My Unsleeping Eye has not lost sight of this, either.
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Central Wastes, about a week before present time
Night had fallen over the sands. The rays of the sun, which might once have been a welcome sight on Nabushan, but were now a scorching bane to travellers and settlers alike, had at last abated, and multiple distant, soothingly cool stars had replaced the smouldering orb which had until but some three hours before hung high in the mercilessly clear heavens. Arsat inhaled the tepid, comparatively clean air for what must have been the twentieth time, his relief still undiminished. It was like this every evening. After a day in the wastes, you would not care if your dwelling were a palace or a tent sewn together from old rags, or if you would dine on some well-seasoned exotic viand or the fistful of desiccated roots you could barely scrape together from the bottom of your pack - no, all you would think of was that the refreshing darkness would come. Such a life taught one to appreciate even the simplest things (which was just as well, seeing they were nearly all one had), and Arsat truly did not mind it. Of course, everyone had some dream or ambition - to settle down in an oasis-city was by far the most common of them - but, for the overwhelming majority of wastelanders such as them, these would remain just that for a very long time in the best of cases. For the moment, they had to learn to let what there was suffice.
Truth be told, Arsat himself had apparently not altogether learned that lesson, if one was to judge by his present condition. For he was now far from the settlement which had seen him born, and, instead of returning to his hut after a day's scouring the wastes for something useful, was standing guard at the edge of the camp his party had set up in a comparatively even spot surrounded by sloping dunes. It had all begun a month ago - some wandering traders had brought rumours of a far-off oasis somewhere in the south-east, allegedly unclaimed by any city-state or raider gang, surrounded by various marvels such as "snow", or soft solidified water. While these tales were clearly exaggerated, and the mention of snow was obviously derived from some text on ancient history or the likes, reports of the sighting of unknown oases were not at all common, and Arsat's brothers had concluded there ought to have been at least some truth in the matter. Over the following week, they had persuaded the rest of their family, as well some others, to venture out into the wastes in search of this fabled inland sea. Their main argument had been that, in either case, they would have lost nothing, as the location of their home was neither especially advantageous nor comfortable; and Arsat had to admit it seemed to him a rather valid point indeed. Thus, after over two weeks of travel, here he was, keeping watch over the confines of their cluster of tents and vehicles and occasionally exchanging signs with Iosik when the latter's rounds brought him near his own position.
For lack of any better occupation, he began to ponder the effective usefulness of his activity. If their aftermarket map was in the least reliable, and they had not been mistaken too greatly in estimating their position, this region should have been safe enough for all of them to be able to have a proper night's rest. They were too far from any of the major cities to be concerned with any of them, and their soldiers probably slept like most decent people, while raiders were rare in the night-time, and, in any case, usually made enough noise to wake an army as they approached. One could, of course, mention the machine-men who walked everywhere all year round, but, frankly, Arsat was too old to believe in bogeymen, and there already were enough real dangers in the wastes for there to be the need to invent more. He understood the others wished to know themselves safe, but, in truth, he could not see-
Lost in his thoughts, Arsat did not notice the soft creaking which briefly came from his left, and was only startled out of his meditations when a muffled yelp and a somewhat disquieting piercing sound arising from behind the battered van he had been leaning upon. Clutching his rifle, he carefully began to edge around the vehicle, moving towards its front as he brought himself into position to cast a rapid glance over its engine-bonnet. "Iosik?" he called out quietly. No response came, except for - this time he heard it - a faint creaking, as though someone, or something, heavy were attempting to move stealthily over the sand. Vague yet horrid images swirling in his mind, Arsat, gathering his courage, peered over the frontal part of the van, and gazed into the many pitch-black eyes of a nightmare.
As Arsat watched, frozen in terror, the creature’s head seemed to split into four parts as there erupted from it a horrific roar which sent him reeling backwards, his rifle – what could a rifle do against this thing? – falling uselessly from his numb hands. Stumbling over something, he fell onto his back, and, scrambling wildly, turned about to flee. In the moonlight, he saw that the wastes were not as he had always seen them – not as they should be. There were shadows on the dunes; angular, inhuman shapes rapidly flitting on the whitely lit sand, streaming down towards the encampment. From behind him there came screams, bursts of gunfire and various sounds which his mind would not identify. He struggled to stand up again, the sand seeping away under his grasp; then something heavy landed onto his back, and he felt a painful sharpness boring its way into his neck; then, nothing.
Norrog watched as his brethren sifted through the belongings of the slaughtered humans, gathering what few useful items they could find – mostly ammunition, somewhat weathered weapons, an apparently treasured stash of medical supplies – before setting to work upon the vehicles’ fuel tanks. Soon, the camp would become a great bonfire, crackling out a song in praise of Yre-Keltha. The god would be pleased – the hunt had been most successful, and, though these wanderers had not been much of challenge, they had served their part in bearing the brunt of the sacred might. Their deaths had been honourable. Walking back to where he had left his mount, Norrog cast a glance at some of the ash locusts the outriders had brought with them, engaged upon what was now only barely recognisable as the corpse of a sentry who had attempted to crawl away from the scene. It was well. Strength became flesh, and flesh became strength; thus the circle was complete.
As he was about to vault onto his dunecrawler’s back with a single powerful motion, Norrog was approached by one of his companions – a masked human who, he recalled, had left the party some hours before to search the environs for any solitary stragglers. “Brother Disciple” the scout addressed him in hurried tones, “There is something not far which I can swear I have never seen hereabouts before. It might have been a building, but it is unlikely; more than anything, it looks like a hulk.” Norrog squinted with about a third of his eyes. There had been strong storms in the zone of late, and, unlikely as it was, it was fully possible one of them might have uncovered… “Let us rally the others” he growled, turning back towards the camp, from which wisps of smoke had now begun to rise into the nightly air, “The hunt is finished. For now.” The scout’s discovery deserved investigation. It was likely the elders would wish to hear of this.
Night had fallen over the sands. The rays of the sun, which might once have been a welcome sight on Nabushan, but were now a scorching bane to travellers and settlers alike, had at last abated, and multiple distant, soothingly cool stars had replaced the smouldering orb which had until but some three hours before hung high in the mercilessly clear heavens. Arsat inhaled the tepid, comparatively clean air for what must have been the twentieth time, his relief still undiminished. It was like this every evening. After a day in the wastes, you would not care if your dwelling were a palace or a tent sewn together from old rags, or if you would dine on some well-seasoned exotic viand or the fistful of desiccated roots you could barely scrape together from the bottom of your pack - no, all you would think of was that the refreshing darkness would come. Such a life taught one to appreciate even the simplest things (which was just as well, seeing they were nearly all one had), and Arsat truly did not mind it. Of course, everyone had some dream or ambition - to settle down in an oasis-city was by far the most common of them - but, for the overwhelming majority of wastelanders such as them, these would remain just that for a very long time in the best of cases. For the moment, they had to learn to let what there was suffice.
Truth be told, Arsat himself had apparently not altogether learned that lesson, if one was to judge by his present condition. For he was now far from the settlement which had seen him born, and, instead of returning to his hut after a day's scouring the wastes for something useful, was standing guard at the edge of the camp his party had set up in a comparatively even spot surrounded by sloping dunes. It had all begun a month ago - some wandering traders had brought rumours of a far-off oasis somewhere in the south-east, allegedly unclaimed by any city-state or raider gang, surrounded by various marvels such as "snow", or soft solidified water. While these tales were clearly exaggerated, and the mention of snow was obviously derived from some text on ancient history or the likes, reports of the sighting of unknown oases were not at all common, and Arsat's brothers had concluded there ought to have been at least some truth in the matter. Over the following week, they had persuaded the rest of their family, as well some others, to venture out into the wastes in search of this fabled inland sea. Their main argument had been that, in either case, they would have lost nothing, as the location of their home was neither especially advantageous nor comfortable; and Arsat had to admit it seemed to him a rather valid point indeed. Thus, after over two weeks of travel, here he was, keeping watch over the confines of their cluster of tents and vehicles and occasionally exchanging signs with Iosik when the latter's rounds brought him near his own position.
For lack of any better occupation, he began to ponder the effective usefulness of his activity. If their aftermarket map was in the least reliable, and they had not been mistaken too greatly in estimating their position, this region should have been safe enough for all of them to be able to have a proper night's rest. They were too far from any of the major cities to be concerned with any of them, and their soldiers probably slept like most decent people, while raiders were rare in the night-time, and, in any case, usually made enough noise to wake an army as they approached. One could, of course, mention the machine-men who walked everywhere all year round, but, frankly, Arsat was too old to believe in bogeymen, and there already were enough real dangers in the wastes for there to be the need to invent more. He understood the others wished to know themselves safe, but, in truth, he could not see-
Lost in his thoughts, Arsat did not notice the soft creaking which briefly came from his left, and was only startled out of his meditations when a muffled yelp and a somewhat disquieting piercing sound arising from behind the battered van he had been leaning upon. Clutching his rifle, he carefully began to edge around the vehicle, moving towards its front as he brought himself into position to cast a rapid glance over its engine-bonnet. "Iosik?" he called out quietly. No response came, except for - this time he heard it - a faint creaking, as though someone, or something, heavy were attempting to move stealthily over the sand. Vague yet horrid images swirling in his mind, Arsat, gathering his courage, peered over the frontal part of the van, and gazed into the many pitch-black eyes of a nightmare.
As Arsat watched, frozen in terror, the creature’s head seemed to split into four parts as there erupted from it a horrific roar which sent him reeling backwards, his rifle – what could a rifle do against this thing? – falling uselessly from his numb hands. Stumbling over something, he fell onto his back, and, scrambling wildly, turned about to flee. In the moonlight, he saw that the wastes were not as he had always seen them – not as they should be. There were shadows on the dunes; angular, inhuman shapes rapidly flitting on the whitely lit sand, streaming down towards the encampment. From behind him there came screams, bursts of gunfire and various sounds which his mind would not identify. He struggled to stand up again, the sand seeping away under his grasp; then something heavy landed onto his back, and he felt a painful sharpness boring its way into his neck; then, nothing.
Norrog watched as his brethren sifted through the belongings of the slaughtered humans, gathering what few useful items they could find – mostly ammunition, somewhat weathered weapons, an apparently treasured stash of medical supplies – before setting to work upon the vehicles’ fuel tanks. Soon, the camp would become a great bonfire, crackling out a song in praise of Yre-Keltha. The god would be pleased – the hunt had been most successful, and, though these wanderers had not been much of challenge, they had served their part in bearing the brunt of the sacred might. Their deaths had been honourable. Walking back to where he had left his mount, Norrog cast a glance at some of the ash locusts the outriders had brought with them, engaged upon what was now only barely recognisable as the corpse of a sentry who had attempted to crawl away from the scene. It was well. Strength became flesh, and flesh became strength; thus the circle was complete.
As he was about to vault onto his dunecrawler’s back with a single powerful motion, Norrog was approached by one of his companions – a masked human who, he recalled, had left the party some hours before to search the environs for any solitary stragglers. “Brother Disciple” the scout addressed him in hurried tones, “There is something not far which I can swear I have never seen hereabouts before. It might have been a building, but it is unlikely; more than anything, it looks like a hulk.” Norrog squinted with about a third of his eyes. There had been strong storms in the zone of late, and, unlikely as it was, it was fully possible one of them might have uncovered… “Let us rally the others” he growled, turning back towards the camp, from which wisps of smoke had now begun to rise into the nightly air, “The hunt is finished. For now.” The scout’s discovery deserved investigation. It was likely the elders would wish to hear of this.
The Resurgent Mandate
Corruption. Malformation. Decay. Wherever Ovrosthal's eyeless gaze turned, there was no respite from the foul sight of nature ravaged by alien hands, if hands they could be called. Where lush, emerald forests of curious trees and prismatic, tenderly scented flowers had once stood, now stretched a hideous sea of lurid, twisted things bearing only a passing resemblance to plants, their branches akin to the writhing arms of abyssal dwellers, with tumorous excrescences upon them exhaling an acrid and lethal mist. Where crystal lakelets had lain, fed by streams cheerfully gurgling in the undergrowth, were now rank, stagnant marshes, whose surface was only stirred by the sluggish movements of some creature best unseen. Where had once ceaselessly resounded the calls of exotic beasts of curious hues and shapes, there now hung only a mournful silence, occasionally broken by the ponderous shuffling of some monstrous chitin-encased behemoth.
Yet there was nothing in this scene which struck the High Purifier as unpleasant. Indeed, nothing could conceivably have aroused his displeasure, for his ability to harbour any such unruly, imperfect stimuli had long been gone. As he surveyed the expanse of diseased trees from one of the topmost observatory windows of the First Central, the greatest of the Mandate's strongholds on Osserion, if not in the entire galaxy, the only reaction to what he saw to form in his metal-bound consciousness was a sort of dispassionate appreciation of the tactical advantage such an environment would provide in the event of a ground assault. The thick vegetation and marshy terrain would halt the advance of any vehicles and considerably slow and disorganise infantry, which would likewise have to contend with the mutated fauna. Had he even been capable of perceiving anything which was not a piece of input or the conclusion of a calculation, he would most likely have been satisfied with what lay below him. For this ecosystem was perfectly suited for its purpose, and they, the Golgotha, had made it such. As it should - as it would be with all things.
A low, humming sound came from behind - if there was any behind for an entirely symmetrical shape - Ovrosthal, interrupting his evaluative contemplation. Those with whom he was to meet were ready to receive him. Without visibly turning, yet internally shifting the focus of his senses in the direction opposite to their prior position, the High Purifier detached himself from the window, and crossed the narrow corridor which divided the transparent outer surface from one of the citadel's layers of inner walls. As he approached, a section of this wall, devoid of any outward markings, slid to one side, enabling him to pass through where a robust barrier had stood mere moments before; the one beyond it likewise retreated, as did another and another yet, until the entire floor seemed to have become a single vast chamber, half exposed to the sight of Osserion's rust-coloured sky, and half covered in smooth, aseptically uniform light-grey surfaces.
The beings who occupied it, now facing Ovrosthal as he advanced towards them, were perhaps even more sinister in their appearance than the warped jungles outside. Prime Executor Rethliros was, as befitted his rank, modified extensively even for an adherent of the Mandate. His body, standing twice as tall as those of his peers and supported by two supplementary limbs beside the usual six, was a dire amalgamation of metal and pseudo-organic flesh, seemingly chaotic yet, as was visible upon closer inspection, thoroughly and intricately balanced in every aspect. His companion, on the other hand, was at once both comparatively unremarkable and visibly jarring with his surroundings, going as far as to rest upon an implement exceedingly mundane yet unique among the hexapodal New Golgotha - namely, a chair. Though Archon Mandragis embraced the Mandate's ideology as fervently as any of his compatriots, he had declined to undergo the standard endoskeleton replacement procedure on the grounds that the "cerebral upgrade" it entailed would deprive him, and consequently the Mandate, of such potentially valuable traits as his "intuition" and "flexibility of thought". The Prime Executor had recognised his objection as valid, and alterations upon his person had been limited; however, as his three fingers per hand and the triangular steel mask covering what had once been his features attested, he was nonetheless something far from what even the closest of his forebears had been.
Once the High Purifier had taken his place before his colleagues, Rethliros, slightly shifting the weight of his central body upon his appendages, spoke. "You are probably aware of the motive of this convocation, High Purifier Ovrosthal." The Prime Executor's voice, generated by the vibrations of an endostructural laminal system nearly twice as large and thick as that of other Golgothans, rumbled tonelessly like a reverberating clap of metallic thunder. "A transport convoy carrying mineral elements headed from Tarsil Four to Sevara was intercepted and destroyed by unidentified agents, presumed Palathyn, seven point thirty-two axial cycles ago. This raises the frequency of hostile incursions into our territory by presumed Palathyn units to an average of two point sixty-seven per lesser orbital cycle. Such a value exceeds secure-class state parameters. You are responsible for defensive and preventive fleet operations. Justify your failure to optimally fulfil your functions."
"Prime Executor Rethliros." Ovrosthal began. Someone not deprived of an emotional spectrum would, at the very least, have been unsettled by such a harangue; but to the High Purifier, it was merely a string of factual statements followed by a prompt for a response, and, indeed, Rethliros could not have intended it otherwise. Vague and inaccurate meta-textual nuances had been supplanted by efficient, if somewhat unnatural, conciseness and precision in word-choice among the followers of the Mandate's vision of perfection. "The fleet at my disposal does not currently comprise a quantity of escort craft sufficient for flawless performance. Additionally, the coordinates of Palathyn are unknown. This renders preventive action against the most probable perpetrators of disruptive incursions impossible."
"Not to mention a direct attack would be undesirable even if it were feasible." Mandragis interjected. His voice, though distorted by a metallic resonance, was nowhere as inflectionless as those of the other two speakers, and his speech was noticeably more fluid than their almost mechanical intonations. "Yes, it is improbable the Order would be in a condition to provide any resistance worthy of this name in a direct confrontation, and, yes, it is, to our knowledge, not officially affiliated with the Unity Accords. However, even excluding the possibility of a covert agreement, the destruction of Palathyn would alert the Galactic Council of our continued offensive capabilities. In such an event, I would not deem an assault by its combined forces unlikely, and their military superiority is undeniable. Velian's guidance would likewise give them an advantage not to be overlooked..." At the mention of the Concordance leader's name, the Archon's voice betrayed a shade of intense loathing, the word being almost spit out as his constitution would allow. "But I dread I am focusing upon only one facet of the situation, and the teachings of the Mandate instruct us to seek completeness in all. With your permission, I have elaborated the outline of a course of action which may enable us to exploit these circumstances at best, and seen to giving certain preliminary instructions to our research departments." Here he paused, awaiting, as protocol dictated, the response of those present at the meeting.
Rethliros began to emit a low, droning sound, which, among the New Golgotha, amounted to a brief affirmative response. He was soon joined in this by Ovrosthal; thereupon both fell silent again, and the Prime Executor answered. "Permission granted, Archon Mandragis. State your counsel."
In
Hellscapers! [PRETTY MUCH ALWAYS ACCEPTING EXCEPT WHEN WE HAVE TEN PEOPLE (WE DON'T)!]
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10 yrs ago
Forum: Casual Roleplay
With some reluctance - humans, when they finally stopped moving, were not uncomfortable to lie on, after all, and Jonathan with his armour had conveniently extricated himself - Old N lifted himself to his feet, his junctures crackling in protest at not having been left to rest for a few more hours. Surveying the situation, he found that he was the only one left standing in the hallway, as the knight had gone to, if the sounds were any indication, demolish half the building, and the Aztec (or was he? Old N had never bothered remembering his exact origin. The damned all tasted equally bad, anyway) brute was retrieving Grog from where the latter had so brilliantly incapacitated himself. This meant that, if any reinforcements were on the way, the gardener demon would have to face them alone - a perspective which stirred his lethargic emotions into something akin to apprehension. More guards would mean merely more work for him, which, though an odious prospect, could probably be kept at bay until help arrived; however, if their leader decided to personally intervene, things would most likely rapidly take a turn for less than the best. Old N was not at all certain whether he could subdue a raging Cambion alone; furthermore, there were no plants nearby which he could animate to improve his chances of victory.
Seeing as disposing of the first enemies seemed to have granted the party a momentary respite, Old N saw himself constrained to try and act quickly more earnestly than it was customary for him. He hastily trudged toward the gazing camera in the corner and, after a few clumsy attempts, lodged what remained of his mushroom stalk into its objective; he had no idea as to whether this would avail him any, but figured it would be best if he took all precautions he could think of (fortunately, these were not many). Having accomplished the first daring step of his plan, he laboriously crouched - stooping with an exoskeleton was, if not impossible, very slow and even more tiring - and lifted an edge of the collapsed table. Noisily dragging the battered piece of furniture across the room, the demon attempted to turn in such a fashion as to be able to turn it toward the door and place it there as a makeshift barricade. Though he was successful in his efforts as far as to position the table more or less where he wanted it to be, he somehow managed to make it stand on one corner, rendering the barrier precarious at best. Aware of this, he chose to follow the course of action which struck him both as most convenient and least exacting: turning his back to the tottering plank, he crouched before it, both supporting it with his bulk and providing an additional layer of defense with his carapace. Any incoming foes attempting to enter would have to make him stand up - in other words, accomplish the nigh-impossible.
Seeing as disposing of the first enemies seemed to have granted the party a momentary respite, Old N saw himself constrained to try and act quickly more earnestly than it was customary for him. He hastily trudged toward the gazing camera in the corner and, after a few clumsy attempts, lodged what remained of his mushroom stalk into its objective; he had no idea as to whether this would avail him any, but figured it would be best if he took all precautions he could think of (fortunately, these were not many). Having accomplished the first daring step of his plan, he laboriously crouched - stooping with an exoskeleton was, if not impossible, very slow and even more tiring - and lifted an edge of the collapsed table. Noisily dragging the battered piece of furniture across the room, the demon attempted to turn in such a fashion as to be able to turn it toward the door and place it there as a makeshift barricade. Though he was successful in his efforts as far as to position the table more or less where he wanted it to be, he somehow managed to make it stand on one corner, rendering the barrier precarious at best. Aware of this, he chose to follow the course of action which struck him both as most convenient and least exacting: turning his back to the tottering plank, he crouched before it, both supporting it with his bulk and providing an additional layer of defense with his carapace. Any incoming foes attempting to enter would have to make him stand up - in other words, accomplish the nigh-impossible.
I figure the Mandate will have some nefarious plotting (and seething in rage at the last Collective incursion) to do to suffice for an introduction. Afterwards, what would everyone say of the idea of them infiltrating the Council by some means?
Hm, funny, never seen Deus est machina, deus EX machina loads, but never est.
There does exist a trope by that name.
As for the posting rate, I do not recall there being any particular restrictions. As long as everyone posts once in a while, all shall be well.
Which reminds me - I still have to write something myself. Soon enough, I assure you.
Would anyone be opposed to my posting yet?
I believe the in-character section has not been opened for posting yet, if the first entry is any indication; however, I would certainly not be opposed to you posting first once it begins.
<Snipped quote by Monkeypants>
Like that Preciprik guy said, the Golgotha kind of fill that role, but I'm seriously surprised nobody has mentioned creating an opposing council. Sort of the warsaw-pact to my NATO if you will. The golgothans of the Resurgent Mandate are fanatical killers-not necessarily politically opposed to ideas put forward by the Galactic Council. Maybe something to think about?
My view on the matter would be that directly opposing the Unity Accords would appear to many nations as an excessive risk while the threat of the Mandate still exists - fragmenting might leave them vulnerable, after all. However, if strong dissensions arise in the Council, the possibility of an organised schism occurring at some point would not seem to me to be unlikely as the memory of the war grows more distant and nations gain more confidence. Then again, disagreements may stem from the current situation as well - for instance, the Palathyn Collective being, as we see, in favour of combating the Golgotha with more radical methods, which the UA are against.
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