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Rancorous Narrative Proxy

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I have been writing as a hobby for longer than you have been alive. I have been a regular member and roleplayer of no less than fourteen different online forums during that time (including the old RPG), five six eight of which no longer exist.

I was previously a regular on the Homestuck forums, but I became so sick of thread turnover there that I asked around and eventually found the Guild. Since joining, I have exclusively only participated in Advanced RPs. Before Mahz gave NRPs their own subforum, I used to be an NRP regular in the Advanced Subforum. I am a Guildfall survivor, and know/regularly write with a few others.

If you ask anybody who has written with me in previous RPs, they should tell you that I have a generally open schedule, I post regularly and in a timely fashion, and I never drop an RP once I join unless the thread dies. Some of them may tell you that I have extensive expertise within the realms of Biology, Psychology, and Physics, which I will make no effort to validate since there is no way I can provide hard proof of aforementioned alleged expertise to anybody over the internet (though I am happy to try and answer any questions you send my way).

My favorite fandom is the Myst franchise, which seemingly nobody other than me has ever heard of.

I was a Contest Moderator for the Writing Contests Subforum for just a little bit over two years. I wrote the Moderation Policy for that subforum and I ran a contest called the Twelve Labours; you can still go there and see all of them and the entries people wrote for them in the Contests Section and the Victory Archives.

I have been quadruple secret banned from the guild discord. That is not a joke.

Most Recent Posts

In Clusterverse (Archtype Zero, Oraculum, Terminal) → 4 yrs ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
Murex

The Heart of Stone



In Clusterverse (Archtype Zero, Oraculum, Terminal) → 4 yrs ago Forum: 1x1 Roleplay
What Comes of Dreaming.
In The Reign of Sorcerers → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
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The Lands of Aurochylys
In the Southwestern Heel of the Western Realm

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The lands of Aurochylys, before, had been barren and desolate. No life could flourish in the place, for it was a great bowl of ashes and dust, arid and without refuge nor break in the Earth.

But now in the center of those flats, where before they had been nothing save the scant, crumbling ruins of a remnant civilization long since past, there now arose a renascent city. The structures were all of recent make, simple in construction and being shaped from bricks of dried and fired clay excavated from the surrounding waste. Scaffolds of wooden planks and canvas rose and surrounded each dwelling, evidence of ongoing craftswork and labor, with the innermost structures rising to three heights and the outermost clearly intended to follow.

Though the city was filled with stockpiles and workyards, all orderly and tidied and brimming with tools and materials of trade, the city evidenced no granaries, nor wells, nor fields of crop, nor bakeries or butchers or even distillers. The city was one of and for the dead - nobody could have dwelt there for long without sustenance, of which there was clearly and evidently none. Yet somehow, the city still found itself populated with many peoples who did toil in the harsh light of the day, building ever on, heightening and lengthening the bounds of the growing settlement, seeming tireless in their efforts.

Come Nightfall, the many people would retreat to whatever dens and dwellings they had made of themselves, and the horror would begin. For as those who had labored during the day, those who had rested and made leisure would extend their arms and with the bite of a dagger, bleed themselves, pouring out their lifeblood as wine from a skein. Measures of flesh would but cut and flayed from the body - the both body and blood would be consumed by those who had toiled. In the next days, the cycle would repeat - on, and on, seemingly without end or beginning, for those who gave of their flesh partook of no sustenance and imbibed no mixtures, yet every night without fail they would surrender flesh and blood as though they had never done so before. Wives and husbands, daughters and sons, all surrendering, laboring, and partaking in turn in a ghastly and unnatural ritual of unending toil and bloodshed.

The city was a quiet one, even at the height of the day as most labored and worked, with quartermasters and headmen bellowing orders and instructions while heavy materials were shifted, lifted, and installed. The cause was evident, for though the city was alive with work, there was no commerce, no the bustle of trade and the many sounds of social gathering and exchange. All the materials in the settlement came from without, with teams and caravans arriving and departing daily from distant lands, carrying goods, which were distributed amongst groups, almost as handouts, rather than bartered and traded for. From there out, beyond the occasional groups of artisans who would gather to ply their custom with whatever was available - weavers and tailors to make clothes anew, or carpenters and smiths to fabricate new tools - there was little exchange between the peoples of that place. Humorless and devoid of mirth and talk, of wine and laughter, of hearth and hospitality were the dens that rose from the Earth in the barren lands.

Spread throughout the growing settlement city at regular intervals were tall pillars - topped with clay statues of a serene stylite, gazing onwards with a single raised hand, holding up an admonishing finger. Surrounding each pillar at their bases, without fail, would be a ring of desiccated corpses. Chained to its foundation and left there in the harsh and arid climate, those who had been left there were attended by small children, who would carry with them baskets of salt, and anoint the corpses as necessary every day. Though their skins were cracked and leathery beyond measure, the bodies there remained, eerily preserved, some still seeming as though they might be revived if attended to immediately.

Occasionally, during the day, a laborer would throw down their tools or drop their burden - and refuse to resume. To beg for respite, or to throw curses at all around them. Some of these, when consoled, would return to their homes to resume work the following 'morn.

Those who did not - those who refused to continue such joyless and hollow labor - were dragged, screaming, to be chained to one of the pillars, where they would struggle and shout in futility, where they would strain against their metal shackles for days on end, snarling and spitting at the children as they came every day and threw handfuls of salt at those who were bound - and then with time, as the sun rose and set again and again, their struggles would slow and cease, and soon after they would be but another desiccated and preserved corpse chained at the base of a stylite's pillar.

In the shadow of Evil did the city grow, mirthlessly and without cheer, all within and all who arrived at the place toiling thanklessly and with only the barest and most inhumane of sustenance to preserve them, and with little comfort save the embrace of their loved ones and family come the eve.

And yet, like a seething tumor, the city did grow, and grow. Soon, it would begin to approximate an actual civilized place, and as the weeks passed, facsimiles of more ordinary structures did begin to appear. Granaries holding naught but dust, fields that were left fallow, vintners that fermented only blood, butchers who dealt only with rancid flesh. Market squares were planned, arranged, and slowly erected - though for the moment, they remained empty. Though what dread and hollow services and exchanges would be established therein, soon, would offend the sensibilities of all civilized people.

And every day, as the City in the Shadow of Evil did grow, more and more people did arrive there, having trekked there across the thankless and dusty barrens - and those who arrived, rarely did they leave again.

There was another striking, eerie quality of the place as well, which although readily overlooked at first would have struck most people after several weeks. There were no cemeteries nor places of burial in all the settlement. No asheries nor crematoriums, nor medicae or herbalists nor healers. None of the people grew ill. None of the people fell and failed to rise again, save those who broke covenant with the master of that place and were condemned to become pillarbound.

The City of Aurochylys was a City of the Damned, populated only by the living dead, and governed through fear of stillness. A pall of menace hung over the whole of the place and all of its people, along with the single stark and certain promise: The city would grow, for the glory of Aurochylys, as certain as the day did dawn, and soon, all of the world would likewise be blessed with his boon, and work his sacred labors for all time - and the Nightmare would Never End.

But far afield, without the dustbowl the city sat in, in greener pastures and more joyful locales, there was nobody who knew of that dread and darkened city. None heard of the terrible fate which the Master of that place intended to inflict upon them. They only heard and saw what his many agents and servants said and did, and wherever they went, they cured injury and malady, bestowed life everlasting, and spoke of a distant paradise where their venerable Master, Aurochylys, did gather the worth to work in glory and raise the wonders the likes of which had never been seen before.

And so the cycle began to turn - as soon, it would turn without end.
In The Grim Crusade - A Warhammer 30000 RP → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
The Ordo Astranoma
12th Macroclade Fleet
Praetor Alpha Primus Andron Axaltus


The First Universal Law


Life is Directed Motion.

The sheer volume of Human conceit that can be crammed into such a succinct phrase is so staggering that the no less than six thousand members of the Holy Synod of Mars have dedicated their entire careers to doing nothing other than writing treatises upon that single phrase. I have to permit that it is rather practically applied in a likely infinite number of allegories and parables. Such as this one:

In space, your motion is undirected and you are dead. On the ground, your motion is (usually) directed and you are alive. Inside a voidship in space, which has directed motion even though you do not, you exist in a paradoxical state of being both dead and alive at the same time, which is also true of the state of morale for most soldiers aboard voidships.

Voidship combat in particular has a way of canalizing the exact orientation of crew morale (dead versus alive) which explains how even entirely neurosynched crews can fall prey to schism and mutiny. Mutiny is, in fact, far more common amongst Mechanicum vessels than it is upon those of the Imperial Navy. Even Skitarii - as we are all adamantly loyal to our Tech Priest masters, as any of us will tell you - can fall prey to treason this way if we can but be persuaded by that single minder. So it falls to conductors of directed motion such as myself to motivate the sentiments of the Skitarii Legions and the Tachmata against such eventualities. Ironically, one of the best ways of promoting shipboard morale is via pitched shipboard combat. It tends to distract away from the larger crisis of flying through space in a giant glorified coffin which may or may not be in the process of exploding violently.

With Orks, this prospect is pleasingly simple, as their so-called 'tellyporta' have more than three times the range of even the finest Mechanicum Teleportarium. Similarly, their long-range void-weapon of choice, the voltaic 'Zapp Kannon,' has only a faintly shorter range than the Macroclade Fleet's own Nova Cannons and nearly perfect accuracy - while being, thankfully, drastically less potent. Predictably, Archmagos Explorator Mephitor has arranged for a wall of vanguard ships hosting the finest war cohort of the fleet proximal to the approaching horde of Ork voidships. When the Orks unleash their first salvo against the those vessels , and when those vessels' void shields drop and the first Ork boarding parties begin to teleport over - the entire fleet's morale will supposedly benefit from the thorough thrashing the Orks will be delivered.

The first step to securing such a victory for that cohort is to direct their enthusiasm towards the advantages of fighting the Orks in our own halls without reminding them of the nature of the flying coffins they will be fighting in and their predilection to violently explode when fought in.

"...Those ships are all filled with Castallen Maniples, so we will be getting the sloppy seconds once the Orks are done with them. We are not going in to fight them, we are going in to purge them. A reminder that Orks are resilient, their heads can be reattached just like ours, only entirely unlike us the reason they can do it is because they're too frakking dumb to realize they should be dead. Destroy theirs, and if you feel the insatiable need to embarrass your flesh, make sure to bend over and shove your own head up your ass so they can't hit it." Praetor Alpha Primus Andron Axaltus relayed the address over voxcast to the entirety of the Skitarii War Cohort at his command and the handful of Tech Priests who would serve as their neurosync minders.



The first wave of Ork boarding parties was completely overwhelming in number to the point that they started getting in their own way - they crammed the Cruisers they had targetted with so many Nobz and Gretchin they could scarcely move without picking fights with each other. A problem the utterly merciless and precise Castellen robots guarding the ships did not have. Armed with Flamers and Melta weapons, the robotic Maniples were perfectly equipped to deal with the thronging Ork hordes in close quarters - but even the mighty machines had their limits, and the Orks continually received reinforcements via tellyporta strikes while the few Gretchin who managed to evade the searing promethium volleys managed to work and work their way into every nook and cranny of the unfortunate vessels - including the voxhub. The War Cohort waited until the Ork Mekboys managed to plug into the systems to vox back to their own ships that the poor unprepared Hummies first ships had been taken.

And then the Skitarii appeared.

Silence scythed through the still air of the vessels as the Skitarii Vanguard calmly and orderly walked the halls of the ship, preceded by Sicarian infiltrators and Ruststalkers. The Ork Gretchin infesting the ships, even hiding in the ductwork and tiniest nooks and crannies, tended to simply die as the Sicarian killclades passed them by - the only symptom of their passage the abrupt loss of all sight and hearing as insidious neurostatic black noise thrummed through the ships' hulls, causing the smaller vermin to expire as their flesh bubbled and churned from the resonant dirge. The Orks themselves - made of sterner stuff - simply went blind and deaf. Even robbed of their senses however, they remained dangerous - and as the Sicarian Killclades began to butcher them, they retaliated in kind, their bodies able to endure being split open by transonic blades and turn wrath back onto their unseen attackers. This, too, had been anticipated - and as the Sicarian Killclades danced and spun with the Orks, one by one, the behemoths they could not cut down began to fall dead to the decks as a new and silent killer entered the fray.

The Skitarii Vanguard, emitting such immense radiation that not even Ork physiology could withstand it, walked calmly through the halls of the ship, subjecting any bodies they found to promethium and volkite rays. As more Orks reinforcements appeared via tellyporta, those too began to simply drop dead on arrival, the radiation levels in each ship having built too high for them to withstand.

Few plans withstand contact with the enemy however, especially an enemy as unpredictable and chaotic as Orks. There was exactly one kind of Ork the Skitarii and their Sicarian brethren could not cripple and slay with such contemptuous ease: The Mekboys who had established control over the ships. Their crude cybernetics let them detect and survive the initial bouts of the the rapidly building radiation - long enough to impossibly calibrate their shielding to protect them from the deadly energies. And though their bionic senses were no more protected from the dread song of the Sicarian Infiltrators than organic tissue, they were able to overcome the debilitating pain and register attack vectors through pain alone. Their likewise cybernetically augmented Gretchin assistants proved able to survive where others had choked on their own blood and died.

Fighting a handful of Ork Mekboys and their Gretchin would not normally have been an issue for a fighting force such as the Vanguard and the Sicarian Clades. But they were not fighting a handful. They were fighting untold thousands of them.

The only solace to be found in the situation was that as the remaining fleets of the Astartes legions joined the system, the focus of the Ork voidships broke apart and finally, at last, the never-ending torrent of Ork corpses materializing aboard the Mechanicum vanguard cruisers finally began to abate. What followed next was several days of dirty, treacherous fighting in the confines of the Cruiser as the Ordo Astranoma's armada began to disperse, its Macroclades heading for their own predetermined coordinates - leaving the Skitarii War Cohort to either live victoriously or die when the first Vanguard Cruiser's cogitators overloaded the engines in response to Orks seizing helm control. The explosion that followed would set off a cascade in all the other nearby cruisers, causing them to burst open like krak grenades.

"You had better not die or let them seize the bridge. That would be treasonous." Axaltus conveyed via voxcast at one point. "We are all due to arrive on Ullanor Tertius in a few days time to immediately fight the Ork Warbands there and being dead is no excuse for dereliction of duty to the Omnissiah."

As the days passed, punctuated in the void by ships performing line maneuvers to place additional shots with the Nova Cannons and in the ships by deadly pushes through narrow chokepoints by either the Skitarii or the Orks, Moral inevitably improved. Barring the unfortunates who were literally torn to pieces by swarms of Gretchin or had their heads stolen and whisked away to be eaten in a duct somewhere, true casualties amongst the Skitarii were few in number - as long as enough of their head remained to preserve in stasis, they could be given new flesh in the form of ceramite and battle steel to fight for the Glory of the Omnissiah once more. The Ork Mekboys were more interested in scavenging and repurposing the ships itself than destroying it, which was reflected in their tactics - and so the Skitarii Cohort slowly and surely ground away at them, purging and cleansing the Cruisers of Ork spore as they went. The battles were hardly one-sided, but victory was inevitable and in sight.



'Praetor, this is Magos Acquisitor Lictarii. We have an unexpected development. The Ork Technician omnispex readings showed as having set up in the rear anterior node relay junction access hall made a failed attempt to tap into the ship's power feed approximately two hours ago. Then are now moving directly for the reactor manifold. Their Gretchin are moving with them and many other swarms have abruptedly started to converge. We suspect an imminent, potentially hazardous act of interference with the functionality of the reactor by the Ork Technician.'

Andron Axaltus paused midswing to consider this. It was more of a figurative than literal pause, as he had overclocked by his sensory throughput and cognitive processing to such an extent that his perception of time in that moment had slowed to a crawl, in order to properly evaluate the situation along with his personal coterie, likewise overclocked and neurosynchronized with him. After a brief discussion about the placement of the nearest Maniples and a somewhat longer argument about the layout of the ship (due to a misconception by it not possessing a standardized template configuration), the edge of his power sword's energy field had finally crawled close enough to the surface of the 'Cybork' Gretchin's cranium to begin splitting it apart one atom at a time. Once they had all reached a decision, they all reset and recalibrated their feeds and processors and time screamed back to its normal breakneck pace, the screaming cybernetic Gretchin's entire body falling into a mix of organic and mechanical pieces as Andron's sword carved through it. As one, he and his entire Maniple turned on the spot and began hurriedly marching, single-file, through the corridors of the ship towards the reactor manifold, much to the confusion of the thronging Swarm of Gretchin they had been in the midst of disassembling. They continued to fight disgusting fungal xenos as they went, Mechdendrites mounted with laz and arc weapons blasting away at the diminutive creatures shooting from off the Skitarii's backs as they turned away.

It took the better part of an hour to fight all the way to the reactor manifold, with Gretchin and the occasional Ork Mekboy all seeming to suddenly conspire to abridge the Skitarii's progress. Gretchin could not fight the Skitarii head-to-head, but from ambush, sheer numbers, and ability to slip between the narrowest confines of the ship, they were able to wage a war of attrition. Skitarii would have their own weapons stolen and turned on them by them by mobs of snotlings erupting from ductwork or maintenance shafts. Sicarian infiltrators would have entire corridors collapsed on them with primitive, improvised explosives, while others would occasionally vanish through unsecured floor-hatches to be messily devoured in the dark. But as much as the Gretchin struggled, they could only inflict triffling losses on the advancing Maniple, who were relentless in their pace and broke for nothing.

Which was for the best, as when they arrived at the Manifold the Ork Mekboy had been halfway through the process of disengaging the reactor manual safety overrides by way of repeatedly smashing one of the control interfaces with a wrench while Grechin tore furiously through its mechanical innards in order to fulfill his incoherently screamed instructions.

"You hummies cannit stop us! Wez gotz all da scuzzy bits we needz to make the new tellyporta work!" The Mekboy crowed triumphantly as he turned towards the door and layed down a hail of withering arc-lightning with his shock cannon, the deadly voltaic energies grounding into the frame of the doorway and preventing entrance without the intruder becoming a lightning rod.

"I'll be taking yuz glowy WAAAAAAAAGH power thing and uze it to BLOW DIS JUNK. Gonna tellyport out wit the poz and let you go BOOM." The Mekboy continued to taunt as he hefted up a combi-bolter and started sending slugs through the same passageway just as an auger-servitor floated in front of it to gather intel from beyond the safety of the threshold.

'This one appears to be a Big Mek.' One of the Vanguard relayed over vox. 'Standard munitions will be ineffective, he has the equivalent of a voltagheist shield.'

'Acknowledged. I have dispatched such an enemy before. I will need a tactical solution for my approach vector that does not involve being fatally electrocuted.' Axaltus relayed. 'I will need to get within family portrait distance of them.'

'Devising a technical solution for their arc weapon now.' One of the Rangers answered as they retrieved their arc maul from their belt and began performing a number of hasty modifications to it on the spot with their one free hand and multiple mechadendrites.

'We can lay down suppressing fire as soon as the arc weapon is eliminated.' One of the other Vanguard members indicated. 'We have three Plasma Calivers between us here, which ought to keep his focus nicely.'

'Just so long as we can do this before this Ork sends us all to meet the Machine God.' Axaltus relayed back as he edged closer to the doorway and readied his power sword.

'Executing solution now.'

The first Vanguard held out his arc maul beyond the threshold of the doorway, immediately causing the arcing lightning from the Ok's shock cannon to fixate upon it - and with a small galvanic thud, the small melee weapon overloaded and cause multiple tracers of powerful feedback to rebound on the Mekboy's caster and make it erupt in a shower of sparks. Axaltus took that as his cue to step through the doorway and begin running a roundabout path towards the Mekboy from the other end of the reactor room as three other members of the Maniple piled into the doorway and unleashed a barrage of plasma fire into the enemy. Even altogether, the Skitarii's plasma calivers could not penetrate through the Mekboy's shielding - powered by the mysterious WAAAAGH energies the Orks obsessed over, it would likely have stood up to anti-tank munitions. But the sheer volume of fire the Skitarii were able to pour into it was an ample distraction, forcing the Mekboy to turn his full attention on them and lay down return fire with his combi-bolter even as he dropped the overloading shock cannon from his other hand and began reaching towards a haphazard pile of Orkish equipment by his side.

"Krak dat Hummie cybork!" The Mekboy howled even as he kept his focus on the doorway, and immediately a swarm of nearly two dozen heavily augmented Gretchin and Snotlings seemed to spring out of thin air and scrabble towards Andron, chittering vile Ork profanities all the way. Not stopping to engage them properly, a dozen or so small mechadendrites uncoiled from various points along each of his limbs and a small array of digital weapons mounted upon each began expending their charges to unleash inferno-blasts of energy upon the creatures, incinerating them so rapidly they did not even have time to blacken and turn to ashes - they simply stopped being there as the hellish energies tore through their bodies. Of course, the same weapons would now be unavailable for engaging the Mekboy due to having to be recharged with every use, but the Skitarii Praetor had not been planning on using them for that purpose in any case. Instead as he drew close, he threw himself into a full-body lunge with his power sword, stabbing directly into the field of Orkish WAAAAGH power surrounding the Mekboy, and then burying the weapon's blade into the deck plating - forcing the vicious power behind the shielding to ground itself into through the weapon as it penetrated.

The Mekboy was instantly blasted by a storm of Caliver fire, but with a roar he pulled on the alternate trigger for his combi-weapon and sent a contact grenade to explode in the doorway amidst the Skitarii clustered there, even as he hefted a crude but massive power claw in his other hand. The fire from the Plasma Calivers had torn entire chunks from his armor and cybernetics and, in a few places, had punched clear holes through his body - but such injuries were nothing to an Ork, and he barely noticed them as he turned his attention to the Skitarii Praetor.

Having buried his power sword into the floor, Axaltus barreled forward in a rollto come up beneath the Mekboy's aim and, with a chop from his bare bionic arm, sent the Ork's bolter to clatter across the flooor. He was then forced to throw himself fully back down onto the floor to evade a vicious swipe from the Mekboy's power claw. He then rolled out of the way of the Ork's follow-up strike, sprung back up to his feet, and swayed forward inside of the Mekboy's guard in order to get close enough for a shoulder-mounted mechadendrite tipped with a dataspike to lash out and bury itself in the Mekboy's head.

Roaring with unbelievable rage and completely ignoring what would have been a fatal head injury to any other species, the Mekboy grasped at the offending protrusion with his free hand and ripped it away, tearing it clear of the Praetor's shoulder and throwing it back in the Skitarii's face for good measure before hunching over and slamming forward to tackle him. Axaltus dived out of the way, landed in a roll, and came out of it with an overhead strike from the edge of his hand to spear into the Mekboy's back. Even as the Mekboy screamed in rage and turned to lash at the Skitarii with their power claw, Axaltus brought up their other hand and grappled onto the Mekboy's back, using their free hand to secure himself while his embedded extremity went burrowing through the Ork's body. After failing to dislodge their assailant after a number of bucks and desperate flailing towards their back with their over-sized arms, the Mekboy finally reoriented themselves and slammed themselves back-first into the nearest wall. Had he been fighting a member of the Imperial Guard, such a tactic might have been effective - but the Skitarii were more metal than flesh. Axaltus simply registered the damage to his chassis and its systems with cold analytical rationale and dismissed it as non-inhibiting. His hand then finished digging through the Ork's innards and, with a single deft motion, crushed the Ork's heart inside the creature's chest.

And then, since the Mekboy barely even seemed to notice and slammed him into the wall a second time, Axaltus resorted to his weapon of last resort when fighting Orks.

"Hey Ork Boy. I'm going to punch your heart out." He said aloud. He then shoved his embedded fist forward another foot to emerge straight from the Ork's chest as the stunned creature looked down. "You're dead?" Axaltus added, with an almost plaintive tone. After considering the proposition for a good three seconds, the Mekboy's limited intellect managed to overcome its own vigor and their eyes rolled back in their head as they fell forward onto the floor, having convinced themselves that they should in fact be dead.

"Orks are the worst." Axaltus muttered darkly as he hauled his right arm out of the Mekboy's carcass. "Maniple, status report."

'Heavy external damage to all members, Praetor.' Came the voxed response. 'No actual casualties but a few of us will require stasis. We should be able to hold our position for the moment though.'

'I am arranging for two other Maniples to come relieve you and to cleanse the manifold of spores.' Axaltus cast back. 'It seems that you will all unfortunately have to miss the crusade on Ullanor Tertius until your new bodies are ready, Omnissiah forbid.'

'Some of us should be able to atte-'

'That was not a suggestion, Skitarii.' Axaltus interrupted. 'If you are seeking to endeavor in sacred service to the Omnissiah, those of you who still can may assist with the ongoing cleansing of this vessel and you will like it. The Ork Spore is resilient and who here could possibly not enjoy burning away fungal grime in service of the Omnissiah?'

'Your meaning is received, Praetor.' Came the response. There was no real intonation over the Skitarii voxcasts, as they communicated in Lingua-Technis formulated by their internal cogitators rather than anything so crude as using their actual voices - and so nobody reviewing the vox logs would have been able to question the sincerity of Skitarii's words from their tone.

Axaltus began to mentally chart a path through the ship back towards the bridge, even while continuing to field vox-calls from other Maniple Alphas who continued to battle the remaining Ork Mekboys scattered throughout the ship. They would be arriving at Ullanor Tertius soon - it would be time to prepare for planetary insertion soon.
In The Reign of Sorcerers → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
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Regalion of the Deathless
In the Lands of Clan Guinn of the Sinn Dhein

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Laird Gealle-Chriosid of Clan Guinn was by no means an old man. His hair, unlike many of his red-haired people, was jet black and not a single white strand was to be spied atop his head or in his beard. And his form was full and muscular, as befit the master of all the green pastures that lay between the vales of Buonlain and Wensau to the far off hills of Sruthgaercil. His cloak on his shoulder, with the blue, green, and red tartan of Clan Guinn sewn into it, a tunic of red and tights of green beneath, he looked every part the great laird of much and increasing kyne that he was. The Guinn, however, were a purebred highland people, and it was highland might that brought the green pastures of Buonlain and Wensau into their power. Only Guinn wandered the vales now, their herds and their flocks; and their children could run and frolic all the way to Sruthgaercil without fear. Where were those prideful and decadent M'Hnaen today?

'Whits th'news fae Acroasta, Feihnuil?' Gealle-Chriosid gave his one-eyed companion a sidelong glance, and Feihnuil grinned.

'We wilnae be seein' muck o' tha' M'Hnaen bas efter tha', ah kin tell ye.' Feihnuil said, rubbing his eye beneath the patch.
 
'Aye? Fled fur th' forests haes 'e?' The young laird asked.

'Hah! Why he likelie wishes th' earth wid swallow him! Bit we'll nae be giein' 'im that sort o' reprieve ferr yit, ye ken? That kyneless wee lowland git.' Gealle-Chriosid chuckled and scratched his crooked nose.

'We'll fall oan Acroasta tae in time. Let thaim gather up thair men 'n' pat thair kyne tae th' blade wance mair. See if thay kin do muck all ither than flee lik' gutless curs.'

'That's good. Don't wantae graw soft oan thae bonny wee hills, eh?'

'Aye. 'n', weel. That M'Hnaen bas - fur a' his dashing guid looks - haes th' boldest lass. Howfur a charioteering warrior lik' her could hae spawned fae a wiry scrote lik' that ah ne'er ken.' At these words, Feihnuil leered at his laird.

'Fauchelt o' ol' Maegda awready? Ye ainlie walkd th' tree afore this hail affair broke oot.'

'Maegda's a darlin', bit whit kin ah say? Th' flesh is a fickle reprobate.' As the two continued jesting with one another, a few figures suddenly appeared over the crest of a distant hill, causing Gealle-Chriosid to nod towards them suspiciously. Feinuil looked towards them, rubbing his blinded eye out of habit. 'M'Hnaen?' The Laird asked.

'Nah, dinnae lek it. Thay dinnae hae big uns lik' thaten thare.' He reached for a dord at his hips and turned towards the great Guinn encampment nestled at the top of a nearby crest and blew sharply twice. Hefting his spear, laird Gealle-Chriosid began walking down the hill at a leisurely gait, and Feihnuil soon followed. As they approached the strangers, a dozen other warriors had already joined them and it had become abundantly clear that not only were these strangers not M'Hnaen, they were not anything Sinn Dhein. They all wore curious armor that gleamed like bright copper in the midday sun, their weapons being made of a similar material. All of them were too tall - and unblemished, seemingly untouched by any mark or stain of injury or the passage of years. Their demeanor at being approached by the assembled warriors of the Guinn was one of vague and relaxed bemusement - despite evidently being warriors themselves they did not seem intent on battle just yet.

Two of their number, near the front of their formation, were more ordinary - dressed in simple cloth and bearing the visage of peoples known to the Sinn Dhein from neighboring lands. They seemed more tense than those they walked with, although as they were between two bands of warriors perhaps that was to be expected. Conversing with one of them, one of the foreigners was holding a great, tall wooden beam - and at its tip, capped with more of the gleaming copper-like material, was a wavering cloth banner of white, depicting a queer symbol.

"The fellowship of Providence bids greeting to you, peoples of the Sinn Dhein." One of the two fellows said - a man in his august years with a fading beard and darker eyes. "They do not speak as we do, but there are common tongues between us. I can speak between all of us." Gealle-Chriosid stared at the stranger who spoke for a few moments, then glanced at the tall unblemished men with an annoyed frown - their lack of scars and other marks earned over the years irked him, more so because they all seemed experienced warriors - before returning his gaze to the one who had spoken.

'Whit urr ye, some easterner? Fae Dinordow or someplace thare?'

"A little ways to the South of there. I'm just a tanner from a smaller village, doesn't even have a name. I speak the fellowship's tongue well enough and had knowledge of this place, so they privileged me with the opportunity to accompany them." The man said. "My fellow here," He gestured briefly at the other plain-clothed man with him - younger and clean-shaven, obviously anxious and somewhat out of his element. "-is much the same." Gealle-Chriosid glanced at the one-eyed Feihnuil, who shrugged. None of them had ever been further east than Dinordow, and they had certainly not ventured south. The man spoke funny, there was no doubt, but no less intelligible than any easterner.

'Aye? 'n' whit brings ye 'n' yer odd fellows sae far north?' The laird questioned.

The man turned to speak with the imposing foreigner with the banner before then turning back to pass on his message to the laird. "My odd fellows are followers of the sorcerer known as Aurochylys, the Lord of Champions and Judge of the Worthy. In exchange for their fealty and by his power, they have attained Immortality. They seek now to travel the lands, spreading word of him and his power, and seeking others worthy of his boons." The Clan Guinn warriors seemed taken aback by these words, and they muttered sceptically to one another.

'A sorceror ye say? We hae heard o' sic hings. Th' Seer haes spoken o' thae malignant beings fae th' bygone age o' th' gods.' Gealle-Chriosid said, 'Whit mak's this sorceror o' yers worthy o' lording ower champions?'

Another exchange of words between the interpretor and the bannerman. "He is a great healer. They say he can treat any injury, heal the blind and deaf, even restore lost limbs - and that he can grant eternal youth and life everlasting to those he favors. All of the men in this fellowship, here, are touched by his power - and so its potency should be evident." The band of warriors and their laird looked at the giants, and once more irritation flashed in Gealle-Chriosid's eyes, though some among his companions - missing limbs or eyes, parts of noses or fingers - looked with curiosity. Who did not want eternal youth and unblemished form, after all? And did not the Seer himself say that only a champion of unblemished form could ever be a true leader of men? And yet Gealle-Chriosid was that sort who liked his scars and broken nose and put them on display for all - lek 'ere, they said, this here's a Bran that's fought 'n' levd 'n' brought many a brave Bran wee.

'Aye? 'n' howfur ur we tae ken we ur champions brave 'n' true if we hae na need tae fear th' years or th' swords 'n' spears o' men?' The Clan Guinn laird asked.

"That is why Aurochylys is known as the Lord of Champions. He only blesses those who have proven themselves worthy of such boons. Only the bravest, most skilled, and most cunning of warriors can make the best use of such gifts - and so the same goes with those he blesses who are not warriors. He seeks great leaders of men, sages, forgemasters to judge." The interlocutor explained.

'Bit surely then th' bravest 'n' maist skilled, th' maist cunning 'n' maist gifted, hae na need fur this sorceror's gifts at a'. He is brave 'n' skilled by whit his kyne haes wrought, nae by some sorceror's guile!' And Gealle-Chriosid stamped his foot and his onyx eyes flashed with sudden anger... which dissipitated almost as soon as it arose. 'Bit let us lea this blether. Come, fur ye hae surely come a lang wey fae yer southlands. We wull feed ye 'n' shelter ye while yer among th' Guinn.'

"The fellowship extends its thanks for the hospitality of the Guinn." The interlocutor replied. The small warrior band of Clan Guinn turned about and Feihnuil led the way towards the nearest encampment. A passing cattle driver waved and shouted, and the warriors shouted in return, causing a number of wolfhounds to bark and run towards them before turning about. Gealle-Chriosid stayed by the foreigners and walked with them, telling them that these here hills soon gave way to the great vales of Buonlain and Wensau, pastures that stretched all the way towards the far away hills of Sruthgaercil.

'Nae lang ago th' prideful clan M'Hnaen drove thair herds 'n' thair flocks 'ere, thair bairns danced 'n' sang in th' vale 'n' thay bathed in th' lochs 'n' swam in th' rivers at ease. Bit thay wur a mean 'n' miserly lot, 'n' sae we descended oan thaim 'n' drove thaim fae th' greenery 'n' ease in whilk thay dwelled. 'n' noo th' flocks 'n' herds o' clan Guinn stravaig th' vale, 'n' it's oor bairns that sing 'n' dance whaur yesterday th' M'Hnaen wur. 'n' oan th' morrow we'll descend oan thaim again, 'n' all o' th' world wull seem tae wee fur that miserly lot then!' The laird gestured proudly here and there, inviting them to take in the beauty and bounty of the pastures that belonged to the Guinn. 'Na laird o' M'Hnaen cuid withstand mah spear, 'n' ah hae taken as many heids as tears thay shed. 'ere we ur th' warriors 'n' masters, 'n' na champion greater than ah treads th' land fae 'ere tae Sruthgaercil. Ah hae na need fur boasts, fur mah many scars a' speak fur me - bit yer foreigners 'n' wid nae ken, sae noo ye dae.'

There was a brief exchange between the interlocutor and one of the foreigners - and the man then relayed the question. "Where now do the M'Hnaen dwell? The fellowship has made little effort to hide their trail and may well have been followed. If by your enemies, they would seek to preserve you against them." The laird sneered at the interlocuter.

'Th' M'Hnaen ur holed up in Acroasta, 'n' thair weakling laird haes fled far intae th' forests 'n' left his daughter tae fend fur her fowk alone. If she comes, then th' warriors o' Clan Guinn wull coupon her, nae ye. If ye wish tae scratch yer itch, then ye kin ainlie trust yer ain nail efter a'. Mibbie ye shuid gang offer thaim a hawnd, if ye wish tae keep a'body against thair enemies.' He paused for a few moments. 'Nae that it wull dae thaim ony guid. They're a kyneless fowk. How come, yin loses kyne by warring wi' thaim!' The laird continued speaking to his guests, telling them of the beauty of his highland home and how the mountains forged true warriors and men while the lowlands sprouted such bonny wee tings.

And the guests were brought into camp and cows and goats were slaughtered and put on spits all over, and the Guinn prepared a great feast to welcome the foreigners who had placed themselves under their protection. Dords were blown and the Guinn from across the vale streamed about until it seemed that no hilltop or hillside was bare of them. Mead and wines were brought forth, as were an assortment of sweet-nuts and fruits. One of the warriors rose at one point and began reciting some poetry in praise of the great conquering laird Gealle-Chriosid, bane of M'Hnaen and taker of the two vales. Eventually the laird sat back, a clay goblet of mead nestled in his hands. 'Bit yer fellows hae nae tellt us thair names, southerner. An' neither hae either o' ye. Or does th' laird Aurochylys nae permit his chosen champions names?'

The interlocuter engaged in an exhaustive person-by-person narrative with each member of the Fellowship - who, through his proxy, went about introducing themselves. All of them - perhaps unnecessarily - appended 'of the Immortals' to their own introduction. The last to introduce themselves was the true giant amongst them - the one who bore a breatbow, curiously curved at its ends, which itseful was nearly the full height of the laird himself.

"...and the master of the Fellowship is pleased to announce himself as Regalion, First Amongst the Deathless and foremost Champion of Worth under the great Aurochylys." The interlocuter finished. As roasts from the spit and drink were passed around, the Fellowship were by large pleased to accept and to praise the quality of the stock and the means by which it had been raised - though when sustenance was offered to Regalion, he declined.

"Regalion, as one of the Deathless, no longer requires any sustenance. He may partake of it for pleasure alone, but would prefer not to be wasteful of what our generous hosts have offered the fellowship." The man explained. Those who heard, including the laird, looked from the interlocuter to Regalion with visible bafflement. Such manner of feasting, after all, could never be intended for sustenance alone - aye they ate and drank and made merry, but it was ultimately a display. Generosity, hospitality, wealth; all these were on display that all present may know that this was a clan of great power and kyne, and their laird likewise. A refusal to partake, for whatever reason, was an affront. It was a wound inflicted against the honour of the clan and laird - I shan't partake of your food and goodwill it said, you are beneath my recognition, it spoke. And when the laird frowned and sat back, others too sat back. And the eating and drinking came to a halt, and the singing too - slowly, slowly now across this hill and now that -, so that all was silent as the laird stared with furrowed brows at the giant who would not eat.

The second of the interlocutors - the younger, clean-shaven man - more familiar with the social mores of the Sinn Dhein and just as perturbed as they were by the display - hurriedly muttered an interjection to the fellowship's bannerman. What was clearly an argument of some sort ensued between the interlocutor, the bannerman, and two more of the supposed Immortals. The first Interlocutor - more nonplussed - translated a portion of the exchange aloud, much to the consternation of the Immortals sitting astride him, who grimaced and glared as he spoke.

"The fellowship are protesting their breach of your custom due to ignorance and by their own." He explained. "It is my opinion that Regalion intends no slight." 

Moments the words left his lips, the Immortals arguing with with the second interlocutor finally turned to Regalion, addressing him in a mixture of inquisitive - and berating - tones.

Regalion then spoke in a lax, conversational tone, his manner unbidden. His voice was the low rumble of distant thunder, and his vision was darkly clouded in a manner that made his intent difficult to gauge. Whatever it was he spoke, both of the translators immediately flinched in apprehension. After they hesitated for a moment too long, one of the Immortals barked, and the elder interlocutor spoke, haltingly.

"Regalion of the Deathless abides without fear, shame, or apology. He has elected not to eat and will heed no imperative to do so." Gealle-Chriosid looked to the giant with cold, black eyes.

'Is that sae then,' the laird said, though it was no question, and he lifted his cup slowly, eyes not wavering from Regalion, and tipped its contents to the earth. It was meaning beyond words. 'If Regalion o' th' Deathless spurns oor goodwill 'n' fails tae be a goodly guest, then oor goodwill is hurled 'n' we shall nae be hosts tae him or his folk at a',' Gealle-Chriosid rose, and a number of his warriors stood too, hands on spears, and he spoke to the interlocutor, 'Ye kin see yerself 'n' yer master awa', ah wouldna pity mah kin wi' yer blood th' nicht. Bit let him ken that he is ma enemy th'day 'n' ever, 'n' mah folk his people's bane.'

The interlocutors relayed the message. The fellowship of immortals seemed to hold their breath as Regalion replied.

"...Regalion of the Deathless inquires if you speak for all of the the peoples of the clan of Guinn, from its warriors and its men, to all of its women and its children. He seems to believe you bear not the years nor the wisdom to be the elder of them all-:"

"Please also note we are merely translators, and are not part of this fellowship ourselves." The younger interlocutor burst out suddenly. "Permit us the opportunity to flee before you and this queer assembly calling itself a fellowship come to blows." Gealle-Chriosid's eyes flashed with a sudden cold fury and he snarled something at the interlocutor, and almost immediately a number of dords were blown and the Guinn encampment and all the hills about came alive again as the warriors and clansfolk who had not so long ago been feasting all rose and took up their spears and arms.

'Ye'll tell yer master this, southerner, there'll be blood betwixt us - o' that's na doubt. Bit ah will nae butcher mah people's kyne by killing him 'n' his folk whin a'd granted thaim safety. Sae git ye gaen 'n' let that be th' lest word - 'cause whin neist we meet, th' spear wull speak.'

The second interlocutor broke and ran then and there, much to the startled amazement of the first and the bemusement of the fellowship of Immortals. Pointing after him, the remaining translator babbled to the fellowship.

Their unexpected response was simply to fill the tension-filled air of the hillside with bellowing laughter. The bannerman exchanged a few words with Regalion before then issuing a new statement to the apoplectic translator - as Regalion rose like an ominous thunderhead from where he sat. As the interlocutor haltingly translated, two of the Immortals attended to the giant and began to assist him with the clasps of his armor, so as to shuck it off.

"Regalion of the Deathless acknowledges your grievance. He will permit you two blows with which to attempt to slay him, from which he will not evade. If you can fell him, his fellowship will acknowledge you as his better. If you fail, they shall all depart the land and pay you no mind forevermore, for you shall not be worth your own skins for them to pity with honorable death." The black-haired laird scowled and spat on the ground, his mind whirring behind his obsidian eyes. No laird worth his kyne could reject such a public challenge outright.

'Ah will accept - oan a condition. That he cast aside whitevur daemonic magicks grip him 'n' tak' mah blows as any Bran. Nae fair, is't, tae tak' mortal wounds whin ye've git some sorcerous daemon's magick oan ye noo is it? Hardly a Bran at a', 'n' ah needn't prove a'm better than something that's hardly a Bran.'

The interlocutor relayed the caveat, and the bannerman's response.

"They say this is the only redress for your grievance that is permitted. They have instructed me to repeat ernestly that you are either to accept their offer or still your whelp tongue and abandon your claim of affront, in light of your eagerness to boast that you should be the better of any blessed man by wit of your skill and prowess alone. You are either stronger without, or weaker and thus forfeit all privilege."

'Twa blows tae slay him ye say?' The dark-eyed laird asked, scratching his crooked nose.

"Two blows which he may not evade, and as you can see, he shall take them without armament." The interlocutor gestured to the now bare-chested Regalion as the giant strode forward, his very steps echoing about like tumbling boulders. His chest and abdomen were well muscled, but also layered with measures of fat - he was clearly not some preening sculptor of the body, though one might have been forgiven for thinking it, as no scars nor marks of any kind crossed his frame. He did not even deign the laird with a look - he simply gazed askance at nothing in particular, his expression bored, not even having the grace to behold his enemy with either contempt or appraisal. The Guinn laird grinned, though the aloof giant did not see, his black eyes flashing with sudden mischief.

'Hold yerself, ye muck oaf. Twa blows it wull be, 'n' ye shan't evade thaim. An' thay shall be delivered at a time o' mah choosing - return in five days, 'n' it wull be dane then.'

The interlocutor relayed the message. Regalion himself replied with a single utterance.

"Regalion hereby accuses you of cowardice." The interlocutor had the dignity to grimace as he spoke.

'Ah accuse ye o' faithlessness - ye gave yer word, 'n' ah accepted. Sae wull ye be held tae it or wull ye nae? Ah wull have the blows delivered whin ah please. Noo begone.'

The bannerman frowned as the translator passed on the words, and barked a harsh and lengthy sequence out in response.

"The fellowship will abide by their word, but believe you have demonstrated callowness and that you will flee come the chosen time. They demand promise or collateral to ensure your faithfulness." The interlocutor passed on warily.

'Yer ignorant o' oor ways, giant, 'n' that haes awready cost you,' the laird said, and spread his arms wide, 'my fowk ur witness, 'n' wull haud me tae accoont - wha, pray tell, wull haud you strangers tae accoont? Ye hae refused mah conditions 'n' noo attempt tae gang back oan yer word. If an'body's in need o' collateral, it's me.'

Paling, the translator faithfully relayed the message, speaking in turn as the laird himself did before then turning to pass on Regalion's response.

"Regalion shall remain where he stands now for five days and five nights without sustenance or sucor as collateral. If he should leave this place it shall be taken as a sign of forfeiture and his own fellowship shall turn upon him. The fellowship have instructed me to append that your calls for delay and delegation are piteous and the act of one born a gelding, and that you are a barking, toothless mongrel best put down rather than perturb the future of his people any further, and is evidence in and of itself that you are incapable of performing." The mischief in the laird's eyes faded and the beginnings of a snarl remained, but he calmed himself.

'Twa blows it shall be, in five days. Though 'tis th' hi'est gree o' cowardice tae bring magicks tae they wi'oot, as ye folk dae, ah shan't complain 'n' shall dae a' that wit 'n' micht gie me tae mak' they twa blows count.' The laird spread his arms and backed away with a small smile on his lips, 'ye bade richt in steid, oaf, 'n' ah will see ye in five days,' and with that he turned away from the foreigners and walked swiftly into the darkness while shouting for his lairdsdord and chariot.

"They are in accord with you, laird of the Guinn!" The interlocutor called back to him. The fellowship of Immortals, their blood now raised but without excuse to excise it of its fire, set about to putting up a makeshift camp about where Regalion stood. A number of the warriors of the Guinn remained nearby, keeping an eye on the giant to ensure he did not move from his place, but the encampment was gone at dawn along with the rest of the clan.

One of the warriors of the Guinn, who was more perceptive than many of his kin, watched the fellowship carefully as he did now - and noted that amongst their number, one who had arrived with them was now absent. Had one of them slipped away during the ruckus? And for what purpose?

In The Reign of Sorcerers → 4 yrs ago Forum: Advanced Roleplay
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Aeoch of the Eternal
In the Heel of the Western Realm

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In the open atrium grounds of the Palace of Kadesh-Caro, several dozen peoples made merry in celebration of the bonding of the young Quarrymaster Feldis and his new bride Baerike, the daughter of the local priest. Kadesh-Caro had graciously opened the atrium for the celebration to be held, and the bride's family had seen fit to supply the gathering with fermented drink. The groom had presented a ritual gift of three amphoras, as well as a copper coffer bearing cuneiform and jade figurines, and now came the traditional presentation of gifts from family and friends to the new bonded pair as they sat in union before everyone who was assembled.

With many parties having approached the two to present their gifts, with great murmuring and apprehension the line of guests parted, and a pall of dread fell upon the gathering as the figure known as Aeoch strode amidst the gathering and approached the wedded couple.

Before either party could speak, Kadesh-Caro himself rose from his place of honor and rebuked the intruder. The ruler of the settlement was clad in splendor, with pristine white robes, a headdress of copper, and bearing a ceremonial collar symbolizing his authority. "Stand fast, Eternal. Your schemes and troubling of the families of the wed are well-known by all who are assembled here today. If you have ill to wish upon this union, begone or suffer the bludgeons of my guard."

Aeoch, who wore but a plain gown of gray and a vest over a bared chest, with plain and unassuming features, replied.

"Although it is no secret that in my furtherance of my distant master's aims I have made many and frequent attempts to deter and prevent this union, I have come not to dissent but to pay homage. Although it be contrary to mine own purposes, the day of this joining is still a blessed day, for these two remarkable beings have found eternal joy and measure in each others' embrace. There is no further purpose in opposing such a union, nor in cursing it, and so there is no sense to pursue anything other than its celebration. I come here this evening with the intent to present a gift upon the groom, if it would so please him and if none in this gathering would object."

"Do you come bearing your gift seeking forgiveness?" Baerike's father, a priest of the ancient and passed Primordials, ask with suspicion.

"No. Even in light of the circumstances, I acted as I did precisely as I intended to, and would do it all again if I bore the need." Aeoch spoke with an open voice that carried easily over the crowd. "The gift I bear is presented not in the hopes of reconciliation, but merely as assurance that my deeds were borne out of duty alone and not from animosity. If they elect not to forgive me that is permissible, but absent animus they truly deserve to live without fear of possible retribution from myself or my master for their defiance of his wishes."

Aeoch's words greatly assuaged the crowd and the tension that had been brewing amongst them - there was even a smattering of impressed clapping amongst some of them, struck by the graciousness of the man and his humility in the face of those who had successfully opposed him and his efforts.

"But I will not force my gift upon the union if it and my presence are not desired." Aeoch continued as he turned from Kadesh-Caro back towards the wedded couple. "Feldis, Quarrymaster, will you tolerate my presence and my tidings?"

"Although your trespasses against us are many Aeoch, as a man of business and affair myself, I can understand how you may have enacted such unpleasant things in pursuit of your duty alone." The young groom said. "If my mate Baerike can bring herself to accept your presence, than we would be pleased to accept your gift."

"I do not believe I can forgive you for all you have perpetrated against us, Eternal." Baerike admonished Aeoch sternly. "But the sentiment of desiring to deter future animosity and allaying our fear of possible retribution is a compassionate one, and I see no reason not to accept."

"My thanks, young mistress." Aeoch nodded cordially to Baerike before addressing the crowd at large.

"As many of you doubtlessly know, Feldis here was offered eternal youth and immortality by my master, the Sorcerous Master Aurochylys, in exchange for his vow of service and fidelity. A vow which he could not take so long as he intended to wed Baerike, for her father had sworn that he and his issue were to never take avowal of my master. My master is not one to curry favor - he desires that the worthy be graced with the time and vigor to perform great deeds unhindered by time and frailty, and sees unity under his providence as a worthy means of facilitating that end. It sits ill with me to threaten and withhold the grace of timelessness from one so clearly capable, and so I offer now the gift of everlasting life and youth to Feldis."

"Just like that?" The priest asked incredulously amidst raised cheers from the assembled crowd.

"Just like that!" Aeoch affirmed with a nod.

"What must Baerike and I do to attain just a state?" Feldis asked eagerly.

"It is already done." Aeoch replied, his tone irreverent and conversational.

"What? Just now?"

"Well, in truth, several moments before I even arrived." Aeoch remarked contritely. "So it is just as well you are satisfied to have accepted it. You shall not suffer the passage of years upon your body from this day on."

"Oh Baerike, this is so wonderful!" Feldis exclaimed as he turned to join hands with his bride, now positively beaming with unexpected fervor. "To know we shall never again be parted, joined as one for all ti-"

"Not her." Aeoch interjected abruptly. "Just you."

A heavy silence struck upon the assembled party like the passage of distant thunder.

"I thought you said you intended to gift our union -"

"I specified you particularly, boy." Aeoch interrupted to clarify.

"But - but Baerike shall wither and grow old as I remain as I am!" Feldis cried. "That is a most cursed affliction! However am I to stand besides my love as an equal with youth eternal if she will eventually pass from this world without me?"

"It is not my business to dictate how you should lead your life, nor in what manner you should watch your mate die." Aeoch delivered with the contemptuous air of a serpent.

"Eternal! You have abused the hospitality of this union and of me!" Bellowed Kadesh-Caro. "I care not that you cannot know death! I will have you seized in bindings and entombed for this offense!"

Aeoch could do naught but shrug as Kadesh-Caro's armsmen came and seized upon him. "Do as you must. Come 'morn I will be gone from this place."

His very word proved two - for as Kadesh-Caro's armsmen came the next day to seize upon him from the cell where they had left him, they discovered he had gone.

Some distance away, Aeoch walked, barefooted, to meet with his attendants, all Immortals themselves, who had awaited and anticipated his need for a departure in haste and had set out in advance, in expectation that he would catch up with them.

"It is done." Aeoch declared as he exchanged salutes with his aide. "The Quarrymaster has been graced with life everlasting."

"Truly? And our Master is upholding his being?" The aide asked curiously. "Without the Quarrymaster having avowed his service, what purpose is there in such a thing?"

"It is merely the appearance of our Master's grace. I have left behind a servant to watch over their family. Whensoever the Quarrymaster's bride passes from this world, a moon thereafter his grace shall abate - and he will perish. The Master's grace is given solely so the fool may suffer under the burden of his preconceived eternity without his love."

"...Our Master seems a mite capricious." The aide ventured after a moment's hesitation.

"That he does." Aeoch admittedly freely. "So too, as I have heard in legend, were the gods of old."

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Regalion of the Deathless
Traveling North

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The dark of the night was broken by a great bonfire in the midst of the plains, serving as host to a fellowship of twelve warriors - who had settled to eat, drink, and to maintain their kit - for their arms and armor were such as had rarely been seen in this corner of the world. Adorned in cuirasses of bronze that gleamed with a sickly luster in the firelight, with blades and spears edged much the same, the worth of the warriors' armaments exceeded that of an entire settlement. With how openly they bore their wear and blades, not even bothering to conceal them with cloak or garb and having piled high the bonfire they rested before, they would have made a most tempting target for any raiding party of the steppes. Yet they traveled openly and brazenly, ensuring all were aware of their passage with neither fear nor apology. For their fellowship of twelve all bore a grace unmatched in common men and women.

They were Immortals blessed by the sorcerer Aurochylys - and they would never die.

"...and he had a red scraggly beard." One of the Immortals finished recounting to the others.

"...So not a one of us met with the same lot amongst the Eternals." Another mused. "So when did Ayrochylys bless each of us? Is he omniscient? Can he see afar with his mind's eye as mere men such as ourselves can scarce conceive?"

"If he could, what need would he even have no attendants? No, I personally suspect he never saw any of us - but that he has some method, some magic, that he can pass to the Eternals for them to work on us and others."

"Well none of us are Eternals." Piped up another. "So how are we to spread Providence to the peoples of these lands? We've our mighty armaments to be sure, and with the gift of life given by our master we are sure to seize victory and overcome all adversity - but how are we to convey our honors to him, and his tidings unto new champions?"

"Our Master is a power of many means." The members of the fellowship turned to look on at their Twelfth member as he spoke, the man known to them as Regalion.

Regalion was a man of intensity and frankly terrifying immensity - he stood eight feet tall, and his body bristled with thick cords of muscle. In the long dark of the shadows cast by the bonfire, he sat and patiently oiled his greatbow - a monstrous weapon with oddly curved ends, which no normal man and indeed, many of the Immortals themselves, could not have ever hoped to so much as hold properly, much less draw. Secured in the ground by his side was the long, metal-capped pole which bore the standard of Aurochylys, and resting at his feet was a quiver of throwing-spears so thick around it could have carried a corpse wrapped in a burial shroud. But where the other members of the fellowship carried with them packs of provisions and sustenance, and measures of cloth for erecting makeshift shelter, the giant of a man carried neither food nor drink, nor any form of respite beyond his own oversized armor and cloth - for Regalion had not been graced merely with eternal youth, but with true defiance of oblivion itself. He was the First of the Deathless, and required neither sustenance nor shelter, and bore fear of no thing in the whole of the world.

"Unlike the lot of you, I have met with our master. I have not spoken with him, for I was only in his presence but a moment - but as the First of the Deathless, he has entrusted me with great duty and peerage. A means of informing him of our travels and of the worthy we might encounter has been entrusted to me - and where we go, Aurochylys will assuage the worth of all who stand before us."

"We did speak of this matter briefly before our departure of the Onris vale. What is our purpose in distant lands as we travel forth?" One of the Immortal queried Regalion.

"We shall assay the lands in the stead of Aurochylys. He will determine the worth of all we see. The worthy, we shall support and curry favor with. The unworthy, we shall sweep aside to be forgotten by the tides of history, swallowed whole by death like kidling preykind."

"What, just the twelve of us?" One of the Immortals scoffed. "No offense to you of course, bold Regalion, for I doubt any man save our master is your equal - but we are not numerous enough nor so skilled in the arts of battle that we may lay waste to entire settlements. How do you propose we so impress upon the realms our master's aims?"

"In the manner of champions." Regalion answered simply. "I do not bear for you answers to how we might overcome any and all opposition. Only that whatever opposition we face, it shall be our duty to overcome - with prowess to be sung about for a thousand years of glory." He paused, and then added. "Of course, our master shall likely press to add additional manpower to our fellowship, which shall never be unwelcome and will be most helpful in the spread of his Providence."

"Of course - one imagines that shall have to be done if only so there is always one amongst us who speaks the local language." Ruminated one of the Immortals in response. "But let us not question further or doubt our intentions, brothers. For our aims are clear. To spread our Master's Providence to the twenty-six corners of creation, and to do so in glory and with great valor!" This was met by a hearty cheer from the remainder of the fellowship, who then turned to more mundane topics.

In the far-off distance, a keen-eyed scout noted them, their numbers, their bearings, and their weapons - and then fled to report their findings.
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In Takanis - A Historically Inspired Fantasy NRP → 5 yrs ago Forum: Nation Roleplay
Untold Ages Ago
The Vyrnul Archipelago
The Island of Ssthrlihe
Mt. Mandjet
The Carmot Throne

The night was dark - there were no stars in the sky, and the moon had been occluded. Even the normally radiant lights of the surrounding den spires were but dim motes in the background. Here, at the peak of Mt. Mandjet, the very earth shone with alchemical providence - a star-like gem upon the world. No other light could compare - it drowned, saturated in the empyrean light cast by the throne by the Rashommai Matriarch. Yet the light of the mountain was dim, dusken in quality - as it enraptured and suffocated the natural light from the world around it, the air in its presence dimmed and darkened. It was 'twixt profane and hallowed at once, and so it would remain.

Until the Matriarch anointed the throne.

Lystunet - a Rashommai, one of the half-serpent, half-fair rulers of the Archpelago - swayed up the temporary, suspended ramp of ceramic. Nothing that had ever lived could make contact with Carmot without suffering transublimation, and so an elaborate network of ramps, catwalks, and suspended paths criss-crossed the peak, leading up the throne itself. Lystunet and her brood had been responsible for its assembly, which by necessity had occurred after the the peak of Mt. Mandjet had been transmuted. For her role in making the Matriarch's ascension possible, she was thus privileged to observe the ceremony as it took place. She was accompanied by her trail of slaves - pitiful and frail Humans, though not so wretched and stained as their ilk were wont to be. These specimens had been thoroughly sterilized in every sense of the word and clad in spotless ivory samite to render them tolerable merely to proceed in her wake and tend to her whims here, at the culmination of her efforts.

Lystunet herself was a towering braid of scales, muscle, and arms. In the dark of Mandjet's peak her serpentine eyes were alight with pale, sickening light. Her visage, swathed in the dingy and oppressive light, was thankfully too unresolved in clarity to be discerned properly by her attendants.

Winding her way onto the terrace beneath the throne's dais from where the anointing would be viewed, she found waiting her peer, the Naga Ructys, augur of the Iris, who would speak on its behalf. Her form was much the same as Lystunet's own - colossal and terrible, her frame wreathed in squirming uncertainty. They greeted each other silently in the way of the highpool, subtle gestures made with their off-limbs, a nuanced shift in the posture of their midriffs and their alignment of their spines. They speak in their pitiless language with vocal cords thicker than twine, longer than a finger and more plentiful than trees in a grove.

'Augur, does all proceed according to the design of our masters?' Lystunet inquired. Her voice was gravel disturbed by rain, more defined by its volume than by its substance. Her inquiry is neither impatient nor rhetorical. She already knows the answer, but seeks confirmation.

'Yes. Our servants were wisely chosen. They render due seizen unto us in due time.' The Augur answers, and her voice is embers, popping and hissing as a log is tossed to the flames.

'...Yet upon supplication to our master, they have deemed that all which is unnecessary shall be undone. The ceremony has room enough, certainly, for those of privilege, for those of need, for those who must witness, for the reagents. No other shall be worthy of the dignity of the Demiurge who is to come.'

'I see. Is it yet certain as to all who are necessary?'

The augur's head tilts, ever so faintly in the dark. 'No. Yet soon. The chaff may yet subdominate those who presently serve our purposes. If they should fail to do so...' She silently indicates the incandescent mountainscape, the flawless, smooth, rolling curvature of the transmuted peak.

The Naga then both turn to look upon you. Your effort to evade the notice of your betters so as to evade their displeasure with your unworthy existence a failure. Their eyes are pale citrine flames. They do not move, but your skull is riven as their wills drive hooks, nails, and flensing rods into it. They do not ask of you. They determine of you. What you are is not enough.

They turn away. You are not even worthy of their attention, now. When the time comes, you shall be cast to the mountainside with the rest of the worthless chattel, insensate failures that you are, useless as anything but ceremonial offerings for the sake of formality and traditional observance. Already the other darkened forms of the Nagas' attendants approach you - they lay their equally unworthy hands upon you, sink their fingers into your flesh. You skin shall burst! You shall be torn to pieces!

You fall, screaming and flailing as they start to tear away your fingers and teeth, flailing and swiping blindly at the air. You choke on nothing and bite your tongue, your limbs feel weighted as though with lead, you cannot move...!

You blink. You are in your chambers, on the floor, ensnared within your bedsheets as your writhe in panic. They are soaked through with your sweat and tears. You glance at the door. You hear nothing in the distance - your turbulent slumber went unnoticed. Your body seethes with heat, as though you were in fever, but a chill has seized upon your nape.

You are running out of time. Your Adversaries tighten the noose around your neck.

888888888888


Present Day
The Caelrumoste Archipelago
The Island of Apocea
Mannet's Bastion, Depot 4

Iikka Guiomar, newly appointed broker and ambassador for the Caelrumoste Regency, hurried through the forlorn cobbled streets of the small, desolate township that had once grace the Eastern shore of Apocea. He was perhaps 1.78 meters in height, with a slim build and lanky arms. His face was tall and thin with paunch and pale cheeks accentuating feline cheekbones and amber-colored eyes. His hair was dark, his skin an ashen bronze, and he wore the faded azure and violet robes of his newly appointed station. The surrounding dwellings were decayed and barren, and if not reclaimed soon would likely be condemned. Iikka was accompanied only by a single guardsman. Although he was now counted as one of the highest ranking political officials in all of Caelrumoste, there simply were not enough men or resources to go around to afford him a larger guard - or even so much as a carriage. He had set forth out from Old Yearning the better part of a week and a half ago with his guard, on foot, and made his way hurriedly to the coast. The roads had been crowded with haggard trains of refugees, seeking the nearest ports so they could beg and ply for passage back to their native ancestral islands, where hopefully the famine would be less severe. Thankfully, few bodies lined those same roads - otherwise unemployable mages and wrights, wearing starkly colored yellow armbands to identify them as magic-users and accompanied by haggard but wary militia watchmen, traversed the roads and cleared them of bodies, moving them to consecrated - if improvised and roughshod - burial sites a bare step above mass graves.

The foot traffic had died down as Iikka and his man had come to what remained of Mannet's Stead. There was nothing here but ruin, unless one counted the bastion. Since the township surrounding it was abandoned, at the first sign of trouble the whole lot of it could be burnt and razed to the ground, depriving potential attackers of easily fortified terrain. The Bastion itself - a six-walled fort with a renovated keep and dungeon serving as a warehouse now - was still, its wall crowded with stern and watchful sentinels manning siege engines. They would not have been able to beat off a determined and disciplined assault, but there was hardly enough of anyone or any order in all of Caelrumoste left for an actual attacking force to be either of those things.

Iikka and his guard were stopped at the portcullis leading into the interior, and the both of them were subjected to the standard battery of tests. They were stripped naked, thoroughly frisked, and dowsed. Their blood was drawn, a lock of hair cut off, and fingernails clipped away for examination. They sat in awkward, naked indignity in the middle of the road while a mage carefully examined each sample before determining that, yes, these two people were, in fact, human, and were not carrying nor recently exposed to refined Ammacre.

"You are clear. For now." The sergeant said flatly as the two of them struggled back into their clothes. "You will be reexamined every time you leave, and every time you return. So don't be doing that unless you have a fancy needs ticklin'."

"I must speak with your cohort commander immediately, under orders from the Regent." Iikka indicated glumly as he shrugged his undershirt back on. "I have a letter-"

"Found it when we searched your pack, its been verified already. You're expected." The sergeant supplied. "Corporal Raish here will be accompanying the both of you for the duration of your stay. You are not to leave his sight for any reason, or else he shall raise the alarm and we'll use you both to repaint the insides of the latrines." The sergeant smiled faintly at the thought.

Absolutely nobody commented upon the indignity or unusual nature of the conditions by which a formally appointed ambassador would visit the Bastion. Anything less during the Cursed Days could have led to the entire fort being compromised from within. The Cursed Days were over, at least in theory, but what remained of the Royal Army of Caelrumoste remained vigilant. Too many loyal soldiers, comrades-in-arms, and blood brothers had died to treachery and subterfuge. A lifetime of caution and wariness had been bred into the survivors that remained. Death waited behind each soldier's eyelids. Few of them would ever let their guard down again.

Iikka, his guard were both guided by the corporal into the keep, and down a level, where the proverbial serpent's hoard was lain under the earth. Long pallets, each stacked high with thirty-six sealed bronze coffers and secured with repurposed cords of halyard. Faint iridescent light shone betwist the seams. The supports for the roof had been very selectively sabotaged and supplemented with supports connected to switch-blocks, overseen by swarthy men with hammers. At the first sign of trouble, the whole ceiling could be brought down on the Ammacre reserves here, burying them. It was merely a token measure - any Adversary who penetrated this far in would hardly be deterred by a few hundred tons of rock and stone.

The commander for the Cohort garrisoned at the bastion awaited Iikka below, at a wooden table already prepared, graced by a map of the known world, with upholstered (if dusty) chairs already set out and a small cask of wine with goblets lain out for them. The Commander himself was on the young sign, but already hardened - and plagued. A chunk of flesh was missing from the left side of his neck, and his eyes were habitually wide and attentive. He stared right through Iikka as they clasped arms and exchanged their greetings.

"You will be sent directly to the Ivory Palace in Sanghara." He stated. "As a reminder, you are not to sell off any of the allotments to individual delegates, senators, princes, or families, at least at first. You are selling them directly to the collective assembly of the Senate. You are a representative of the sovereign authority of Caelrumoste, not a guild merchant. If you get tangled up in trying to dispose of all of...this..." He waved to the contents of the vault. "To individual parties, the biddings will get cluttered up with the dredging of all of their pissant movers trying to one-up each other. Establish a formal line of bidding between the Regency and the Republic first, and when and if you finally cave to individual offers, all sales must be finalized and notarized through the proceedings of the senate itself."

The instructions sounded almost rehearsed - which they might have been. Iikka was hardly the only ambassador being sent out abroad to manage the bulk exportation of Caelrumoste's native ammacre. It was possible the commander had recited this segue before.

"Am I already expected at the Ivory Palace itself?" Iikka inquired.

"Oh yes. At least formally. We officially sent notice and were given a receipt." The Commander said, somewhat absently. "Now whether or not that means anybody has actually seen that notice is another matter. But there is an established chain of communication. You'll have all the proper documentation and references to prior correspondence you'll need to get into the halls the proper way, although depending on how obstructive they are feeling it may take a few weeks. Or months. But if they're smart, they will lay out the Amaranth carpet for you." He paused for a moment to take a sip from his goblet, grimacing faintly at some unvoiced and unpleasant thought. "You have broad discretion otherwise to act as you see fit - but please, no bribes and graft. You do not have much of an operational budget for your stay over there. You'll barely be able to stay in laundered robes, let alone grease any palms."

"It might help if I have samples to showcase. I understand I am being sent with..." Iikka began.

"Your carrack is sailing out with a full two allotments of assorted bulk cuts." The Commander cut him off. "Varied-up shipments rather than uniform, so you have more of it to show off." He gestured to three nearby footmen, who hauled up a number of bronze coffers onto the table and began undoing their metal clasps before throwing open the lid.

Stacks of multicolored, crystalline gemstones alight with power shone from within. Shimmering gold-and-orange octahedral suns, opalescent cubes that glittered darkly with twilight, icosahedrons of blinding white brilliance, tetrahedral emeralds, rubies, and saphires the size of pebbles sparkling in heaps - all offset by a single tray of carefully wax-set and leaden-textured dodecahedrons, stark and harrowing in the absence of any internal light.

"Are those..." Iikka squinted. "...are those pieces in the wax warmage cuts?"

"Not as such. As I understand it, those are...volatile ritual cuts."

"Volatile...As in depth and density." Iikka licked at his thumb and pressed it against one of the dodecahedron's flat tops. He immediately pulled the digit back with a hiss, shaking his hand as though it had been caught in a snare, faint wisps of steam rising from the tip of his thumb as his saliva was flash-vaporized.

"Very deep. Very dense." The Commander agreed, though if he was concerned it did not show. "I believe one of the craftmages who was running deliveries said one of those could, perhaps, keep an open flame burning for twelve kalpa using one of those. Or animate something big for twelve minutes."

"Is it wise to be selling...weapons of this nature?" Iikka asked, giving the commander a look.

"Perhaps not. But perhaps wiser than keeping it here." The commander retorted. Iikka nodded somewhat sullenly in response.

"And also, I have something special for you here..." The Commander opened a smaller lockbox set near the corner of the table - within were held perhaps three-dozen or so pyramid-cut, amethyst-colored stones. Their internal light was dull.

"These are our gestalt stones for this endeavor." The commander supplied, carefully picking one of the stones out carefully with a pair of calipers. "Touch one with your bare hand, and the knowledge of every leading bid per-allotment enters your mind. We'll be giving you six of these, to distribute amongst the Senate and Assembly and one or two for yourself. However, you are advised that you should not distribute any of them until such time as you receive an initial leading bid for the allotments."

"What, so we keep our buyers in the dark until they actually put forward actual value? That's a little discourteous." Iikka commented.

"'Discourteous' would be wasting our and their time fretting about statistics they don't yet have a stake in." The commander retorted. "It's all the same either way, but the way forward is clear." He turned in his seat to look back at the vast rows and columns of the assembled pallets and the bronze coffers stacked on them.

"The sooner we can rid Caelrumoste of every scrap of Ammacre there is, the sooner we can stop looking over our shoulders, jumping at every shadow and waiting for somebody to plunge the knife."
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