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2 mos ago
Current Bro, how does this site stay the same but change so much in just a few years. Damn
2 likes
2 yrs ago
Damn its been 4 years and it took a car crash, medical school and a pandemic to get me back here. Memories be crazy
5 likes
6 yrs ago
I'm gonna be away to the islands for three days so I'll be back Tuesday NZT <3 Will try and get online but I'm pretty sure there's no signal
1 like
6 yrs ago
Got an 18 hour flight ahead of me today, wish me luck y'all :)
7 likes
6 yrs ago
Merry Christmas from NZ to RPG, have a fun one and hope you have prezzies <3

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@Crusader Lord

So, funnily enough, in G1 Easy created a group of monkeys who joined in the pro-democracy side of a civil war, and they introduced the original song to the revolution.


Aw that plotline was so cool. The leftover remnants of mercenaries and Enforcers from the non-democratic side were then supposed to form a new mercenary group which could be hired by any of the nation states, based on Mars' Olympus Mons.

Planning to do something similar in the war with the Yulzan Ascendancy hehe




TL;DR = isolationist confederate kingdom led by a Woman-King, just coming out of a genocidal war from aliens and between each other, initially a colony of hippies and conservationist indigenous peoples who formed a peaceful utopia (prior to alien invasion). Technology is hodgepodge, everyone likes boats and songs and killing each other with melee weapons (because up close and personal is the best way to kill people who want to kill you and yours).

The Emerald Isles, Peha
The creation of a new star in the night sky is an event much talked about by the amateur astrologists and recreational sailors of the world. To the average Umana, nothing had changed from the unusual, the merrymaking started by the annual tohunga of the chiefs well underway. If it were not for the space-worthy prowlers searching through the local solar system, perhaps nothing would be found amiss. Hardly worth of discussion.

Not here. Not in the great hall of the Kiri, of Ngarewarewa’s blood, of Ngareia the Woman-King. Fierce debates, often rising to shouting matches and physical altercations, filled the air and rebounded to make a cacophony of disunited noise. The only silence came from Emerald warriors along the walls, making sure that not too much blood would be spilled. And of course, from the increasingly impatient, strikingly beautiful young woman which oversaw this angry rabble which made up her “court.” Fist against cheek, elbow against fine wooden throne as a bored look was set on her face. She glanced to her left where a muscle-bound figure in traditional naval dress stood.

”How long have they been going at it?”

A deep vibrating chuckle, one which brought comfort to her young soul.

“I believe it has been over a quarter of a moon into the tohunga, my Kiri. The chambers have not been silent once in that time. Some have taken to sleeping here so that they can continue their debate as soon as they wake.” The Kenera gestured to the sleeping figures strewn among the many chieftains, slumbering undisturbed despite the fever pitched debate raging around them.

”Leave it to my people to partake in endurance debates.” Ngareia snorted as a pair of rowdy chiefs had started to hold each other by their ears, preparing to headbutt each other with wild eyes.

There was precedence for this sort of action from past tohunga. It was said that her father Natawhau held a conference so long during the debates over the Mandatu that some chiefs would return to find their once-pregnant wives holding a newborn. If he was to be believed, one woman chief even gave birth amidst debate! She was cleaned up, checked by healers, and continued right on with shouting after a short two hours, holding her newborn in her arms. A powerful woman she was, a shame she and her child were slain for dissidence only two years later.

Alas, that was enough reminiscing. There were actions to be taken and they needed to be quicker than whatever this was. Lines were forming across the room, many tira speaking out on who should carry the weight of responsibility for an envoy to the stars. What a trivial question, with only one clear answer.

The Woman-King sat straight and slammed her fist against the armrests, toughened wood shattering on impact to the future dismay of a distant carver.

Her warriors in turn, knocked their jade-tipped staves into the hardwood floor, a staccato rhythm which drowned out the withering debate. She waited, for silence to reign and for the sleeping to awaken, before standing. All in the room bent to one knee for Ngarewarewa’s blood was to address them. All could feel the will, the power, the intrinsic mana with which she spoke softly.

”Peace, my tira, my chiefs.” And that was that. No more debate could be had, not in these halls, not under the eyes of the Kiri. With increasing volume, Ngareia let her voice be carried into the masses, holding a tone similar to that of a mother scolding her children.

”Peace, peha, is bestowed upon us by the will of the gods and our predecessors. Through many moons of war, of blood spilt, of waka used to slaughter and pillage, we have come through and found peace once again. Despite our many sins, our many different familial lines, our bloods have intertwined with each other in the mud, the trees, the waters.”

The Woman-King paused, thinking back to easier times, her father cradling her in bed as he weaved tales and song. It was from visiting the past that they could gain strength and, perhaps, gain unity. ”All our peoples remember the bloodied shores. Umana slaughtering umana. Hatan murdering hatan. Them versus the other. We remember babes taken from weeping mothers. We remember the violations wrought upon the women of the lands. We remember the burning soil, the howling trees, the destruction we caused the land. Of Ope o Peha dying, of fleeing, of hunting.”

The few Hatan present shifted nervously, rippling fur indicating intense discomfort at the insult. The rest hummed in agreement; heads bowed in respect to the history of her words. Of their memories.

”But my forebearer, Ngarewarewa the strong, the wilful, the original tira of the lands we banquet in today, foresaw a future different from the then present. Of one united under one tira, of a Kiri worthy of the title, to unify our peoples together through sheer willpower. My father, Natewhau the intelligent, the cunning, set upon his mother’s work to weave the tribu together, to turn his mother’s legacy, her efforts into a functioning unification of these lands. Many countless moons spent toiling, both of them working with the wishes of our ancestors to find a peaceful future. And with this bickering, with such inaction, such disharmony, you tira only sing songs of failure.”

There was stillness, there was sadness, there was respect. And there was shame. Shame at past actions, plastered on the faces of many, joining the Hatan in discomfort. The loudest voices kneeled the quietest now.

A collection of breath before taking advantage of the tense hall. Soft words now, sailing through the shame in the room. ”You failed in unity. You failed in creating the harmonious Kiritane my father and his mother before sought and fought for. There has been no gentle discussion, no unanimous decision made. And because of what? The creation of a star in our sky? The opening of a door? The path to our Mother, to our past peoples, to the wrongdoers of the past, from which we had fled, is now open for us. And you bicker here, clamouring on top of each other for the position to greet possible cousins in the stars.”

“If you cannot find a quick decision, I will make one. As is my right as Kiri.”
A chill settled in the air, many chiefs stiffening their necks in shock before bowing deeper. Direct intervention into tohunga was rare, as it was more common for the Kiri to agree what the council of chiefs had agreed to. But Ngareia had let the bickering go long enough, a decision needed to be made quicker than what a typical tohunga allows. She must gather the mana of Ngarewrewa’s blood, gather the shamans for prayers to the gods. The chiefs would not like such blatant strong-arming, despite many of them appearing to agree today.

But they will either go with the tides or be swept into the depths by struggling.
Half a moon later, aboard the Yearning Tranquility
This great waka, once used for unbidden war, is now returning to its roots. Exploration of the unknown with a unified face. Though perhaps the word "unified" should be in quotation marks.

Even here, the politics of the Kiritane take place, even with one of Ngarewarewa's blood overseeing the envoy. Every tira made their case for sending envoys of their own on the Yearning Tranquility but as great as its halls were, space was important in this void. Hence the various political alliances sent forth their own representatives, great tira in their own right, to accompany Ngateia, third daughter of the current king and leader of the diplomatic envoy. She stood resolute within the bridge, a woman who has come into her own at the age of fifteen, taught by the Emerald Isle's best shamans. As all of those who come from her, Ngarewarewa's presence is strong even in one so young.

"Captain," she started, staring at the monitor which depicted the "Gateway" in its entirety "do we have the appropriate shamans to deduce the route towards the Mother?"

It was decided that if the Kiritane were to set sail in the void once more, they should go back to the lands where their ancestors walked. See for their own eyes the state of their Mother, remind themselves of unjustices wrought upon their lands. No Umana would forget their Mother's death but it would do wonders to unify ourselves to once again stare at her corpse.

"Aye my princess, should be through the Gateway in a wee moment. Your great mother only send tha' best afta' all." An odd choice, a Gaelic Hatan captain, prominent black and green chequered quilt clashing with the bare, blue-furred torso. Many of the tira who were also on the bridge eyed him suspiciously. Alas, with so much forgotten, the Hatan were still the most prominent spacefarers and captains within the Kiritane. Hence why the fleet of five ships, one human and four Hatan made, were all captained by a Hatan. Thoroughly vetted of course, to make sure no dissenters slipped through the gaps.

She nodded once before telling the rest of the envoy to stay in the assigned diplomatic quarters. It would not do for them to interfere with the crew's work. But she stayed, dorning a grand Kākahu of flax and bright white feathers. She stayed still in the final moments of entry through the Gateway, determined in thought and stance, refusing to let even a slight sign of discomfort. And later on, suppressing the great revulsion she felt at the sight of their murdered Mother and the unsightly thing which parked itself near it.

The reaction of the rest of the Umana will be that of sadness and great fury.
At the risk of double posting, here's a taste of what the fight against the Hatan was. Warning: Graphic violence ahead.


Here is a new nation I was working on, subject to change with how you guys review it:) Feels a bit half-assed for some reason but I did put lotsa effort in it so maybe I'm just being too critical haha



TL;DR = isolationist confederate kingdom led by a Woman-King, just coming out of a genocidal war from aliens and between each other, initially a colony of hippies and conservationist indigenous peoples who formed a peaceful utopia (prior to alien invasion). Technology is hodgepodge, everyone likes boats and songs and killing each other with melee weapons (because up close and personal is the best way to kill people who want to kill you and yours).
@Enigmatik

Hahaha yeah no worries, I’ll cut the jokes but it’s largely complete tbh. I was just bored and inserted too much humour into the sheet just cause the concept of talking cows is too much of a low hanging fruit. There are obviously the makings of an absolutely dystopian nation being made there, just sprinkled with too much humour

Edit: I mean, I should cut out the nuclear fission based rockets right? Right? Right?

The fun I’ll have with this nation is that they need to breed to make technological progress haha
Ahhh I don't think I could give the old apes a good run, I've forgotten many of the plot points and characters I made.

I've got something else to be considered, sort of a meme yet utterly created for my fun mwahahaha


<Snipped quote by SgtEasy>

Ah! We were just talking about the Khanapes the other day, believe it or not. I can still hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men...


If only I had the drive to continue a Khanape story. I always thought about the implications of a nation built up of uplifted cattle where only its upper echelons were aware of the extensive genocide of their predecessor species

That would be funny!
Just an old AFKer and former player of the old Gateways popping by to say that it’s nice to see the new Gateways doing well:) If health issues hadn’t cropped up, I would have stayed to the end of the old one!

Good shit @Enigmatik @Tortoise


Dreams come easily to some. They come and go, forgotten once dreamt. Others have mostly bad dreams, others mostly good. Yet a select few have the same dream which comes to them every time they close their eyes to rest. That is, “rest” in the most superficial of ways. For what is rest if your mind is awake, picking out details in a dream you have seen a dozen times. New and old, all arrayed to in the mind before you on repeat, again and again, every night. At times, trauma does not leave so quietly in the night. It comes as sharp as it was or perhaps, duller than the time it was last felt. But come it does, every night, without fail.

A tiger and a lion, battling in a myriad of different backgrounds. A jungle, a forest, a snowstorm, a desert. Different places but same two animals. At first, it was a stunning sight to watch. Two primal, proud beasts pawing at each other pitilessly as apex predators. Gnashing teeth, extended claws, deep growls. Yet even the best of sights dull the eyes in repetition. It was the same, no matter where the two fought. Same fight, same participants, same outcome. The metaphor to real life was so obvious that it felt like the brain shoving allegory down the throat. The lion, felled in battle with exactly twenty wounds, head bowed with the proud tiger standing over its corpse. A Bengal, of course, to hit the point closer to home.

This time, the duel was fought in tumbling water, strong tides interrupting the familiar staccato of swipes and bites. But even this could not blur how it was the same. Every night, without fail, the same dream which faded like white noise to his eyes. He was muted, inattentive yet giving all the focus he had to the scene before him. To think too much was to break the spell of the dream and come to life again.

Not that there was much to his life now.

And just like that, with a final swipe from orange paws, the lion slumped in crimson water. This was when the dream would stop, focusing on the Gharbi lion twitching in its final death throes. Instead, the tiger shifted in the water, turning to face him in an unexpected move. If Kalil could, he would gasp. A chill would rise in his spine, his fingers would tremble. But in his mind's ocean, the churning of the water prohibited him from moving at all. He felt weightless and thus, powerless. Emerald eyes stared at his own, flecks of azure in theirs while none in his own. His vision zoomed into the bloodstained fangs, the opening jaws, the powerful bite which kept coming closer and closer. He stretched his arm out in front of him to stop those unrelenting teeth-
"Pah, fuck!" The heir of Gharbi spat seaweed and seawater, the ocean splashing on to his face. He sat up immediately, trying to come to his senses. Eyes bleary from the intrusion of salty water, it took him a few seconds to realise where he was. Or how little he knew about where he was. His clothes were soaked from head to toe, his turban discarded to his side and its jewels mysteriously missing. He was cold and filled with sand and confused and what the hell was that dream?-

He hissed, the saltwater hitting his left palm on to a- "Wallah, I did not have this last night!" The dream faded in his mind as Kalil honed in on the injury he seemed to maintain from unknown origins.

Quickly using his prodigal dynamicism to dry himself off, Kalil got his bearings and stumbled his way from the beach back to his dorm. By this time, he had just missed the roommate he barely remembers existed, feeling a hangover in the worst way possible. Questioning his choices in going out last night (and smoking whatever was in that flavour the Bengals gave him!), he decided to forgo showering in a bout of laziness and changed into new, simple white robes with a blue turban messily covering his long hair. He wore similarly coloured azure gloves to cover the wounding, a fitted gift courtesy of his employers. Thoughts raced in his head as he tried to recall the last night's events or even what he was up to at the ball but once again-

DING DONG DING DONG

The prodigy jumped out of his mind and walked to the door, expecting that blurry-faced roommate of his to show themselves. He knew by now that breakfast had finished and hoped they brought him something out of kindness. He paused at the door, scratching at his memory to remember the other occupant of his dorm. Tanned skin was all he could remember which seemed to make him shake a little in fear. Why does the name Whitehall ring in his head now?

Alas, there was no stalker behind the door, only a letter with the confusing Bengal seal and a messenger long gone. Kalil only spent a few seconds making sure no one saw what was in his hands before closing the door and fleeing to his room to read it. Curiously, it was in Latin of all things. The handwriting is poor and the characters almost blended together. Whoever the writer was, messenger or not, had to do this in quick time. This did nothing to hide the disdain inside.

As a prodigy, I would have expected early mornings and an eagerness to study in the best university in the world. Not making a fool of yourself in the first formal function of the school year and sleeping in on the next day. In a public place, of all things.

Remember your place, fool. You work for the leaders Dhaka, the entrepreneurs of the Mughals, the hidden network which keep our great nation intact. You work for an organisation which goes past your own selfish needs, a Majesty which surpasses anything on this world, one which no nation and no person is peer. We stand alone. You have succeeded, for now, but if you continue to gallivant as a careless dog, you will be put down as one.

Your stumbling, arrogant dealings have been backed by the coincidence of a lifetime. The sick, old man of Europe has fallen to its own arrogance but stay alert, for deals may change. Alas, the winds have changed and you have been given another assignment. It smells of burning, doesn't it mutt?

A fool has burned down a library. Where you may smell foul play or an arson's work, we smell opportunity. Read carefully, mutt, or you may prove too worthless to let live.

Remember what is at stake.
বাঘ


The letter continued in the same insulting fashion. A silent Kalil gripped the paper tight in his hands after ashamedly reading the letter several times, to the insult of his own pride. An instinctual calculation later and the paper became embers in his trembling hand. Several names were now engraved in the inside of his skull, a mantra to listen to on another job. Some familiar, others not. Fear gripped at his heart like a vice, tightening and squeezing.

He took an instinctual, deep breath of his pipe, letting it swirl in hoops. No use on letting fear grip him like this. "And thus, the 'great collaboration' begins."

The Bengal left swiftly in pursuit of his next targets. And perhaps a library.
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