She eyed herself in the mirror, only occasionally, glancing up to meet her reflection's gaze and quickly darting her eyes away, as if she had locked stares with a stranger, briefly, scandalously. In one hand she rigorously inverted a cocktail shaker, the other inspecting the scars across her face and clavicle. That day was a good day, the flesh was an ugly pink and the blisters were at a minimum, better than worse days, when her face burned and cracked like splitting, spitting coals. No scar that extensive ever really healed.
Skyldig placed the shaker down on the synthetic wood of the cabinetry, producing a small sieve from a drawer and placing it over the awaiting maw of a seltzer bottle. Emptying out the shaker, the fluid trickled freely through the tightly woven metal mesh, meanwhile, powdery detritus and the undissolved shells of various pills found themselves separated. She tossed the sieve aside, the cleaning bot would retrieve it, clean it, replace it in its designated shelf. Capping the seltzer dispenser, Skyldig fitted into it a shiny ampule of CO2, discharging a sliver of it into an awaiting tumbler to prove to herself it functioned.
Picking up the glass, she gestured it towards herself in the mirror.
"Your drink, Miss."
Before sipping on the narcotic concoction.
The Fox kills the Hen
The single light that hung in the center of her modest cabin burned like the filaments of an oven, bearing down on her as she stripped down her fighting rifle. With the rim of a 6.5mm case she pried up the lip of a pin and pulled it out, retaining it in hand as she worked the bolt handle back, tilting the gun so that the other side of the receiver faced her. Using the pin as a punch she let out another pin below the ejection port, sliding off the bolt handle and placing it aside.
Skyldig worked quickly, methodically, spider-like hands crawling over the gun as she extracted pins and pried on screws, dropping everything in a bucket of acetone that sat on the ground beside her cot. On which she sat cross-legged, pulling off the fore-stock and placing it down on the blanket. From the whole assembly she produced the gas system, fiddling with internal components, all the while lining them up to make the bolt extraction easier. Within a few short moments all the small pieces were being stripped of their gunk in the bucket, as Skyldig rammed a patch down the barrel and polished essential baring surfaces. The disassembled firearm lustered, gleaming as she brushed the parts liberally with oil. As much as the rifle was a glutton for pain she didn't like to be fired dry.
Skydig put the parts back together in a matter of a minute, drawing the charging handle back a few times to ensure proper cycling before leaving the gun aside to load magazines. Which lay stacked and strewn around the room, like some kind of sheet metal confetti.
The Man shoots the Fox
Her armor was not too dissimilar from the set she wore for the clans, though then her armor had been emblazoned with crests and awards, and was painted a deep... Grey. The idea of color was still alien to her, everything was a tone of black, except when in the woods or standing over a body of water, only then would she experience the faintest hint of this strange phenomenon. Color. The lightest twinge of some foreign sensation, that for all she knew could have been an optical illusion, or a parasite living in her eye. She drew the buckles and fasteners, wearing them tight enough to be uncomfortable, something that she could power through nonetheless.
Over her underwear was a one-suit of ballistic weave, to catch any kinetic projectiles that might breach through the upper layers of armor. Over which she would wear a tight lattice of mail, tightly packed rings of bi-metal looped together, to catch spalling and shrapnel that might come loose from the inside of the armor plates. Though this only covered her upper body. And finally the plates, shoulder and neck guards, fore-guards, thigh plates and greaves, gauntlets and gigantic segmented boots. These performed well against some energy based weapons, despite getting very warm upon impact. Less so against ballistic weapons, that had a tendency to dent painfully inwards.
All of this made the armor almost unbearably hot, it would have, had it not been for her body modifications, systems to cool her vital organs and major blood ways.
In the mirror Skyldig polished the plates on her shoulders, rubbing a rag in round rapid motions across the metallic surface. Her waist was dangling with ammunition pouches and hand grenades, like a violent belly-dancer's veil. On her left hip was the seltzer bottle, primed and ready for dispensing, on her right a high-gain communicator, for contacting the ship from planet side. She glanced at herself one more time before pulling on her helmet, and storming through the door, the various articles hanging off her body knocking against each other metallically.
The Devil hunts the Man
The sound of air tattering through the open maw of the cargo hold's rear door reminded Skydlig of the sound of a blowtorch, burning close to her ear. Though of course she knew that from experience. The sky turned, almost suddenly from black to an off white as the Molotov broke through the atmosphere, and the sound of planet wide alarm reached them even from such a height. Meanwhile, she stood there perfectly still despite the juddering of the ship as it slammed through turbulence, threatening to shake apart.
Behind her, FIDO tended to the cables, though she did not approve of the plan, Skyldig admired how the robot would take orders and shut the fuck up.
As the Molotov closed with the building, and flack and rockets rained inwards from roof mounted batteries, explosions rang out in a distance. No doubt the Yokai softening something that didn't require his attention. First thing was first though, in order to capture the vault the ship would need a window of opportunity, away from the fire of the Home Office building. That meant taking out the batteries.
Skyldig began to move towards the exit, as the rear of the ship swung around, facing the roof of the building. The lights in the hold blazed brightly, the thumbs up to make planet fall, a mile above the actual surface. Her brisk walk turned into a trot, the trot speeding up to a jog and then a run as she approached the edge of the platform.
"Good luck!" FIDO called out after her, as her feet become free of the platform, weightlessly careening forwards into the open air.
"Fuck off!" She called in response, not turning to look at the robotic laborer, one hand moving to disengage the safety on her rifle as she approached the asphalt surface of the roof. Her feet crashed into the ground first, left before right, cracks sprawling out from the point of impact as asphalt flaked off the ground. The world seemed to slow down at that instant, as the guards on the roof came to the quick realization that she had landed. Skyldig's forward momentum carried her forwards, as she jumped off the ground the moment she landed, rolling before coming to an abrupt, upright halt.
"Computer, play that good shit." She commanded, as she opened the mouthpiece of her helmet and jammed the nozzle of the seltzer bottle into her lips. Pressing down on the lever a sudsy jet emptied a quarter of the narcotic solution down her throat, her heart and brain responding almost instantly. She went through a series of sensations, ranging from elation to pain to calm to pain to anger to numbness, in the span of time it took to shoulder her rifle and kill the first man she saw.
Race: Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum (Sigasmarandi Rim Dweller); colloquially: "Sig-Mar(s)"
Racial Features:
"Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum" is a species of Old Rim Human, found originally in an area of the southern hemisphere of the Elysian Mega-Cluster, in a region of low light reception from the inner worlds, a region called Sigasmarand. As such the species has had to adapt to the effects of stellar darkness as a result of Cosmic Fog, evolving eyes capable of high degrees of low light vision and slight ability to detect heat signatures. And due to the colds of their extreme climate, the species has adapted an internal metabolic rate running at approximately double the median temperature of Human species originating from the more habitable Old Worlds (not only does this mean they need to eat far more, but it means that narcotics and alcohol have a weaker effect). However, as a closely derived successor species, they share almost complete genetic parity with the 'typical' human, though no offspring of the pair is known to have survived the third trimester of pregnancy. Notable physical differences that can be made from a cursory surface glance include: The inclusion of a sixth, fully functional finger on both hands (leading to maths being done primarily in base 12); noses that vary in length and pointiness, having a range of anywhere from two inches of extension past the nostrils to one foot, allowing for similar olfactory levels as 'typical' humans with the added thermosensory properties; similarly, longer ears are present across the species as a means of heat radiation and audiosensory increase. All this meaning, they've grown to have more reliance on their other senses, each adaptation allowing them better functionality in their homeworlds.
Culture:
The Sigasmarandis are scattered across a system of stellar debris of varying sizes, on the very edge of Elysia, Sigasmarand. They are the successors to an original group of colonists who settled the area long before the race had evolved/engineered its defining characteristics. Sometime during the collapse of the Outbound Tykassian League, the colonists took advantage of the situation and declared independence, not expecting the Senate Loyalists to retake control of the unruly Retainer States as soon as they had. After a succession of successful defensive battles, Sigasmarandi sovereignty was won, despite them having had to face off against a numerically and materially superior force. As such Sigasmarand earned a reputation for being the home of stalwart fighters, of excellent skill and unyielding nature, to an extent that the coming centuries saw the proliferation of mercenaries to far-flung systems.
However, as the loose confederacy invaded and defended against its neighbours, a deep resentment grew towards their cold isolated territory, away from the Elysian centre and on the edge of nothing. The cold forced them to bundle up, rarely ever showing skin (except in the presence of family, friends and loved ones), and eventually, this evolved into a culture of suspicion and mistrust; day to day meetings happenings happening from behind veils and masks and scarves; to an extent that parts of the body that did show despite the layers were painted or tattooed black. The almost sacred nature of identity plays into gender in some societies, from a young age, children get used to dressing androgynously, behaving androgynously, shaving all hair and doing everything in their power to appear sexless. Once hitting puberty, it is customary for females to bind their chests and men to tuck, or for both to wear padded clothing to obscure body shape (in more liberal families), and once voices start to break Sigasmarandis are often trained by their parents to speak in one tone and pitch. This voice, common to all of Sigasmaranda, is called Tonsloslillt and is used in day to day communication basically ensuring everyone sounds the same if not similar. The only time Tonsloslillt is not observed is when Wuld (which will be discussed later on) are being given, and only then.
Another result of being so close to the cosmic edge was the presence of a constant, corrupting fog, that manifested itself as grey, sooty mist, that made vision difficult to long distances. The Fog, however, has water like properties, in the sense that it exhibits systems of currents and tides; meaning there are times of more and less dense fog, and areas where the concentration and thus effects of the fog are more powerful. As well as this, the strength of the fog is also dependant on the distance from the cosmic void, with the Elysian center being completely devoid of its effects; despite this, the fog has inroads and tendrils in the dark places of Elysia and a weaker ambient fog permeates in most places farther from the center. The properties of the Cosmic Fog (though typically having minor manifestations in Sigasmarandi) have a powerful mutative effect on the flora and fauna of the outer system, spawning and melding beasts into increasingly more terrifying beasts. That being said, just as the fog has the capability to produce flesh-rending monsters, it has equal capacity to make creatures of little notability or even beings of awe-inspiring beauty.
Due to the ever-present gloomy darkness of the Cosmic Fog, song is the major form of art and follows a complex system of belief, identity and utility. In their culture, songs are called Wuld, and Wuld varies in style from planetoid to planetoid, with families having their own tones and rhythmic variations of the regional Wuld, and with everyone having a unique fingerprint to their own. Wuld are not typically lyrical (though some Wuld are worded), and vary from melodic tones to simple screaming, acting as an alternate form of communication that could cut through the fog and cloud mired terrain. Wuld are also deeply engrained in Sigasmarandi mythology; they are believed to be the borrowed voices of the Lost Good (positive spirits trapped in the cosmic fog), and as such lore dictates that Wuld outlive their Wuldors, so that they may make the journey back to their Lost Good.
With every death, families hold on to the Wuld of their loved ones by incorporating it into their own in some way. This is the reason as to why there is such a huge variation in Wuld, which can be heard on a daily basis, with brief Wuld being presented as greetings; longer ones being performed at weddings-births-and-funerals; and full ballads being passed between friends and loved ones in lieu of conversation, as an expression of affection.
Wuld forms such a core part of people's lives, that some Sigasmarandi believes that one dies when their Wuld leaves them, and not that the Wuld leaves them when they die. This has resulted in a tradition of yearly festivals, conducted when the tide of the Cosmic Fog is at its weakest, and culminating with ships setting off into the void - crewed by those who believe that if they can get permission from the Lost Good of their Wuld, that they will be able to hold on to their Wuld forever.
Wuld also has a more sinister side, various intonations, harmonies and incantations allowing the Wuldor to manipulate the properties of the cosmic fog and the beings corrupted by it. Aeyterwuldoree is the forbidden art of using those Wuld, though its basics are simply learned and sometimes practical (though usually useless and typically frowned upon for the connotations of using it). However, more advanced Aeyterwuldoree is considered a heinous crime, as its seen as cooperation with the cosmic fog, due to the process allowing mutations to happen more readily in the Wuldor's body. To an extent that people can be horribly disfigured/misshapen by its misuse, these individuals (Aeyterwuldor) are considered highly dangerous and traditionally have been hunted down and killed, or locked away and unstrung (the process of making someone mute), a punishment some consider worse than death.
But that was before the Era of the Return of Jornwuld Ritaynur, an Aeterwuldor who after decades of being cast out of exile from Sigasmaranda returned, wielding her dark power as a tool of retribution. Many, who practised the dark-art in the shadows rallied by her side, waging war against the Hunter Clans that once chased them across the length of breadth of the Sigasmarandi Rim. The conflict was short, intensely bloody, and indecisive, as the vast majority of people raised their arms on the side of Clans such as the Ritaynurs and the Borgphrysts. The resulting peace lead to the abolition of laws that attacked Aeyterwuldors, in exchange that they used their power sparingly, and in the defence of Sigasmaranda. The truce, dubbed the Accord of Long Peace, named after a monastery at the edge of darkness, has been held to this day. However, the number of Aeterwuldors has not increased significantly since then, as the effects of the use of Aeyterwuldoree are still not well understood. And as of yet, the mutative, corrupting effects of Aeterwuldoree are incurable. So those who handle the dark-art remain in the distant, dark places of the realm, training and studying for when the time comes that they will be needed.
Appearance:
Skyldig's hard life is reflected on her face, not a picture of beauty by any stretch of the imagination. She stands at 4 Qbits tall, and is enmeshed in dense, lean muscles, though not enough as to be grotesquely muscular. The telling feature of her femininity are her hips, which rise away from her body slightly before rolling back in, though only slightly visible through her layers of clothes. Her chest is flat, not in the sense that she was unendowed, but due to a voluntary double mastectomy she underwent; to detract herself from easy identification, and to give her more manoeuvrability.
Her round face also tells of a life "well" lived life, originally her nose' tip extended a few inches past her face, and her ears pricked upwards just the same. The tip of her nose she lost in a fight, where her opponent held on to it and refused to let go; suffice to say they did not survive that encounter, and Skyldig had her nose treated by a surgeon, hence the lack of apparent damage. Though her nature was that of constant action, and she broke the bridge of her nose a few weeks later, and healed crooked. She lost her ears when she was captured by a rival group of marauders, cut down to human size by her captors, leaving the edges angry, red and poorly rounded. Her full lips are smudged a sooty black, positing that it's due to stains from her Bako (a roughly chopped, dried root, from the nightshade family of plants) chewing. And the scar on the left side of her face? The deep, angry channels of flesh, and the missing lower eyelid? The result of her time as a slave, fighting in the pits of Pargalon-3, wherein during a duel with a pyromaniac she got a large portion of her face, neck and chest burned.
As far as apparel goes, on ship when not on duty Skyldig gravitates towards a white tank top and olive cargo-shirts, tucked into a pair of well work combat boots. The pair she goes out on duty in, resulting in a trail of dusty footprints behind her, unless she keeps them clean which she almost always done. On her hip she wears a dense, fibre belt, a sidearm dangling in its holster on her hip. During operations and combat, Skyldig wears a rather medieval set of segmented plate, though it's made of a Magnesium and allot and is highly durable, it speaks of the type of combat she initiates in, head on and without uncertainty.
Occupation/Concept: Formerly Captain of the Battery of Slaig/Currently Shipside Weapons Expert
Training: - Heavy & Medium Weapons Proficiency: Trained and specialized in the use of heavy weapons such as artillery, cannons and rocket systems, as well as in lighter auto-cannons, medium and heavy machine guns, and man-portable explosive projection systems. - Ordnance Expert: Familiar with explosives and explosive devices, Skyldig has trained and used many of them throughout her work, from hand grenades and dynamite to warheads and C4. Such training was necessary to disable rival weapons platforms, as well as for tactical or engineering reasons. - Military Tactics and Planning: Part of her training with the guild involved strategy and coordination, having studied the classical arts of war and practising modern techniques of defence and offence. She is adept at many doctrines. - Field Medicine: Though she may not be able to perform neural surgery or understand stem-cell boosts, she is well equipped to at least stabilize most combat injuries, as well as treat various kinds of poisoning and infections. Assuming she has all of the relevant materials, as she is not skilled enough to fabricate medicines at chemistry stations. More so the mixing table.
Powers/Abilities:
- Terrifying Presence: Skyldig watched from the other side of the one-way mirror, as a pair of interrogators tried to threaten, coerce and cajole information out of a black market dealer, who captured and sold Sigasmarandi mutated wildlife to buyers in the inner worlds. They were deep in the bowels of a Clan Castle, much deeper than where the actual interrogation cells were. The Dealer, a stiff-lipped, Dapreedian, wasn't budging. The interrogation dragged on for hours, and Skyldig's limited patience began to wear thin. Finally she snapped, groaning out loudly in frustration, catching the attention of those on the other side of the glass. The door to the little cell was thrown open, and she stormed in like a freight train, rushing the man in the chair and picking it up. She raised the man and chair almost above her head, before throwing it back down against the floor. The wooden chair shattered under his weight and the force of their throw, shocking him against the ground. Skyldig almost dropped herself against him, straddling his torso and grabbing the tentacles on his face in her fists, slamming him once more against the floor. "Tell us what we want to know!" She barked, her scarf slipping off her face, spittle splattering the Dapreedian's face.
- Wrought Physique: Pargalon-3 was a slave world, existing as part of a network of slaving guilds that dotted the borders of Sigasmaranda, which itself was a major supplier and purchaser of slaves. When the exodus occurred, after the onslaught of the undead, many refugees were taken as slaves of which military personnel were highly prized, as slave-soldiers or long-lasting-labour. As the slaves marched back to their barracks, their shackles clacking against one another as they shuffled towards the gaping tunnels out of the steel mills. The Slavewarden stopped Skyldig in her tracks, stopping the whole line behind her before taking her aside. "Go bring another pack." The Zandani growled, pushing the sack against her chest, and pointing back towards the steel mill. He stood a two heads taller than she did, and was armed and armored unlike she was. She gripped on to the bag and trudged back. This happened for days, weeks, the week's turned into months and toilers came and went but she maintained, carrying bundles of iron rods back and forth. Every time the expectations growing higher, until the brass decided her strength was wasted hauling iron and instead put her into the fight-pits.
- Wuld: The mining schooner, a JcZ-09 of an older make, bounced and shuddered against the ground as it began to slowly lift off of the Lithium flats of Pargalon-3, kicking up lilac clouds and sparks behind it. Wind rushed into the open, rear bay door, as it slowly and rustily brought its maw shut. Behind a crate of packaged alkali metals, oil filled ampules tinkling against one another, Skyldig cradled a scrawny Weedonian, pink blood oozing out of massive gashes where he took an excavator's drone blades to the gut. He shook, as the schooner rocked side to side, drawing too close to anti-ship mines. "Sing to me again?" He croaked, his arms coiled in her's, his hands pressed against the wounds. Skyldig gulped, patting her cracked lips before humming a note and lulling to him. Her Wuld was like fluorescent light, clunky, mechanical, but fit for purpose and ever reliable. She sang to him until he stopped shaking, causing her voice to break, looking off at the ceiling, she brought the back of her hand to her eye and wiped away a stray tear. "Skyldig!" A voice called from down the hall, "They're boarding we need you here!" She gulped, relieving bee dry throat, before picking up her auto-hammer and leaving the Weedonian in the cargo hold.
Equipment:
- Massen Company Automatisk Slåssgevær (Automatic Fighting Rifle): Similar to the one she was issued when she underwent her training with the Clan, this kinetic weapon fires .32 caliber rounds at high speed, with enough power to punch through walls and most conventional armors. Though with proper shot placement it could disable a personal shield. Fit with a 25 round detachable box magazine, and a Kutts Compensator, this rifle is fit to lay down loud and overwhelming bursts of fire.
- AquaSeltzer Dispenser: The metal caged, Quartzglass dispenser acts as a quick deploy administration device for a cocktail of drugs that Skyldig uses during combat. Or occasionally for recreation. The ingredients consist of the following, among other things she doesn't take kindly to exposing. Beta-Nico'ffine (Stimulating Agent); Epinephrine (Adrenaline Booster); Benzedrine (Anti-Sleep Agent); Cocaine (Awareness Enhancer); Dextroamphetamine (Calming Agent); Morphine (Pain Killer); Palcohol (Calming Agent); Citric Acid (Buffering Agent Component); Sodium Citrate (Buffering Agent Component); Ascorbic Acid (Preservative); Octyl-Methanoate (Grape Fruit Flavoring); Lemonine (Lemon Flavoring); Sorbitol (Sweetener); Aspartame (Sweetener); Seltzer Water (Medium); Vitamin B and C (Health Benefits). She calls it SitronKruse.
- E-1 "Sitrongranater": Containing a 60g charge of dynamite, this fragmentation Grenade has a cookable 5 second cookable fuze, and a striated bi-metal case that fragments into deadly shrapnel upon explosion. This type of grenade is devastating against unarmored targets, and less effective against fully armored ones at more than close range. The shrapnel has a deadly range of 80 cubits on unarmored opponents, and a 300 cubit harming capacity. On armored targets it can wound within the 80 cubits, and on metallically encased targets it would require effectively a point blank detonation to cause damage.
- Bako Tin: Bako is the dried and finely milled root of the Arbako plant, native to inner-Sigasmaranda. It is not suitable for smoking, and so is usually administered nasally or rubbed into gums and areas under the tongue. Afrikander, the specific brand she chews, comes with grains of fiberglass or asbestos, to cut up the gums and tongue and aid in the absorption of the Nico'ffine from them. Skyldig usually takes it between shots of SitroKruse, or when not in active combat recreationally. The container is a small, thin, sheet bi-metal box, hinged on one side and covered with an embossed lid.
Airship: N/A
Motivation: More Money for More SitronKruse, the thrill of combat, the nihilistic pursuit of pleasure (despite her believing in the faith of the Sigasmarandis) and less overtly, a way around the undead to see what is become of her homeland.
Personality: Perhaps the most startling of her qualities is that she never used to always be like this. Not at first, but those times are long past, except for the little bits of them that yet survive within her somewhere. Her face is locked in a perpetual expression of anger or disapproval, an angry scowl or an annoyed, pursed lip, matching how she always feels. She sways from neutral to wrathful, an exhibit of rage in combat or more frighteningly; complete calm, where she feels most at home. This is reflected in her charted hours on the simulator, and her high scores and times on the scenarios. Ever the disapprover, she holds contempt for those who are not up to scratch in her eyes, especially when it comes to her own performance, in her judgments she never neglects to cast shame on herself. Maybe an outcome of her training, or a life of soldiering for fortune, she has become highly competitive and usually prioritizes numero uno. Despite her tendencies towards violence, Skyldig puts significant effort into suppressing it while shipside, the last needed is a whole crew she's antagonized. Get a beer in her hand though, the story is prone to changing.
Flaws: - Suspicious/Suspicious: - Drug Addict: - Fixing for a Fight:
Bio: "My father was a regrettable creature, but I suppose that means I didn't fall too far from the stalk." From her place in the common room, Skyldig commanded the attention of the assembled Marauders. "I killed my mother upon decanting, so he stuck me with 'It's your fault' as a name, and proceeded to remarried. He was the kind of man who thought his spermatozoa to valuable to waste in handkerchief." Pulling her scarf open from the bottom, she spat out a black melange of fibre and saliva, a chewed up lump of Bako. "Oh and he spread that spermatozoa around, I probably have brothers and sisters that I don not know about. Nor do I care to know about them, I couldn't even get to know my step-siblings. Father was too busy making my life miserable." From a very young age, Skyldig was put through the ringer of preparation for courtly life, and her Father made sure to find her the most cruel of teachers. Her elocution teacher would beat her for every stutter, her literature teacher would tear her books apart and reassemble them in the wrong order, her gymnastics teacher, looking back at it now, had done many an obscene thing to her.
Suffice to say, when the Hunter Guilds came to the family to demand their rightful conscript, she was delighted when her Father forced her to go, instead of one of his many sons. "At least in the Guilds they beat everyone." She said, thinking back to when her father savaged her for having a lover. Despite he himself, and his offspring from the other woman, having mistresses in copious amounts. "I would say I wasn't prepared for it, but looking back now I don't think they were prepared for me." Skyldig attacked every challenge and expectation handed to her with vigor, whether it meant sleepless nights in the Scrollatorium or beating the largest cadet to within an inch of his life in training. "When I graduated, I was the only one to get an officer post, because the others 'paled in comparison'." She said, imitating the strong accent of her division's Drill Sergeant. "It was a shitty post, I mean, I didn't know Slaig was a place before they put me on the first Eel there." Sometimes she thought they put her there because they were scared of her.
The day she assumed her command, she threw a private off a barracks roof to show her superiority. It was safe to say that she would not be a popular commander, but that was none of her concern. Slaig was a hamlet-town, that held the distinction of being one of the farthest inhabited rocks of Elysia, it was also home to the College of Karadzic, a convent/monastery where Aeterwuldors practiced their dark arts, far from the civilized inner world's of Sigasmaranda. As such, the concentration of void fog in the area was high, and life there was grim and medieval, and the mutants and creatures that crawled out of the Void were likewise terrifying and gargantuan compared to what would normally emerge. Hence the requirement of such a large military installation nearby, not only did it serve to stop these creatures rampaging deeper into Sigasmaranda, it allowed the guilds to keep a watchful eye on the College and its mystic inhabitants.
The first few months of Skyldig's deployment were uneventful, no more than a few dozen Sultedyr, their man-sized talons and giant leathery wings were no match for the barrage of rockets, shells and 13.2mm rounds from the battery. Despite that, had they gotten through the chaos would have been unfathomable. Uneventful. Until that is the night of the 9th month of her deployment. Zapatov Zapatinski was a private, the twin brother of the girl Slyldig had thrown off the roof all those days ago, a scrawny man with rat like features, but with a mettle to him that betrayed his looks. It was he who was assigned, though he infact volunteered, to do the supply runs between the village and the College. As part of the arrangements, the College would provide technical assistance to the people of Slaig in exchange for rations and supplies. So it was Zapatov's responsibility to drive into the College every other day in the truck to do the deliveries. It seemed, however, that the extended exposure to the even more intense Vapour on the inside had severely effected him. As on the night of the ninth month, without warning, he sat bolt upright in barracks J and began to scream uncontrollably. Zapatov pointed around, jerking his body about as he fingered people across the room and nearby, telling them in a horrified voice that they were going to do. Suffice to say, before anyone could hold him down and administer a sedative, he stuffed the muzzle of his service pistol into his mouth and emptied the chamber.
And as if by some divine decree, the siren went off hours later, sounding the alarm and rousing the troops that hadn't been woken up by Zapatov's suicide. They manned their stations, waited, the radar operators peering into their green displays as oscilloscope swung a wave of electrons around the circular monitor. For a moment there was nothing. Then suddenly the screens went bright and the batteries opened fire. The first shell to sail through the darkness impacted something, seeming to explode in midair, the rockets that followed illuminated the darkness around it, exposing the assailants. Giant beasts of other dimensional frightfulness, surrounded by flocks of rotting, ragged creatures. The entire battery opened fire, as the sea of evil approached them like a tidal wave, every gun firing as fast as possible, rockets like burning lances across the darkness. Ears and fingers bled from the frantic fire. Skyldig alone manned a heavy machine gun, standing at the head of a buttress that extended out into the void, wielding it from the hip, one hand holding the belt while the other pushed on the paddle, and aimed the thundering machine gun around.
Around her she watched as people fell, the plague descending on them despite the full power of the battery bearing down against it. Perhaps one of the most dense collections of conventional firepower in Sigasmaranda, if not Elysia, could not stop the tide. For the split second she glanced to the side, she watched the Black Wall spill into the country side all around. They were going to be encircled. She dashed back, behind the thunderous canons that blasted at the ever approaching wall, behind the rocket batteries, launching incendiary missiles into the mass of rotting reek, behind the heavy machine guns chugging lead into the invading force. Zapatov was right, and perhaps wiser than the rest of them. From the College she heard a resounding shriek, followed by many more, as the front tower that faced into the void exploded, shadowy bolts and giant trailing beasts bursting towards the oncoming invasion. The Aeterwuldors honoring their end of the deal, cartwheeling into almost certain devastation. The truck door slammed shut, as some of the troops who decided to run clambered into the canvas covered bed behind the cab, stamping her foot on the accelerator, the automobile rushed forwards and away from the tidal wave of doom.
"And that's how I got out." She said, looking down into a tin of crushed up Bako root, before taking a pinch of the fibrous material and putting those fingers into the folds of her scarf. "Call it cowardly.. I lived." She spoke around the slowly reconstituting plant matter, before leaning back to silently ruminate, the assembled crowd looking about at each other before slowly dispersing.
Race: Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum (Sigasmarandi Rim Dweller); colloquially: "Sig-Mar(s)"
Racial Features:
"Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum" is a species of Old Rim Human, found originally in an area of the southern hemisphere of the Elysian Mega-Cluster, in a region of low light reception from the inner worlds, a region called Sigasmarand. As such the species has had to adapt to the effects of stellar darkness as a result of Cosmic Fog, evolving eyes capable of high degrees of low light vision and slight ability to detect heat signatures. And due to the colds of their extreme climate, the species has adapted an internal metabolic rate running at approximately double the median temperature of Human species originating from the more habitable Old Worlds (not only does this mean they need to eat far more, but it means that narcotics and alcohol have a weaker effect). However, as a closely derived successor species, they share almost complete genetic parity with the 'typical' human, though no offspring of the pair is known to have survived the third trimester of pregnancy. Notable physical differences that can be made from a cursory surface glance include: The inclusion of a sixth, fully functional finger on both hands (leading to maths being done primarily in base 12); noses that vary in length and pointiness, having a range of anywhere from two inches of extension past the nostrils to one foot, allowing for similar olfactory levels as 'typical' humans with the added thermosensory properties; similarly, longer ears are present across the species as a means of heat radiation and audiosensory increase. All this meaning, they've grown to have more reliance on their other senses, each adaptation allowing them better functionality in their homeworlds.
Culture:
The Sigasmarandis are scattered across a system of stellar debris of varying sizes, on the very edge of Elysia, Sigasmarand. They are the successors to an original group of colonists who settled the area long before the race had evolved/engineered its defining characteristics. Sometime during the collapse of the Outbound Tykassian League, the colonists took advantage of the situation and declared independence, not expecting the Senate Loyalists to retake control of the unruly Retainer States as soon as they had. After a succession of successful defensive battles, Sigasmarandi sovereignty was won, despite them having had to face off against a numerically and materially superior force. As such Sigasmarand earned a reputation for being the home of stalwart fighters, of excellent skill and unyielding nature, to an extent that the coming centuries saw the proliferation of mercenaries to far-flung systems.
However, as the loose confederacy invaded and defended against its neighbours, a deep resentment grew towards their cold isolated territory, away from the Elysian centre and on the edge of nothing. The cold forced them to bundle up, rarely ever showing skin (except in the presence of family, friends and loved ones), and eventually, this evolved into a culture of suspicion and mistrust; day to day meetings happenings happening from behind veils and masks and scarves; to an extent that parts of the body that did show despite the layers were painted or tattooed black. The almost sacred nature of identity plays into gender in some societies, from a young age, children get used to dressing androgynously, behaving androgynously, shaving all hair and doing everything in their power to appear sexless. Once hitting puberty, it is customary for females to bind their chests and men to tuck, or for both to wear padded clothing to obscure body shape (in more liberal families), and once voices start to break Sigasmarandis are often trained by their parents to speak in one tone and pitch. This voice, common to all of Sigasmaranda, is called Tonsloslillt and is used in day to day communication basically ensuring everyone sounds the same if not similar. The only time Tonsloslillt is not observed is when Wuld (which will be discussed later on) are being given, and only then.
Another result of being so close to the cosmic edge was the presence of a constant, corrupting fog, that manifested itself as grey, sooty mist, that made vision difficult to long distances. The Fog, however, has water like properties, in the sense that it exhibits systems of currents and tides; meaning there are times of more and less dense fog, and areas where the concentration and thus effects of the fog are more powerful. As well as this, the strength of the fog is also dependant on the distance from the cosmic void, with the Elysian center being completely devoid of its effects; despite this, the fog has inroads and tendrils in the dark places of Elysia and a weaker ambient fog permeates in most places farther from the center. The properties of the Cosmic Fog (though typically having minor manifestations in Sigasmarandi) have a powerful mutative effect on the flora and fauna of the outer system, spawning and melding beasts into increasingly more terrifying beasts. That being said, just as the fog has the capability to produce flesh-rending monsters, it has equal capacity to make creatures of little notability or even beings of awe-inspiring beauty.
Due to the ever-present gloomy darkness of the Cosmic Fog, song is the major form of art and follows a complex system of belief, identity and utility. In their culture, songs are called Wuld, and Wuld varies in style from planetoid to planetoid, with families having their own tones and rhythmic variations of the regional Wuld, and with everyone having a unique fingerprint to their own. Wuld are not typically lyrical (though some Wuld are worded), and vary from melodic tones to simple screaming, acting as an alternate form of communication that could cut through the fog and cloud mired terrain. Wuld are also deeply engrained in Sigasmarandi mythology; they are believed to be the borrowed voices of the Lost Good (positive spirits trapped in the cosmic fog), and as such lore dictates that Wuld outlive their Wuldors, so that they may make the journey back to their Lost Good.
With every death, families hold on to the Wuld of their loved ones by incorporating it into their own in some way. This is the reason as to why there is such a huge variation in Wuld, which can be heard on a daily basis, with brief Wuld being presented as greetings; longer ones being performed at weddings-births-and-funerals; and full ballads being passed between friends and loved ones in lieu of conversation, as an expression of affection.
Wuld forms such a core part of people's lives, that some Sigasmarandi believes that one dies when their Wuld leaves them, and not that the Wuld leaves them when they die. This has resulted in a tradition of yearly festivals, conducted when the tide of the Cosmic Fog is at its weakest, and culminating with ships setting off into the void - crewed by those who believe that if they can get permission from the Lost Good of their Wuld, that they will be able to hold on to their Wuld forever.
Wuld also has a more sinister side, various intonations, harmonies and incantations allowing the Wuldor to manipulate the properties of the cosmic fog and the beings corrupted by it. Aeyterwuldoree is the forbidden art of using those Wuld, though its basics are simply learned and sometimes practical (though usually useless and typically frowned upon for the connotations of using it). However, more advanced Aeyterwuldoree is considered a heinous crime, as its seen as cooperation with the cosmic fog, due to the process allowing mutations to happen more readily in the Wuldor's body. To an extent that people can be horribly disfigured/misshapen by its misuse, these individuals (Aeyterwuldor) are considered highly dangerous and traditionally have been hunted down and killed, or locked away and unstrung (the process of making someone mute), a punishment some consider worse than death.
But that was before the Era of the Return of Jornwuld Ritaynur, an Aeterwuldor who after decades of being cast out of exile from Sigasmaranda returned, wielding her dark power as a tool of retribution. Many, who practised the dark-art in the shadows rallied by her side, waging war against the Hunter Clans that once chased them across the length of breadth of the Sigasmarandi Rim. The conflict was short, intensely bloody, and indecisive, as the vast majority of people raised their arms on the side of Clans such as the Ritaynurs and the Borgphrysts. The resulting peace lead to the abolition of laws that attacked Aeyterwuldors, in exchange that they used their power sparingly, and in the defence of Sigasmaranda. The truce, dubbed the Accord of Long Peace, named after a monastery at the edge of darkness, has been held to this day. However, the number of Aeterwuldors has not increased significantly since then, as the effects of the use of Aeyterwuldoree are still not well understood. And as of yet, the mutative, corrupting effects of Aeterwuldoree are incurable. So those who handle the dark-art remain in the distant, dark places of the realm, training and studying for when the time comes that they will be needed.
Appearance:
Skyldig's hard life is reflected on her face, not a picture of beauty by any stretch of the imagination. She stands at 4 Qbits tall, and is enmeshed in dense, lean muscles, though not enough as to be grotesquely muscular. The telling feature of her femininity are her hips, which rise away from her body slightly before rolling back in, though only slightly visible through her layers of clothes. Her chest is flat, not in the sense that she was unendowed, but due to a voluntary double mastectomy she underwent; to detract herself from easy identification, and to give her more manoeuvrability.
Her round face also tells of a life "well" lived life, originally her nose' tip extended a few inches past her face, and her ears pricked upwards just the same. The tip of her nose she lost in a fight, where her opponent held on to it and refused to let go; suffice to say they did not survive that encounter, and Skyldig had her nose treated by a surgeon, hence the lack of apparent damage. Though her nature was that of constant action, and she broke the bridge of her nose a few weeks later, and healed crooked. She lost her ears when she was captured by a rival group of marauders, cut down to human size by her captors, leaving the edges angry, red and poorly rounded. Her full lips are smudged a sooty black, positing that it's due to stains from her Bako (a roughly chopped, dried root, from the nightshade family of plants) chewing. And the scar on the left side of her face? The deep, angry channels of flesh, and the missing lower eyelid? The result of her time as a slave, fighting in the pits of Pargalon-3, wherein during a duel with a pyromaniac she got a large portion of her face, neck and chest burned.
As far as apparel goes, on ship when not on duty Skyldig gravitates towards a white tank top and olive cargo-shirts, tucked into a pair of well work combat boots. The pair she goes out on duty in, resulting in a trail of dusty footprints behind her, unless she keeps them clean which she almost always done. On her hip she wears a dense, fibre belt, a sidearm dangling in its holster on her hip. During operations and combat, Skyldig wears a rather medieval set of segmented plate, though it's made of a Magnesium and allot and is highly durable, it speaks of the type of combat she initiates in, head on and without uncertainty.
Occupation/Concept: Formerly Captain of the Battery of Slaig/Currently Shipside Weapons Expert
Training: - Heavy & Medium Weapons Proficiency: Trained and specialized in the use of heavy weapons such as artillery, cannons and rocket systems, as well as in lighter auto-cannons, medium and heavy machine guns, and man-portable explosive projection systems. - Ordnance Expert: Familiar with explosives and explosive devices, Skyldig has trained and used many of them throughout her work, from hand grenades and dynamite to warheads and C4. Such training was necessary to disable rival weapons platforms, as well as for tactical or engineering reasons. - Military Tactics and Planning: Part of her training with the guild involved strategy and coordination, having studied the classical arts of war and practising modern techniques of defence and offence. She is adept at many doctrines. - Field Medicine: Though she may not be able to perform neural surgery or understand stem-cell boosts, she is well equipped to at least stabilize most combat injuries, as well as treat various kinds of poisoning and infections. Assuming she has all of the relevant materials, as she is not skilled enough to fabricate medicines at chemistry stations. More so the mixing table.
Powers/Abilities:
- Terrifying Presence: Skyldig watched from the other side of the one-way mirror, as a pair of interrogators tried to threaten, coerce and cajole information out of a black market dealer, who captured and sold Sigasmarandi mutated wildlife to buyers in the inner worlds. They were deep in the bowels of a Clan Castle, much deeper than where the actual interrogation cells were. The Dealer, a stiff-lipped, Dapreedian, wasn't budging. The interrogation dragged on for hours, and Skyldig's limited patience began to wear thin. Finally she snapped, groaning out loudly in frustration, catching the attention of those on the other side of the glass. The door to the little cell was thrown open, and she stormed in like a freight train, rushing the man in the chair and picking it up. She raised the man and chair almost above her head, before throwing it back down against the floor. The wooden chair shattered under his weight and the force of their throw, shocking him against the ground. Skyldig almost dropped herself against him, straddling his torso and grabbing the tentacles on his face in her fists, slamming him once more against the floor. "Tell us what we want to know!" She barked, her scarf slipping off her face, spittle splattering the Dapreedian's face.
- Wrought Physique: Pargalon-3 was a slave world, existing as part of a network of slaving guilds that dotted the borders of Sigasmaranda, which itself was a major supplier and purchaser of slaves. When the exodus occurred, after the onslaught of the undead, many refugees were taken as slaves of which military personnel were highly prized, as slave-soldiers or long-lasting-labour. As the slaves marched back to their barracks, their shackles clacking against one another as they shuffled towards the gaping tunnels out of the steel mills. The Slavewarden stopped Skyldig in her tracks, stopping the whole line behind her before taking her aside. "Go bring another pack." The Zandani growled, pushing the sack against her chest, and pointing back towards the steel mill. He stood a two heads taller than she did, and was armed and armored unlike she was. She gripped on to the bag and trudged back. This happened for days, weeks, the week's turned into months and toilers came and went but she maintained, carrying bundles of iron rods back and forth. Every time the expectations growing higher, until the brass decided her strength was wasted hauling iron and instead put her into the fight-pits.
- Wuld: The mining schooner, a JcZ-09 of an older make, bounced and shuddered against the ground as it began to slowly lift off of the Lithium flats of Pargalon-3, kicking up lilac clouds and sparks behind it. Wind rushed into the open, rear bay door, as it slowly and rustily brought its maw shut. Behind a crate of packaged alkali metals, oil filled ampules tinkling against one another, Skyldig cradled a scrawny Weedonian, pink blood oozing out of massive gashes where he took an excavator's drone blades to the gut. He shook, as the schooner rocked side to side, drawing too close to anti-ship mines. "Sing to me again?" He croaked, his arms coiled in her's, his hands pressed against the wounds. Skyldig gulped, patting her cracked lips before humming a note and lulling to him. Her Wuld was like fluorescent light, clunky, mechanical, but fit for purpose and ever reliable. She sang to him until he stopped shaking, causing her voice to break, looking off at the ceiling, she brought the back of her hand to her eye and wiped away a stray tear. "Skyldig!" A voice called from down the hall, "They're boarding we need you here!" She gulped, relieving bee dry throat, before picking up her auto-hammer and leaving the Weedonian in the cargo hold.
Equipment:
- Massen Company Automatisk Slåssgevær (Automatic Fighting Rifle): Similar to the one she was issued when she underwent her training with the Clan, this kinetic weapon fires .32 caliber rounds at high speed, with enough power to punch through walls and most conventional armors. Though with proper shot placement it could disable a personal shield. Fit with a 25 round detachable box magazine, and a Kutts Compensator, this rifle is fit to lay down loud and overwhelming bursts of fire.
- AquaSeltzer Dispenser: The metal caged, Quartzglass dispenser acts as a quick deploy administration device for a cocktail of drugs that Skyldig uses during combat. Or occasionally for recreation. The ingredients consist of the following, among other things she doesn't take kindly to exposing. Beta-Nico'ffine (Stimulating Agent); Epinephrine (Adrenaline Booster); Benzedrine (Anti-Sleep Agent); Cocaine (Awareness Enhancer); Dextroamphetamine (Calming Agent); Morphine (Pain Killer); Palcohol (Calming Agent); Citric Acid (Buffering Agent Component); Sodium Citrate (Buffering Agent Component); Ascorbic Acid (Preservative); Octyl-Methanoate (Grape Fruit Flavoring); Lemonine (Lemon Flavoring); Sorbitol (Sweetener); Aspartame (Sweetener); Seltzer Water (Medium); Vitamin B and C (Health Benefits). She calls it SitronKruse.
- E-1 "Sitrongranater": Containing a 60g charge of dynamite, this fragmentation Grenade has a cookable 5 second cookable fuze, and a striated bi-metal case that fragments into deadly shrapnel upon explosion. This type of grenade is devastating against unarmored targets, and less effective against fully armored ones at more than close range. The shrapnel has a deadly range of 80 cubits on unarmored opponents, and a 300 cubit harming capacity. On armored targets it can wound within the 80 cubits, and on metallically encased targets it would require effectively a point blank detonation to cause damage.
- Bako Tin: Bako is the dried and finely milled root of the Arbako plant, native to inner-Sigasmaranda. It is not suitable for smoking, and so is usually administered nasally or rubbed into gums and areas under the tongue. Afrikander, the specific brand she chews, comes with grains of fiberglass or asbestos, to cut up the gums and tongue and aid in the absorption of the Nico'ffine from them. Skyldig usually takes it between shots of SitroKruse, or when not in active combat recreationally. The container is a small, thin, sheet bi-metal box, hinged on one side and covered with an embossed lid.
Airship: N/A
Motivation: More Money for More SitronKruse, the thrill of combat, the nihilistic pursuit of pleasure (despite her believing in the faith of the Sigasmarandis) and less overtly, a way around the undead to see what is become of her homeland.
Personality: Perhaps the most startling of her qualities is that she never used to always be like this. Not at first, but those times are long past, except for the little bits of them that yet survive within her somewhere. Her face is locked in a perpetual expression of anger or disapproval, an angry scowl or an annoyed, pursed lip, matching how she always feels. She sways from neutral to wrathful, an exhibit of rage in combat or more frighteningly; complete calm, where she feels most at home. This is reflected in her charted hours on the simulator, and her high scores and times on the scenarios. Ever the disapprover, she holds contempt for those who are not up to scratch in her eyes, especially when it comes to her own performance, in her judgments she never neglects to cast shame on herself. Maybe an outcome of her training, or a life of soldiering for fortune, she has become highly competitive and usually prioritizes numero uno. Despite her tendencies towards violence, Skyldig puts significant effort into suppressing it while shipside, the last needed is a whole crew she's antagonized. Get a beer in her hand though, the story is prone to changing.
Flaws: - Suspicious/Suspicious: - Drug Addict: - Fixing for a Fight:
Bio: "My father was a regrettable creature, but I suppose that means I didn't fall too far from the stalk." From her place in the common room, Skyldig commanded the attention of the assembled Marauders. "I killed my mother upon decanting, so he stuck me with 'It's your fault' as a name, and proceeded to remarried. He was the kind of man who thought his spermatozoa to valuable to waste in handkerchief." Pulling her scarf open from the bottom, she spat out a black melange of fibre and saliva, a chewed up lump of Bako. "Oh and he spread that spermatozoa around, I probably have brothers and sisters that I don not know about. Nor do I care to know about them, I couldn't even get to know my step-siblings. Father was too busy making my life miserable." From a very young age, Skyldig was put through the ringer of preparation for courtly life, and her Father made sure to find her the most cruel of teachers. Her elocution teacher would beat her for every stutter, her literature teacher would tear her books apart and reassemble them in the wrong order, her gymnastics teacher, looking back at it now, had done many an obscene thing to her.
Suffice to say, when the Hunter Guilds came to the family to demand their rightful conscript, she was delighted when her Father forced her to go, instead of one of his many sons. "At least in the Guilds they beat everyone." She said, thinking back to when her father savaged her for having a lover. Despite he himself, and his offspring from the other woman, having mistresses in copious amounts. "I would say I wasn't prepared for it, but looking back now I don't think they were prepared for me." Skyldig attacked every challenge and expectation handed to her with vigor, whether it meant sleepless nights in the Scrollatorium or beating the largest cadet to within an inch of his life in training. "When I graduated, I was the only one to get an officer post, because the others 'paled in comparison'." She said, imitating the strong accent of her division's Drill Sergeant. "It was a shitty post, I mean, I didn't know Slaig was a place before they put me on the first Eel there." Sometimes she thought they put her there because they were scared of her.
The day she assumed her command, she threw a private off a barracks roof to show her superiority. It was safe to say that she would not be a popular commander, but that was none of her concern. Slaig was a hamlet-town, that held the distinction of being one of the farthest inhabited rocks of Elysia, it was also home to the College of Karadzic, a convent/monastery where Aeterwuldors practiced their dark arts, far from the civilized inner world's of Sigasmaranda. As such, the concentration of void fog in the area was high, and life there was grim and medieval, and the mutants and creatures that crawled out of the Void were likewise terrifying and gargantuan compared to what would normally emerge. Hence the requirement of such a large military installation nearby, not only did it serve to stop these creatures rampaging deeper into Sigasmaranda, it allowed the guilds to keep a watchful eye on the College and its mystic inhabitants.
The first few months of Skyldig's deployment were uneventful, no more than a few dozen Sultedyr, their man-sized talons and giant leathery wings were no match for the barrage of rockets, shells and 13.2mm rounds from the battery. Despite that, had they gotten through the chaos would have been unfathomable. Uneventful. Until that is the night of the 9th month of her deployment. Zapatov Zapatinski was a private, the twin brother of the girl Slyldig had thrown off the roof all those days ago, a scrawny man with rat like features, but with a mettle to him that betrayed his looks. It was he who was assigned, though he infact volunteered, to do the supply runs between the village and the College. As part of the arrangements, the College would provide technical assistance to the people of Slaig in exchange for rations and supplies. So it was Zapatov's responsibility to drive into the College every other day in the truck to do the deliveries. It seemed, however, that the extended exposure to the even more intense Vapour on the inside had severely effected him. As on the night of the ninth month, without warning, he sat bolt upright in barracks J and began to scream uncontrollably. Zapatov pointed around, jerking his body about as he fingered people across the room and nearby, telling them in a horrified voice that they were going to do. Suffice to say, before anyone could hold him down and administer a sedative, he stuffed the muzzle of his service pistol into his mouth and emptied the chamber.
And as if by some divine decree, the siren went off hours later, sounding the alarm and rousing the troops that hadn't been woken up by Zapatov's suicide. They manned their stations, waited, the radar operators peering into their green displays as oscilloscope swung a wave of electrons around the circular monitor. For a moment there was nothing. Then suddenly the screens went bright and the batteries opened fire. The first shell to sail through the darkness impacted something, seeming to explode in midair, the rockets that followed illuminated the darkness around it, exposing the assailants. Giant beasts of other dimensional frightfulness, surrounded by flocks of rotting, ragged creatures. The entire battery opened fire, as the sea of evil approached them like a tidal wave, every gun firing as fast as possible, rockets like burning lances across the darkness. Ears and fingers bled from the frantic fire. Skyldig alone manned a heavy machine gun, standing at the head of a buttress that extended out into the void, wielding it from the hip, one hand holding the belt while the other pushed on the paddle, and aimed the thundering machine gun around.
Around her she watched as people fell, the plague descending on them despite the full power of the battery bearing down against it. Perhaps one of the most dense collections of conventional firepower in Sigasmaranda, if not Elysia, could not stop the tide. For the split second she glanced to the side, she watched the Black Wall spill into the country side all around. They were going to be encircled. She dashed back, behind the thunderous canons that blasted at the ever approaching wall, behind the rocket batteries, launching incendiary missiles into the mass of rotting reek, behind the heavy machine guns chugging lead into the invading force. Zapatov was right, and perhaps wiser than the rest of them. From the College she heard a resounding shriek, followed by many more, as the front tower that faced into the void exploded, shadowy bolts and giant trailing beasts bursting towards the oncoming invasion. The Aeterwuldors honoring their end of the deal, cartwheeling into almost certain devastation. The truck door slammed shut, as some of the troops who decided to run clambered into the canvas covered bed behind the cab, stamping her foot on the accelerator, the automobile rushed forwards and away from the tidal wave of doom.
"And that's how I got out." She said, looking down into a tin of crushed up Bako root, before taking a pinch of the fibrous material and putting those fingers into the folds of her scarf. "Call it cowardly.. I lived." She spoke around the slowly reconstituting plant matter, before leaning back to silently ruminate, the assembled crowd looking about at each other before slowly dispersing.
There you go guys, a complete (I think) CS, for your approval.
Race: Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum (Sigasmarandi Rim Dweller); colloquially: "Sig-Mar(s)"
Racial Features:
"Hominus Margo Sigasmarandum" is a species of Old Rim Human, found originally in an area of the southern hemisphere of the Elysian Mega-Cluster, in a region of low light reception from the inner worlds, a region called Sigasmarand. As such the species has had to adapt to the effects of stellar darkness as a result of Cosmic Fog, evolving eyes capable of high degrees of low light vision and slight ability to detect heat signatures. And due to the colds of their extreme climate, the species has adapted an internal metabolic rate running at approximately double the median temperature of Human species originating from the more habitable Old Worlds (not only does this mean they need to eat far more, but it means that narcotics and alcohol have a weaker effect). However, as a closely derived successor species, they share almost complete genetic parity with the 'typical' human, though no offspring of the pair is known to have survived the third trimester of pregnancy. Notable physical differences that can be made from a cursory surface glance include: The inclusion of a sixth, fully functional finger on both hands (leading to maths being done primarily in base 12); noses that vary in length and pointiness, having a range of anywhere from two inches of extension past the nostrils to one foot, allowing for similar olfactory levels as 'typical' humans with the added thermosensory properties; similarly, longer ears are present across the species as a means of heat radiation and audiosensory increase. All this meaning, they've grown to have more reliance on their other senses, each adaptation allowing them better functionality in their homeworlds.
Culture:
The Sigasmarandis are scattered across a system of stellar debris of varying sizes, on the very edge of Elysia, Sigasmarand. They are the successors to an original group of colonists who settled the area long before the race had evolved/engineered its defining characteristics. Sometime during the collapse of the Outbound Tykassian League, the colonists took advantage of the situation and declared independence, not expecting the Senate Loyalists to retake control of the unruly Retainer States as soon as they had. After a succession of successful defensive battles, Sigasmarandi sovereignty was won, despite them having had to face off against a numerically and materially superior force. As such Sigasmarand earned a reputation for being the home of stalwart fighters, of excellent skill and unyielding nature, to an extent that the coming centuries saw the proliferation of mercenaries to far-flung systems.
However, as the loose confederacy invaded and defended against its neighbours, a deep resentment grew towards their cold isolated territory, away from the Elysian centre and on the edge of nothing. The cold forced them to bundle up, rarely ever showing skin (except in the presence of family, friends and loved ones), and eventually, this evolved into a culture of suspicion and mistrust; day to day meetings happenings happening from behind veils and masks and scarves; to an extent that parts of the body that did show despite the layers were painted or tattooed black. The almost sacred nature of identity plays into gender in some societies, from a young age, children get used to dressing androgynously, behaving androgynously, shaving all hair and doing everything in their power to appear sexless. Once hitting puberty, it is customary for females to bind their chests and men to tuck, or for both to wear padded clothing to obscure body shape (in more liberal families), and once voices start to break Sigasmarandis are often trained by their parents to speak in one tone and pitch. This voice, common to all of Sigasmaranda, is called Tonsloslillt and is used in day to day communication basically ensuring everyone sounds the same if not similar. The only time Tonsloslillt is not observed is when Wuld (which will be discussed later on) are being given, and only then.
Another result of being so close to the cosmic edge was the presence of a constant, corrupting fog, that manifested itself as grey, sooty mist, that made vision difficult to long distances. The Fog, however, has water like properties, in the sense that it exhibits systems of currents and tides; meaning there are times of more and less dense fog, and areas where the concentration and thus effects of the fog are more powerful. As well as this, the strength of the fog is also dependant on the distance from the cosmic void, with the Elysian center being completely devoid of its effects; despite this, the fog has inroads and tendrils in the dark places of Elysia and a weaker ambient fog permeates in most places farther from the center. The properties of the Cosmic Fog (though typically having minor manifestations in Sigasmarandi) have a powerful mutative effect on the flora and fauna of the outer system, spawning and melding beasts into increasingly more terrifying beasts. That being said, just as the fog has the capability to produce flesh-rending monsters, it has equal capacity to make creatures of little notability or even beings of awe-inspiring beauty.
Due to the ever-present gloomy darkness of the Cosmic Fog, song is the major form of art and follows a complex system of belief, identity and utility. In their culture, songs are called Wuld, and Wuld varies in style from planetoid to planetoid, with families having their own tones and rhythmic variations of the regional Wuld, and with everyone having a unique fingerprint to their own. Wuld are not typically lyrical (though some Wuld are worded), and vary from melodic tones to simple screaming, acting as an alternate form of communication that could cut through the fog and cloud mired terrain. Wuld are also deeply engrained in Sigasmarandi mythology; they are believed to be the borrowed voices of the Lost Good (positive spirits trapped in the cosmic fog), and as such lore dictates that Wuld outlive their Wuldors, so that they may make the journey back to their Lost Good.
With every death, families hold on to the Wuld of their loved ones by incorporating it into their own in some way. This is the reason as to why there is such a huge variation in Wuld, which can be heard on a daily basis, with brief Wuld being presented as greetings; longer ones being performed at weddings-births-and-funerals; and full ballads being passed between friends and loved ones in lieu of conversation, as an expression of affection.
Wuld forms such a core part of people's lives, that some Sigasmarandi believes that one dies when their Wuld leaves them, and not that the Wuld leaves them when they die. This has resulted in a tradition of yearly festivals, conducted when the tide of the Cosmic Fog is at its weakest, and culminating with ships setting off into the void - crewed by those who believe that if they can get permission from the Lost Good of their Wuld, that they will be able to hold on to their Wuld forever.
Wuld also has a more sinister side, various intonations, harmonies and incantations allowing the Wuldor to manipulate the properties of the cosmic fog and the beings corrupted by it. Aeyterwuldoree is the forbidden art of using those Wuld, though its basics are simply learned and sometimes practical (though usually useless and typically frowned upon for the connotations of using it). However, more advanced Aeyterwuldoree is considered a heinous crime, as its seen as cooperation with the cosmic fog, due to the process allowing mutations to happen more readily in the Wuldor's body. To an extent that people can be horribly disfigured/misshapen by its misuse, these individuals (Aeyterwuldor) are considered highly dangerous and traditionally have been hunted down and killed, or locked away and unstrung (the process of making someone mute), a punishment some consider worse than death.
But that was before the Era of the Return of Jornwuld Ritaynur, an Aeterwuldor who after decades of being cast out of exile from Sigasmaranda returned, wielding her dark power as a tool of retribution. Many, who practiced the dark-art in the shadows rallied by her side, waging war against the Hunter Clans that once chased them across the length of breadth of the Sigasmarandi Rim. The conflict was short, intensely bloody, and indecisive, as the vast majority of people raised their arms on the side of Clans such as the Ritaynurs and the Borgphrysts. The resulting peace lead to the abolition of laws that attacked Aeyterwuldors, in exchange that they used their power sparingly, and in the defense of Sigasmaranda. The truce, dubbed the Accord of Long Peace, named after a monastery at the edge of darkness, has been held to this day. However the number of Aeterwuldors has not increased significantly since then, as the effects of the use of Aeyterwuldoree are still not well understood. And as of yet, the mutative, corrupting effects of Aeterwuldoree are incurable. So those who handle the dark-art remain in the distant, dark places of the realm, training and studying for when the time comes that they will be needed.
Appearance:
Skyldig's hard life is reflected on her face, not a picture of beauty by any stretch of the imagination. She stands at 4 Qbits tall, and is enmeshed in dense, lean muscles, though not enough as to be grotesquely muscular. The telling feature of her femininity are her hips, which rise away from her body slightly before rolling back in, though only slightly visible through her layers of clothes. Her chest is flat, not in the sense that she was unendowed, but due to a voluntary double mastectomy she underwent; to detract herself from easy identification, and to give her more maneuverability.
Her round face also tells of a life "well" lived life, originally her nose' tip extended a few inches past her face, and her ears pricked upwards just the same. The tip of her nose she lost in a fight, where her opponent held on to it and refused to let go; suffice to say they did not survive that encounter, and Skyldig had her nose treated by a surgeon, hence the lack of apparent damage. Though her nature was that of constant action, and she broke the bridge of her nose a few weeks later, and healed crooked. She lost her ears when she was captured by a rival group of marauders, cut down to human size by her captors, leaving the edges angry, red and poorly rounded. Her full lips are smudged a sooty black, positing that it's due to stains from her Bako (a roughly chopped, dried root, from the nightshade family of plants) chewing. And the scar on the left side of her face? The deep, angry channels of flesh, and the missing lower eye lid? The result of her time as a slave, fighting in the pits of Pargalon-3, wherein during a duel with a pyromaniac she got a large portion of her face, neck and chest burned.
Occupation/Concept: Formerly Captain of the Battery of Slaig/Currently Shipside Weapons Expert
Training: - Heavy & Medium Weapons Proficiency: - Martial Arts: - Ball Room Dancing: - Powers/Abilities: - - -
Equipment: - - - - - -
Airship:
Motivation:
Personality:
Flaws:
Bio: "My father was an asshole, but I suppose that means I didn't fall too far from the tree." From her place in the common room, Skyldig commanded the attention of the assembled Marauders. "I killed my mama on the way out, so he stuck me with 'It's your fault' as a name, and got remarried. He was the kind of man who thought his seed to valuable to waste in handkerchief." Pulling her scarf open from the bottom, she spat out a black melange of fibre and saliva, a chewed up lump of Bako. "Oh and he spread that seed around, I probably have brothers and sisters that I don't know about. Not that I care to know about them, couldn't even get to know my step-siblings. Father was too busy making my life miserable." From a very young age, Skyldig was put through the ringer of preparation for courtly life, and her Father made sure to find her the most cruel of teachers. Her elocution teacher would beat her for every stutter, her literature teacher would tear her books apart and reassemble them in the wrong order, her gymnastics teacher, looking back at it now, had done many an obscene thing to her.
Suffice to say, when the Hunter Guilds came to the family to demand their rightful conscript, she was delighted when her Father forced her to go, instead of one of his many sons. "At least in the Guilds they beat everyone." She said, thinking back to when her father savaged her for having a lover. Despite he himself, and his offspring from the other woman, having mistresses in copious amounts. "I would say I wasn't prepared for it, but looking back now I don't think they were prepared for me." Skyldig attacked every challenge and expectation handed to her with vigor, whether it meant sleepless nights in the Scrollatorium or beating the largest cadet to within an inch of his life in training. "When I graduated, I was the only one to get an officer post, because the others 'paled in comparison'." She said, imitating the strong accent of her division's Drill Sergeant. "It was a shitty post, I mean, I didn't know Slaig was a place before they put me on the first Eel there." Sometimes she thought they put her there because they were scared of her.
The day she assumed her command, she threw a private off a barracks roof to show her superiority. It was safe to say that she would not be a popular commander, but that was none of her concern. Slaig was a hamlet-town, that held the distinction of being one of the farthest inhabited rocks of Elysia, it was also home to the College of Karadzic, a convent/monastery where Aeterwuldors practiced their dark arts, far from the civilized inner world's of Sigasmaranda. As such, the concentration of void fog in the area was high, and life there was grim and medieval, and the mutants and creatures that crawled out of the Void were likewise terrifying and gargantuan compared to what would normally emerge. Hence the requirement of such a large military installation nearby, not only did it serve to stop these creatures rampaging deeper into Sigasmaranda, it allowed the guilds to keep a watchful eye on the College and its mystic inhabitants.
The first few months of Skyldig's deployment were uneventful, no more than a few dozen Sultedyr, their man-sized talons and giant leathery wings were no match for the barrage of rockets, shells and 13.2mm rounds from the battery. Despite that, had they gotten through the chaos would have been unfathomable. Uneventful. Until that is the night of the 9th month of her deployment. Zapatov Zapatinski was a private, the twin brother of the girl Slyldig had thrown off the roof all those days ago, a scrawny man with rat like features, but with a mettle to him that betrayed his looks. It was he who was assigned, though he infact volunteered, to do the supply runs between the village and the College. As part of the arrangements, the College would provide technical assistance to the people of Slaig in exchange for rations and supplies. So it was Zapatov's responsibility to drive into the College every other day in the truck to do the deliveries. It seemed, however, that the extended exposure to the even more intense Vapour on the inside had severely effected him. As on the night of the ninth month, without warning, he sat bolt upright in barracks J and began to scream uncontrollably. Zapatov pointed around, jerking his body about as he fingered people across the room and nearby, telling them in a horrified voice that they were going to do. Suffice to say, before anyone could hold him down and administer a sedative, he stuffed the muzzle of his service pistol into his mouth and emptied the chamber.
And as if by some divine decree, the siren went off hours later, sounding the alarm and rousing the troops that hadn't been woken up by Zapatov's suicide. They manned their stations, waited, the radar operators peering into their green displays as oscilloscope swung a wave of electrons around the circular monitor. For a moment there was nothing. Then suddenly the screens went bright and the batteries opened fire. The first shell to sail through the darkness impacted something, seeming to explode in midair, the rockets that followed illuminated the darkness around it, exposing the assailants. Giant beasts of other dimensional frightfulness, surrounded by flocks of rotting, ragged creatures. The entire battery opened fire, as the sea of evil approached them like a tidal wave, every gun firing as fast as possible, rockets like burning lances across the darkness. Ears and fingers bled from the frantic fire. Skyldig alone manned a heavy machine gun, standing at the head of a buttress that extended out into the void, wielding it from the hip, one hand holding the belt while the other pushed on the paddle, and aimed the thundering machine gun around.
Around her she watched as people fell, the plague descending on them despite the full power of the battery bearing down against it. Perhaps one of the most dense collections of conventional firepower in Sigasmaranda, if not Elysia, could not stop the tide. For the split second she glanced to the side, she watched the Black Wall spill into the country side all around. They were going to be encircled. She dashed back, behind the thunderous canons that blasted at the ever approaching wall, behind the rocket batteries, launching incendiary missiles into the mass of rotting reek, behind the heavy machine guns chugging lead into the invading force. Zapatov was right, and perhaps wiser than the rest of them. From the College she heard a resounding shriek, followed by many more, as the front tower that faced into the void exploded, shadowy bolts and giant trailing beasts bursting towards the oncoming invasion. The Aeterwuldors honoring their end of the deal, cartwheeling into almost certain devastation. The truck door slammed shut, as some of the troops who decided to run clambered into the canvas covered bed behind the cab, stamping her foot on the accelerator, the automobile rushed forwards and away from the tidal wave of doom.
"And that's how I got out." She said, looking down into a tin of crushed up Bako root, before taking a pinch of the fibrous material and putting those fingers into the folds of her scarf. "Call it cowardly.. I lived." She spoke around the slowly reconstituting plant matter, before leaning back to silently ruminate, the assembled crowd looking about at each other before slowly dispersing.
Here is my work in progress CS, don't judge it too much, I typed a lot of it up on my phone. XD
I quite like the marauders idea, it definitely has potential. But whether or not they are an established crew, or assembled by a contractor for their skills could be debated?
I was a young man when I first met the Naerzo Vyalviur, both kings of a sort, both young in a way. The difference, however, was that I was terrified, and he, he was serene and placid. Like a statue. He was 77 then, though didn't look a day over 30, which is a funny thing about elves. He grew to be the same age as my father when he died, Got bless his soul, but looks not much older than myself. I remember the way he looked down at me from atop his throne, in his robes and finery. Heh… I felt naked standing there among his court, in my navy officer uniform. I had inaugurated the first ship for the Coast Guard, not a month earlier, so it felt fitting I wore it to greet the emperor.
The needle jumped out of its groove and scratched about the surface of the record, much to the annoyance of everyone listening. Villim, sat in the chez-lounge beside his aged mother, gave the machine an irked expression, gesturing to a maid in the corner.
“Beatrix, if you could please replace the needle on that infernal machine, I would forever be in your gratitude.” The whole family had come together, to be with father for his last days. Everyone knew the time was near, and for some, it was a blessing, the whole nation was in an apprehensive silence. And for once, Villim’s deaf brother Maethias wasn't missing out on anything. In the corner of the windowed study, sat closest to the bay, the oldest prince watched his wife sign to him what was going on. Villim had told him they would be listening to records, but the requirement of hearing didn't seem to dissuade him. From nearby their sister Kara caught Maethias’ attention, signing something that made him grin.
The queen mother closed her eyes and released a long sigh, listening as the servant’s footfalls approached them and then draw away towards the phonograph. She was five when Vulfram went to meet the Elven King, no one then would have ever guessed she would be queen back then. She opened her eyes, the room tinted with nostalgia, and made a noise between a sob and a laugh.
“Damein should be here.” She said, looking at the tall doors at the end of the study, as if he was going to step through them at any moment. Damein, the eldest brother, would have turned 35 a few months prior, had he not died at 16 due to complications surrounding his sickliness. Which later would be classified as polio. Maethias, who sat facing his mother, frowned having read her lips. He was old enough to remember what kind of person Damein was like, Kara, of course, remembered him, but did not see much of him. A mistake she would not make with her remaining brothers, whom she spent much of the year bouncing between. Villim took his mother’s hand and kissed it, holding it to his chest as he watched the darkly dressed maid replace the needle. She wore a floral hairpin however, as if she were a testament to the old saying ‘You can't bleach a Falla.’
“You must forgive me for not being present to witness the Cerulean being put to the water.” he said in perfect Fallian, though the fact he knew the name of the ship was far more surprising. They told me to wait for the Emperor to speak first, I did not expect this to be his first words. Hehe.. “You were busy kinging,” I replied idiotically, not sure how it came to me or why I had said it. But, to answer your question.. Yes, I do believe we got along rather well..
As he grew older, King Vulfram took it upon himself to chronical his life, with the aid of a young sound specialist who over time became the king’s de facto biographer. Sylus Girdbeck would remain a close friend to the king and eventually the family, and wept quietly to himself from his chair by the door as the memoir played. Despite the state of war between the two princes, The Elven King was given a ceremonious funeral, one that (despite the human hostility about Ylleria) Vulfram had to attend. Ecruir, though cold, respected the ageing king’s desire to be close to the head of the procession, to see his friend of many decades off into the next life. Despite the fact that Naerzo believed in no such thing, Vulfram hoped the emperor would be there for him when it was his turn to arrive.
The day had lapsed into night, the moon was a sliver in the sky, and the ambient light of the stars illuminated the forests and meadows that surrounded the Zaelandt Estate, the private seasonal, residence of King Vulfram. The Queen had excused herself long before, accompanied by Girdbeck, Maethias and his wife, leaving only Kara and Villim, and a pair of guards by the door.
There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of Damein…
The pair sat silently, as the needle went around the record, occasionally popping and hissing. They looked down into their drinks, a wine and a gin-tonic respectively, the mood was indeed a sombre one, as news came from their father’s bedchamber regarding his deteriorating health. They’d look up at each other when they heard footsteps on the floorboards above, and Villim checked his watch constantly as if the train was late.
“10 Lire he won’t last the night.” Kara said finally, breaking the silence, making the tasteless joke to cut the tension in the air. Villim snorted, followed by a mirthless chuckle, rummaging through his trouser pocket sarcastically before sitting up in his seats. He would have taken that bet, had he carried cash on him.
“I don’t think father would appreciate us gambling under his nose.” Looking over at his sister, a thought flitted through his mind. Maethias was meant to be king, after Damein perished he was set to inherit the throne from their incumbent father, but as he grew older he realised it would not have been in the country’s best interests if a deaf man inherited. His sister, his elder by 2 years, couldn't inherent on account of being a woman, however unfair the law was it had not been changed. That left Villim, and the stress had certainly gotten to him as his father’s health deteriorated. More and more of his time was demanded by preparatory lessons, military academies, observing parliament, and other activities, despite all this he wasn't sure whether he was going to be ready or not.
But time waited for no man.
From upstairs, through the floorboards, a wail cried through the house and the pair dropped their eyes somberly. Villim rose, looked up and took a long draught from his drink, raising his glass to the ceiling.
“Dear Lord-Father, Who art king in the heavens and on the earth, Deliver us your blessings and deliver us from your wrath, And keep us in your good company, For this time and all times.” He proclaimed, before placing his glass down and taking a shaky breath. “Son of a bitch I think I'm going to have a heart attack.” He muttered under his breath as he headed for the doors, the gleaming guards pulling them open as he passed through.
‘Long live the King.’ Kara thought, biting back her tears as she contemplated her wine.
The headlines and records the next day echoed across a silent, sobered nation. From Zaelandt, on the Fallian border, all along the great tracks towards the capital, Mantz, in the north, people congregated to bid farewell to the Old King in his procession. The iron locomotive ripped across the landscape, Villim accompanying the body of his late father, cold under the layers of his uniform and regalia. Despite the noise of the steam engine and the grating of wheels against tracks, silence prevailed for the king-to-be. And it seemed for the time being that he understood the oblivion that his brother Maethias lived in.
In a cabin just ahead of the hearse, windows let the fleeting horizon peek at the pensive Prince. Pen in hand, he scribbled on a sheet of official stationery, fountain nib scrawling out his cursive thoughts. “To whom it may concern..” Villim mumbled, before shaking his head and crossing it out. “To all whom it concerns..” Two things really brought people together, enemies or otherwise, a wedding and a funeral. And his first official act as regent, before his ascension to the throne, was to assemble all those men and women of power and renown to watch his father be sent away.
He may have struggled with wording the invitation, but he did not struggle to recognize to whom his father’s death concerned. An invitation to a funeral was always signed, sealed and delivered from one state to another, and who the recipient state would send to represent itself was wholly up to itself. Except for that one time. There were two people he wanted to be there, to be within spitting distance of one another. As such, Villim would not pen a letter to Yllendyr, instead he wrote two, inviting the pugilist princes both to the funeral.
Villim looked over his shoulder, at the door that lead to the hearse, where a flag draped coffin sat silently and in the dark. His father had met Olarth and Ecruir both, multiple times over many decades. They were the same age when they first met, despite them looking like children, but so was the curse of the elf. Villim hoped the death of someone close to their father could bring them close enough to have a dialogue.
“Someone has to sort out this mess.” He mumbled before binning the piece of paper.
To you, the most Regal Prince in Ylleria,
On behalf of the Union of Zeeborg and Fallia, a writ is sent. For by now the sad news of King Vulfram of House Wittykr-Marla’s passing must have reached you and your most esteemed court. This writ hereby asks of the Prince a moment of his time, to contemplate the life of another, and to join the mourners in congregation at the Baziliq af Mantz.
With respects and in the highest regard,
Heir-Apparent Villim of House Wittykr-Marla
___________________________________
To you, the most Serene Prince in Altairis,
On behalf of all the peoples of Zeeborg-Fallia, I do write to inform the passing of his Highness King Vulfram of House Wittykr-Marla. And as nation, it would bring us great peace of mind if you could dedicate a day of your life to remember the legacy of another, at the Basilique du Mantz.
Faithfully,
Prince-Regent Villim of House Wittykr-Marla
To all whom it concerns,
From one nation, to another. It is in this time, of great mourning, over the loss of HRH King Vulfram I, that the Union of Zeeborg-Fallia extends a warm hand of goodwill. And invites, any official who sees it fit and right to celebrate and remember the life of our dear sovereign, commencing the 3rd of this month, in the year 1905 of our lord, in the nave of the Basilica of Mantz.
Type of Government: Federal, representative democratic, constitutional monarchy. Three chamber parliament, consisting of the lower house (Kamber’af Minskin/Chambre du Peuple), the upper house (Kamber’af Hearen/Chambre du Seigneurs) and the Royal Court (Keningskip/Conseil Monarchique).
Head(s) of Government:
H.R.M. King Vulfram of House Wittykr-Marla, Head of State. Priminister Borb V. Ginderling, Head of Government. Holy Father Frische Pomello, Head of The Church of Zeeborg-Fallia.
Much of Zeeborg-Fallia is agrarian in nature, with over half of the population employed in the agricultural sector, or as farmers to fill their own food demands. In recent times however, through government subsidies and education programs, there has been a calculated, planned increase of migration from the countrysides to city centers. In addition to this, with the advent of fertilizers and better farming techniques, food production increased beyond consumption rates, and encouraged the produce export industry, and the invention of various processes to treat, preserve and can food stuffs. The mineral sector is the next largest, the country being blessed with deep reserves of iron and coal but not much else, as a result, the quarrying of rock and sediment forms an unusually large part of the mining sector. A caveat to this however is silver, for which the country has two large deposits, in the proximity of the capital and the second city, the latter being the more plentiful. As far as heavy industry is concerned, most manufacturing takes place in the metropolitan area around the capital, due to the grand canal that allows goods to be transported out to the Meer and on to the world at large. The most prolifically produced luxury goods in Zeeborg-Fallia are those related to music, instruments, gramophones, vinyl records, microphones, high-quality cabling. Song, Poetry and The Spoken Word were and continue to be an important part of daily life, as such a well skilled community of craftspeople emerged to fill the niche. Zeeborg-Fallia also has control of a small but renowned merchant fleet, docking at ports along the banks of Lacq Meer, and flying the flag of the merchant navy. Most merchant navy ships often engaging in ocean whaling when out at sea, and generate added revenue from the valuable oils, meat, ambergris and highly prized scrimshaw. It has an operational tonnage of almost 4 million long tons.
Primary Species:
98% Human (Zeeborgish 61%, Fallians 36%, Other 1%), 1% Elf, 1% Other, a few Giants.
Population:
30,000,000
Culture:
Zeeborgs (Singular, Zeeborg or Zeeborger; Plural, Zeeborgish) are traditionally stiffer, quieter, and more reserved than their southern neighbors, they are concerned with functionality and efficiency. This is reflected in their personal appearances, blacks, white, beiges and greys are the de facto colors that make up what is acceptable (and economical). The Zeeborgs speak Zeeborgish, as a first language, a consonant filled language unusual due to the brevity of sentences and words, it is considered the least funny or romantic of the languages by all in Zeeborg-Fallia. To the south of them lie the other significant group, the Fallas (Singular, Falla; Plural, Fallians, Fallas) who are a stark contrast to the Zeeborgs. They are a more open, merry, and less drab people than their northern cousins, and have produced the vast majority of the poets, musicians and artists that have come to fame in Zeeborg-Fallia. Expectedly, as if the two groups have different uniforms, the Fallians dress in a wider range of colors, patterns and styles. Their language is lilting and filled with long, windy words and a love of plurals, even their syntaxes make it so that sentences are unusually long, despite this it is agreed that their language is more pleasant to the ear, but this does not mean one is richer than the other. There are however cultural norms that cross the divide of culture. Personal marksmanship is a critical part of the development of a male in Zeeborg-Fallia, and is often drilled into people from a young age, producing generations of competent marksman. If the rifle is the right arm of a Zeeborgish-Fallian man, the the dog is the left. Most households have some kind of dog, this stems from a long tradition of training and breeding dogs for hunting, shepherding and guarding. They developed a role in pest control with the advent of international trade, bringing in invasive species of birds and rodent. For a woman however, cooler heads prevail, they are often there to undo the mess of their menfolk, and as such they hold a well loved place in society. Being matrons of the home as well, as a national average, women are more likely than men to complete secondary school, and traditionally form the support men need to go be reckless. As such, most mothers and wives tent to know something about patching people up, and have taken this into advantage, most nurses, apothecers and general practitioners of medicine are women. In terms of education, every citizen has the right to free primary education, which involves Arithmetic, Zeeborgish, Fallian, and an Elective. Secondary education involves a small degree of specialization, and is of a more rigorous level, and is often different regionally, in contrast to Primary education which is prepared by the state. There are only three major universities in Zeeborg-Fallia, two in Zeeborg and one in Fallia, both teach in both languages but tend to have higher acceptance rates from students in their regions. Nevertheless, tertiary, university level education is very uncommon still. Despite having a written language, a significant amount of the knowledge and mediums of storing information are sound based, on record, or recording cylinders, and recently on experimental punchcard audiographs. Most articles of writing come with an audio counterpart, and in some cases are more popular, especially for poems and short stories. The proliferation of recording equipment and sound expertise also lead to the boom in the music industry, where before you were limited to where you could go and listen to music, now it is not unusual for households to have small libraries of music.
Religious and Other Beliefs:
The Church of Zeeborg-Fallia, is monotheistic faith, composed of a body of clergy of which one (Currently Father Frische Pomello) is first among equals. The theology of the church centers around the belief of a singular, omnipotent deity, Got, Lord of Worlds. They preach from the scripture that is believed to be the word of Got, and from the Anthology, a collection of volumes of analogies regarding the lives of saints and those chosen by Got to pass down his words from on high. The Church’s area of influence is subdivided into Ecclesiastical Provinces and Parishes, in descending size order. Parish priests are representatives of the Church at the local level, who performs baptisms, gives sermons and religious lectures, manages the church’s school and hospital, and collects census data on deaths and births in their parish. Ecclesiastical Priests are the parish priests for their particular parish, but have the added role of managing the regional coffers of the church and when the Holy Father passes on, elect a new one from among themselves. All priests are technically civil servants, due to the census data being collected by the governments from them, and because they run government primary schools and hospitals from their premises. A distinct part of the church is the Monastic Order, groups of priests who live in seclusion in places of sanctuary or divine importance and dedicate their lives to Got, they vow poverty and detach themselves from material possession. They often send members among them to preach itinerantly, and are renowned for the goods they produce, like wines and wood carvings and dyed fabrics and leathers. Martial Chaplins are also almost exclusively monks, as such most monks go through a level of militia training.
Location/Territories:
Climate:
The country experiences mild temperatures, temperate throughout the year, snow arrives in Decumber and recedes in Ganuary. Rain is most prevalent in spring and autumn, summers rarely exceed 30 degrees centigrade. The south of the country is divided from the north by a series of woodlands and hills, dividing two relatively flat planes, though the south is more hilly, approaching mountainous at the southernmost border. The north is marshy, though much has been reclaimed for agriculture, and is dotted with prominent hills. The climate dries up and elevation increases closer to the northern frontier, which is mostly rolling fields of tall grass and small patches of forestation.
Military:
Garde Civique/Borgwach: 77,000 personnel, 100 x 3” light field guns, 250 x belt-fed machine guns, magazine bolt-action rifles, hand grenades, revolvers. Basic volunteer forces, professional soldiers whose sole jobs are to soldier. They are characterised by their black great coats, silver buttons and buckles, heavy packs and black hats. Garde-côte/Kustwacht: 1500 personnel, 100 x patrol boats, 10 x 9” Coast Guns, 60 x 6” Coast Guns, tube-fed lever-action carbines, auto-loading pistols, shotguns. Dressed in white and blue, the coast guard protect and monitor the comings and goings of merchant ships, boarding all of them before they come to port. Gendarmerie/Miltêr-Plyse: 85,000 personnel, Shotguns, Single-shot breech-loading rifles, revolvers. The police of the country, they wear dark blue uniforms trimmed with silver, often wearing black leather rain cloaks and constabulary hats. For times when more force than their revolvers or truncheons is neccssary, they often dawn chest plates and arm themselves with rifles and shotguns. Gardeduroi/ Keningwacht: 10,000 personnel, magazine bolt-action rifles, automatic pistols, hand grenades, light machine-guns, light/medium morters, automatic shotguns, melee weapons. The king’s guard is the elite military institution in Zeeborg-Fallia, with the best equipment and training, they are the cream of the crop, the most capable soldiers are skimmed out of training and are put through the rigorous process of becoming a king’s guard. The main differences between the Civil Guard and the King’s Guard uniforms are that the KGs carry much lighter packs, have more ammunition pouches, and have colored feathers in their hats. They are designed to be mobile, fast and effective, and are currently exploring the idea of motorization.
Magic Prevalence/Usage and Elemental Alignment: Basically nothing. Few individuals have trinket abilities, though not banned by the church, they look down at it.
History/Background Info:
De Sintoarloch/la Guerre de Scor/The Cinder War: The Cinder War is remembered in the sychy of the nation as a final dance, an epic battle for which they gave their all but it was not good enough. To their credit though, they held back the Elves for far longer than they had any right to. It was the Summer of 1719, and on her Northern Frontier, Zeeborg-Fallia was facing harassment from Illinderisch soldiers on her forts and towns, no one took much from it as the two countries had been hostile for years, a dispute over sea access. The garrisons in the north were enough to brush off the attackers. But without hindsight, the idea that these attacks were simply the pokings and proddings of a probing hand were inconceivable. Until on the 22nd of Ly, the Illinderisch launched an attack on the border fort at Bierblek. First hand accounts, though scarce, agreed that the fort fell in days and had been surrounded and overwhelmed before messengers could be sent out to warn the rest of the chain of the impending invasion. The Elvish armies left Bierblek in ruins, those who couldn’t escape or stay hidden when it was stormed were hunted and killed ruthlessly. The initial wave of attacks sent a shock through the nation, as forts all along the border fell in a similar fashion to Bierblek. By Vember all the forts in the frontier had fallen, much to the surprise of the Elven generals, who did not anticipate such vigorous defence or lack of willingness to surrender. This bought the Zeeborgs more time, as they bolstered the towns and cities to the south, dug fortifications and blew bridges. The Illinderisch high command were furious, they were making progress, but they would not reach the capital before winter snowfall came. The Elves sent an appeal, an ultimatum to the Fallians, whose land had yet to be occupied or otherwise wracked by the slowly approaching war: “Join us, and fight against your Zeeborgish overlords, and you will be guaranteed amnesty and lenient treatment.” The Fallians refused, instead taking up arms with their Zeeborgish cousins, it is noted that after the ultimatum, the number of Fallian soldiers heading to the front had soared rapidly. In the end, the Fallians were rewarded for their steadfastness, and the crown-prince took a Fallian commoner as his wife. Winter slowed the Elvish offensive down to a halt, during their retreat from the invader, Royal Engineers torched forests and caved in coal mines, livestock was hurriedly shepherded behind the lines and any crops or orchards still remaining were burnt to nothing. Skirmishers did their best to hamper supply routes behind the enemy lines, and the few months of snow and rain were made miserable for the Elven Army. However, in that winter the elves too would strike blows. The then king was visiting soldiers at the front line, much to their fanfare, when he was picked off by an Elvish sharpshooter. In anger, the troops launched an offensive against the Illinderisch lines, but were ultimately futile in changing the pitch of the war. Instead the Elves counter attacked, and sunk deep into the country, until finally they reached the walls of the ancient capital. Where not even the great guns, bombards and mortars of the walls and castle were enough to keep the war-furious invaders from breeching and finally ending the war with the capture of the newly coronated king. An unconditional surrender was signed, though the king was allowed to stay. In the next few weeks the elves imposed a new constitution on Zeeborg-Fallia, weakening the power of the king and establishing a parliament and cabinet to keep the power of the popular monarch in check. Additionally, to further aid their conquest of other lands, the elves demanded reparations of money and men to fight in their distant wars, the defeated nation could not say no. This vassalage set the stage for the next few hundred years, as the country recovered from the violent events and picked itself back up. Modernity had arrived and hope returned that eventually, one day, they would be free from the yoke of the Illinderisch. But still, the shadows looms over the country, and when the elves come to collect their due, the nation collectively scowls and carries on with its business.
mattmanganon
ArsenicBronze
CosmicDeep
Vampiretwilight
Little Bill
Crimson Flame
cosmiccowgirl
Star Light
KrystalKleo
