Extractable: Metals - everything that's not helium and hydrogen - can be produced from volitiles and energy Volitiles - helium and hydrogen Energy - light and warmth and stuff
Rare extractable: Strings - needeed to do stuff that breaks laws of physics - precursors (TM) built the ftl lanes with it. (with enough tech players can use it to connect outside the cluster systems too so as long as you don't annoy me the map is infinite) Psi - can be harvested from one star and from your population - magic wizard power. Neutronium - raw neutrons - artificial gravity and exotic matter sheninigans - visit a pulsar
National: Workforce
Produceable resources include: Organics - can be grown purely with energy and metals Tech - requires metals and workforce Antimatter - requires energy and volitiles
>Nation submission tenmplate drops tomorrow. submit nations by friday. first update saturday or sunday
> Players may chose 2 starting boons and one starting malice. (or just 1 boon). Fluff out what you want for those.
Further mechanically relevant information will be provided on game start.
The game will be run hybrid on discord and 4chan. Can be played just via 4chan, but then paste this into your action posts (playing just via 4chan) each time so I can include relevant meta information in your update if needed and so other players know to start diplomacy on here.
An innocent and curious witch is looking up at you, with eyes so bright that they almost contain as many stars as your hair does. However, while you do want ghost cultivation to spread, nothing good will come from giving away a blueprint or step by step guide for other daoists to practice, making it easy or cheap goes against your ambition and would kneecap these young, newly minted ghost fanatics before they could even dream of retracing your steps through the graveyard! In a mischievous mood, and wanting to scare off those dabblers who were only caught up in the excitement and don't really have the mindset or half the courage necessary to follow the Dao of Ghosts, let along the dao of grudges as well, you decide to give the students from the other sects a little scare.
"Here is one" You say, beckoning the excited witch closer, not missing the smug look she shoots her martial siblings and peers from other sects. Her confidence and big head both deflate as you slap an open palm on her meager chest and use a principle you use to trap rebellious or annoying ghosts into specially prepared pots or boxes, trapping them inside. But rather than forcing something in, or pushing your way to take residence yourself, you instead grab hold of her soul directly, covering your hand in a gossamer thin glove of pure ghostly yin Qi as you grab and yank out her soul.
"This" You tell the flaring, living soul in your palm, spreading out just enough ghostly yin Qi into the air to pull down the curtains between life and death enough for the other disciples trusted to you to see her as her body goes limp and falls into your arms "Is what it feels like to be a wandering soul"
Cooing and purring, you stroke and pet the soul held in your hand, eyes glowing with gravetorch fire as the rest of the crowd of novices goes quieter than an empty grave. "Isn't the sensation enlightening?"
You stare down into the witch's spirit, cackle and shove her back into her mortal vessel, the red strings tying her soul to her body going slack the moment you release your grip on her soul. Then you drop her, leaving her to blink awake as her body remembers it is supposed to be alive, her sun kissed cheeks drained of color and a bit of drool crawling out of the corner of her mouth. Certain you've taught her a lesson in prudence, you turn to face the other students whose eyes flick between her and you as you place your hands on your hips and cackle as creepily as you can manage, while haughtily declaring "Heh-Heh-Heh! I'll do it for free, if any of the rest of you wish to experience it" Cont
Although historians would only later append 'the Younger' to the name of Prince Cyrus--to distinguish him from his father--he was worthy of that epithet already. He was barely twenty-two. He kept a short black beard, the best he could manage in his youth, and the Persian habit of painting his eyes with kohl. He sat a horse loosely and without effort. At close quarters one could see the scars, white and ridged where his coat opened at the neck and where his sleeve met his hand, which were rumored to have been earned in deadly contest with a bear. He was, from his birth, serious and thoughtful. Often, he sent wine or meat from his own table to men who pleased him. Men who displeased him left his court short a hand, a foot, or an eye.
His seat was in Sardis, the old Lydian capital at the foot of Mount Tmolus. The timber and mud-brick houses of Sardis crowded around the narrow Pactolus, whose sands had once made Lydian kings rich. Above them the acropolis ascended a sheer ochre crag, so that the city seemed to be shaded by a fortress. Lydian craftsmen, Greek traders, Persian officials, and soldiers from half a dozen countries jostled in its markets. It was prosperous and ancient, but not peaceful by nature. Cyrus the Great had taken it from Croesus, and Greek rebels had burned it a century before. Its present tranquility was yet another anomaly of the age maintained by Persian spears.
It was there, in Sardis, that Cyrus ordered his scattered Greek contingents to assemble. Two thousand men gathered by his guest-friend Proxenus of Boeotia, fifteen hundred hoplites, another five hundred light-armed men with javelins, slings, or bows. The Peloponnesian War had ended only three years before. Many among them faced the prospect of neglected farms, inherited debts, or cities which disdained their return, and so had not yet left the service.
Their present task, so they were told, was to put down the hill tribes which were troubling the Prince's lands in Pisidia. It was to be a short and predictable campaign, no more than a season's march, with a few villages spoiled and plundered, some Pisidian barbarians butchered. A common enough kind of war, and to many, a last chance at redemption or glory or fortunes, before the inevitable retirement.
Much is spoken of the First Vitelian Empire’s most famous leader, the radiant and great Augustus Superbus. Most of it is praise by traditionalists, mournful pleas for his reimaging to come forth and divest Vitelia of its woes, especially by those who would consider him a Saint who enacted the Will of God. Yet those who called themselves Futurists considered a different aspect of him besides grandiose glory attributed to his reign and his Empire. Emperor Augustus was trained in the classical way by his father, Titianus Superbus, founder of the First Empire, and Augustus authored his chronicle on philosophy and rulership a long while into his famous reign, but that chronicle was also not what Futurists considered. Instead, they examined an apocryphal writing by Augustus, one made in his youth, said to have been written just before he was selected as heir to an empire. Structured as a poetic epic might be, Augustus was far from a talented poet at the time, were said writing indicative of his skill, but the words were those of a sort that led to any claims of authorship being denied and refuted by those who venerated his name most over the centuries.
The poem was part of a collection, an entire story, though it had been long lost or never completed. The individual nature of the poem even lends credence to the widespread thought that it was a forgery merely attributed to a famous name, as it was discovered over two hundred years after Augustus’s death. It described an adventure of a man called Helgo, who was a compatriot of Sversk the Conqueror, though in braving the maelstrom alongside him, he was blown south while Sversk was blown north, Helgo eventually making landfall in ancient Vitelia, where he would form his kingdom.
Helgo was, of course, fictional, as no records whatsoever record him, his voyage, or even being one of Sversk’s companions, but there is also little to imply that Augustus claimed him to be real either. All of that beside the point, interpreted from the remnants of the singular piece of the epic, the poem called <span class="mu-i">Turris Somniorum</span> described Helgo and his followers, numbering over one thousand then, coming upon a great and mysterious tower with a shining beacon at its head, which had been followed out of the Maelstrom. At the tower’s foot was a strange inscription, claiming that one who claimed the light at the top of the tower, would have their wishes granted, if only they could reach so high. All that was mentioned next, in the poem’s incomplete form, was how Helgo returned from the tower’s peak completely alone, and how the tower’s visage was a grim one indeed, but he needed no longer look upon its terrifying height.
Such is the story wrote by a young Emperor to be, and the fascination of Futurists. They wonder themselves; is this Tower of Dreams, the <span class="mu-i">Torre dei Sogni</span>, something that the young Emperor knew one must conquer, no matter the time and place, if they are to forge a path into a greater era?
Fulmenaxor destroyed the last Mountainhall in a single night of fierce flame. The dragon blew open the upper gates, burned down the halls where the clans had mustered, and nested within the great treasure vaults while the survivors fled through mines, drains, forgotten roads. No other dwarf hold remained.
The dwarves scattered. Some found work in foreign towns. Some hid in the wilderness. Others became servants, mercenaries, prisoners, or nameless wanderers. Families lost one another. Hope was entombed with passing time.
Now six dwarf families have gathered at the mouth of an empty mountain. They intend to establish a fortress where the scattered survivors may return and live as dwarves again. You are their leader.
A hidden refuge can protect only those to whom it is known. Therefore it's name must be carried by merchants, pilgrims, and rulers to the far corners of the realm, that it might reach the ears of those forgotten dwarves. But be warned, as the fortress becomes more famed, its enemies, drawn by legend and eternal greed, will commit ever greater forces against it.
And if the traders carry its name far enough, Fulmenaxor may wake from his dreamless slumber and learn that some of his victims have built another hall.
But for now, hope is quarried once more. It is time to strike the earth!
Choose leader: >Datost Cinderhelm Datost held the last passage open while other families fled, then led six of those families across the ruined roads, bearing a shield scorched black by Fulmenaxor's fire. Born of a martial clan, he rose to prominence in the old mountainhall as Captain of the Watch. Though once a prudent dwarf, the fall and subsequent exile have made him something of a madcap. Defensive Captain: +2 to defense at the fortress or an outpost. Reckless Commander: Failed military action queues casualties, supply loss, or retaliation.
>Varik Oathkeeper Varik served as an ambitious young clerk and envoy before the fall. He gathered six families and the necessary supplies and passage through a long sequence of negotiation and political manuevering. He knows well the foreign courts and the caravans, but that knowledge has come with some considerable debt. Diplomat: +2 to diplomacy, treaties, and hosted envoys. Indebted: Pay Gold 1 yearly or queue creditor trouble.
>Urist Firststone Urist was a senior architect who escaped through a deep tunnel in the old hall's foundations, known only to those descended from its original diggers. He made no effort to gather the dwarves whom he now leads--they came to him, for he alone remembers the design of the old halls. He has no real desire or talent for leadership, but has taken on a mantle out of a devotion to restore the glory of the mountainhome. Engineer: +1 to the first seasonal excavation or construction labor total. Vain: If the fortress gains no Renown in a year, Happiness -1.
Welcome to Vanguard Quest, a simple cooperative mech skirmish quest. New players are welcome any point - if you want to join, please review the latest assembly options below and post your loadout! Thank you for playing!
Ever-gleaming and lustrous, it flows through your veins IN this dilapidated iron tomb floating in space. It is a medium between <span class="mu-s"> Mekkina </span> and <span class="mu-s"> Magika </span> . An intertwined heresy that had doomed your creators by merging the divine ichor of the long dead <span class="mu-s"> Automia </span> with their technological advancements in liquid form, they didn’t revive the goddess they coveted oh so much, instead, a new menace would rise from her rotten womb: <span class="mu-s"> <span class="mu-i"> The Revenants </span> </span> . Aberrations of flesh and circuits with an endless thirst for the ever sweet blood of man.
In a sense, they are your less-than-refined brothers and sisters, crossbreeds of Mekkina and Magika but their hatred for petty mortals playing gods would result in total annihilation of all mankind according to the space station’s sensors. You are a failsafe or a countermeasure meant to exist for the sole purpose of <span class="mu-s"> reclaiming the planet </span>. No matter how resourceful you are, you can’t do it on your own. You must revive <span class="mu-s"> the Foundry </span> in order to forge the true saviors of humanity:
Throughout centuries worth of conflict against the Revenants, humanity had replicated the data of their finest inside an <span class="mu-s"> Argent Core </span>, a well spring of skills and knowledge needed to retake the planet. Tactical Girls will be born from your Argentum, your precious blood in the heart of the Foundry, are you ready to fulfill your destiny, <span class="mu-s"> Reclaimer </span> ?
<span class="mu-i"> The Foundry yearns for your succulent blood. Feed <span class="mu-s"> her </span> , Awaken bits of data forever trapped in a labyrinth of wires and shackling codes.
ARG: [30/30] ARG Regen: 1/QM Post Rolling dice is 1d1000 to acquire Tactis depending on <span class="mu-s"> Argent Path </span> : -Mekkina Tactis: 10 ARG -Magika Tactis: 10 ARG -Random Tactis: 5 ARG -Excess Rolls (rolling when out of ARG will generate Cheer! if it is a high roll (+700), enough Cheer! will grant extra ARG, One possible Chher! per ID though.) -Must Specify Argent Path while rolling, otherwise , it will default to Random Tactis Argent Path -Rarity: 1-500 (T0), 501-800 (T1), 801-990 (T2), 991-1000 (T3) </span>
>Roll 1d1000 + AG, a balanced Roster is recommended.
<span class="mu-i">The Halls of the High Hollow ring with the echoes of long past labors. They resonate with songs whose verses were long sung last. Your place is not amongst the fading frivolities which shall soon be forgotten. The depths call for you to strike the Earth, and the stone walls that protected the heart of world for ages unfathomable are still no obstacle to a child of perseverance.
To grasp the pickaxe and the spade is to have the riches of the world already half in hand. </span>
"Wait, you mean you knew <span class="mu-i">THE</span> Giovanni? As in THE leader of Team Rocket? The one that disappeared a few years ago? I don't-"
<span class="mu-g">"You brats don't got hardly any attention spans left at all, huh?! Ain't you been listening, kid, we didn't just know him, we practically put him on the map!"</span> Says a stout, gruff old man with a comb over and patchy stubble in charcoal black and silver-grey. The cigarette in his mouth falls out and into his coffee. His eyes have been scrunched shut the whole time, but they go wide and bloodshot at this. <span class="mu-g">"Ah, cripes, see whatcha made me do, brat?!"</span>
<span class="mu-b">"We got our start alongside his father, see? Rolled together and helped build the family business. We're the finest cat burglars in the region."</span> Adds the woman next to him, who seems every bit as old, with noticeable laugh lines on her face, and a small nose, with grey wavy hair that falls down to her chin in a bob cut. Her eyes are bright, sharp blue, and a little mischievous.
The kid sitting catty-corner to them at the long counter of the diner quirks one eyebrow, and lays his menu down flat in front of him. "I'm sorry... But aren't you a little old to be climbing up buildings and stealing things?"
Comb-over slams his fist down on the counter and points accusingly at the child with the other. His eyes are scrunched again, but angled down angrily. <span class="mu-g">"YOU AIN'T GOT A CLUE WHAT WE'RE TOO OLD FOR YA SNOT! WE'RE THE REAL DEAL PROFESSIONAL CRIMINAL AGENTS AND WE GOT DECADES OF EXPERIENCE, WE'RE SHARPER THAN EVER!"</span> He pulls three poke balls out of his pockets then, rising out of his seat and stepping back. <span class="mu-g">"I oughta teach you a lesson right here, right now, about respectin' your elders!"</span>
A black leather glove grips his shoulder, and another man, with a deeper voice, speaks up from behind him. <span class="mu-r">"George, you're making a scene. Smooth moves, right? Let's make it all smooth moves today."</span> He says calmly. He's got a leaner, more athletic build than the bruiser he's talking down, with a thick white mustache and mutton chops, a black scally cap on his head... And a black eyepatch with a bold, red letter 'R' on it. His gaze extends past the man's shoulder and to the woman. <span class="mu-r">"And Leslie, I told you not to let him have more than one cup of coffee - you know how he gets."</span> He chides with a slight smile. His good eye is a dull green color, and something flashes behind it when he speaks to her.
<span class="mu-b">"Good morning, Leonidas."</span> She says with a smirk. <span class="mu-b">"His wife told me not to let him have more than one side of bacon, either, with his blood pressure where it's been lately. But, well, you know how he gets."</span> She smiles then, showing a silver tooth on the left side that glints in the morning light.
In the world of Hainei, everything is desired, and there are those that will come together to tug even at what is ruined. But even what is in ruins is not truly dead, and as long as a heart remains that beats below the surface, it can be unearthed eventually.
