she/her pronouns. I'm interested in a wide variety of roleplays, but I tend toward prefering High Fantasy and High Sci Fi settings (think Elder Scrolls or Warhammer 40k). Whether it's a Nation Roleplay (I love digging into fictional politics) something on a smaller, individual scale, or something in between, there's a good chance I might be interested! I especially enjoy fantasy setting with weird, esoteric fluff - up to and including the nonsense that happens in Elder Scrolls, or, occasionally, Age of Sigmar.
Fave settings /period/ are Warcraft, and Golarion. WH40k and AoS are close.
Maybe? IDK. I don't really RP nation-style roleplays at all, and I've always been iffy on RPing canon characters because sometimes I feel I won't be able to properly portray the character(s) correctly. But I'm closing in on around a decade and a half-ish of playing WoW + some of the RTS so I might be able to work out something readable and not downright stupid.
Funnily enough, on the topic of WoW I was actually playing it the other day on a server a few friends and I have played sometimes (fuck the night elf barrow quest, I forgot how much I hated it) and this happens to drop today.
Feel free to ask for help, if you need it -- and remember that you don't necessarily *have* to play canon characters. Organizations are fine, too; i.e. the Scarlet Crusade.
Kinda interested, mulling over the idea of grabbing Dalaran/Kirin Tor, perhaps take it into a Magi-Tech direction (it seemed to already be going there with all the Dwarf tanks and copters there in the WC3 campaign) or alternatively a Stromgarde trying to retake its ancestral home and reform the Arathor Empire (admittedly map painty)
Either of those sound good to me -- I'm perfectly ok with the Stromgarde idea, too. When I talk abotu map-painting, I'm moreso talking about taking land just to 'win'; it's perfectly sensible for the Trollbanes to want their shit back. Danath can show up, too, what with the Portal being open.
A voluminous bellow echoes through sandstone caverns, as the earth shakes and creaks beneath the incredible aura of magic which erupts from the east. A shadow descends from the North, but a nexus has collapsed; a rarified existence is born.
Brassy scales become shaken by a terrible tremor that echoes throughout Azeroth.
Breathing heavily, a weary sigh shakes the sand before the nostrils of the beautiful ancient being which rises from its slumber. The mist of ancient oaths and worn-down sigils fades from its eyes.
A wizened tone grumbles, its timbre shaking the walls of its hidden home in the desert: “Something has happened. Something great…something…strange.”
A voice cries out, one the same as its audience: “Indeed, something has happened. We are determining what precisely, but you, myself, we must be aware of what shall pass.”
In reply, a humble acceptance: “Time is a flat circle in which we are bound. I will seek out our solution; should we expect the worst?”
No reply would satisfy a mortal’s heart…this the creature knew. What would this mean for him? For the world as they knew it? To all the things they were responsible for? What of the End? The Beginning?
The Great Demons have been vanquished, but the world has yet to come to this conclusion; it is the same yet altogether its own. Spiraling, a man has died, the stream is diverted, the river flows to dry lands.
But no harm…all things are as they have been, as they will be, as they need to appear. A new life…a new path? It is…chaotic…it is…liberated…
“Chromie…” Nozdormu coughed… “daughter…come…I need you to do something for me.”
…. ….
“My brother needs to speak with me…” (Contributed by @Erezrim
Dawnstar Spire.
Staring up at the towering structure, some dozen meters down the winding cobblestone path leading up toward it, Aranaeyl remembered the place as one of horror -- the hive of villainy from which the downfall of Quel'thalas was orchestrated; Dar'khan Drathir's lair and the place in which he concocted his schemes and simmered against the supposed injustice of not being named the Grand Magister.
It was still that, for now -- in a manner of speaking. Many things were different, of course.
Dar'khan's arcane guardians, constructs typical of nearly every Magister's home turf, still did mill about the structure -- but they didn't spark and spit arcane energy, falling apart at the seams. They went about their duties as usual, as if nothing was amiss... Because it wasn't. The metal making up their bodies shone brightly with a fresh coat of polish, guarding the lifelong home of one of Quel'thalas's most famous, powerful Magisters.
But Aranaeyl knew differently. She lived the truth, and the consequences of what Dar'khan would become. She watched her friends and family be torn to bloody ribbons by slavering ghouls -- her mother, by Sylvanas's side, and her father, in a desperate but vain attempt to protect her and her siblings.
She remembered fleeing to the northwest in a desperate attempt to find refuge in the floating Duskwither Spire, narrowly avoiding the Scourge at every turn.
She remembered staring helplessly as Silvermoon burned in the distance, knowing that she would never see her aunts and cousins and uncles again; that her favorite candy shop and the kindly old woman who ran it would be dead next she saw her, and that she might never get to see her riding tutor again.
She remembered knowing, in her heart of hearts, that death would be a mercy for many of them.
Sighing, she extracted a small glass vial from an elementium lockbox at her hip, filled with shimmering golden sand, the bright blue glow of her eyes reflecting off of each individual grain. For several moments, all she did was stare, before finally shaking her head and stuffing the vial back into its hiding place.
No point in dilly-dallying, she silently reminded herself. She had everything she needed, after all. Stolen documents from another Dawnstar that would hopefully prove Dar'khan's guilt, a courier's disguise, and the package on her back that would change Azeroth forever.
One foot after the other, she began to move toward the Spire. If she was lucky, the Magister himself wouldn't come to greet her... But that meant making sure she could get close enough to the spire to plant the explosive in the first place
Mere moments after starting to move again, one of the tall ceramic constructs turned toward her, the brightly-glowing blue lines forming the runic bindings on their bodies lighting up the night. She could see the crystals joining their parts to their torsos, too -- tall, angular things, far less harsh than she remembered. The glowing filigree was much more consistent, too -- none of the empty carvings she remembered from her time.
The broad, blue, horizontal slit across the construct's face pulsed as it approached her, a cold, robotic voice booming out from its face.
"CEASE YOUR APPROACH AND STATE YOUR PURPOSE IMMEDIATELY."
The Reaver echoed -- and so Aranaeyl did, freezing in place.
"I'm a courier!" She replied, breath quickening. Would she need to try to slay the Magister herself? She was skilled with the blade, sure, but he was an incredible mage, and a cunning one, too...
"I have a package for the Magister, from Commander Lor'themar Theron!" She said, reaching into her pack to extract a large, jeweled box -- nearly a foot long and half as wide, covered in the blue-gold colours of Silvermoon.
The construct approached her, spending a handful of moments staring at the box -- scanning it, she imagined -- and then, apparently satisfied, snatched it from her hands and wordlessly proceeded back inside.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Araneyl turned, wearing a small smile as she left at a brisk walk. Her part was done -- now, all she had to do was wait, and hope that the Magister wouldn't notice the true nature of the package until it was too late. It was something he he surely wouldn't recognize, but the elemental fire it was infused with...
Pausing, Aranaeyl glanced back over her shoulder.
"YOU IDIOT! USELESS GOLEM! IT'S A-"
Suddenly, the whining traitor's tirade was broken by a sharp crack, and a bright flash of angry light that bathed the forest in red. She felt her skin grow hot, as if burning, trees all around the spire sparking, all while a pathetic flash of purple light emanated from within the tower. An attempt at teleportation... Foiled by that Gnomish dispelling device, no doubt. Just as advertised.
Then, just as suddenly, the entire spire was engulfed in flame, and Aranaeyl felt the air being sucking out of her lungs, forcing her to the ground in a desperate attempt to protect herself. There was a great, roaring sound, like that of an entire city aflame...
Then a violent boom as the entire spire spontaneously combusted in elemental fire, arcane crystals melting into bright red magma, all while raging fire elementals emerged from the wreckage.
Aranaeyl smiled, rising to her feet.
Selama ashal'anore, she thought.
Welcome to the Interest Check for Tales of Azeroth: Flames of Chaos, a roleplay set in another Azeroth -- yet one that is inexorably linked to the true reality we know. Many things are similar, but others are very different, all because a single Elf decided to right the suffering of her people.
There is, for example, no Burning Legion to invade Azeroth, for demons, as beings outside of time and space, can only exist in singularity; in other words, there was only one Kil'Jaeden, one Tichondrius, one Archimonde, one Sargeras...
Thus, those on Azeroth are disrupted and leaderless, left to run amok.
The Scourge, likewise, ails -- its back was broken by the offensive against Quel'thalas; met by constant Farstrider harassment, it was unable to penetrate deeply into the Eversong Woods, its rapid expansion turned into a brutal, gruelling quagmire at the impenetrable Elfgates and the incredible might of Silvermoon's Magisters. Deprived of Kel'thuzad, there was little they could do aside from shallowly penetrate into the Eversong before being forced to retreat and consolidate in Lordaeron.
The Old Gods, however, still threaten to awaken, separated from the Void Lords as they are. The titan watchers are thrown into chaos, granting them further opportunities to spread their admittedly weakened influence, this shard's Algalon quelled from purging the planet only by the fact that the true Azeroth exists elsewhere, thus making re-origination unecessary.
The Broken Isles -- and the Shal'dorei -- stand on a dangerous precipice, Elisande having potentially discovered through her time magics that her city is finally safe from the Legion, free to spread her influence without worry of being obliterated by the demons.
The Mists of Pandaria -- the final black mark on Emperor Shaohao's legacy -- have abruptly faded, blown apart by the enormous release of magic created by the violent discorporeation of the Legion's most powerful commanders, leaving Pandaria exposed to the rest of the world for the first time in ten thousand years.
The Dark Portal, exposed to the very same release of magic, has abruptly re-opened, wrenching an equally unintended fractured Draenor into being, offering whole Tempest Keep and its Draenei inhabitants an unexpected lease of life.
This Azeroth's Nozdormu, having realized the unintentional nature of this Azeroth's existence, wrestles with the reality of whether or not he can allow it to exist -- and the Dragon Aspects, still as powerful as they ever had been, return to the Dragon Isles decades early, convening on the nature of their duties, Malygos's role still in question, the Aspects grappling with their role in this false world.
Everything else (and the specifics of the above) are for the writers to decide, barring what I specify. In essence -- I'm providing a framework for the state of Azeroth, but only that -- a framework. Think of this as a pseudo-nation RP where you control organizations and nations through important people like Maxwell Tyrosus, Go'el, or people who might have taken their places. Multiple players can fit into a faction, of course, and are encouraged to do so -- Cairne and Thrall, for instance.
As such, while I intend to open things up more later on, initially at least, writers will be heavily encouraged to take on roles of great import, to fill out the essential spots in the world. Some -- even many -- will be canon characters, but you're more than encouraged to field proposals for OCs and where/how they'll be involved. Either way, I expect decently hogh-effort applications. This doesn't mean you need to give me an essay for each character (frankly, I'd prefer to not need to read a novel!), of course, but I reserve the right to reject applications when the time comes for the full RP. Currently, the plan is to start approximately four years and six months after the start of the first war, and about three and a half years after the Scourge was forced out of Quel'thalas by the High Elves, having failed to penetrate the first Elfgate.
Other major events to note -- everything up to Arthas's slaying of Terenas has happened as normal. It's around that time that Aranaeyl killed Dar'khan, creating this new timeline, and past that point when things can diverge. I'm hoping to help solidify some of these events in the process of setting up the interest check.
1. Don't be an asshole. No transphobia, racism, harassment... You know the drill.
2. NSFW content must stay in the NSFW channels.
3. As the GM, I will occasionally push things forward be making certain events happen, or by doing certain things with certain characters. Thanks to @Ezekiel for the inspiration for this metholodolgy! If you feel like the event is unfair in some way or have your own ideas for events and the life, please feel free to get in touch with me!
4. On the topic of activity requirements, while I don't have anything strict in mind as of the interest check, I will be keeping an eye on things -- if I feel that you're not contributing enough, I'll approach you for a discussion. Important nations and organizations will have a closer eye kept on activity. I expect to be informed of extended abscences of more than a week, however. IRL can easily be accomodated for!
5. Try to avoid map-painting. This is a collaborative writing project, not a competitive game -- conquests must be handled in a thought-out way that makes sense in-universe. You can't just conquer all of Gilneas in a single post if nobody's playing it. Take NPCs seriously.
6. On the above note, conflicts involving large NPC factions -- particularly external ones -- will require some degree of GM involvement. Don't go tossing the VanCleefs into the ocean or the Void Lords into a Holy Blender without asking first.
7. Discord participation, once it goes up, IS NOT required, but is encouraged -- it's a good medium for quick plot planning.
8. Even though you must be at least 18 to participate, we're still sticking to Guild rules, of course.
You know why this is here. I got obsessed with Azeroth again and decided to run an RP for the first time in eons. There's no need to be familiar with the franchise to join in -- I'm happy to discuss lore with people!
The vignettes I've included above are meant to provide some context and focus in on the events that lead us to where the RP's timeline started.
Staring up at the towering structure, some dozen meters down the winding cobblestone path leading up toward it, Aranaeyl remembered the place as one of horror -- the hive of villainy from which the downfall of Quel'thalas was orchestrated; Dar'khan Drathir's lair and the place in which he concocted his schemes and simmered against the supposed injustice of not being named the Grand Magister.
It was still that, for now -- in a manner of speaking. Many things were different, of course.
Dar'khan's arcane guardians, constructs typical of nearly every Magister's home turf, still did mill about the structure -- but they didn't spark and spit arcane energy, falling apart at the seams. They went about their duties as usual, as if nothing was amiss... Because it wasn't. The metal making up their bodies shone brightly with a fresh coat of polish, guarding the lifelong home of one of Quel'thalas's most famous, powerful Magisters.
But Aranaeyl knew differently. She lived the truth, and the consequences of what Dar'khan would become. She watched her friends and family be torn to bloody ribbons by slavering ghouls -- her mother, by Sylvanas's side, and her father, in a desperate but vain attempt to protect her and her siblings.
She remembered fleeing to the northwest in a desperate attempt to find refuge in the floating Duskwither Spire, narrowly avoiding the Scourge at every turn.
She remembered staring helplessly as Silvermoon burned in the distance, knowing that she would never see her aunts and cousins and uncles again; that her favorite candy shop and the kindly old woman who ran it would be dead next she saw her, and that she might never get to see her riding tutor again.
She remembered knowing, in her heart of hearts, that death would be a mercy for many of them.
Sighing, she extracted a small glass vial from an elementium lockbox at her hip, filled with shimmering golden sand, the bright blue glow of her eyes reflecting off of each individual grain. For several moments, all she did was stare, before finally shaking her head and stuffing the vial back into its hiding place.
No point in dilly-dallying, she silently reminded herself. She had everything she needed, after all. Stolen documents from another Dawnstar that would hopefully prove Dar'khan's guilt, a courier's disguise, and the package on her back that would change Azeroth forever.
One foot after the other, she began to move toward the Spire. If she was lucky, the Magister himself wouldn't come to greet her... But that meant making sure she could get close enough to the spire to plant the explosive in the first place
Mere moments after starting to move again, one of the tall ceramic constructs turned toward her, the brightly-glowing blue lines forming the runic bindings on their bodies lighting up the night. She could see the crystals joining their parts to their torsos, too -- tall, angular things, far less harsh than she remembered. The glowing filigree was much more consistent, too -- none of the empty carvings she remembered from her time.
The broad, blue, horizontal slit across the construct's face pulsed as it approached her, a cold, robotic voice booming out from its face.
"CEASE YOUR APPROACH AND STATE YOUR PURPOSE IMMEDIATELY."
The Reaver echoed -- and so Aranaeyl did, freezing in place.
"I'm a courier!" She replied, breath quickening. Would she need to try to slay the Magister herself? She was skilled with the blade, sure, but he was an incredible mage, and a cunning one, too...
"I have a package for the Magister, from Commander Lor'themar Theron!" She said, reaching into her pack to extract a large, jeweled box -- nearly a foot long and half as wide, covered in the blue-gold colours of Silvermoon.
The construct approached her, spending a handful of moments staring at the box -- scanning it, she imagined -- and then, apparently satisfied, snatched it from her hands and wordlessly proceeded back inside.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Araneyl turned, wearing a small smile as she left at a brisk walk. Her part was done -- now, all she had to do was wait, and hope that the Magister wouldn't notice the true nature of the package until it was too late. It was something he he surely wouldn't recognize, but the elemental fire it was infused with...
Pausing, Aranaeyl glanced back over her shoulder.
"YOU IDIOT! USELESS GOLEM! IT'S A-"
Suddenly, the whining traitor's tirade was broken by a sharp crack, and a bright flash of angry light that bathed the forest in red. She felt her skin grow hot, as if burning, trees all around the spire sparking, all while a pathetic flash of purple light emanated from within the tower. An attempt at teleportation... Foiled by that Gnomish dispelling device, no doubt. Just as advertised.
Then, just as suddenly, the entire spire was engulfed in flame, and Aranaeyl felt the air being sucking out of her lungs, forcing her to the ground in a desperate attempt to protect herself. There was a great, roaring sound, like that of an entire city aflame...
Then a violent boom as the entire spire spontaneously combusted in elemental fire, arcane crystals melting into bright red magma, all while raging fire elementals emerged from the wreckage.
Aranaeyl smiled, rising to her feet.
Selama ashal'anore, she thought.
Welcome to the Interest Check for Tales of Azeroth: Flames of Chaos, a roleplay set in another Azeroth -- yet one that is inexorably linked to the true reality we know. Many things are similar, but others are very different.
There is, for example, no Burning Legion to invade Azeroth, for demons, as beings outside of time and space, can only exist in singularity; in other words, there was only one Kil'Jaeden, one Tichondrius, one Archimonde, one Sargeras...
Thus, those on Azeroth are disrupted and leaderless, left to run amok.
The Scourge, likewise, ails -- its back was broken by the offensive against Quel'thalas; met by constant Farstrider harassment, it was unable to penetrate deeply into the Eversong Woods, its rapid expansion turned into a brutal, gruelling quagmire at the impenetrable Elfgates and the incredible might of Silvermoon's Magisters. Deprived of Kel'thuzad, there was little they could do aside from shallowly penetrate into the Eversong before being forced to retreat and consolidate in Lordaeron.
The Old Gods, however, still threaten to awaken, separated from the Void Lords as they are. The titan watchers are thrown into chaos, granting them further opportunities to spread their admittedly weakened influence, this shard's Algalon quelled from purging the planet only by the fact that the true Azeroth exists elsewhere, thus making re-origination unecessary.
The Broken Isles -- and the Shal'dorei -- stand on a dangerous precipice, Elisande having potentially discovered through her time magics that her city is finally safe from the Legion, free to spread her influence without worry of being obliterated by the demons.
The Mists of Pandaria -- the final black mark on Emperor Shaohao's legacy -- have abruptly faded, blown apart by the enormous release of magic created by the violent discorporeation of the Legion's most powerful commanders, leaving Pandaria exposed to the rest of the world for the first time in ten thousand years.
The Dark Portal, exposed to the very same release of magic, has abruptly re-opened, wrenching an equally unintended fractured Draenor into being, offering whole Tempest Keep and its Draenei inhabitants an unexpected lease of life.
This Azeroth's Nozdormu, having realized the unintentional nature of this Azeroth's existence, wrestles with the reality of whether or not he can allow it to exist -- and the Dragon Aspects, still as powerful as they ever had been, return to the Dragon Isles decades early, convening on the nature of their duties, Malygos's role still in question, the Aspects grappling with their role in this false world.
Everything else (and the specifics of the above) are for the writers to decide, barring what I specify. In essence -- I'm providing a framework for the state of Azeroth, but only that -- a framework. Think of this as a pseudo-nation RP where you control organizations and nations through important people like Maxwell Tyrosus, Go'el, or people who might have taken their places. Multiple players can fit into a faction, of course, and are encouraged to do so -- Cairne and Thrall, for instance.
As such, while I intend to open things up more later on, initially at least, writers will be heavily encouraged to take on roles of great import, to fill out the essential spots in the world. Some -- even many -- will be canon characters, but you're more than encouraged to field proposals for OCs and where/how they'll be involved. Either way, I expect decently hogh-effort applications. This doesn't mean you need to give me an essay for each character (frankly, I'd prefer to not need to read a novel!), of course, but I reserve the right to reject applications when the time comes for the full RP. Currently, the plan is to start approximately four years and six months after the start of the first war, and about three and a half years after the Scourge was forced out of Quel'thalas by the High Elves, having failed to penetrate the first Elfgate.
Other major events to note -- everything up to Arthas's slaying of Terenas has happened as normal. It's around that time that Aranaeyl killed Dar'khan, creating this new timeline, and past that point when things can diverge. I'm hoping to help solidify some of these events in the process of setting up the interest check.
1. Don't be an asshole. No transphobia, racism, harassment... You know the drill.
2. NSFW content must stay in the NSFW channels.
3. As the GM, I will occasionally push things forward be making certain events happen, or by doing certain things with certain characters. Thanks to @Ezekiel for the inspiration for this metholodolgy! If you feel like the event is unfair in some way or have your own ideas for events and the life, please feel free to get in touch with me!
4. On the topic of activity requirements, while I don't have anything strict in mind as of the interest check, I will be keeping an eye on things -- if I feel that you're not contributing enough, I'll approach you for a discussion. Important nations and organizations will have a closer eye kept on activity. I expect to be informed of extended abscences of more than a week, however. IRL can easily be accomodated for!
5. Try to avoid map-painting. This is a collaborative writing project, not a competitive game -- conquests must be handled in a thought-out way that makes sense in-universe. You can't just conquer all of Gilneas in a single post if nobody's playing it. Take NPCs seriously.
6. On the above note, conflicts involving large NPC factions -- particularly external ones -- will require some degree of GM involvement. Don't go tossing the VanCleefs into the ocean or the Void Lords into a Holy Blender without asking first.
7. Discord participation, once it goes up, IS NOT required, but is encouraged -- it's a good medium for quick plot planning.
Rank/Role: Myrmidax of DIVISIO ++MARTII MORTIS++, Prime of Ark Mechanicus Redder
Appearance: Like many of the most powerful Magos, the Myrmidax possesses a number of combat-ready forms -- though it lacks any designed for diplomacy. Its most commonly utilized is a massive, nearly eight-foot tall, eight-legged monstrosity of metal, trailing behind its main body in a parody of a centauroid shape. Each leg is built like that of an overgrown mite, allowing the Myrmidax -- clad in martial red -- to travel at utterly ludicrous speeds, fabric whipping in the wind as it moves. A thick cluster of weapon and sensor-mechadendrites protrude from its back, allowing it to see in practically facet of the electromagnetic spectrum, and, of course, to remain incredibly heavily armed, additionally carrying a triplet of arms which it uses to wield whichever additional weapons it deems necessary for a given battle.
Biography: to those who encounter it, ULTIMA VERBA is typically one of two things -- a demon of death and destruction forged in cold, hard steel, or a perplexing avatar of violent retribution. Either way, one thing is clear: that it exists to wage war as a science, as if each battle is some grand experiment.
ULTIMA, perhaps unexpectedly, records and remembers every moment of its life down to its birth, for it must understand not only how to fight, but why it does so.
Its tale begins on a towering Hive in the far-flung galactic west, on a relatively insignificant agri-world. Back then, ULTIMA was known as Alisha, born to a pair of simple farmers -- one of many millions that toiled away on the planet's farms for simple subsistence, abused and tormented by their faceless overseers.
Alisha's family, at least, deeply cared for it. Its parents did everything they could to provide for Alisha and its siblings, despite having barely any means to do so in the first place. They split away parts of their rations to their children when they weren't given enough, doing their best to educate them with the extremely limited resources they had at hand, holding out some small hope that they might, one day, be able to move beyond a life of narrow subsistence, however little actual hope there was. Still, they held out hope. Still, they persevered.
They persisted even as their bodies continued to visibly wither away. Even as the fertilizers they were exposed to started to damage their internal organs, clogging their livers with toxic substances and heavy metals.
Unfortunately, their efforts would be for naught as a fleet of xenos pirates raided the hapless agri-world for slaves, burning their crops, killing those who they deemed unusable, and taking the rest captive -- mostly children of adequate stock and the able-bodied. Millions died in mere days, the planet's defense forces utterly, completely overwhelmed by the sorceries and vile technologies of the xenos, the most unlucky among them transformed into horrible abominations before the raiders fled, leaving devastation in their wake.
Alisha, unfortunately, was one of their victims, though its tenure as a slave was mercifully short, in spite of the vile torments inflicted by the aliens.
Mere months after their raid, the sorcerous xenos encountered a relatively small fleet of human vessels clad in jet black and crimson red, taking them for wayward exploratory ships of the Mechanicum -- deadly, yes, but no match for dedicated murderers such as themselves.
This was no normal Explorator fleet, however. It was a fleet of the rarely-seen Auxilia Myrmidon, the most deadly warriors affiliated with the Mechanicum, and easily among some of the most potent of the galaxy. They were an eclectic bunch, ranging from assassins to artillery specialists to walking, multi-armed blademasters, but, without exception, each was a consummate master of their craft, armed with a preternatural knowledge of warfare and some of the most potent armaments in the galaxy, ancient relics from humankind’s past.
The pirates, in their arrogance, never stood a chance. Their vessels were crippled after a brutal, albeit short-lived slugfest, only to be aggressively boarded by those Myrmidons who sought to engage them face-to-face, and in them, Alisha found unlikely saviours. Recruited by circumstance and necessity, offered the unique chance to ensure it would never be victim of such torment ever again -- and the power to prevent the same fate from being inflicted upon others.
Alone and directionless, Alisha was quick to accept, and with that, so too did it forgo its name, assigned a numeric sequence to mark out its position in the fleet's hierarchy until such a time as a name was earned, for in the Auxilia Myrmidon, there was nothing but the study of calculated warfare.
Despite the harsh requirements imposed on Myrmidons, it was treated well, eventually growing so attached to its increasingly mechanical body and uninterested in arbitrary categorizations of human-ness that it abandoned feminine pronouns entirely, choosing some that it found itself more comfortable with.
After all, the newly-minted Myrmidon genuinely loved how secure it felt in its new body -- and especially how powerful it felt, aware that, the longer it persevered and the more it studied, the more capable of preventing such tragedy for occuring it'd become.
Thus, it would discard arbitrary, narrow-minded notions of human-ness, but not its personhood, always remembering why -- and what for -- it fought, transforming into an avatar of both righteous retribution and a towering, guardian of the helpless and victimized the galaxy over, fuelled by the unstoppable might of the atomic; scouring ionizing radiation, atomantic weapons that could rip apart even the strongest armour, and even bright plasma, so purified that its true neon pink colour can show through. Driven onward by its agonized memories, it quickly earned the name "184-238-84-1-ULTIMA VERBA-PLUTON", rising to become the roving fleet's legendary Myrmidax.
Day 1 of the First Galactic War EUS Strasbourg Officers and soldiers bustled about the Strasbourg’s mess hall as it barreled toward TRAPPIST-1's gate, carried onward by magnetoplasmadynamic thrusters, a buzzing swarm of ships surrounding it. Its arrival to the Solar System was announced unceremoniously, by little but the FEU’s unambiguous declaration of war against PUNT, simplying diverting around rather than stopping for anything that got in its way. That was how the Strasbourg’s primary Command AI, Ultima Verba, preferred it, after all -- there was little time for exchanging diplomatic pleasantries when they needed to prevent a genocide.
Still, it couldn’t help but divert some unused sectors of its unfathomably powerful quantum computers to watching the ship’s personnel in the mess hall, occasionally exchanging idle banter with them through the inbuilt PA system. They didn’t seem to mind the conversation, and neither did Ultima, a welcome distraction from relatively uneventful navigation -- most of which was delegated to its siblings in the first place.
Its cameras suddenly shifted focus, drawing in toward the squad of Strzyga waltzing in through the main doors. A handful of artificial eyes turned toward them, too, and Ultima noted a strange mix of both reverence and excitement in them.
Thinking quickly -- and hoping to catch their attention -- Ultima conjured one of its many avatars, a slim, tomboyish athlete clad in the garb of the seelie court, fluttering wings and pointed ears adorning its body. It was clad in practically nothing, a disheveled, half-worn naval uniform, bronze-toned skin on nearly-full display as its curious amber eyes stared at them. “Yoo-hoo!” Ultima hollered, waving daintily. “Over here, c’mon!”
Drazenka was the first one to respond, glancing first toward Commander Amenabar, then at Ultima’s avatar before promptly making her way over to the table, the rest of her five-man squad distantly in tow.
“Ultima! How’s it goin’? Anything interesting on your radar?” She asked enthusiastically, unceremoniously plopping herself down at one of the benches along either side of the small, rectangular table.
“Nothing yet,” Ultima sighed, its holographic leaping up from the table to hang upside-down from the light fixtures above. “Some annoyed complaints from other parts of the Solar System, confused transmissions, the works. I’ve given the agreed-on response, of course -- a polite way of saying ‘fuck off. We have work to do.’” It replied, shrugging lazily. “I suppose nothing is better than something right now, though, boring as it is. We still don’t know precisely what the PUNT ships are up to, or if we’re even going to beat them to the punch, but...”
“The sooner we act, the better.” Amenabar interjected, earning a curt nod from everyone present. “They may as well be Nazis. We can’t afford to pull punches, diplomatic protocol be damned. It’s a good thing that the General Assembly agrees. Not that I’d expect otherwise, I mean. They usually do.”
“It’s a good thing they do,” Leopard -- a towering, broad-shouldered, black-haired man -- interjected, briefly reaching up to scratch his bushy beard. “Because, I’ll be frank; I’m looking forward to pummeling these sons-of-bitches. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be?”
Suddenly, Ultima found its attention wrenched away from the mess hall, a transmission hammering into its processors. [Emergency transmission received:] ”This is Admiral 1-103 Akari Stands Resolute Against The Dark. We have come under concerted assault by the forces of the People’s Union of New Terra. We have suffered direct strike by numerous nuclear weapons. Casualties unknown, but high. Requesting support against the aggressor. Heaven preserve us.”
“*Oh*. Oh, that’s...”
Without a moment of hesitation, Ultima re-routed the transmission to the command staff, cringing as the Strzyga turned to face it...
And then, a reply, as alarms began to blare, bathing the ship in angry red light. Instantly, the soldiers scattered about the mess hall began to rise to their feet, rushing out of the room, some with lunch trays carried in their arms, while others lay abandoned where they sat.
This is Admiral Briganto. Orders are to immediately divert toward Ishtar, maximum speed. Transmit an encrypted reply.
Thankfully, for a person with such enormous computational power at its disposal, rapid, robust encryption was practically effortless, requiring little more than the digital equivalent of a flick of the wrist.
This is Ultima Verba, transmitting as the primary controlling persona of "Strasbourg" and first through fourth of five Naval Action Forces. We are diverting toward your location; ETA in-system in approximately fourty-five minutes. Transmitting targeting datalink codes.
she/her pronouns. I'm interested in a wide variety of roleplays, but I tend toward prefering High Fantasy and High Sci Fi settings (think Elder Scrolls or Warhammer 40k). Whether it's a Nation Roleplay (I love digging into fictional politics) something on a smaller, individual scale, or something in between, there's a good chance I might be interested! I especially enjoy fantasy setting with weird, esoteric fluff - up to and including the nonsense that happens in Elder Scrolls, or, occasionally, Age of Sigmar.
Fave settings /period/ are Warcraft, and Golarion. WH40k and AoS are close.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">she/her pronouns. I'm interested in a wide variety of roleplays, but I tend toward prefering High Fantasy and High Sci Fi settings (think Elder Scrolls or Warhammer 40k). Whether it's a Nation Roleplay (I love digging into fictional politics) something on a smaller, individual scale, or something in between, there's a good chance I might be interested! I especially enjoy fantasy setting with weird, esoteric fluff - up to and including the nonsense that happens in Elder Scrolls, or, occasionally, Age of Sigmar.<br><br>Fave settings /period/ are Warcraft, and Golarion. WH40k and AoS are close.</div>
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Izurich
