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Welcome to Regenlied, a sci-fi/fantasy RP set in a world where humanity is forced to harness science and magic in order to survive. With most of civilization confined to oasis cities amidst vast expanses of barren desert, the days of international conflict are ancient and gone. Now, the Regentier are the truest threat. The horrific creatures from above, the torrent that nearly drowned the world, and may yet still wash it away.

It is the duty of the Sonnelied National Defense Program to protect not only its largest city, but its numerous territories as well. From defensive expeditions, to large-scale hunts, where the Regentier fall, it is said, the SNDP rises. Once a singular entity, in recent decades a schism has formed. The old guards of the Vulkan Division prioritize the research and development of high-powered energy weapons, and are responsible for nearly all of the SNDP’s technological advancements since its foundation. Conversely, the newer Sarkaturges have pioneered the practice of grafting: drawing out humanity’s latent affinity for magic by grafting parts of dead Regentier to their bodies.

As the program’s newest recruits, your characters will discover that, while the Regentier may be the existential danger, they are not the only danger. Sonnehall’s High Command has been ordering joint operations between the divisions, and while the Vulkans and Sarkaturges may be working together, they are nonetheless competing, both for funding, and legitimacy in the eyes of High Command, and the people themselves. Tensions are high, interdivision conflicts are common, subterfuge and sabotage are the lull between the Regentier storms.

Hard falls the rain that scorches the earth.



Seated with the Bay of Kings to its back, and the Aegaen Wall at its face, Sonnehall is the oldest and most well-protected city in the country, perhaps even the world. While the vast stretches of barren plains between oases lead to an unorthodox rule, it is nonetheless absolute. The entirety of the nation’s defense program rests comfortably behind Sonnehall’s walls, and as such, the other cities and settlements must often rely on outriding forces to come to their aid. In most cases they arrive before they’re needed. In others…

Like most cities, Sonnehall is built downwards. Above, buildings rarely extend more than two stories high, and instead run several down, often connecting to one another. Streets and highways mark up the topside, while cavernous plazas and intertwining railways make a web of the undercity.

The Bay of Kings houses Sonnehall’s modest yet well-guarded harbor, and opens up into the brackish waters of the Engel Sea. Beset by beast and pirate alike, it is sailed elseways by only the brave, the foolish, and the greedy. Somewhere within lies the sovereign atoll called Forra, from which trade occasionally makes its way to Sonnehall’s docks. Little is known of the place; its sailors say nothing to the public, and little more to interrogators. In the absence of any recorded hostility, commerce continues.

The Aegaen Wall, older than the city itself, is Sonnehall’s first line of defense. It has not been breached in decades, and what Regentier do approach the wall are usually meager, and dealt with in swift exercises often televised to the public. On the other side of it is the Plain. A simple enough name for a simple enough place: miles upon miles upon yet even more miles of exactly nothing. Hard, dusty earth, sand in some places, rock in others, all of it utterly barren save for the pockets of arable land, which have become the basis for settlements, towns, and even a handful of cities, though nothing quite rivaling Sonnehall’s size.

Further and further out into the Plain, the oases became fewer, smaller. The Reachline, well past the most outflung settlement in Sonnelied, is the point past which there is, as far as anyone knows, nothing. Expeditions have been conducted lasting several months, and each time its members return claiming there is not a single speck of healthy earth to be found. Flat, lifeless, and seemingly endless. Some of the more delirious explorers claim that the sun never set again once they passed the Reach, others say it never rose. Most were unable to say anything.

For better or for worse, this is your home. Now when the storms come, it is your duty to help weather them.




When you ask questions of a storm, it answers in torrents and flashes of lightning. No one knows where the Regentier came from, or why they do what they do—they can’t be asked, they answer in nature’s own fury.

They are old, that much is known. As long as there have been clouds, there have been the beasts that come with them. They are also many, perhaps even endless. No matter how many are slain, more always come; there is always another battle.

Their appearances and abilities vary, and while there are records of recurring species, it is not uncommon for a new beast, or some hideous chimeric evolution to appear. Thankfully, the size and severity of a storm is often a reliable indicator of the power of the monsters within it. Currently, storms are categorized as follows:






Dating back to the country’s founding, there have always been individuals brave enough to fight back against the storm. Over the centuries, technology has evolved almost hand-in-hand with research of the Regentier. Modern hunters have access to a wide array of advanced weapons, armors, and vehicles.

However, in recent decades, the SNDP has been split into two competing divisions: the old guard Vulkans, and the newcomers, the Sarkaturges. While both divisions utilize humanity’s latent affinity for magic, their methods are wildly different from each other.

Vulkan Division

With black powder an ancient, unattainable relic, weapons are operated and enhanced via the energized remains of Regentier. As well, by tapping into a person’s latent well of power, they can be used like a battery, allowing them to operate arms and armor that would normally be unfeasible. Vulkan hunters are given access to high-potency energy weapons, as well as power armor, speed-enhancing exo-skeletons, and state-of-the-art prosthetics. They cannot, however, truly access their magical capabilities.

Sarkaturge Division

Having only emerged in the last few decades, the Sarkaturges carry a heavy stigma for turning people into monsters. It is true, of course—at least in a way. Sarkaturges tap into their affinity by grafting pieces of dead Regentier to their bodies, allowing them to perform extraordinary feats typically only achievable by their monstrous donors. The process is notoriously dangerous, with a mortality rate that would have landed any other procedure on the medical blacklists. In some places, that’s exactly where it is; in fact, the only place grafting is done is in the Sarkaturge Division’s wing. It is worth noting that the abilities granted by a graft are not the same as magic, though having a graft does enable one to learn it. Spellcasting is an entirely different and nascent art, with little research and very few practitioners. For the most part, Sarkaturges are limited to the feats granted to them by their grafts.




Name:

Age: (Vulkan applicants are typically age 17-18, while Sarkaturges recruit from 13 but do not send hunters into battle until 16.)

Place of Birth: (If not from Sonnehall, give an idea of how far from city your home is.)

Division:

Background Check: (Brief history of your character, what led them to join the SNDP, and why they chose the division they did.)

Graft/Weapon Specialty: (You are fresh off the operating table. Vulkans will have limited control over their power supply, and thus will begin with less-extreme weapons until they learn to channel properly. Sarkaturges will have minor grafts to start, which will be added to/replaced/enhanced over time.)
[withdrawn]
fantasy road trip, my hat is in the ring
expressing interest

Location: Drox Fraternity House -- The City of Thorinn, Aetheria


Partway back to the inn, Seele spotted Kazuki; her memory and awareness were failing her again, she’d completely forgotten his house was around here. The timing was good, because she realized then that she hadn’t actually been walking towards the Laughing Warg at all. For minutes now she’d just been wandering forward in a haze she wasn’t even aware had settled upon her, and it was a blessing to her pride that Alex hadn’t said anything. At least now she could play it off like she’d meant to come here in search of the healer.
…mi…ssy…
“Ka~azuki~i!” she called in sing-song, waving at him. “Alex and I snagged a new mission for the group, very important stuff. Are you busy? You should come with us to the tavern, I’ll explain it there.”

Thankfully, Kazuki agreed, and with her mind at least a little more clear, she managed to steer them back to the Laughing Warg without incident. Being midday, the place was much more lively than earlier, but she managed to snag them a wide table off to the side, upon which she spread the papers Taasha had given them.

As she promised, Seele explained the situation to Kazuki as best she could. The disappearances had seemed random at first, but there was an undeniable pattern if one separated the denizens from the wayfarers. Members of Drox were the favored victims, and in that subset, spellcasters were favored. Cases had ramped up recently, and none who were taken had yet to be found.

“It’s terrible,” she said, and it was. She hoped with all of her heart that those people were alright, but mourning them was not only premature, but, frankly, a waste of time. “However, I don’t think we’re as blind as the fraternity believes. We know whoever is kidnapping people is specifically targeting Drox spellcasters, that tells us something. It tells us the kidnappers have information—or at least access to information—on the wayfarers in Thorinn.

“We can also assume they’re based in the city, I think. The fact that no one’s turned up yet means they’re either keeping them here, or shipping them out, and with security as high-strung as it is right now, I personally doubt anyone is running a trafficking operation through Thorinn.

“So that’s the rub. When the others get back we can fill them in too, but in the meantime, any thoughts? If we could just piece out why, that could help lead us to the who, but I suppose if it was easy, Drox or the city guard would have handled it by now.”

Location: Drox Fraternity House -- The City of Thorinn, Aetheria


Seele balked momentarily at the stack Taasha slid to them, but quick enough that hesitation was snuffed. She and Alex had offered to help, they wouldn’t back down now that it was needed. That wasn’t the Drox way and it wasn’t hers, either.

Still, missing persons. This was serious, more serious than any mundane errand she’d ever run for the fraternity. She decided to quell the urge to theorize, and instead listened while Taasha explained the situation, absently flipping through the pages. Reports, testimonials, witness statements that were too short to be first-hand. She blanched when she came to the names.

These were people she knew. no one’s … coming …

Not well, really, not like her current party. But some she knew from around the fraternity, others she had met in guild halls or in the training grounds. Some she had even run dungeons with. These were, at least in part, skilled wayfarers who had taken on some of Pariah’s tougher content and come out on the other side. And they’d all gone missing? Many of the denizens she knew as well, simple, pleasant characters mostly, but others among the list were higher up in the fraternity’s chain of command. She wondered if some of these denizens could even be replaced.

“It’s a lot, isn’t it? Anyway, whatever you decide I hope you are more successful than the others. Personally, it’s a bit foreboding, hm?”

“Certainly,” she said, still browsing. Now that Taasha was finished, Seele went ahead and dabbled with her options.

There was a clear and rising bias in the disappearances for wayfarers since the glitch. Unfortunately that didn’t tell her much about the denizens, except that their disappearances were simple happenstance, which she doubted, or that whatever was behind the disappearances had shifted its focus away from them.

Taasha had said investigators found no leads or connections, but already Seele was seeing a plain pattern between victims—victims? That seemed too pessimistic. Casters and thieves. The explanation for the thieves was simple if bleak, but the casters? The stereotype would have been that they were easier to get the best of compared to someone martial like, say, Alja, or Graves, but anyone who had been in Pariah for more than a few minutes would know that even a novice pyromancer or middling thaumaturge could be explosively dangerous. You’d have a better chance with healers and supports, sure, but there wasn’t really a way to know one sort of caster from another until you actually saw them in action.

Or, perhaps, if you already knew who they were.

No connection amongst the disappeared except for the fact that they were all in Thorinn. That didn’t say much about them, but it might just say a bit more about the perpetrator. The theories that came to her then were darker, more sinister, and made her queasy, though perhaps that was the effects of her friend’s fatigue-charm wearing away. Not a pleasing thought, either.
… missy it’s late …
Seele gathered the most relevant, useful papers pertaining to the wayfarers who had gone missing after the glitch. It saddened her that there wasn’t much to go on for helping the missing denizens, but hopefully the two vanishings were related, and finding one group would also lead them to the other. Still, even cutting down on the amount, it was a lot of work for two people.

It was a lot less work for eight.

Seele shot the tired attendant an undaunted smile. “Don’t you worry, we’ll get right to the bottom of this, and have those people back in no time!” she said, stuffing some of the papers away within the manifold layers of her robe, and handing others to Alex. “Make sure you’re not walking around alone, alright Taasha? You’re a peach, this whole hall would just fall apart without you.”

With that, she whirled on heels to Alex, then nodded back towards the way they’d come. “We’ve got our case then. Lets head back to the tavern, see if we can’t rope in some extra hands to help us out, ah?”

As the pair left the fraternity hall behind, Seele thumbed at the pages in her robes. For the first time in days, her mind felt like it was actually working again, and working fast. How long that would last, she didn’t know, so while the spark was there she cupped it, held it close, stoked it as best she could.

Already plans were forming.
Interested as well!
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.”


5'6" | 125 lb

Name
Lira Dayne

Age
18

House
Dayne

Personality
-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.

-Quenton:

-Trevyr:

Trivia
N/A

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