Tortoise

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

didnt finish porting/editing characters from first iteration, just dumping what I got here so I don't lose it
EDIT: Should have all the character stuff done, if they're reaccepted I'll start the worldbuilding stuff!

A Semi-Retired Raider...

Thozna Scrapblast-of-Norplain

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Thozna is a Gnoll (or an Uplifted, as they refer to themselves), one of the hyenafolk that live in the plains, swamps, savannahs and deserts. While specific cultural practices vary from clan to clan they're a generally nomadic people, living a lifestyle of hunting, herding and raiding. Gnolls can be found in a variety of environments, their thick pelts and hardy constitutions making them well-suited for mercenary work. Indeed, it's not uncommon for a petty lord to hire a band of them for use as shock troops or terror squads.

They have a reputation for savagery and are even rumored to be demonic in origin, but these stories are not the full truth. Generally speaking Gnolls don't so much revel in violence for the sake of violence as they lack inherent respect for life. They respect people for their achievements and friends, family and pack members are considered highly important but an outsider's life is of no value on its own, and thus Gnolls have no problem snuffing it out if required. It's not too difficult for someone to be accepted by a Gnoll, however, as many of the Gnolls that roam outside their hunting grounds are working as soldiers, bandits, mercenaries, or bodyguards, and those in the packlands are living extremely communal lives. They're very much time players, they just don't care much about those outside the team.

While they can reach the age of 120 or even past that, in rare cases, they generally die far earlier to illness or violence. Scrapblast is fairly old for one still fighting, estimating herself to be somewhere past eighty. She had an earlier stint with the caravan of about four months, and her second tour has just passed the two-year mark.

Appearance:
Gnolls are much taller and much broader than humans are, and Scrapblast is no exception. She weighs in at a stocky four hundred-odd pounds of muscle and teeth, standing seven feet and eight inches tall while hunched over in the trademark Gnoll slouch. Her thick pelt is colored in a range of browns, the fur on her back having a reddish tint while that of her front lightens into a creamier shade.

While she has a range of scars across her body the vast majority of them are hidden by the tunics and capes she's taken a liking to, save for the wound running down her muzzle. The nasty gash left by a falchion strike tends to dry out and irritate her, so it's not uncommon to catch her running her long tongue up the channel.

Thozna tries to dress presentably by "civilized" standards on a day-to-day basis but feels she is under no compulsion to do so when she puts on her armor. Her war gear was designed to induce fear as much as it was to provide protection, almost deceptively crude. Harsh, rugged steel plates are layered over thick mail, her helmet hugging close to her skull while leaving her jaw free to bite people with.

History:
Thozna was born into the Norplain pack, a Gnollish tribe occupying, unsurprisingly, the Norplain region of the Ashvenkal. At that time the Norplainer gnolls had two main industries: the herding of livestock, mainly cattle and sheep, and raiding. Of course, there were other professions, such as healers to care for the sick or blacksmiths to produce tools, but by and large, they slaughtered animals and enemies. Thozna's mother was a noted warband leader while her father was somewhat infamous in the nearby settlements for his skill with a javelin, and thus her fate was decided.

Gnolls mature quickly compared to humans, becoming adults at around ten years of age. Even before then Thozna accompanied her parents in the field, scoring her first kill in a fight against a party of dog-like Ainok. Thozna likely would have gone on to an impressive but ultimately ordinary career as a warrior, save for one thing.

Gnolls believe that magic is the realm of Mus the Weaver, the mysterious many-eyed patron of seers, tacticians, and clothmakers who was the first hyena given sapience by the dragons of the Ashvenkal. Those marked by her lead auspicious lives and it's considered bad luck to not nurture her gift. Thozna first began to unconsciously levitate objects as a cub. starting with nails before moving knives and pots.

As she got older and gained more control over her magic she chose a personal name in the Gnollish tradition, Scrapblast. It reflected her preferred method of fighting: spraying the enemy with shards of jagged metal. With this power she set out to make a name for herself, battling against rival warbands and raiding the nearby Human and Ainok settlements.

As she got older Scrapblast got bigger, faster and more magically empowered. The months of experience turned into years and the years into decades, Thozna outliving her parents and many of her peers. While Gnolls are naturally long-lived the lifestyle tends to cull the pack, especially those who find themselves on the front. Scrapblast's band, formed when she was fifteen, had seen a complete turnover of members two times over by the time she was thirty.

She was an extremely talented soldier, one with enough stolen wealth to happily retire. But Scrapblast found herself growing bored. The Norplainers had gone through a series of small disasters during her third decade, droughts and outbreaks of disease and pyrrhic victories all adding up. As quickly as they reproduced the pack was still hemorrhaging manpower and those that survived were more cautious. Why throw their lives away when people needed them at home? Scrapblast couldn't blame them for this subtle shift in sensibilities but she couldn't stand by either.

As an accomplished raid leader, she had the right to gather a small band of friends, family and various connected men-at-arms. Scrapblast sewed together her banner and led them to seek their fortunes in service of others. The various headmen and warlords of the Asvenkal always had a need for hired blades and were none too picky about where they came from. Even those whose territory Scrapblast had pillaged in the past were happy to have her on their side.

But by that point in her career, she found those battles boring. Most of the time the band was deployed against disobedient peasants and bandit gangs, only occasionally called to fight against the armies of a rival lord or an outside force that dared to intrude on the Dragon-Sultans' lands. The pay was solid enough to keep her crew interested but Scrapblast was too old to be bought by baubles alone.

Her search for excitement led to her turning to the Dragons, the largely unknowable and inhuman entities whom the Gnolls descended from. It was possible for the Uplifted to ascend to Dragon status with enough strength of spirit and a healthy amount of luck, albiet almost unheard of. There were only twelve who had ever achieved the transformation, but Scrapblast already possessed some of the Dragons' power in the form of magic and was stubborn enough not to let the infinitesimal odds of success dissuade her. A chance find of an old corpse was all the encouragement she needed, Thozna took up the eldritch bones and scales and marched off to search for the ultimate enlightenment.

So she walked out of the Ashvenkal and into wider Alwyne. Scrapblast haggled with merchants in the bustling temple-cities of Velkinir, and searched for abandoned treasures in the ghost towns of the old Costal Elf homelands. One day she was part of a hunting party high in the Ironpeaks hunting for roc eggs, the next she was a guest of a giant who dwelled in a cavern of quartz. She sought to test her mettle so that it would become unbreakable, working to prove to herself that she deserved to join the Forebears in whatever unknown dimension they battled over. When she wasn't moving she was mediating, holding the scavenged pieces of drake-corpse against her as she tried meld her consciousness to the remnants of energy contained within.

This mercenary-monkhood was freeing but still, the passage of time needled at Scrapblast. She was about fifty when she decided to return to the Norplain, having spent so long away from home that she had almost forgotten what it looked like. Her homecoming was awkward, most of those she met having been born too late to know of her save for stories from their elders.

Moreover, in her absence, the pack had elected to settle down entirely. The series of setbacks that they had suffered decades before had put them in a precarious position, forcing them to cooperate more with the nearby settlements. At some point the group stopped traveling their circuit of hunting grounds to move into the outskirts of a trading post, given a place to raise their flocks in exchange for serving as an auxiliary defense.

Once more Scrapblast found herself alienated from her people with no one to blame but poor circumstances. Her half-hearted attempts to form a new warband failed, and she said her final goodbyes.

She planned to make her way to one of the other, more traditional Gnoll tribes and seek entrance on the strength of her storied career, but each time she encountered one, she couldn't bring herself to pop the question. She had left her pack, yes, but she was still too fond of it to renounce her allegiance. So Scrapblast went back to wandering, working as a mercenary at some times and a simple brigand at others. Any battle was an opportunity to improve her sword-arm or her mage's gift, a chance to shift herself closer to her competing goals: Become a dragon, or die trying. In her eyes it would have been a disservice to her legacy to die quietly in a bed somewhere, someone as experienced as she was deserved to die with axe in hand. Her quest continued through her sixties and into her seventies, coming to a pause in a twist of fate.

A cunning, underhanded merchant had passed a tip onto her as part of her payment for services rendered: a competitor of his would be traveling through a relatively empty part of the Sheepshead Isles, and with him he'd have a good stash of gold and some valuables. If Scrapblast were to hit said competitor she'd get his loot and the merchant would have one less problem to deal with.

So hit him she did. It was a simple matter to lay an ambush, his guards merely local toughs he had equipped for that leg of the journey. What complicated matters was the fact that the trader had been accompanied by his family. He and his wife were killed in the initial charge while his eldest child was cut down when she attempted to slash Scrapblast with a razor.

That left the youngest, a boy of not more than three years. While Gnolls don't take issue with the killing of outsiders they're not actively genocidal. Thozna's raids were nearly always smash-and-grab affairs, fatalities would occur but not enough to doom a bloodline or a village to extinction. Moreover, she missed having companions and respected the toddler's now slain family for their attempt at resistance. She adopted the boy as a show of thanks for their noble display and a way to cure her loneliness.

She named him Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead (roughly translating to "Ryt, found in Sheepshead") and raised him as her own. Scrapblast never hid Ryt's origins from him and he didn't outwardly question her actions, although as he grew up she detected some unspoken angst. Raising a boy meant settling down again, the pair moving into a small farming community named Alstow.

Scrapblast found work as a rancher, having grown up with animals as a cub in the Norplain. The humans she lived among were understandably cautious of her but she proved her good nature the first time a bear strayed too close to the village. After that she was treated with some amount of respect and allowed to raise Ryt in peace. As soon as he was old enough she placed him under the tutelage of the old 'witch' who lived just outside of Alstow.

Another decade passed, Scrapblast finding herself on the wrong side of eighty and once again plagued by restlessness. In her eyes Ryt was an adult, a young man capable of surviving life on the road. There was no need for them to stay huddled up with pigs, not anymore. So they gathered their things and set out in search of his future and her glorious death, whatever forms they would take.

The Pilgrim's Caravan was a natural fit for them, Scrapblast had in fact traveled with it in the past. Rejoining was as simple as falling into line.

Personality:
Scrapblast is old in a profession and species that generally die young, so she likes to think that she has a handle on things. Age has tempered her aggression into something more akin to a dry, morbid sense of humor. While she isn't interested in bloodshed for its own sake she is hardly opposed to it either. She's honorable in the Gnoll sense of the word, where practicality is valued as much as bravery. There is a time and place for single combat, just as there is ambushes and sabotage.

Thozna misses the vivid storytelling of her people and thus is drawn to bards, griots, and poets of all types. This love of story extends to art in all its forms, a good painting or interesting sculpture being quick ways to grab her attention.

She has no time for cowards and, despite her being one herself, doesn't care much for mercenaries. In her eyes most sellswords are people who lack purpose, else they would be fighting for a lord or cause they believed in.

Also, she eats corpses. Gnolls are scavengers to the extreme; as far as Thozna is concerned, a dead person is basically the same as a dead pig. She isn't dumb enough to hunt two-legged game for the sake of it but if someone happens to cross her and she's left with a body? Snack time.

While she has the good grace to keep from just ripping into a freshly slain stranger while others are watching sometimes it's best not to question what sort of meat she's eating.

Motivation:
Boredom. Scrapblast has lived long enough to watch the rest of the Norplain Gnolls die or become sedentary, giving up pillaging for farming and laboring in the burgeoning human settlements nearby. While she can hardly blame her people for choosing a safer path she does find it dreadfully uninteresting. The Caravan represents an opportunity to keep moving until she finds her final battle, whatever form that takes. If she has to die then she is determined to die fighting, as is proper for a warrior of her stature and experience.

Power. While she knows that death through violence is her likely fate, she is not content to sit and wait for it to come to her. She will fight until she cannot fight, and in doing so seeks salvation in the Gnollish tradition: ascending to Dragonhood. Thozna has no way of knowing if she can ever reach this goal but being dissuaded by improbablity only guarantees that she doesn't deserve the honor, so she'll continue building up her physical and magical
prowess and studying the draconic artifacts she's managed to collect over the years.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
Gnolls are as intelligent as any other sapient species, capable of building tools and making art. But physically and culturally they are still very much wild animals, capable of running down game and stripping hides from their flesh with claws alone. They're built to survive harsh environments and are quite content to trudge through blazing deserts or frozen tundras.

Her relatively long life has also given her plenty of time to develop skills suiting a professional ravager. Like pretty much every "wild" Gnoll out there she was trained to fight since birth, mastering the use of simple one-handed weapons like hammers, axes and knives. Where she differs from her spear-throwing peers is her training with heavy armor and shields. She can track prey and navigate by the stars, has enough first aid knowledge to keep herself from bleeding to death after a fight and has a keen eye for the value of items she comes across in her travels. In addition to the skills she's gained through practice, her age gives her a distinct physical advantage; as the older Gnolls get, the more their bodies harden. She's notably faster and stronger than the already impressive baseline of her species, able to outrun a horse in a short sprint and then hoist said horse and throw it.

This is something of a mixed blessing, at least among other Gnolls. The general cultural trend of looking for chances to prove one's strength makes elders like Thozna a tempting target for young up-and-comers looking to win duels or achieve fame in battle. Being considered one of the best means that while most Gnolls won't risk challenging her those that do are assuredly just as dangerous, if not more so.

While Scrapblast has a lifetime of experience in the field she's never spent a day in any classroom. She is, by the standards of the civilized world, entirely uneducated. While she can read the common tongue if given time and is capable of the basic arithmetic required for cash transactions don't expect her to chew through epic poems or perform complex calculations. While this wasn't a problem when she's roaming through arid plains and rundown city slums she does suffer a great deal when she has to admit her lack of schooling. She has yet to really understand the civilized world, and she doesn't really care to. She grew up robbing trespassers and forming raiding parties, spent her adult life seeking bigger and bigger bounties and is now expecting a bloody death so that her corpse can feed the carrion birds and other scavengers.

This unrepentant might make right mentality is reigned in for the most part when entering occupied territory but it can lead her to conflict with those who take offense. Similarly, Thozna is nearly entirely incapable of handling accusations of dishonesty, disloyalty, or cowardice. If someone were to call her any of the above her first instinct is to handle it the Gnoll way: knocking them over and stomping their face in. While she can temper this aggressive reaction doing so is never guaranteed.

Magic

Her real talent is the magical gift she's worked to nurture throughout her career. Her chosen name of "Scrapblast" reflects her chosen arcane art: the manipulation of magnetic fields. She naturally manipulates objects to her will, pulling them closer to her or launching them away. In combat she makes use of this by disarming opponents and using their own weapons against them, ripping swords out of the enemy's hands before plunging them into their necks.

While such magic isn't strictly limited to ferrous metals that sort of material is much easier to work with. She can lift a few hundred pounds of steel or pig iron without much difficulty and could conceivably lift up a couple tons of the same (provided it was all one solid object, and with great strain) but her capacity is limited with non-magnetic metals such as lead or copper. Scrapblast can even shift non-metal or even organic objects as all things have a magnetic field, but she can only move a tenth of what she could a ferrous metal.

Equipment

-Armor and Shield: She doesn't actually adorn herself with grisly trophies...usually.
-Weapons: Has her axe and a variety of knives for skinning people and animals alike. In addition to proper blades, she likes to carry a grab bag of metal shards and a pair of solid iron ingots to pelt the enemy with.
-Net: A blanket of steel rings that she can launch at someone to disable them, now more commonly used for mundane fishing.
-Bedding
-Mess Kit
-Money: A variety of coins, most of them looted or stolen.
-Moron: A riding moose, a magically-produced breed originating with the druids of the Tildretti forest. At twenty hands tall he's pretty much the only thing big enough for Scrapblast to ride and he's as smart as any donkey. The problem is that he's just as stubborn to boot, thus the name.

The Reliquary

Reliquary: A small box of lacquered wood, lined with lead and treated with magic so that it's stronger than steel. The container itself is purely functional, but the shards of bone and scale within carry personal and religious significance for Thozna. They're pieces of an Ashvenkal dragon, extremely rare and extremely dangerous. Just looking at them can cause those unfamiliar to suffer nausea and a lingering, almost nihilistic dread as the alien energies still suffusing the remains leak into the world. Thozna mediates with these pieces clenched in her hands and jaws, working to overcome the weakness of her current self by communing with the echoes of the now-dead beast.

The reliquary can be used as a focus for her magic and in doing so changes the nature of it from focusing on magnetism to decay. Scrapblast drains the soul from her foes, feeding off their strength to revitalize herself. However, this is an extremely risky maneuver as trying to harness the Dragon's remains can backfire. If she's not careful she'll end up being consumed from the inside out.

It is chained to her at all times.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want:: For Ryt to find purpose before she achieves her own.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: Chaotic Neutral

Three Likes:Stories, strong drink, those who are bold

Three Dislikes: Being bored, coffee, cowards

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Her heart

Worst Fear: Dying peacefully

Favorite Color: Brown

Most Like The Animal: Unsurprisingly, hyenas
_{That is, which animal they are most like- not which one they like the most.}

Favorite Time of Day: Dawn and dusk, Gnolls are naturally crepuscular.

How They Dress: Practically

Favorite Season: Summer

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): Primarily Mus the Weaver and Tel the Hunter, the Ashvenkal Dragons as a whole

...And Her Stolen Son

Ryt-kiltu-Sheepshead

Race, Age, Time in the Caravan:
Ryt's actual age is unknown, his best guess is somewhere between 12 and 14. He's a half-Orc, a somewhat rare and not always liked crossbreed. He's been traveling with the caravan with his 'mother' for the last two years.

Appearance:
Ryt's mother was an Orc but his father was a Halfing, and it shows. He's only four feet tall, barely weighing above sixty pounds soaking wet. He looks young for his age, much to his chagrin as he tries to grow up into a proper man.

History:
Ryt doesn't know his parents' names. He doesn't know where they lived, how they met one another, if they had any family or close friends nearby. He couldn't even tell you if has any surviving relatives. All the information he has is what Thozna gave him: they were merchants who threatened the local monopoly of some rich trader, and the trader had her take them out. His mother, father, and older sister all died within minutes of each other, and she adopted him. The sole survivor.

Wherever he was from originally, his home was Alstow. A quaint farming town, the vast majority of which was human. While there were some Halflings and the odd Dwarf here and there a Gnoll and her Orcish charge stood out. Ryt's earliest memories are of being the Other, not shunned by his peers but regarded with curiosity.

Despite his odd circumstances, Ryt did have a relatively normal childhood. His adoptive caretaker was employed as a ranch hand on one of the larger farmsteads and he helped her with her chores, namely feeding the chickens and mucking out the stalls. When Thozna allowed him to knock off from work early (which was often) he played with his peers, his strangeness not enough to exclude him from circles.

The interesting part of his upbringing was his education. Thozna, embarrassed by her lack of book smarts and wanting better for her charge, arranged for him to be educated by the white witch who lived on the outskirts of Alstow. Old Lady Moira, or Miss Moi as she preferred, was a druid and alchemist. She was the town's healer in addition to providing blessings for the crops, a well-liked if not quite understood figure.

Ryt learned mundane skills like reading and herbalism but was also given instruction in Miss Moi's brand of magic, a subtler, kinder art than that which Thozna practiced. Most of Ryt's lessons were based on working with the flow of magic as opposed to muscling it into doing what he wanted, gently coaxing it into closing small wounds or invigorating sickly animals.

He was a quick study, almost too quick. He was only eleven or twelve when he had learned all that Moi could teach him, the rest he would have to pick up from more experienced teachers and practice in the field. Thozna, already anxious to be on the move, packed up their things without a second thought.

Since joining the caravan Ryt has continued to work on nurturing his gift, supported by an approving Thozna. But as he gets older he chafes under her guardianship. Now a man by the old Gnoll's standards he can't help but feel bitter over his circumstances. Time will tell what, if anything he does about it.

Personality:
For a boy raised by a crusty old mercenary with few qualms or compunctions, Ryt turned out remarkably well. He's soft-spoken and polite as can be, greeting most people with a smile. He's mature for his age, level-headed and very careful to avoid confrontation.

He's actually too careful for Thozna's liking which is a point of contention simmering between them. She's never once apologized or even acknowledged wrongdoing in slaying Ryt's family, and he's grown to quietly resent her for it. Thozna knows he does, he knows she knows he does, but she refuses to give him what he wants without him demanding it of her. This attempt to make him man up has failed thus far, only serving to slowly poison their still-loving relationship.

All this to say, he clings to friends. Whether or not he can say it aloud Ryt desperately wants a family of his choosing, not one that's forced on him. Being snatched away from his peers in Alstow had a profound effect on him so any new friends he makes can expect to be doted on.

Motivation:
Purpose. He's still hanging around Scrapblast because, as complicated and unhealthy as their relationship is, she's the only constant in his life. Until he finds something else to devote himself to he'll just keep tagging along.

Skills, Strengths and Weaknesses, and Tools:
He's a pretty good herbalist and a remarkably talented druid, for his age. While he can't get detailed information out of them he's able to communicate basic thoughts and feelings with animals, a useful trick since he's small enough to look like a snack to a wolf.

He's also extremely tricky to find when he doesn't want to be. His halfling blood has given him near-silent steps and an eye for hidey-holes while his orcish endurance means that he can probably outrun whoever's chasing him if stealth fails.

But being nimble and sneaky means little when you can be hoisted with little trouble. Ryt has all the strength of a particularly ornery kitten, just about capable of carrying small creatures that aren't struggling too much. He'd lose a wrestling match against any reasonably healthy child his age, and if it's an adult grabbing him he's done. Being in his early teens at the oldest also means that he lacks life experience, his worldview still fairly naïve.

Sometimes in situations of extreme stress, he can regress into the primal fury used by Orc berserkers, lashing out like a cornered animal. This can be a good or bad thing depending on the circumstances. Best case scenario the mugger or whoever is warded off by a flurry of scratches and bites. Worst case, they get angry and smash his head against the nearest wall.

Magic

The druid-in-training can't perform much in the way of big, showy spells yet, instead relying on more mundane but still useful magic tricks. With a little bit of focus he can restore life to failing crops or sick creatures, giving them some extra strength with which to fight on. Small cuts and gashes can be healed with a quiet song, and he knows how to produce a number of useful tinctures and tonics.

In dangerous situations he can instinctively call upon nature to defend him, although he has little control over the shape it takes. A cloud of flies might suddenly buzz out of nowhere to blind an attack, a shower of sparks might singe their hair or they might find the solid ground they walk on is now a quagmire.

And while he's not hurling around armored knights like Ol' Scrapblast he is really good at skipping rocks. Like, magically good. Sometimes he can bounce one ten times in a row. That counts for something, right?

Equipment

-Buford: Ryt's pet and almost-familiar, a very friendly and slightly stupid dog. Buford is still a bit too obstinate to be an assistant but his connection with Ryt does make the boy's magic a little more potent when he's around.
-Knife: Designed for pruning plants and sawing through small branches as opposed to fighting but Thozna makes him wear it on his belt anyway.
-Druid's Kit: Put together by Miss Moi as a parting gift. Contains a mortar, pestle, measuring spoons, vials for samples, seeds and various other bits and pieces.
-Money: Thozna gives him a little pocket change here and there.
-Trelawney: Thozna's giant horse-moose thing is too smart and stubborn to pull the cart so it falls on the smaller, stupider mule to do so. Sometimes carries Ryt in addition to a million other bits and pieces.

Optional: Extra Details

What They Most Want: A family of some kind.

If They Had a DnD Alignment, It Would Be: Chaotic Good

Three Likes: Animals, fresh air, Thozna

Three Dislikes: Cruelty, bullies, Thozna (it's complicated)

Do They Follow Their Heart or Their Mind?: Mind

Worst Fear: Depending on the day, Thozna being disappointed or proud of what direction he takes.

Favorite Color: Purple

Most Like The Animal: Badger
_{That is, which animal they are most like- not which one they like the most.}

Favorite Time of Day: Twilight

How They Dress: In simple, loose peasant's clothes

Favorite Season: Spring

What Gods/Spirits/Whatevers They Worship (If Any): A variety of nature spirits and Mus the Weaver
_{No, M., Jesus isn't an option}

@Smike

Approved! I really like Scrapblast and I find myself legit looking forward to interacting with her. Feel free to start posting whenevers

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Destination: The Hold of Clan Buraq

Destination Description written by @Enigmatik

The land out here is peculiar and sunbaked, and that is about all that can be said from it. The sand seethes, claws and scratches at the soil and grass that juts up in uneven patches across the parched scrubland. The road beneath the caravan though is strong and well-trodden, hewn with stone and made straight and even across the landscape, belting across to the horizon, where the caravan’s next destination sits.

There’s little else to obscure it after all, with the crowded foliage and verdant greens of the Emerald Forest left so far behind. Instead, there are the mountains that mark out the centre of Clan Busaq’s power. Vast, imposing things that form part of a scattered chain that stretch deep into the desert, all the way to the sacred Jabal Ilah and beyond. As the caravan has pressed closer though, the staggering scale of the hold has become clearer and clearer.

A colossal ochre stone wall bars easy entrance to the hold itself, but even where wall ends and mountain begins, the defences continue. Cut into the rock itself are structures and fortifications – guard posts, murder holes and even springalds, all manned by tiny figures only distinguishable from the mountains themselves thanks to the glints of light from their broad shields and scaled armour.

But this is only the beginning of it. Just outside of the walls, stretched out in the no-mans land between farming estates and the city itself is a sea of tents, wagons, temporary structures and perhaps most astounding of all are the rolling towers and citadels, and the humongous beasts that have been hitched near them.

They stand nearly ten men tall to their shoulders alone, with tremendously long noses that curl and twist like vast snakes. Massive tusks jut from either side of these trunks, banded with steel and affixed with vicious looking blades or vast metal rams at their ends. Mûmakils – Oliphaunts. Their lesser brethren, the elephants, live in Alwyne’s warmer climes, but these are alike them in shape alone: these creatures are the largest warbeasts seen on this continent – indeed, perhaps anywhere on Alwyne.

The caravan is stopped just outside the army encampment and directed to park themselves in a wide-open space, a few other, smaller caravans already circled. With the return of the army, the city is filled to capacity, but travellers are free to come and go as they always have… So long as they follow the Clan’s laws.

--- ~--( )--~ ---

Athulwin

Athulwin believes that deserts are the most naturally spiritual kind of environment. As the Caravan meandered over the smooth road that led them to this great city of a hold, during those bright noontides when old Athulwin would sit in his Caravan watching the world outside from a safely darker place, he kept thinking thoughts about the universe. The wide open-ness of the landscape pulled such thoughts out of him, willingly or otherwise. The vastness of these dry lands makes you think of your place in it all, as the harsh, the unrelenting sunlight seems to preach sermons.

It's no wonder they're fanatics here, Athulwin thinks. He doesn't use the term lightly. Many have called him such, to his face or behind his back. But sometimes a label fits. Athulwin has met only a few followers of the Light-and-Flame, but he's read some of their texts. They are filled with the same breed of fire he sometimes caught in the eyes of the most intense monks back home. A passion to burn the world.

Athulwin is resting now, trying to think philosophically no more for the day. It's only mid-morning; the sun is still rising. He knows it will not have finished its climb towards noon before he has to work again. Sometimes he hates his life. "A mother's work is never done," a silly old saying goes. Athulwin must be a mother, then. The Caravan can never go more than a few breaths without direction from its Navigator.

Athulwin has spent the day, such as there's been of it so far, listening to the Wind. That's another reason to try not to be philosphical. It's the wrong mindset for hearing from Wind. The Stars are philosophical. Even Fire, in a savage way, carries a philosophy of strength. But the Wind is a gossiper, not a thinker. It does things and it talks. Here's the gossip it has brought him today:

There's slaves here, in the Hold of Clan Baraq. Many of them. Not even far from the Caravan- this desert land practices slavery, and does it openly, not as an ashamed secret. The slaves are kept in pens, within the city walls and under supervision of the army. Athulwin has heard that this Clan Basaq the Caravan is visiting has recently won a small war. From the sounds that the Wind carries him, its becoming more and more uncomfortably obvious that the reason there's so many slaves in this city is because many of them are those that the Baraq clan has just conquered. They were defeated in war, taken captive, and now they're learning what it is to be slaves for the first time. Some of them weep.

The Wind says, also, that they're being auctioned off. Stands have been set up for the army to sell excess slaves out to the populace. These people are being treated as wares for the marketplace.

Athulwin already fears certain names in the Caravan- Mergoux, for sure, and possibly Ilyana as well- are going to take issue with that. They know what chains feel like. Will they be able to keep to themselves about it? Athulwin doubts.

But there's also much merchandise of the more normal kind here. The Wind carries the voices of so many merchants to him. Most people here are human, a few dwarves, a few dog-like Ainok like Malleck and more. The city is a hub of trade for all kinds, and it will welcome the travellers from the Caravan in. At last, something for Gru to do beside whine about a lack of milk. You can buy plenty here.

There's also some traders of another race. Not even far from the Caravan has now parked itself, there's a traveling assortment of Baraka. The snake-people. What a diverse land this desert is. The snakes, he senses, have something dangerous to sell, something very valuable, but even the Wind cannot tell him what it is. Perhaps some of the more enterprise-minded of the Caravan will reach out to these fellow travellers and find out what it is.

Regardless.

Athulwin toys with the idea of sending wind-borne messages out to his fellow Caravaneers to try to push them in the right direction, as he did when they first entered the Emerald Forest. To tell Mergoux and Ilyana, "No, leave the slavers alone." Or to tell the others that this is there chance to restock on needful things before the Caravan goes journeying again. But ultimately, Athulwin realizes, these stand-outs in the Caravan are adults, whether they always act like it or not, and they should be able to take care of themselves without the advice from their proverbial mother...

And, with that thought, the aging monk finds himself falling into a nap.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Athulwin

Oh, by Frowen, there are two of them. Athulwin can't keep the grimace from his face when a second fox-human eases his way out into the open. They come from a fallen star, Athulwin's internal monologue thinks in a tone of awe. How many others fell with them? He manages to keep the word 'invasion' out of his mind, but only just. They look too shaken for that. She- the woman- looks too upset.

This is... what, a horrible accident? Athulwin does not know what sort of obscene travel there must be between the stars for such a thing to happen. The universe feels seems suddenly larger than before, at that thought, and Athulwin feels strangely smaller.

The other fox-human has less tails, down to the thankfully normal number of just one. He's a he. He's, to Athulwin's eyes, attractive. Athulwin finds that irrationally annoying. He won't let his thoughts become so muddled now.

The woman looks back at the other fox, too, who is standing behind her now, and something silent seems to pass between them. Encouragement? They truly are worried. "Fu-mi-ko," she speaks, motioning at herself.

Athulwin gets it. He returns in kind. "Ath-ul-win." His hand to his chest. Almost by instinct he wants to introduce himself as 'Navigator,' that title that's morphed into part of his name through the years, but he knows that would be quite silly.

The fox, Fumiko, signs frustration at the fallen star. Her hands thrown up into the air, just like a pilgrim whose caravan has a broken wagon wheel trying to let everyone else know that he's as upset about the hold-up as they are. He guesses it to have the same meaning. They're stuck.

Athulwin sighs. He took an oath. He won't allow himself to defy it even for whatever insane, unknowable circumstances brought these two creatures to his doorstep. If they are drifters, if they need help and have no other place...

He tells Malleck and the others, in the common tongue, to let the strangers come along with them. He signs to 'Fumiko' and the other to follow him. The not-Beyonders will be brought back to the Caravan.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

Gilt and Yulzan

Collab between Sigma and Tortoise

Andrei frowned at a holographic read-out displayed over his desk. He seemed to spend a lot of time doing that these days, he thought. Just kind of brooding in the general direction of technology. Not because he was a luddite- far from it, he was a tech billionaire, after all- but because lately technology seemed exclusively to be used to convey unpleasant information to him about all the new and gross peoples that the Giltians were meeting.

"Yool-zan," Andrei muttered the alien word under his breath like it's a swear. It may as well have been one. He was told, not asked, but told, that he'd be meeting with at 2 PM, Rainbow Time. It was a voice message from his mother that told him that- more technology delivering bad news, see?- and it told him three hours past. Every thing he knew about the Yulzan he learned in that time. He enjoyed exactly none of it.

"So," he asked Blue Girl, the sym secratary always standing by his side. "They're like... religious zealots? But the weird, skin-crawly alien version? How does that work?"

The tall, aquamarine robot sighed, but in a very contained and polite sort of way. "Well, neither. There's a lot of people, some humans included, who worship them as divine. The Yulzan themselves are either gods or conmen, depending on who it is you ask."

"Hey, I asked you."

"I think they're fully and totally insane," she said. Andrei twerked his eyebrows in the way that signaled that he agreed, but he wasn't happy about it. "Also," Blue Girl said, "they're here. Now. Shall I let them in?"

"Do you have to?"

She did.

The room onboard the esteemed Rainbow ship that the Yulzan representatives were invited to meet the Giltians in was better than ordinary. More decorated, and more spacious despite the cramped reality of life on a starship. It had occured to the Giltians that these were a proud people, and pride makes for a good customer so long as it is well-satisfied. The room was a classy dining hall with a golden chandelier, carpeted and with a beautiful, curved window-wall that overlooked the East India Marketplace. There were a half-dozen stamp servants standing guard around the room, but no persons seated at the dining table but Andrei and four other businessmen. Those five and Blue Girl would be meeting the aliens alone. The less people knew about this, the better. For all the beauty and decoration that abounded, this remained something of a shady back-room deal, and everyone could feel it. There was no food on the table this time. Just datapads and electronic pens, the sort for signing contracts.

The two large doors opposite Andrei slid open.

Andrei was greeted by the sight of two imposing figures stomping past the doors, their build towering everyone present in the room. Flanking the pair was a smaller figure more comparable to human height, a member of the insectoid Aldzir dressed in religious garbs in a various shades of crimson, gold, and ebony. The Aldzir moved ahead, ready to present. “Presenting the most exalted of the mighty Yulzan! The High Ascendants Zara’gul and Vras’thran!” The Aldzir bowed as he shuffled to the left, the High Ascendant representatives approaching table. Both choosing to not sit at the moment.

The Giltians were stumbled a little. The five humans in the room had no one response, but if you were to condense down what they were collectively feeeling just then, it'd read as "What century is this?" There was something so distnictly medieval about that entrance. One of the businesswomen, an OldWell Representative by the name of Mrs. Battle, was shocked into standing up out of her chair and, in an attempt to recover from the awkwardness, did a little bow. The other Giltians looked at her. Then, not to be upstaged in front of a client, followed suit. Three more Giltians stood out of their chairs and sketched their best imitations of short bows before sitting back down. Only Andrei remained seated.

"Well, uh" he said. "Nice to meet you. I'm Andrei Federov. And I suppose you're Zara-gal and Vras Dan." He butchered their names so smoothly you would think it was intentional. "Good to have you here."

Ignoring the rather insulting butchering of their names, however, the rather accidental and awkward bows had alleviated any offences taken, Zara’gul gave a slight nod. “A pleasure.” He begun. “We’re pleased to find humans that are willing to sit down and simply talk with us…it is a rare quality these days.” Granted, it’s a situation of their own making. “The sourness of our war has reached many ears, nearly all have turned against us.”

Vras’thran was next to speak, an ethereal, feminine voice vibrating in the air. “So, few recognize our divinity, blind to their hatred and ignorance of the alien, clinging to their false beliefs in the name of “liberty” or other such nonsense.” She paused as she scanned the room. “But forgive our blather, what business do you wish to discuss?”

"The businessness of business," said Andrei. He shifted his shoulders, crossed his hands over the table. To those who knew him, this was the signifier he was about to start putting on his Reasonable Businessman persona.

As much as he enjoyed playing the offensive drunk, and hated himself for it at the same time, he was technically a trained speaker. There are times to tap into that, he reasoned. When huge aliens are standing in front of you and speaking with the voices of angels, that is one of those times. "You say that all have turned against you. Gilt, of course, has not. We do not turn away a people before we've heard their story-" true, so far- "and we don't turn down possible partners just because others disregard them. There is a place for everyone to work with us. Your war has been brutal, from everything we've heard. This is the time when you need a partner. Someone whose goods can shift things in your favor. We're willing to be that partner, in exchange for, of course, fair trades and reasonable repayment. We are honest businessmen, in search of honest work." There's the deceptive part. "And, of course, that means nothing is off the table. Weapons, metal..." he looked over at the stamps, "...labor, especially. Cheap labor, if you understand me."

Andrei shrugged so lightly it was a lie. "I'm sure we'll come to some mutally beneficial agreements."

The two Yulzan exchanged looks to one another, nodding before turning to Andrei. “Mr. FIdarof. “Zara’gul begun, having his own moment and butchering Andrei’s last name, after decades of Human interaction, some Yulzan still find it difficult to communicate with humans, their many dialects are a confusing concept to a Yulzan, and miscommunication is bound to occur.

“The simple act of your offering to meet us at the table is a more than suitable enough gesture to hear you out. Whatever services you offer, we members of the ruling council are more then willing to pay for it. What more can you tell us?”

Some of the Giltians looked around at each other uncomfortably. One thing they'd learned from the nations they'd met so far is that this is always the Awkward Part. If they receive backlash, this is when it'll happen.

"Are you aware of stamps and syms?" asked Blue Girl, and every human in the room visibly relaxed. Not because they trusted her more than they would've trusted themselves to explain it. But because now they didn't have to.

"The terms are unfamiliar to us." Zara'gul replied.

"Mhmm," hummed Blue Girl. "Well, stamps are essentially biological robots, whereas syms are mechanical robots, like myself. Stamps are programmed to do specific jobs by tailored instinct and by cybernetic implants. For syms, our minds are copied over from human minds; but, worry not, the human is kept safely unharmed by this process. But," she waved her hand, "let us not get too caught up in the details. The essential bit to understand is only this: stamps and syms do most of the manual labor on Gilt, and so that keeps things very inexpensive. We can mass-produce goods with a speed and effeciency most peoples never obtain. What that means for you is that we can sell nearly anything. In your cases... I'd imagine you are in the market for weaponry and other purely-defensive military needs, no? We can supply that."

"And," said Andrei, but didn't continue. He was leaving it to Blue.

"And," said the sym, "we can also sell excess stamps and other syms. To do labor on your behalf. We work several times harder than humans do, rarely make mistakes, and do not require payment. I think it would be most beneficial to your wartime economy if you wished to purchase some."

The two exchanged looks, turning away from the humans as they quietly exchanged words, small mumbles heard here and there before the two High Ascendants turned back and face Andrei and the others. “What you offer is very promising.”

The description of the stamps in particular offers many opportunities, workers, cheap soldiers to swell the ranks of the Janissaries, and in between….and they may provide possible biomaterial for the continued development of the Condemned. The Syms would provide a similar advantage, further automating the Ascendancy in every aspect. “Consider us sold on your…”pitch” as you humans say.”

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

<Snipped quote by Tortoise>

No worries, just glad I happened to see this! If I recall, the duo I had were starting with the caravan, but should I change that now that I’m coming in later?

@Smike

I'll leave it up to you. Despite the fact that we've been going on a couple of months now, we're still in our first Destination. That means you could just say that your gnoll raider and her kiddo have been with us all along and only haven't done anything yet.

I can give a brief rundown of what's occurred so far, if you (understandably) don't want to read through the IC.

I'd strongly recommend you join our discord, as well, even if you don't plan to talk much; it's where I make many important announcements and is the core of what holds the RP together.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Athulwin

Addressing: @Antediluvixen

This isn't what Athulwin expected of a Beyonder. The tales of such creatures are, one can admit, scant and esoteric. He recalls a description of an 'errant spirit' given in the Annals of Wandering Brother Theobald: "Twas like soft sprinkling rain at night, felt and not seen, known by the sensation it leaves one with and not by its form. It chilled my skin like frost." Those in the Old Marshes who believe in Beyonders as real, living creatures always cite this as a 'sighting' of one. Athulwin has just this morning joined the ranks of those who believe in Beyonders; and he does not see anything akin at all to Brother Theobald's Monster before him. This laughing woman, this half-fox. It had in its hands- and it has hands, where Beyonders shouldn't- something like a metal wand. But it put it down.

No, this, whatever else it is, is a person. The words it speaks are nonsense to him; yet Athulwin is one who studies languages, and he knows that what is only sound to him may carry deep meaning to someone else.

Still holding his chain, he tries, at first, some of the other mundane languages he knows. Maybe they do hbe a middle ground with this odd stranger after all. He tries Sinverish, Middle Dwarven, an old elvish tongue, and a few broken words in the Dinnin's language. But whatever else she may think, it's clear the not-a-Beyonder understands these no more than she understood Athulwin the first time.

"Fine," he says aloud, unnecessarily. "I bet there is one language you do speak after all."

He drops his chain to the ground, letting it coil up like a smoldering serpent.

"Peace."

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Woah, Smike! Yeah, I remember you; we're still open and of course you're welcome to join us. I'm sorry I forgot to tag you- there were so many names.

@Smike

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

Ivraan's voice comes in as a far away blur. Terilu hears it a half-second after he hits the floor, a command- or a plea, it's hard to tell which of those is which in the midst of a battle- to "Drop your last skeleton and focus your efforts on the other undead around!"

The bat has to catch his breath first. A wraith like this is a real evil. Not something that dabbles in evil, like Terilu does. Or revels in it, like his old master Arynn had. But an evil in and of itself. It's soul is a black hole. He can't stand it that Ivraan is probably right.

He pulls his mystic power out from over the last skeleton, releasing it, as the giant Galaxor is failing to kill it just as Terilu failed. The huge warrior is too slow for it, just as the skeletons were. But as he gives up and turns his attention to the minions at the outskirts, smashing them up, Terilu's spirits begin to lift.

"Oh yes, Galaxor, yes!" shouts Terilu. This is good. As Galaxor crushes the weaker skeletons, Terilu feeds on their deaths. He pulls in all the power from them that he can; there's plenty of it. Of all the companions he's met today, Terilu thinks the giant is probably his favorite. He's a brute, but brutes have a natural purpose to them. The trail of bones this creature leaves wherever he goes is evidence of that. Terilu wishes he could reanimate them all, but his spirit still aches where the wraith twice wounded him. He won't make the same mistake of sending minions at it again.

Instead he pulls on the dark magic until he can force himself to his feet. He rises up slow and swaying, probably looking a bit like a zombie himself in this tomb's half-light. Ironic. He certainly feels undead at the moment- he looks at the wraith, the thing that is in a way the manifestation of all his own goals. An undead that rules over lesser undead, an immortal that can't die because it isn't alive.

He hates it.

It's that petty, childish kind of hate, the sort born out of jealousy. The hate you have when you see someone else being what you wish that you were. But hate and jealousy both are good for bad magics. Terilu thinks of them as his fuels.

He reaches out towards it with his left hand at the same time that he reaches out towards it in the spirit. In one quick flash, he tears at its soul, or whatever it has instead of a soul, and tries to rip it from this world. It shouldn't work; a midling necromancer like Terilu really shouldn't be able to wound some lord of the dead like this. But in this moment, with it so distracted by his companions and with jealous vitriol burning like coal inside him, Terilu is almost shocked to feel his magic working. The wraith stumbles. Face contorted with agony. The bat is delighted to realize that its the same kind of agony it had just inflicted upon him.

"Ha!" he shouts in triumph, his body still swaying in the dark. "In the name of Ad'itie and all Eratie, by the power of necromancy, I swear that I will put you back in the grave!"

The wraith lifts its head to him. At the look in its eyes, Terilu feels his gut lurch and all his victory turn to fear. He's hurt it. It's vulnerable, more than it was. He knows that much. The others could probably hurt it now. But evil made vulnerable is also evil made cruel and vindictive. "Ad'itie I know of," it says in its hollow voice, the voice of a sepulcher, "and necromancy I know very well. But who are you?"

It rushes the distances between them, not half as fast before, but still too quick for the spiritually wounded Terilu to get away. It reaches him and in two quick slashes of its blade, the bat's blood is splattered against the wall. It aims for the wings next and hits its mark again; two nasty gashes have appeared on Terilu's left wing. It laughs as he screeches.

GATEWAYS: THE NEXT GENERATION [NEW PLAYERS WELCOME!]

One Kay

A Collab of the One and Gilt

You would think living on a space station would be fun. It’s fun in the holo-movies: all adventure, all living gloriously amidst the stars, fighting off disgusting alien invaders and saving the day with a mix of science and resilience fueled by the unstoppable power of the human heart. Kay Cook loves, loves movies. Sci-fi movies, especially, the loud and flashy kind with the lasers and the phasers- cinema is a proud tradition on Gilt. She had movies in her head when she agreed to relocate to the Grand Brand Ambassador, that huge and spinning Giltian cathedral of capitalism out in the stars. “Ambassador” is her title now.

She hated it. Only after her bags were unpacked onboard the station did the smarter part of her mind realize what a horrible life she’d just condemned herself to. It all looked very nice, of course. You can’t walk from Kay’s quarters to the mess hall without walking over a half-dozen golden carpets, through en-muraled walls and under a fucking chandelier or two. The man- she was sure it was a man- who was in charge of redesigns obviously thought Western extravagance was the way to wow foreigners. He knows nothing of art. No mind for symbolism. The beating heart of an artist trapped onboard this tasteless steel cage- there is a tragic symbol for you!

What Kayla really wanted, she had the time now to realize, was to see New things. Something a Giltian had never before encountered. To talk to the foreigners, the aliens, the robots, the foreign alien robots from another world, and be known as the first gal who did it. Maybe she’d make a painting about it. She liked to play with the idea of painting more often, but she always found excuses inside herself not to actually do it. She certainly couldn’t do it here, on this uninspired bourgeoisie mess of a station. Who could?

She stopped at the airlock. She was supposed to be meeting someone here, acting in her official capacity as an ambassador. She’s sure she was given the details, but she wasn’t listening then. It’s not her job to remember, anyway. That’s the job of the man beside her on the golden carpet, her favorite sym, a towering AI intellect who is named Gorilla Bob (and for good reason, too) who stands waiting inside his huge metallic body. She found this particular robot deeply intimidating at first. Not anymore. Nowadays she considered Gorilla Bob one of her best friends, even if he is, awkwardly, her property. The airlock opened, and…

Out of 10 One step out in a perfect synchronized formation, 2-2-2-2-2. 2 Grants walked in the middle, dressed up in an Old Earth suit, a metal sword dangling at their waist. The other Ones, 2 Williams in the front and two in the back, were all suited up in full bone armor with metal indents all over, covering every inch of their body. In their hands, they all had a metal spear and swords at their midsection.

As they neared Kayla, the Williams stepped to the side with the middle Jameses banging the bottom of their spears on the ground. The lead Grants performed a military salute to the Ambassador. Before they could say anything, all the other Ones moved behind him. If one was perceptive enough, they would notice that the One were scanning every inch of the room for hidden dangers while the lead Grants were looking at Gorilla Bob, a small thin smile on their face. Immediately strategies on how to take it out were being formed. Potentially impossible to escape with their lives but their small unit could at least damage it.

“We are the One!” the lead Grants said, each uttering a different word at the exact time the other one finished it.

“You may call us Grant, ma'am. Correct to assume you're the Ambassador? ” they continued in the same way as before, their tone calm and calculated.

Kay looked back and forth at them. Then she looked forth and back again.

“Twins?” she finally asked, arching a ginger eyebrow and trying to hide her shock. “I’m Kay. You can just call me that- titles are so dull, aren’t they? This is Gorilla Bob.”

Gorilla Bob grunted like an ape. He found gorillas to be fascinating and demanded that his sym body should look like a hulking silverback. Kay liked to oblige his weird desires. He walked on his knuckles to the lead Grant. “Nice to meet you,” he said, in a surprisingly prim-and-proper, deeply middle-class British accent. “We have a small banquet prepared to welcome you to Gilt. But before we get going, would you mind leaving your weapons here? They’ll be well-looked after by our quartermasters, worry not. You understand. Safety protocols.” He rolled his metallic eyes as if it was all very silly to him, but he had to do his job, after all.

The lead Grants shook their heads at Kayla's question.

“More than twins. We are One, Ambassador Kay.” they replied and straight away after, all of the One took their helmets off…at the same time, in perfect synchronicity.

Kay looked at them with something that was fascination as much as shock, and horror half as much as wonder. At length, she said “...wow. I’m, uh, not high, right? I don’t think I feel like it.”

“As we said, we are the One. ” simply replied the two lead Grants.

With a sidelong glance at the Gorilla, one of the Jameses, addressed him in a proper British accent.

“A fellow Brit, are you?”

Before Gorilla Bob could reply, the other Ones disarmed themselves as requested. Spears, swords and hidden daggers were laid neatly on the floor. Stamps emerged from walls and shadows to take them up and carefully store them away.

“I’ve never seen Britain,” the gorilla admitted, trying to distract the One from where their weapons might be going, “though I’m very sad to say it. Except for in the simulations and the holo-suites. But near to a third of the first Giltian colonists hailed from the British Isles. Did you know our capital is called Neo London? It has a better ring to it than Neo New York, I can say that much. If we hit things off today you might take a tour of it.”

“It was a shithole before they bombed London back in 2279 and after that…things became worse. Way worse. Shootings, stabbings, bombs. You name it, Britain had it. We’d know, we were in the thick of it a few times. ” replied the James that initially talked with Gorilla Bob before realizing that they must sound weird for people who haven’t lived there nor understood what the One were.

“Our implant allows us total recall of our memories from birth until…now. We remember Earth in its prime and we remember its fall. ”

“Really?” asked Bob. “That’s fascinating! Ah, to remember London as it was, war-torn or no… if you’d ever sell those memories, there is a market for that sort of thing, you know. Especially in the capital.”

“If they do ever take a tour of Neo London, they’ll need to see the Museum of High Art,” Kay spoke in the more Trans-Atlantic accent that was par for the course on Gilt. (She always suspected that Bob’s overt British-ness was an affectation, like his gorilla persona. His madness is what makes him fun.) “I’ve been trying to get a piece in there for ages, I’ll tell you. But shouldn’t you be showing our guests the way to the banquet, Robert?”

“I should indeed,” said the robot silverback. “Follow me, please,” and down he went through the main hall. Half of this side of the station had to be rebuilt so that the airlock would lead down a grand space to a banquet hall. First impressions. They’re everything.

The space opens to a Giltian style eating room, meaning it was a bit like a space-age take on the opulence of 1920’s America. It’s a room you could very well see yourself swing-dancing in, were it not for the table yawning out in the middle filled with too much food.

“We’ve prepared our own cuisine, not knowing what your people eat,” the gorilla said. “So, there’s a lot of British and New American staples, and maybe a little Indian spice thrown in for real flavor. Ah, I miss eating.”

“You still eat bananas, Bob,” said Kay, and it was impossible to tell if she was joking. She sat down at the head of the table, and with a motion of her hand, invited the One to take whatever seats they might prefer.

To say that the One were impressed, it would've been an understatement. The opulence of the place was on a scale they haven't seen since a couple of centuries ago. Yet, at the same time, they silently judged these people. It was old Earth all over again. The powerful living like the kings of old and if the pirates were a sign, the weak were left to die.

It wasn't that the One resented what they saw. Survival was something they understood better than anyone after all. If you were weak, either you grew strong or you'd end up dead. The problem was that it was clear that these people didn't need to let others strive to survive.

At Bob’s explanation of food, the One chuckled grimly.

“Our planet is barren. A nightmare turned into reality. No fauna, no trees, no food. So, you could say, we're not picky when it comes to food. ”

The One group chose to spread around the room, each trying to learn and experience different foods and potential weaknesses or strengths of the Gilt. Only one Grant stayed with Kayla and Bob.

They grabbed something that looked like wine off the table and drank it in one fell swoop.

“Wine. Different from what we expected yet very close to the one from back home. ” they said to Kay.

Kay blinked watching him drink it. "Oh. You like wine! Yes, no surprise it is familiar, Gilt keeps to tradition. Preserving Old Earth and the human way is important to the old men at the top, you know. I think maybe we should find new things too, but that's just one girl's opinion. Aren't you going to feel tipsy? You should try some cranberry jello." Talking too much and too out of order was her way of expressing nerves. These identical men were strange.

"You know," she said. "I represent the Division proper, but there's really a lot of corporations that this whole operation is made from. Do you gentlemen at all have an interest in business?"

Gorilla Bob made a sound between a scoff and a laugh, but said nothing himself.

“Tipsy? From wine? We’ve got something stronger back on our planet…when it doesn’t kill us. Preserving the human way sounds nice and all when you read about it from history books or whatever your people are using to read from but when you experience it? That’s a different story. As for trying different things, I’m sure you’ve noticed that we are doing that all over the room. When we’re back home, we’ll know what the others have experienced even if we aren’t physically doing it. ” replied Grant with a wink. It was true, the drink they made using their own bodily fluids, some of the oil from the robots and the mushrooms was highly alcoholic in nature and highly deadly, most of the time.

“Business? It depends. We’ve come to see what became of humanity after 300 years. So far, we’ve seen the same thing as before, just painted differently. Don’t take it the wrong way but fancy dinners and opulence like this, we’ve seen before. What can you offer us? ” added the Grant in their most diplomatic tone.

Kay looked at him for a long few seconds. Inside herself she was thinking: What? This dirty caveman gulping back wine like a homeless stamp does liquor thinks he’s going to negotiate? And then, pause completed, she burst into laughter. “Oh, you’re wonderful, Mr. Grant,” she said, and with no hint of irony. “What do your people want, then?” Her elbows on the table, she cupped her face under her hands and leaned in towards him. “Come on, let me know.”

“Not, Mr. Grant, please either refer to us as Grant or the One and may we, please, ask you to drop the tone, we may not look like it but we're a few hundred times your age, also…” said the Grant while the other Ones were already looking for whatever makeshift weapons they could find. If they were to die, they’d take some out with them.

“Did we say anything about what our people want? We want to survive and we’re doing just fine from that perspective. Etiquette stands that one with more will offer their wares to the one with less in order to secure business, is it not? Or did the rules of business changed in the last 300 years? ” continued the Grant with a smile. They were enjoying this childish conversation more than they admitted.

“You will show respect to Ambassador Cook,” Bob raised his voice. “The rules have changed very much indeed if you expect us to-”

Two of the Williams almost immediately approached Bob as he said his piece only to move back as Kay talked.

Kay raised her hand, the universal ‘stop’ sign, and the sym quieted down. “It’s alright, I’m only having some fun with our guests.” She wiped her face with a napkin, even though it wasn’t dirty; this was just a punctuation mark in the conversation. Bob was bristling. She said: “Alright, you want to ‘survive.’ Then maybe Gilt is not the partner for you. We don’t care about surviving here. We are for thriving. If that’s what you want, then you talk to us. I’ve noticed you’re all the same, and I think I did hear about that in the news. You’re clones of each other? Well, we mass-produce ‘people’ here, too. They cooked this food tonight. So you already know that we have resources and labor to sell you. And technology, I think. What do you have?”

The Grant let out a chuckle and shook their head. A child. This is what they sent to meet another nation. One that is all for grandstanding too.

“We did mention it since we entered your system. We are the One. You mention that you’re mass-producing people here yet by simply saying “producing”, you’re not thinking of them as people. They’re organic robots, are we correct? Labor is something we don’t need. There are over 6 billion Ones currently active on our planet. Food? As you might see based on our size, we’re not lacking it either, even if the variety could use some improvement. The only thing we’d be interested in would be weaponry. What do we have? Besides our numbers, skills, ability to learn anything once and then our whole nation knows it? Unity. More than any of your machines. We’ve got killer robots. Pockets of altered reality that will give your scientists...nightmares or make their dreams come true. Maybe oil that burns for over 48 hours, Earth time. But we’re talking about what our nations want…but what about you? ” said Grant with a collected tone only for at the end, to approach his head slightly to Kayla’s.

“Me?” asked Kay.

Gorilla Bob answered for her. “What Ambassador Cook wants is to be an artist.” He had offered to pose for her paintings.

“I do,” said Kay. “And I want to see New things. And-” she hesitated, but her natural instinct to keep talking always got the better of her, “-and I want to get off this fucking station. Ugh. Anyway. What about you, Grant?”

“An artist and you want to see new things. You're looking for adventure. ” replied with a knowing wink. They understood the desire well, it was what put them on the mercenary path a long time ago.

“What do we want? We want not to be destroyed by others who'd see our planet as an archaeological site, not our home. It's a dangerous place but it has its beauty. Especially the parts that haven't yet been damaged beyond repair. You should see the Glowy One caverns. Imagine, a room a few times bigger than this, filled with lights of all colors. Shining differently depending where you're looking at them from. Or, imagine standing upon a tall building, thousands of meters high, overlooking an alien city. Trust us, nothing can prepare you for that sight. ”

Gorilla Bob said: “Are you suggesting that Ambassador Cook should visit your world?” His tone made it hard to tell if he approved or not. Most other syms had electronic, auto-tuned voices, or else something alien or something beautiful. Gorilla Bob just sounded like a middle-aged, middle-class middle-manager, and he reading him was difficult when he wasn’t being passionate. Kay is usually one of the things that gets passion out of him.

“That’s what I heard, Mr. Gorilla,” hummed Kay. She’s easy to read compared to the robot. She was enthused. “Well, of course, any such visit must be done in the name of advancing relations between our people, but… I am authorized for such things. If they serve a diplomatic purpose.” She suddenly didn’t care if they had anything tangible to offer or not. This place was so boring.

The lead Grant smiled and shook their head. “We haven't said such a thing. ” then they winked before leaning backwards and continuing:

“That said, it is a good idea. We'd welcome you with welcome arms and you can see for yourself the Circle. It may be a bit dangerous for the unprepared but–” a shortstop and a nod to Gorilla Bob:

“--we're sure that Mr. Bob, whoever else you may bring with you and of course, us, will be more than enough. If we're to guess, Mr. Bob is equipped with enough weapons to take out any danger, nothing to say about his obvious strength. ”

“There is only one rule, if we may impose. You'll have to follow our directions to the letter when we're landing. Our EMP weaponry doesn't have an IFF so to say nor is it controlled by us. ”

“I’m great at following directions,” lied Kay. Gorilla Bob grunted again, and this time it was definitely sarcastic.

Caravan: An Episodic Fantasy with Worldbuilding! [Always Accepting]

Terilu

"Sorcerer?" Ilyana had asked.

"Oh, is that me?" responded Terilu. He floated up behind her, his three skellies- intact but banged up- in close ranks around him, watching the spectre. They could feel its power as he could, but they weren't ready to give up without fighting it. His raised dead were just a smidge more resilient under his care than they had been before; having a necromancer pushing you does wonders for an undead's motivation. The mystic whip is at their backs. His will flows through their spirits. Terilu smirks. "Are were you asking Knossos, our more repentant occultist? No matter. I am sorcerer enough..."

The spectral figure strides down from its throne. Wow, that is a powerful energy. It's a corpse, no doubt about that, but one wreathed in such spiritual excess that it's close to becoming a spirit itself. Wrights. Terilu remembers: a creature like this is called a 'wright' in his studies. What a beautiful thing. He knows it will put up far too much of a fight for this, but the young necromancer wishes he could study it. Too bad.

He mutters something under his breath.

His three skeletal warriors charge forward with a creaking battle cry. At the same moment, Terilu stops flying, hitting the ground with a soft thud, and grips his father's staff closer in his hand. He needs all his focus for this. Already, in those few seconds, the wright has rushed forward at his minions with an otherworldly screeching and, in a blur of motion far too fast for anyone's eyes to follow, it has sliced one of his skeletons to the ground. Terilu keeps channeling his necromantic Will through the other two. He tries to reach out to the wright and touch its spirit with his own.

He's trying to enslave it. It won't work. He realizes that the moment he makes spiritual contact with it. This thing is mad, and it's power is unholy; it lashes back at Terilu in the spirit, and he crumbles down to one knee like a man struck. Spiritual wounds are far deeper than bodily ones. In the next moment a second skeleton warrior has fallen. As it is destroyed, the wright uses the narcae that Terilu shares with it to lash back at him even more. He screams in pain despite his Eratie pride. There is black crowding in at the edges of his vision. As it goes in towards his last minion.

The other undead in the room, the ones lining the walls, haven't moved. But they're beginning to stomp their feet and thump their weapons loudly in some ritual celebration. Terilu realizes that, for the first time since they entered this crypt, he may be in serious danger. This creature is a monster.