Lira had not prayed in many years, but as they rode beneath the shadow of the Wall and into Castle Black, she found herself muttering a small thanks that, at least for now, they’d be able to get out of this bloody cold. With every mile it seemed, the air grew more bitter and the wind a bit sharper. She remembered how, in her first weeks in King’s Landing, it had been a trial adjusting to the Crownland’s climate, and now she found herself wishing for those days when all she needed were thicker socks and a shawl to acclimate. Sitting in the cart, bundled in layers of wool, clutching a furred cloak about her shoulders, she couldn’t help but envy the northerners their resilience. Or maybe it wasn’t resilience at all, maybe they were all exactly as miserable and just good at shutting up about it. That, at least, Lira could do.
The Wall managed to distract her, anyway. She’d been transfixed on it since it’d breached the horizon, and even with those hours to contemplate it, she was still thoroughly awed. There were taller towers in Westeros, true, and grander works of art in other nations, but the Wall was something else. It was titanic and, quite literally, elemental.
Vaeron leapt from the carriage with barely-bridled enthusiasm, and once they’d come to a stop, Lira followed suit. She stepped heavily from the carriage, and as Vaeron continued to marvel at the Wall, Lira found her own attentions weighed lower, to the grounds of Castle Black and the men inhabiting it. Wolves, she thought mildly. All up and down the seven kingdoms they talked about the men of the Night’s Watch, and rarely were they words of reverence. Hardly more than a hundred years ago one would have been hard-pressed to find a single decent man among the Brothers. Now, with a bit of sifting, you might find a fistful.
Her hand came to rest on the pommel of her sword, where it often went to roost. She watched the watchers, most closely the ones who lingered on Vaeron. Here, in the prince’s own kingdom, amidst Targaryen soldiers and in the company of Kingsguard, it might have seemed ridiculous to be so cautious, but Lira wasn’t the sort to get complacent. Brynden Tully went to fetch the Lord Commander, and Yohn stayed behind. She was glad for the young Kingsguard’s company.
"How many would come to greet Vaeron Targaryen without the title, I wonder," said the prince, though it seemed to no one in particular.
“Without the title? Couldn’t say,” she said, coming up beside him. “But I doubt they get enough ‘Vaeron Targaryens’ up here to ignore you, title or no.”
-Sincere -Conscientious -Temperamental but really working on it
Weapon of Choice
Longsword
Talents
-Swordplay -Diplomacy -Observation
History
The second child of Lord Gerrod Dayne and Pollenda Gargalen, Lira Dayne has managed to skirt house responsibility for most of her life. Her elder brother, Uther, received the lion’s share of their father’s attentions, and Lady Pollenda spent most of her time doting over sickly Micah, the youngest. When she wasn’t sat with the maesters and septas, Lira was free to roam High Hermitage at her leisure. Most often, this meant watching Uther as father taught him how to hold a sword and ride a horse, preparing him for the glorious, knightly future that awaited him as heir to their house. It would have been a lie to say that Lira wasn’t envious of her brother, for his prospects and for the love he received, but she didn’t hate him. She couldn’t. He was kind to her, he treated her not only like a person, but an equal; he treated her like family. When she was sent off to ward with her mother’s family in Salt Shore, she missed Uther’s company the most, and it was him she wrote to most often.
While High Hermitage was beholden to more stringent Westerosi customs, Lira enjoyed much more freedom under the care of her grandparents at Saltshore. While she was still subjected to lessons in history and courtship, she was also able to spend her free time training with the masters of arms, learning many of the things she had always only watched Uther learn. At Salt Shore, she came to understand why the Dornish were viewed as hot-blooded and temperamental, and as a child of eight, Lira was eager to take it over the rigidity of High Hermitage. She took to the longsword with a fervor that she hoped would have made even her father proud, training each day in the bright hours and often still into the dark. Her letters to Uther were rife with talk of knighthood and tournaments and chivalrous battles, all so excitedly scrawled as to be nearly illegible, but Uther always wrote back, happy to hear about her progress and her hopes. She nurtured childish dreams of the day she would return to High Hermitage, to astound her lord father and stand beside her brother as a knight of House Dayne.
On her sixteenth birthday, Lira bade Salt Shore goodbye and traveled to the Tor, where she was to reunite with her family at a tournament hosted by house Jordayne. Lira had witnessed a number of games at Salt Shore, Godsgrace and Vaith, but none so big as at the Tor. There she saw knights from as far north as the Vale, all of them glistening in their armors, painted with the sigils of their noble houses, whose names Lira had all but forgotten in her excitement.
Her family welcomed her warmly, even lord Gerrod. Micah was still a brittle boy at fourteen, with no illusions of knighthood and glory, but Uther already looked like royalty. Clad in white-trimmed armor, donning a violet cloak with House Dayne’s sigil and a greatsword upon his back, Lira thought it was nothing short of shameful that he wasn’t wielding Dawn itself. One day, she was certain, he would.
Lira attempted to get herself on the registry. Although she had little aptitude for jousting, she had grown confident enough in her skills with a longsword that she was sure she could stand her ground. Lord Gerrod, of course, wouldn’t have it, and though Lira mourned the opportunity to find glory alongside her brother, she was content enough to cheer Uther on.
The joust came first, and Lira shouted with glee as Uther unseated riders from their Dornish neighbors in Vaith and Wyl, and outcomers from Houses Morrigan and Serrett. His last bout was to be against Aryk Oakheart, heir to his house. Lord Gerrod, perhaps seeing a chance to prod at the Oakhearts, allowed Lira to squire for Uther that bout. The crowd hollered and whistled, but she was deaf to them. She brought Uther his lance and his helmet, proud as she’d ever been, and watched him ride off down the lists.
The riders broke two lances against each other, and on the third tilt, Aryk’s shattered against Uther’s chest and sent the Dayne heir to the ground with his horse tumbling down atop him. Shrieks and cries erupted from the stands, none louder than Lira’s. By the time they pulled him free, he was a mangle of dented, bloody metal—but he was alive.
The Dayne’s spent the remainder of the tournament in the maesters’ tents, as old men cut and stitched and broke and pulled sharp metal splinters from Uther’s body until he woke up, only to scream in agony until milk of the poppy put him to sleep. When all was said and done, the maesters left the Daynes with an heir who had but three fingers on the one hand he had left, a leg that would be forever twisted and useless, a shattered nose and a single eye. Lira was stricken. The fate of their house was all but an afterthought; what she dreaded most was when Uther would wake, when he would find his body shattered, and his dreams with them.
In the months that followed, a withering fell upon High Hermitage. Uther rarely left his chambers, and just as rarely took guests—even Lira. Lord Gerrod was miserable, fretting over the house now that his heirs were crippled and sickly, and despite Dornish customs it was clear Lira was never going to be considered. She didn’t care. She couldn’t get the tournament out of her mind, couldn’t get that damned Oakheart heir out her mind. How had he bested Uther? Her brother was destined for knighthood, destined to be the greatest Dayne in generations, surely no Oakheart boy could be that skilled or that lucky. For weeks, Lira harbored dark thoughts of foul play, but came to realize that not only were these suspicions unfounded and unprovable, they were dishonorable. Desperate. Knights were not desperate.
It had not been foul play, nor luck that had laid Uther low. He had simply been beaten. The contest had been fair, the honor lost, well, honorably.
Lira found that Aryk was traveling to King’s Landing, having leveraged his victory at the Tor for a chance at squiring for a member of the King’s Guard. So, with naught but a note left in her wake, the middle Dayne left her home behind and made for King’s Landing. Eventually she found Aryk at the foot of the Red Keep, and demanded a duel from him. Naturally the boy refused, but Lira persisted day after day, taunting and insulting and trying every appeal to the honor he must have had—honor he’d stolen from her brother, and honor she’d reclaim.
At length Aryk conceded; people were beginning to snicker whenever he turned his back on her, joining in when she called him a coward—among other, more colorful things. They cleared a space, and right there at the steps of the Red Keep, Lira Dayne crossed blades with Aryk Oakheart. Briefly. The bout ended in only a handful of strokes, with Aryk disarmed and Lira’s sword leveled at his neck. It was over, she’d won.
And…nothing changed. Uther wasn’t magically brought out of his melancholy, and he certainly wasn’t healed. The honor she was sure had been taken from her house did not return to her in a flow of fire and glory; if it existed at all, it had simply snuffed away into nothing. She had traveled all this way and even in victory she had achieved nothing. The realization withered her, and she may have stood there in an empty stupor into the midnight hours, had she not been invited inside the Keep. Word was being sent to her father to assure him of her safety, but Lira knew well that they would not hear joy in return.
Sure enough, what came was a letter boiling with such fury that Lira could not bear to read it in its entirety. The gist was clear enough: father didn’t care whether she came home or not. So she did not. Lira spent the next two years in King’s Landing, at the kindness of the young prince Vaeron. Every stray thought of Dorne, of home, brought immense, humbling shame, and Lira has since felt the hot-blooded temper she’d fostered at Salt Shore simmer into a much colder, starker self-reflection.
Relations
-Vaeron: Lira has known Vaeron Targaryen since the day she dueled Aryk Oakheart. Whether the young prince witnessed the bout or not, he consoled her in its wake, and upon learning she was highborn, invited her into the Red Keep. Since then, she’s come to think of him as a good friend and a pleasant conversationalist, and often seeks out his company when things are slow in the Red Keep.
-Garland: No one brings out the Salt in Lira's temper like Garland Tyrell. He's boisterous, conniving, crass, and above all a terrible influence on the prince. Now and then in their conversations, Vaeron will say something nearly vile, and Lira will just know Garland is to blame for it. Vaeron adores the young man though, so Lira has done her best to acclimate to his presence.
-Bors: He's loud and he takes up a lot of space, but he isn't as bad as Garland. That besides, his care for Vaeron is plainly genuine, and she's glad for what he's done in helping the prince out of his shell.
The second child of Lord Gerrod Dayne and Pollenda Gargalen, Lira Dayne has managed to skirt house responsibility for most of her life. Her elder brother, Uther, received the lion’s share of their father’s attentions, and Lady Pollenda spent most of her time doting over sickly Micah, the youngest. When she wasn’t sat with the maesters and septas, Lira was free to roam High Hermitage at her leisure. Most often, this meant watching Uther as father taught him how to hold a sword and ride a horse, preparing him for the glorious, knightly future that awaited him as heir to their house. It would have been a lie to say that Lira wasn’t envious of her brother, for his prospects and for the love he received, but she didn’t hate him. She couldn’t. He was kind to her, he treated her not only like a person, but an equal; he treated her like family. When she was sent off to ward with her mother’s family in Salt Shore, she missed Uther’s company the most, and it was him she wrote to most often.
While High Hermitage was beholden to more stringent Westerosi customs, Lira enjoyed much more freedom under the care of her grandparents at Saltshore. While she was still subjected to lessons in history and courtship, she was also able to spend her free time training with the masters of arms, learning many of the things she had always only watched Uther learn. At Salt Shore, she came to understand why the Dornish were viewed as hot-blooded and temperamental, and as a child of eight, Lira was eager to take it over the rigidity of High Hermitage. She took to the longsword with a fervor that she hoped would have made even her father proud, training each day in the bright hours and often still into the dark. Her letters to Uther were rife with talk of knighthood and tournaments and chivalrous battles, all so excitedly scrawled as to be nearly illegible, but Uther always wrote back, happy to hear about her progress and her hopes. She nurtured childish dreams of the day she would return to High Hermitage, to astound her lord father and stand beside her brother as a knight of House Dayne.
On her sixteenth birthday, Lira bade Salt Shore goodbye and traveled to the Tor, where she was to reunite with her family at a tournament hosted by house Jordayne. Lira had witnessed a number of games at Salt Shore, Godsgrace and Vaith, but none so big as at the Tor. There she saw knights from as far north as the Vale, all of them glistening in their armors, painted with the sigils of their noble houses, whose names Lira had all but forgotten in her excitement.
Her family welcomed her warmly, even lord Gerrod. Micah was still a brittle boy at fourteen, with no illusions of knighthood and glory, but Uther already looked like royalty. Clad in white-trimmed armor, donning a violet cloak with House Dayne’s sigil and a greatsword upon his back, Lira thought it was nothing short of shameful that he wasn’t wielding Dawn itself. One day, she was certain, he would.
Lira attempted to get herself on the registry. Although she had little aptitude for jousting, she had grown confident enough in her skills with a longsword that she was sure she could stand her ground. Lord Gerrod, of course, wouldn’t have it, and though Lira mourned the opportunity to find glory alongside her brother, she was content enough to cheer Uther on.
The joust came first, and Lira shouted with glee as Uther unseated riders from their Dornish neighbors in Vaith and Wyl, and outcomers from Houses Morrigan and Serrett. His last bout was to be against Aryk Oakheart, heir to his house. Lord Gerrod, perhaps seeing a chance to prod at the Oakhearts, allowed Lira to squire for Uther that bout. The crowd hollered and whistled, but she was deaf to them. She brought Uther his lance and his helmet, proud as she’d ever been, and watched him ride off down the lists.
The riders broke two lances against each other, and on the third tilt, Aryk’s shattered against Uther’s chest and sent the Dayne heir to the ground with his horse tumbling down atop him. Shrieks and cries erupted from the stands, none louder than Lira’s. By the time they pulled him free, he was a mangle of dented, bloody metal—but he was alive.
The Dayne’s spent the remainder of the tournament in the maesters’ tents, as old men cut and stitched and broke and pulled sharp metal splinters from Uther’s body until he woke up, only to scream in agony until milk of the poppy put him to sleep. When all was said and done, the maesters left the Daynes with an heir who had but three fingers on the one hand he had left, a leg that would be forever twisted and useless, a shattered nose and a single eye. Lira was stricken. The fate of their house was all but an afterthought; what she dreaded most was when Uther would wake, when he would find his body shattered, and his dreams with them.
In the months that followed, a withering fell upon High Hermitage. Uther rarely left his chambers, and just as rarely took guests—even Lira. Lord Gerrod was miserable, fretting over the house now that his heirs were crippled and sickly, and despite Dornish customs it was clear Lira was never going to be considered. She didn’t care. She couldn’t get the tournament out of her mind, couldn’t get that damned Oakheart heir out her mind. How had he bested Uther? Her brother was destined for knighthood, destined to be the greatest Dayne in generations, surely no Oakheart boy could be that skilled or that lucky. For weeks, Lira harbored dark thoughts of foul play, but came to realize that not only were these suspicions unfounded and unprovable, they were dishonorable. Desperate. Knights were not desperate.
It had not been foul play, nor luck that had laid Uther low. He had simply been beaten. The contest had been fair, the honor lost, well, honorably.
Lira found that Aryk was traveling to King’s Landing, having leveraged his victory at the Tor for a chance at squiring for a member of the King’s Guard. So, with naught but a note left in her wake, the middle Dayne left her home behind and made for King’s Landing. Eventually she found Aryk at the foot of the Red Keep, and demanded a duel from him. Naturally the boy refused, but Lira persisted day after day, taunting and insulting and trying every appeal to the honor he must have had—honor he’d stolen from her brother, and honor she’d reclaim.
At length Aryk conceded; people were beginning to snicker whenever he turned his back on her, joining in when she called him a coward—among other, more colorful things. They cleared a space, and right there at the steps of the Red Keep, Lira Dayne crossed blades with Aryk Oakheart. Briefly. The bout ended in only a handful of strokes, with Aryk disarmed and Lira’s sword leveled at his neck. It was over, she’d won.
And…nothing changed. Uther wasn’t magically brought out of his melancholy, and he certainly wasn’t healed. The honor she was sure had been taken from her house did not return to her in a flow of fire and glory; if it existed at all, it had simply snuffed away into nothing. She had traveled all this way and even in victory she had achieved nothing. The realization withered her, and she may have stood there in an empty stupor into the midnight hours, had she not been invited inside the Keep. Word was being sent to her father to assure him of her safety, but Lira knew well that they would not hear joy in return.
Sure enough, what came was a letter boiling with such fury that Lira could not bear to hear it. The gist was clear enough: father didn’t care whether she came home or not. So she did not. Lira spent the next two years in King’s Landing, at the kindness of the young prince Vaeron. Every stray thought of Dorne, of home, brought immense, humbling shame, and Lira has since felt the hot-blooded temper she’d fostered at Salt Shore simmer into a much colder, starker self-reflection.
Relations
Lira has known Vaeron Targaryen since the day she dueled Aryk Oakheart. Whether the young prince witnessed the bout or not, he consoled her in its wake, and upon learning she was highborn, invited her into the Red Keep. Since then, she’s come to think of him as a good friend and a pleasant conversationalist, and often seeks out his company when things are slow in the Red Keep.
Your characters are Hovvi folk, and have been for most if not all of their lives. Things were simpler here four years ago, with the occasional lakeside tourism in the spring and summer months, but even with the spike in popularity, Hovvi still manages to be a quiet town—most days. Fishing and mining from the distant quarry make up most of the local economy, but within the last few years the new R.I.S.C. training program, which has commandeered the community rec center, has been garnering attention for the aptitude of its trainees.
(A picture)
R.I.S.C. Dossier
Name
(Your name)
Age
(No toddlers or raisins)
Physical Evaluation
(Describe your character)
Psychological Profile
(Describe your character’s personality: bullet points)
Background Information
(Characters don't need to be from Hovvi, but those who aren't will have come there by the start of the RP.)
Savior
Designation
(Your Savior's callsign.)
Body
(While most Saviors have uniform frames, all possess unique nuances in their appearance in the form of the modium growths constituting their natural armor.)
Weapon
(Savior weapons are unique from each other, but can still share categories like “sword” “bow” “gun” “cannon” etc.)
Established in the wake of Westwel’s destruction, the Runan Isles Savior Corps is by no means the most impressive program on Illun, but it’s well-funded and well-run by a few survivors of Westwel’s own Corps.
Character Info
Name – Besca Darroh Age – 33 Affiliation – R.I.S.C.
Originally from Westwel, Besca Darroh has been around Saviors her entire life. Her grandfather had helped fell the Modir who would become “Dragon,” and her father had headed Westwel’s burgeoning Savior program. She met dozens of pilots, watched as their connection to the Modir ate away at their minds and bodies. Other nations treated their pilots like a resource to be burned through, kept at arm’s length in all but public affairs. Besca, however, went out of her way to engage with Westwel’s pilots and even piloting candidates, caring after them with a degree of humanity which was, frankly, missing in the programs of other nations. Her methods were derided as frivolous and naïve by her peers, but the pilots appreciated it, which, to her, was all that mattered.
She lost many things in Westwel’s fall; her home, her father, her friends, and no small piece of her faith in humanity, but ironically enough she didn’t lose her job. When Runa took in her country’s refugees, and subsequently acquired their first Savior, they came to the last living member of Westwel’s program for help in founding their own.
Nowadays, Besca doesn’t often involve herself in the politics of the program. Technically speaking she isn’t even chief of operations—a position occupied by the Runan government—but rather, her duties revolve around “pilot maintenance.” While she hasn’t lost her desire to make life easier for the pilots, she isn’t nearly as incorrigibly optimistic or sunny as she once was.
Character Info
Name – Dahlia St. Senn Age – 18 Affiliation – R.I.S.C.
Dahlia was a toddler when her home was destroyed by the Modir, spirited away from Westwel in the arms of a family friend. She spent the first fourteen years of her life in the quiet, lakeside town of Hovvi. She was, like many children, absolutely enthralled by the Saviors, so when she tested positive and was whisked away into orbit, Dahlia thought her dream had come true. She missed her friends, and her adoptive father, but this was her opportunity to do something important. This was her chance to help.
She had no idea.
Runa’s Savior, Dragon, had not been phased by a single pilot until Dahlia entered the cockpit. With its potential finally unleashed, she was able to end invasions within minutes—which was crucial, because she couldn’t remain connected for much longer than that before the giant’s neural regeneration reached critical levels.
Dahlia has become Runa’s WMD, and as such, she actually doesn’t pilot as much as she did before R.I.S.C. acquired its two other Saviors. Besca has become rather protective of her, not wanting to risk putting her in situations where she may be forced to over-exert herself, or risk being overtaken.
Character Info
Name – Hadrian Ghaust Age – 38 Affiliation – R.I.S.C.
Hadrian Ghaust is Helburke personified. He is strong, unrelenting, stoic to a chilling degree, and utterly devastating in the cockpit. Ghaust is also a veteran pilot, having commanded the Savior Marrowman in service of the Helburken crown for 15 years, and despite a phasing speed so slow that he rarely deigns to use his magic at all, he was well on his way to becoming one of his country’s most accomplished pilots.
However, Ghaust’s priority has always been the fight against the Modir, and Helburke’s clamor for political power is something he viewed with silent disdain. To him, using Saviors to settle diplomatic disputes isn’t just wasteful, it’s shameful. So, when Helburke ordered him to bring Marrowman to bear against the newly-risen Runa’s Dragon, he refused. When, then, he was given the ultimatum of going through with the duel or forfeiting his rank and position, he looked his general in the eye, ripped the pilot’s medal from his collar, and left his home behind.
Overnight Ghaust was made a Pariah in Helburke, and his home turned against him. He was forced to leave, and though several foreign programs sought him out, Ghaust denied them all, even passing up a pilot’s seat in Eusero. Instead, he went straight to the burgeoning program in Runa, who was more than happy to take him.
Character Info
Name – Safie Calhan Age – 22 Affiliation – R.I.S.C.
R.I.S.C.’s newest pilot, Safie has spent the past year earning her place at Dahlia and Ghaust’s sides. Born and raised in Runa’s largest city, Queenshand, Safie was one of countless starry-eyed youths who dreamed of the day she’d get to step inside the cockpit of a Savior. A positive connection-test put her on the path, but it was the months upon months of personal training, rigorous study, and nights spent running sims until dawn that pulled her ahead of the other aspirants. With a phase potential speed just above average, she was a perfect fit between Runa’s other two pilots.
While Dahlia has accrued something of a heroic mythos about her, she’s often reclusive and hesitant to make many public appearances. Safie on the other hand loves to meet the people she’s helping, be that with personal visits, answering fan-mail, or simply getting her hands dirty cleaning up after the messier invasions. Some see her approach as distinctly Euseran, but Safie didn’t become a pilot for the attention, she became a pilot because it was the right thing to do.
Character Info
Name – Lucis Abroix Age – 25 Affiliation – Casoban, on loan to the R.I.S.C.
Casoban’s sole effort to save Westwel, while ultimately futile, planted the seeds of goodwill between it and Runa. Casoban has always lived in the influential shadows of Helburke and Eusero, but allied with Runa, the two manage a strong presence on the world stage.
As a show of solidarity, Casoban has even begun sending a Savior of its own as backup to Runa’s invasions. Enter: Lucis Abroix.
Lucis is perhaps one of Casoban’s most beloved pilots, despite having only a handful of deployments to his name. Handsome, personable, with a poetic flare and the voice of an angel, many people back home already consider him the face of Casoban’s Savior program—a role he is more than happy to play. Lucis makes regular public appearances, seemingly never missing an opportunity to espouse his love for the beauty of the world, and his burning desire to protect it from the Modir.
Welcome to Amygdala Circuit, a mecha-horror RP in a world beset by the Modir: bloodthirsty, interdimensional giants wielding devastating weapons and magics. To face these hellish invaders and the hordes of horrific creatures they lead, your characters will need to arm themselves with humanity’s only real hope at survival, and perhaps even victory: the monsters themselves.
But outside of the cockpit, the world is no less dangerous. While some of Illun’s people enjoy living in “post-war societies,” this international peace is often tenuous, and exists on the exploitation and suffering of smaller nations without monsters of their own. With armies rendered nearly obsolete, the struggle for power revolves mostly around the unspoken threat of violence carried by these reined-in monsters. From nation to nation, pilots are revered as everything from celebrities to pariahs; symbols of peace and the faces of oppression.
Your characters will endure hell, both from without and, especially, within. Together they might just survive, but alone they could become the things they fear most.
Nothing brings people together like the threat of extinction.
Illun faces an alien enemy that cannot be reasoned with, which knows no fear and wants without compromise the complete and utter annihilation of every living thing. Naturally, when presented with the option of dying on principle, or uniting and surviving, the people of Illun chose the latter. The best and brightest minds from across the world came together to develop a means of fighting back against their invaders—and fell embarrassingly short. Even their most advanced weaponry could only slow the tide of lesser creatures, to say nothing of the giants, from which they drew nothing but the meagerest drops of blood. It wasn’t until they began experimenting on the strange, dead things that headway was made.
The shift in power was gradual at first, and derided by most for the secrecy shrouding it; no one knew how these weapons were being developed, how long it would take, or if they’d even work at all. The people were met with complete radio-silence, and a fearful unrest began to boil: until the first of the Modir fell.
Awe silenced man and beast alike. Government militia swooped in like vultures, the giant was ripped apart limb from limb until nothing remained but the head and torso, and then it was carted away into the deepest, most well-protected bunkers. Nothing was heard again for months. The attacks resumed, increased in frequency and fervor. Cities crumbled, millions died. Humanity was once again pushed to the brink, and in what would have been its final hour, it found deliverance.
A man-made Savior.
The taken giant emerged, its body restored, and turned its weapons and magics against the other Modir. More of the enemy fell in one day than had fallen in years, and when the dust settled, the Savior remained. It knelt to the ground, a hulk of flesh and alien metal steaming with Modir blood, and went slack like a puppet without strings. From the back of its head arose a lone, human woman.
In the aftermath, the fallen Modir were once again cut apart and dragged away. Another Savior emerged, and another, and another. Before long the reined giants were at every invasion, ready to repel the Modir and their ravenous armies. The war was no longer so devastatingly one-sided; humanity could finally fight back. For the first time since the invasions began, Illun found hope.
The better half of two hundred years has passed since the first Savior rose, and the war between Illun and the Modir has reached a plateau. The Modir’s forces are seemingly endless, but the human-piloted Saviors are, generally speaking, much stronger. Now and then a new variant of the giants will emerge, wielding some powerful new weapon or hitherto unseen magics, and they may succeed in felling one or two Saviors, but if the bodies can be salvaged, Illun is always ready to replace lost pilots.
The depths of Modir intelligence are not fully understood, but they seem aware that they tend to lose man-to-man confrontations, and so their personal appearances are rarer these days than earlier in the war. Nevertheless, their invasions continue, and wherever the singularities appear, tides of smaller—but hardly less deadly—creatures pour forth.
The mightier nations of Illun are more than happy to keep the stalemate going. Smaller nations without Saviors of their own find their larger, more fortunate neighbors often leveraging their safety for compliance in border disputes, and leniency in trade deals. Governments like to tote that their people live in post-war societies, where international conflicts are resolved with diplomacy and, failing that, the silent threat of whatever horrors might be wrought by homeland Savior warfare. Minor disputes are sometimes handled with a degree of theatre, wherein nations will send one or two Saviors to remote areas desolated by Modir invasions to duel.
The reality is that much of the world lives under the iron boot of a privileged few nations, and the post-war bliss that exists for some is more often a pre-war anxiety for most.
Humanity’s hope: the enemy, weaponized against itself. So much about the Saviors is kept hidden from the public, and even from the pilots. Most assume that the people inside simply puppet the dead giants around, but this is only half-true.
They aren’t dead.
When a Savior is made, a section of the subdued Modir’s brain is removed, rendering them essentially comatose. That void is filled by the pilot, who, once linked with the Savior’s mind via the cockpit, is able to control them with as much ease and familiarity as their own body.
Here are some key aspects to piloting a Savior:
Modir bodies are an amalgamation of flesh and a hyper-resilient, alien metal dubbed “modium”. The modium weaves in and out of the skin like a patchwork exoskeleton, and while all Modir share a generally uniform figure, their individual armors can vary wildly from one to the next. They all stand at roughly 35 meters tall, with builds that could be considered “average” to “hideously thin,” with the occasional outlier.
Saviors and Modir are also shockingly fast for their sizes, with speed and reflexes that seem to completely disregard terrestrial physics. They are not the slow, cumbersome giants of fairytales, these things can move, and move they do. As such, pilots are trained not only to utilize a Savior’s unique weapons and magics, but also in CQC.
Modir bodies display the miraculous ability to regenerate almost any damages done to them, so long as the brain remains intact. This regeneration slows significantly if the heart is damaged, but even a severed Modir head will, eventually, grow itself a new body. All pieces removed from the body and head rapidly dissolve into pools of the near-black ichor that is Modir blood.
This presents a danger to the pilots. The Modir themselves are evidenced to be resistant to pain, but linked-in pilots are not. Chemical inhibitors can trivialize most artificial wounds, but if a Savior has its arm ripped off in combat, the pilot will, to put it gently, struggle with their composure. As well, while a Modir can technically survive having its heart destroyed and its head removed, these injuries will almost always result in instantaneous death to the pilot.
In addition to the more standard, man-made arms, each Savior has access to a unique weapon, which they can quite literally pull into existence utilizing smaller, more localized versions of the singularities used to invade Illun. These weapons vary wildly in appearance and application, some of which are simpler, and others entirely alien in design.
The development of Saviors is a closely-guarded, international secret, the finer points of which are kept even from the pilots themselves. But what could not be hidden from them were the dangers they’d face just for linking up with the giants, and there is no greater danger than the one at the core to the entire process itself: The Amygdala Circuit.
Linking to a Savior comes with a myriad of risks both physical and psychological. Rule one of piloting is and has always been: “Do it as little as possible,” and for good reason; the longer a pilot stays connected to the Savior, the likelier they are to lose control. Remember that the Saviors are not dead Modir, only subdued, lobotomized, and comatose due to the removed section of their brains. Pilots aren’t just pilots, they are bridges between the Saviors and something…else. Something terrible. Prolonged sessions in the cockpit can and have led to pilots being completely overtaken by the Savior’s cognitive regeneration, losing both themselves and the giants to that elsewhere thing.
Veteran pilots have also reported issues outside of the cockpit, from invasive, alien thoughts, to modium growths on the skin. While so far, none of these side effects have proven to be directly fatal, they have driven more than a few pilots into an early, permanent retirement.
The advent of Saviors quite literally brought humanity out of the dirt. Gone are the days of bunker-cities and strongholds built beneath mountains, of disconnection and power-scarcity. The biggest cities of Illun are incredibly advanced, with skylines comprised of massive towers and roadways that sprawl and wind, connecting hundreds of miles of urban landscape together. Titanic space stations orbit the planet, housing Saviors to be deployed at a moment’s notice wherever they may be needed.
Outside of these cities the world is still widely modernized, however the propensity for singularities to appear in lesser-populated areas has led to more than a few towns being cut off from the rest of the world by ruined, untraversable terrain. This is especially true in less powerful countries without Saviors of their own, who have had to make compromises not only for the lives of their people, but then for the aid in rebuilding afterwards.
Here are some of the major players in today’s world stage:
Eusero has an industrious history, and has led the world in technological advancements since even before the Modir’s invasions began. Indeed, the first Savior arose on Eusero soil, and though it is generally taught and accepted that the Savior project was an international collaboration, Euseran schools tend to focus more acutely on familiar, less foreign-sounding names.
Eusero has arguably the most expansive defense program in the world, boasting a whopping seven Saviors, and some of history’s most remarkable pilots. Its cities are vast and vertical, and between them the land is mostly flat, hospitable, and well suited for agriculture.
Eusaran society idolizes their pilots, treating them like celebrities. They make public speeches, visit children’s hospitals, and routinely appear on late-night talk shows; you’ll find their faces on everything from billboards to cereal boxes. To be a pilot in Eusero is to have one’s name forever etched into the hearts and minds of an entire nation.
In the mountainous country of Helburke, civilization is…strange. Their architecture is ancient, their laws are draconian, and their wills are utterly unshakable. Helburke’s cities lay behind prodigious walls of stone and steel, and are built in tiers descending down the faces of mountains older than written history. High-towered castles and sprawling cathedrals are not uncommon sights in Helburke; indeed, one might look upon a village there and be shocked to find something as mundane as electricity.
But Helburke is not lost in time. Its aesthetics are only that, representative of their national identity, but never a hinderance. Helburke is bested in Savior-count only by Eusero, having six to its name, all of which carry long and brutal histories, and while its technological advancements might not be as plentiful as in Eusero, it is still a nation of keen, practical minds. Helburke has never shied from displaying its might in the face of any perceived slights, and is always the first to put forth duels as an answer to any diplomatic dispute.
Its citizens are hardy and proud; when the world reformed following the rise of the Saviors, and the nations’ governments collectively banned firearms from all but military use, the citizens of Helburke chose to carry swords at their hips rather than be unarmed—a practice still present to this very day.
The pilots of Helburke are regarded more with respect than adulation. They are seen as warriors, standing at the vanguard to defend their home, and their people, from the greatest threat humanity has ever faced. It is a legacy-defining honor to be selected for the Savior program in Helburke, and often times tournaments are held in which prospective candidates must fight, sometimes to the death, for their spot in the cockpits.
The Tohoki peninsula is a lush, vibrant land guarded from the Dim Sea by a range of snow-capped mountains. Once ruled over by Aridea, it declared independence following the empire’s fall, though Helburke to this day still claims Tohoki was rightfully ceded to it in the aftermath. As such, tensions between to the two nations have always been high.
Though it holds only two Saviors, Tohoki has made advancements in defensive technology rivaling, and in some cases even surpassing Eusero. They were the first nation to successfully graft extra modium onto a Savior without rejection. Though other countries have managed to replicate the feat, none achieve the same quality. Nowadays, Tohoki is regularly commissioned for armor from programs across the world, cementing itself, for now, as a necessity.
Tohoki pilots are viewed with a respect more closely resembling Helburke than Eusero. There’s little in the way of fame, but plenty of reverence, and pilots are often selected from its engineering schools, whose students spend most of their academic lives working on and studying Saviors.
Considered by many to be the most beautiful country in Illun, Casoban is a land of rolling hills and seaside vistas, where people spend their lives in luxury, relaxing on beaches and indulging their hobbies with all the time and means in the world. Though not the smallest country, it is still dwarfed by its political contemporaries, and its influence marks the first notable drop when moving past the “big two” of Eusero and Helburke.
That said, one should not underestimate Casoban. In more ancient times, Helburke was said to have tried to conquer them on no less than three separate occasions, and was rebuffed each time by Casoban’s comparably small yet devastatingly effective militia. Nowadays, and as is the case with most places, their military power is devoted almost entirely to their Savior program, of which they possess four.
Casobani pilots share a similar sort of fame with their Euseran cousins, only with a bit more pomp. Here, the pilots are not just protectors, they are cultural icons, and as such they are often as well educated as they are trained. Casobani pilots are always also lauded artists, musicians, actors, writers, and so on. The people revere them, almost even deify them, and those that retire—who can still function—normally go on to teach at the country’s world-renowned Savior Academy.
Sometimes called “The Pastel Isles” for the unique, gentle colors of its trees. Runa is a single, large island surrounded by a handful of smaller islands, and more than a handful of smaller islets. While once only really considered for its tourist trade, Runa has recently stepped into political relevance in the fallout of a disaster fifteen years earlier, where the neighboring island-nation of Westwel was overwhelmed by a Modir invasion. With their home ruined beyond repair, most of Westwel’s survivors were forced to emigrate, and were welcomed with open arms into Runa.
As a result, Runa acquired Westwel’s single Savior, and shortly thereafter, went on to acquire two more. Today, Runa still finds itself strongarmed on many matters by other, larger nations who believe they are unready for—and perhaps even undeserving of—such power. Whether or not they’re right, that power, along with the raw skill of Runa’s pilots, have kept the vultures at bay. For now.
And here is a timeline of some notable events:
2000
The first singularity appears, and the Modir invasions begin. Millions of lives are lost, and many nations crumble in the first days before the Modir mysteriously withdraw. Attacks continue in this sporadic fashion for years.
2010
The first Savior, classified “Spirit,” emerges from a bunker in Eusero in the midst of a devastating invasion. The Modir are driven back in the ensuing fight, and two more giants are collected. The tide of the war changes almost overnight.
2015
The Modir invasions are repelled by Saviors with consistent success. The various remaining nations of Illun come together at the new, hopeful dawn of their world, and form the Illun Accord, swearing that the only war left to be fought is the war against the Modir. International regulations are set, beginning what many consider to be an era of world peace.
2300
The Aridean Empire breaks faith with the Illun Accord and uses Saviors to invade its neighboring countries. Eusero and Casoban attempt to intervene, but it is not until a single Savior from the tiny, occupied nation of Helburke attacks from within that the Aridean front is broken. In the aftermath, the Empire is crushed, and Aridea is ceded to Helburke.
2455
Westwel, a relatively small island nation, manages to repel an invasion and subdue a Modir without a Savior—a feat which has not been achieved for nearly half a millennia. With its newfound influence, Westwel manages to bring both itself and its neighbor, Runa, out from beneath the iron heel of tariffs imposed upon them by Eusero and Helburke.
2485
The Modir invade Westwel again, in the widest-scale assault launched in hundreds of years. The island is overrun, and both Eusero and Helburke conveniently fail to intervene until it is too late. Casoban Saviors arrive and manage to repel the Modir, but the damage is done. Westwel’s scarce surviving population leaves their ruined home behind, and find refuge in Runa.
2496
Runa’s sole Savior acquires a new pilot with startling capabilities. Dahlia St. Senn, an orphan from Westwel, manages to capture two more Modir for Runa in her first year. Helburke manufactures two conflicts justifying duels with Runa within a single month, and loses both, costing it two prized pilots, and nearly one Savior. St. Senn becomes internationally known for her piloting skill, and Runa begins to see begrudging respect from other major players on the world stage.
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