.

In the spirit of their founder, Svart the Dusted, Svart’s Rest remains a highly capitalistic, industrialist oligarchy with the citizens united by the vision of their respective corporations. Voting is granted to system governors (three) and a contingent of representatives from the top nine production powers in the realm.

The Wise The Nine of Might
Perscilla
- Harold of Anooknik, the capital system
- Aphorisms: Stability, Constitution, Honor

Slougk
- Harold of Tanooknik, the industrial system
- Aphorisms: Production, Vision, Relevance

Vilk
- Harold of Oogmanik, the agricultural necessity
- Aphorisms: Thought, Adaptability, Survival

~ Demographics ~

The Svarts - A catch all of squat-kin from around the galaxy. Industrious, disciplined, lovers of vibrato songs and moist stones.

Space Dwarves!

The Oogma - Amphibian mammaloids whose shamanistic relationship with the Desperation is vexed by the Svart’s need for their milk. They are seen as unproductive, unintelligent, and frankly deranged by the Svart’s; though they are beautiful singers.

Space Milk Frogs!

~ Military ~

Largely focused on harmonic weaponry, an extrapolation of their mining technology. The Svart’s have a large standing fleet, a rusted holdover from their time as major magnets of piracy and external interest. This bygone era of mining ventures and galactic power parity has few resources left in its contemporary coffers. When budget meetings cycle, the fleet is a regular victim of austerity measures. Since the spread of the Desperation, much of the military presence has been used to destroy those trying to escape rather than assault. With the Desperation claiming more vessels each day, and with supply and technologies from abroad so difficult to come by, the admiralty of the Svarts is decrepit and outdated. The once proud standing army has been mothballed into a militia force, as answers to their plight and crumbling infrastructure have become a blackhole of mental and financial capital.

Land:

Cogs

Naval:

Mec, Orbital Trade Port

----

Thorium Class Capital Ship

Harmonic Class Battleship

Sol Class Cruiser

Anvil Class Destroyer

Concordant Class Frigate

Age of Broken Shackles(Closed: See new thread)

Svart's Rest: Space Dwarves, Milked Frogs, and Trans-dimensional Kudzu

Svart’s Rest

~ The Svartnik Nebulae ~

Once a great hotbed of mining and industry, these binary star systems played host to the might of squat-kin who swarmed to her rich prospects during the time of Pax Yrrani. The mining operation lead by the legendary squat, Svart, quickly turned into a capitalist bordello where labor laws of the empire were overlooked in the name of raw production, a quality of life that the squats claimed to value above all. Squat pilgrims from across the galaxy flocked, mined, trafficked, and died in the purple hazed fodder of the Svartnik nebulae.

The mercantile power heavily settled a number systems which they rotted and plundered -quite literally- to their cores. When a neighboring system, the Oogmanik, was conquered for its agricultural support, a great floral infestation was unleashed.

The Desperation, Pueraria Desporata, native to the Oogmanik system, ravished the holdings of the Svarts. Though appearing as a simple leafed vine of violet hue, the scourging vine grows rapidly without the observed need for light, water, or soil. It is capable of growing in space, leading to the destruction and abandonment of many Svart vessels and satellites. Unless destroyed at the atomic level it is capable of replicating. Early attempts at destroying affected systems (of which multiple were sacrificed) found the particles of the Desperation flung into neighboring areas, much less the craft that had delivered the salvos. It is presumed that the “plant” draws its lifeforce from some other dimension, that it is perhaps grown from “infected” connections of atomic particles, and –if one believes the acolytes of Oogmanik– that it is destined to spread through all matter in the galaxy.

The frog-like beasts, the Oogma, who have inhabited the Oogmanik system have suffered predation by the Desperation since recorded time. However, they do appear to have acquired a resistance to its growth within their bodies. Despite this resistance, all of the Oogma eventually die from its infestation; a fate which they hail as the natural course for all matter. The Oogma’s mammary milk (a purple hued beverage tasting like vinegary peat) appears to be the only substance in which the Desperation cannot replicate. As such, it has become the almost sole foodstuff consumed within Svart’s Rest by non-Oogma, the consumption of standard foods proving too risky for most. In fact, death from ingested Desperation and its internal replication has claimed lives of the vast majority of the once vibrant Svartnik realm.

Quarantine Isolet: Oogmanik Diaspora<br>The Desperation, Pueraria Desporata

~ Government ~

Since the spread of the Desperation, much of the Svart resources have been dedicated to the self (and intergalactic) imposed quarantine. Interactions with outside powers is often remote; media, banking, and other hyper-commed engagements being the primary export. Though scanning for the Desperation is quite possible, many polities have embargoed physical trade given the severity of risk to life and tech alike. Most incoming goods are seen as one-way trips. Once in the confines of Svart's Rest, it is never certain if one could (or should) leave.

In the spirit of their founder, Svart the Dusted, Svart’s Rest remains a highly capitalistic, industrialist oligarchy with the citizens united by the vision of their respective corporations. Voting is granted to system governors (three) and a contingent of representatives from the top nine production powers in the realm.

The Wise The Nine of Might
Perscilla
- Harold of Anooknik, the capital system
- Aphorisms: Stability, Constitution, Honor

Slougk
- Harold of Tanooknik, the industrial system
- Aphorisms: Production, Vision, Relevance

Vilk
- Harold of Oogmanik, the agricultural necessity
- Aphorisms: Thought, Adaptability, Survival

~ Demographics ~

The Svarts - A catch all of squat-kin from around the galaxy. Industrious, disciplined, lovers of vibrato songs and moist stones.

Space Dwarves!

The Oogma - Amphibian mammaloids whose shamanistic relationship with the Desperation is vexed by the Svart’s need for their milk. They are seen as unproductive, unintelligent, and frankly deranged by the Svart’s; though they are beautiful singers.

Space Milk Frogs!

~ Military ~

Largely focused on harmonic weaponry, an extrapolation of their mining technology. The Svart’s have a large standing fleet, a rusted holdover from their time as major magnets of piracy and external interest. This bygone era of mining ventures and galactic power parity has few resources left in its contemporary coffers. When budget meetings cycle, the fleet is a regular victim of austerity measures. Since the spread of the Desperation, much of the military presence has been used to destroy those trying to escape rather than assault. With the Desperation claiming more vessels each day, and with supply and technologies from abroad so difficult to come by, the admiralty of the Svarts is decrepit and outdated. The once proud standing army has been mothballed into a militia force, as answers to their plight and crumbling infrastructure have become a blackhole of mental and financial capital.

Age of Broken Shackles(Very Soft Sci-fi Nation RP)

Good hook, good GM. Autumn just got cozier.

Repairing the World - A Solarpunk Nation RP

Cheers to newly oceanfront property. Love the concept. Excited for good times.

The Restoration

The Bay. The Oracles.

Location

The Hudson Bay and more of Manitoba than a man deserves. The seas are warm, the skies are bright, and the cold fate of humanity will provide the skeleton of habitat for greater beings.

History

A project which was assembled centuries ago, to restore the lands, seas, and peoples of Na-Dene to their rightful territory. With the vitriol of civilization scarring the land, this sacred place was meant to be the opposite. A reposit for what the earth had been; what it had been before humans even. Or at its least, when the fated steps across the Bering Strait had brought deliverance to the human species. This is that fated Eden. Hither they came, longing for a home rich in the virve of an unclaimed world.

Who better to pilot this task than the peoples of those First Nations. Those who deserved it, above all others in their virgin and victimless conquest. Those who the migrants of this land should be thankful for, reverent of, and indebted too. And thus the land was given back to the only innocents in the armageddon of modernization, the Na-Dene. The migrants of the world who had flocked and fled during the Warming were evicted from all claims and governance of the region. Instead, they were forced into the rising sea. Beneath her tepid waters they lived and toiled to sustain the hydrocrop columns. Thousands of aquaculture plantations, under the close eye of the Restoration, erupted in the Hudson Bay. Entire cities worth of migrant farmers plying the aquashoots of her bosom. The planter elite, those most sympathetic to the plight of the once great people of Na-Dene, often lived at the surface of the Bay; graced intermittently with the gaze of arctic sun. Those more recent to understanding, furrowed deep in below the waves, in caverns and prefab structures. Daylight a rarity, beyond what was needed to bring the bounty of the marine world in reparation to the surface.

Thus order has crept into the lands that were once raped for oil, and lumber, and atoms. Restoration.

Culture + Beliefs

The land belongs to the first people; a slogan that rang in the ears of many sympathetic voters for the better part of a millennia. A land that was placed back in time, to the ideas of the world before the sky and heavens were filled with lost dreams of tyrants. The foreigners of these lands realized that they had only ever brought refuse to it, and so they left it, returned to the sea which they had assaulted her by so many thousand years ago. Perhaps only to allow her to heal in hopes of raiding again. Perhaps. And yet perhaps the ilk of Westerners, Easterners and Southerners had changed. Perhaps their ways had been shown inferior in comparison to the great First People. That simple and sustainable can only be married. That their survival could only morally be used for restoring the land to its origin. Slink back into their flooded cities and letting the oil of their brow create the fuel for a better tomorrow. Perhaps they would–like the graves of ancestor life they rent from the ground–be the righteous burning of progress backwords.

This certainly was the understanding of the Oracles, those who spoke with the highest of sentients. Beings who learned about this earth and the way to preserve it some 50 millions years ago. Those ancient beings who had guided the First People across the ice, to claim this land. Those who modernatiny and industry had butchered, enslaved, and nearly eradicated. The guidance of such a great project could come from no other mind. No machine had lasted this long, lived this long amongst the waters, created and sustained the balance of life on Earth by its very DNA. The people of the Restoration, like all citizens of this burning rock, were blessed with the wisdom of those who spoke to them and shepherded them since the beginning of man at sea: the orcas.

To say the Restoration is a Theocracy is only admissible in that they rely on a knowledge beyond that of mankind. A truth that permeates human time and understanding. Yet its coporality is protected with righteous vigor. The thoughts, songs, and life of the orca are studied to the nth. Communication with the global pods are sacred and constant; the greatest of human Oracles taking up life decipleship journeys alongside them. Media of the Bay people is exclusively that of this higher being: iconography, videography, music. Saturation in hopes that a greater knowledge and purpose can be found in the exposure of orca grandeur and human repentance.

Science + Gifts of the Deep

Aquaculture plantations, rising from the floor of the Hudson to her wake. A great, if dark, cold, desolate, constricting, and remorseful attempt at the survival of man. The people of this land give their time and toil to the sustainment of their project with the surplus returned to the lands of the First Nation. Oxygen irrigation systems rifle both the sea and land as the Restoration seeks to return the lands of Manitoba back to a land before loss; aerating the Canadian Shield into rich riparian rainforests populated with genetic samples of the Oligocene. Great trees billow to the sky, ancient predators and prey reintroduced. Like the surplus of all resources, hope lies exclusively in this burgeoning strip of land thrusted back in time.

Men Who Die

Jilik Bethune

Repairing the World - A Solarpunk Nation RP

Leaning into some ideas for the Nepal region, especially if rising tides have swallowed the lowlands and made the Himalayan foothills ocean-front almost like fjords. Would love to have some of the local folklore made into “mutant” vestiges of humans/fauna. Probably some heavy emphasis on wind power.

That being said, happy to consolidate to an area that people are actually playing if that makes RPing easier to engage.

Repairing the World - A Solarpunk Nation RP

Echoed sentiments as above. I would love to put down the jello and bingo chips and feel words with the youths once again.

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”