Recent Statuses

1 mo ago
Current I was born with natural sun screen, its called not being as pale as a sheet of paper.
1 like
1 mo ago
I love you, Momma.
1 mo ago
Word of the Day: Overcome.
1 mo ago
Also checked out Myriad Reality, I think they are trying to build some kind of computer consciousness over there via IC posts.
2 mos ago
Get ready for an unusually low volume of likes then, you so-and-so.


Hello, You've managed to wander on to my profile page, Welcome!

My name's Voltus_Ventus

I've been on the guild for 2 God knows how long now, my first day being the 23rd of March and I've got decent English skills.

I'm always open for a conversation, so if you want to say something to me, just drop me a PM.


Most Recent Posts

I'm kinda torn between the Lucy and the Void Treader. At least we know that the Cargoship was taken, as part of a payment for a fine. But the Lucy was sold or given away, which I trust less for some reason. Anyway, I feel like a cargo ship would ultimately have more space for rooms and facilities. Though they might take more time and effort to assemble.
Sorry for the long delay in posting, wrapped up the last phase as well in this post if that's fine. I also took the liberty of making my character a little older on my CS. Just a century or so.

Starting at the back of the line, slowly trickling forwards, time seemed to lose all meaning. The moving mass of people crept like a slow wave, a disorganised, slightly clumpy wave, occasionally broken against the jagged rock of a security officer. Mond ached, to lap at the coast at the far end. In his mind the ceiling began to melt, drip down to meet the disintegrating floor, the walls tumbling away, flying off into space impossibly fast, the watch on his wrist ticking faster and faster until the hands were just a gray smear across the face. All there was, was his suitcase, and the dreadful shuffle towards what felt like oblivion.

Mustafa stood with a firm and practiced posture, somewhere between formal and casual, the physical form of elocution, knowing just how to stand, the right way to stand. Occasionally he would dab at the perspiration at his forehead, replacing the handkerchief in his pocket and proceeding to draw it out over and over again as time crushed onwards.

During this time, however, he grew to know the individuals behind and ahead of him in great depth, despite having not spoken a word, or shared any sort of pleasantry. The woman ahead of him was some sort of raging technophile, with perhaps too many screws loose, and far too many cheap augments to be healthy. Her breathing was loud, as if a turbine was turning inside of her. Which was the case. It turned out the only real parts of her were her tongue and brain. And from the snips of call he overheard, she was trying to get them replaced as well. Much to her detest, her parts dealer informed her that the tongue would be too hard to swap out.

The man behind him was a debtor, as so many of those around Mond were, having spent one too many credits. Finding, abruptly, that they defaulted on loans that for the most part they weren’t aware they had. He was babbling on a communicator to what must have been a lawyer, trying to get his sentence reduced. Mustafa Mond’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile, these contracts were ironclad, and the fees required to launch an inquest would probably put the man in debt once again.

It was like returning home after a long trip, the sense of relief was palpable as he stepped up to the desk and submitted his documents for review. The man on the other side butchered the arrangement of the paperwork, but Mustafa took it in his stride, watching with a curt smile as he was processed, and digitally stamped.

“Many thanks,” he paused, to read the attendant’s name tag, only to find it bearing the Party’s logo. “Sir.” He landed on, before passing through, being quickly replaced by the debtor, and the subsequent tide of people yet trapped behind him.

Mond crossed that threshold, from the ship that he called home for 6 years, on to the platform of that seemingly fictional vision. He allowed his face to break from its usual, placid expression, grinning and nodding slightly, as he mentally counted the encrypted credits he had stashed in the code of his tablet. Certainly enough for new clothes, as much as he liked to be frugal, he had worn the same limited apparel for 6 straight years. Exhausting every combination.

And just as he pressed forwards, feet carrying him towards the crash barriers that divided the unloading bay and that pungent, disorientating, towering buildings… He was cut off.

He marched beside his crew, or crew to be, slightly disgruntled, but with a well kept posture and disposition. Mustafa was glad there were some familiar faces at least. The pair he had become acquainted with at the Cantine, namely. Though he could not remain miffed for much longer.

As the group walked, his eyes panned around, to witness similar scenes unfolding about. Men, startling identical to the officer leading the group forwards, leading around similar, hapless people to far ends of what felt like a cavernous hallway. It seemed as though in the quest towards making themselves seem outwardly warm and personal, they had settled on one face for its ‘greeters’ and had them grafted on like uniforms.

Despite that, the same face spliced on to differing skulls yielded differing results.

But just like that his attention was taken, as the lights echoed on, the sounds of switches tripping introducing the arrival of the ships. It was like window shopping for a new suit, or watch, or some such luxury item. His eyes marveled over them, lingering over the yacht, before he chastised himself internally.

‘Much too tacky’ He thought to himself, his eyes resting on the Trade Vessel, strong, robust, enduring. Surely a much better choice if they wanted to survive the century of servitude. He was brought out of his thought by the young woman. Astrid.

“Maybe it got hit by a solar flare?”

He looked between the prototype ship and her, bemused, he stretched his mind’s legs a little, recalling something he had read a long time ago.

“Certainly, if that were the case, we’d see the ionisation burns on the hull’s paint? Though do correct me if I’m wrong.” He spoke with confidence, but toned it down to leave space for a hint of innocent uncertainty. Know everything, but don’t be a know it all, a distant, ancient voice spoke in the back of his head.
@Voltus_Ventus I don't know where you are timezone-wise, but if you want/are able to add something to it (react to Baz's presence), do so and post it. Otherwise, I'll post it when I wake up in... eight-ish hours. Sound good?

I think it's ready to post.
@Starlance @Bazmund

Should we post what we’ve got?

Also Baz, sorry I didn’t get to you in this phase, Defo will in the next one!
@Voltus_Ventus Shared GDocs file offers a bit more versatility in that it allows clearing up misunderstandings more quickly. Unless you are vehemently opposed to them.

Nah, they work fine for me. Send me a link to one? Or Would you like me to make one?
@Voltus_Ventus Sure, doesn't seem to be much else going on. School's all done so barring sleep and pasture work here and there, I'm free pretty much whenever.

Great! Do you want to collab it it? Or do it through PM, stitch it together and post it here?
@Starlance Want to do some character interaction?
There you go, boyos.

I wanted it to seem like a crummy motel.

It was an item of quality, older than the name Mond by generations, several and likely to far outlive it. It sat in his palm comfortably, the well glossed, black plastic catching the light in the body's ridges. Mustafa flipped the dial on the side and the machine buzzed to life. It was a Braun, SM 5 'Commander', with a chrome head and wireless internal battery, though since its design and manufacture in nineteen hundred and sixty-three CE, the old zinc battery was replaced. First with lithium, then a bio-polymer battery, and finally with a radioisotopic isotopic battery. To ensure clean, and reliable function for the rest of time. He pressed the foil razor to the side of his face and tilted his head towards the mirror, giving himself a sidelong glance. He wanted to be presentable, as always, effortlessly straightening the edges of his beard, the razor glossing over his acne scars.

Actors need characteristic faces!

An old instructor once told him, which was how broadcast got its first pockmarked face in living history. He was popular, off the bat of his graduation from his school, the propagandists went wild, using him to portray old villains, representing prudish underconsumption. And party forbid, communists. But within a few decades, he grew tired of it, as a creative, he had access to books no longer being published or publically listed, and he grew to realize that he wasn't portraying villains. But the protagonists. He could do nothing about it of course, but the knowledge was its own revolution, and he fancied himself as a bit of a Helmholtz Watson.

Using a comb, he sculpted his beard, running the Commander over its tines and trimming down any unruly hairs.

It was a day he counted down to with no sense of joy or dread, he wasn't here on his own accord, and at the same time, he was here by his own making. There was no reason to be upset or elated. Everything he brought with him fit in one medium suitcase, it was what the party had allowed him when they repossessed everything they owned. Repossessed, they called it, 'as if it was their's to begin with.' The faux leather matched him in some way, a man out of time, and so did it's simple cargo. The few pieces of electronics he had were antiquated, but they suited his needs, he never liked to throw away what still worked, or that could be fixed. Which made him the most undesirable.

And just like any other old man, going somewhere, he rose early, well before the artificial sunlight came on. The halls were still bumbling with people, enjoying the last night on that slave boat, scrawling on the walls that they were there, as if the walls wouldn't be painted over. Puking on the carpets as if they wouldn't be pulled up and replaced when the ship came to its berth. He dodged them, shuffling and shimmying the drunk masses, enjoying the last of their freedom, all the while managing to keep their mess off his tan suit. What he wore when he first boarded.

There were a thousand canteens on the ship, equally dispersed through-out the lodgings, yet he avoided the closer ones, his unit was filled with a particularly distasteful rabble. And it didn't take much more than a silver tongue to let security to allow him access to a more distant one, as a "supply saving measure".

The floor of the canteen was chequered linoleum, and everything was plastered with a fake wooden veneer, lit with amber lights from a low ceiling. There were a counter and booths, a scanner to ensure everyone came in for their allotted meal times. Which Mond stepped around, with no interest in being told harmlessly to step await his scheduled time.

"Coffee, White, Jam Biscuit." He said up to the ceiling, before taking a seat in one of the slippy vinyl seats. Putting both hands in his laps, Mustafa waited patiently, as machinery above his headed responded to his request.

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