In the third quarter of 1758, LVFdS departed from the Lenore-Styx Spaceport on her ninety-third voyage. LVFdS was intended to, as had become routine at this point, transport passengers to Terrestria's largest moon, Lily, before completing a full circle of Terrestria as part of a holiday package. This route would have taken three weeks. LVFdS did not complete its journey in scheduled time. As of publication, the LVFdS Incident remains the most fatal space disaster outside of wartime.
-Third Quarter, Day 112, 1758-
JNO Callista Bannon adjusts her tight-fitting cap. Her ashy black hair pokes out of its every edge. The standard navigation officer uniform calls for a flat-topped hat with an oval brim, and the women's sizes generally number fewer than the men's ones. She thinks to herself that when she is promoted from a junior and receives a white-trimmed hat, she will request a size up. She wants to itch at the collar of her shirt, but doesn't. The captain is watching, and she doesn't want to appear improper. She wants to impress, in hopes that the captain will have a more sympathetic view on her upcoming proposal than any of her closer colleagues.
The captain is not paying much attention to Callista; her attention is drawn moreso to the route projection on the console that the junior officer stands beside. She is irritated that this will be the last time she commands this vessel.
"Unbelievable, isn't it? I've served this ship well. Given it my all. Two years, not the longest time, but two good years. I... ah, I'm sorry. You don't need to hear this."
Her personal attendant, or as she refers to him, the 'captain's mate', gives a momentary pause, an awkward nod and then quietly replies. His baby blue uniform is stained; this morning, he spilled the captain's piping-hot coffee onto himself and had to sheepishly return to the machine for a second serving.
The captain muses on her situation.
>She is Natalya Kornilov. She hails from the Southeastern Union. While docked at Lenore-Styx, she got into a drunken barfight while arguing about the political state of the Union with a Hanii corporate delegate and severely beat the man. She is currently pending detention for this.
>She is Celine Cerceronne. She hails from Borne. For the past six years, she has been a staunch advocate and activist for increasing the rights of Fortunatos and Alhazen. Following the Blue Uprising, this is prohibited strictly in Borne, and she is to be detained.
>She is Gāo Yanmin. She hails from Zheisang. When she was younger, she killed and buried her maturity director due to their abuse. The body has been recovered and links to her have been made, marking her for detention.
Once, the land of Pavilion was nothing more than a barren land, of empty waste and rock. Then the spark of life flared up. Roots rendered rock into soil. The hot lands cooled and rain fell. Great rivers rolled from the mountains, filling the great lake at the center of the land. Thick swamps, great forests, and expansive grasslands filled the land. Soon after the people of Pavilion rose up, each stranger than the last, guided by gods and spirits, wielders of magic and metal. Tribes became nations, nations became empires, and empires became tribes once again. The current age opens on a collection of tribes and nations poised at the beginning of a new era, where they may rise into great empires...or fall into oblivion. Shepherd your people, make love or war, and create a nation that stands the test of time!
This is a freeform NRP. The rules are minimal and mostly QM-determined. The emphasis is on roleplay and characterization. QMs reserve the right to change judgements, make final decisions, and forbid further argumentation. If you have questions, feel free to ask them here or in our discord using the invite code: F2Patcf
Remember, losing is fun and winning is gay!
Submissions are open to all, with a maximum player count of 17. To submit a nation, please use the following template:
>Civilization/Race Name: >Capital Name: >Brief Summary of Nation: >Optional Fluff:
Please also attach an image of your preferred starting location
You receive two actions per turn, including this one. Boring turns will receive boring responses. Turns are processed in the order they are submitted. RP and diplomacy are both free and encouraged.
"Run away, little blue bird," the man who raised you commands, before he closes a hidden door behind you. You pound your fists upon the hidden exit, tears streaming down your face as you beg for him to come with you. He repeats himself in his answer, commanding you to, "Run away and live. This old man will make sure those pigs can't follow."
"Father!" you scream at the door, which pretends to be nothing more than a wall of stone and brick. That wise old man never asked you to call him Father, but always smiled when you did. Always listened more intently. "Father, you can't stay behind, they'll... I don't know what I'll do without you..."
A familiar hand clasps your shoulder from behind.
With a bright smile, you turn around. You <span class="mu-i">knew</span> that old codger was just playing a trick on you!
Yet the reassuring figure standing behind you is only an illusion. One that fooled even you, his greatest pupil and apprentice, if only for a moment. The weathered face of the man who raised you cracks into a little smile and tells you that, "I'm sure you'll do just fine, little blue bird. I'm sure you'll do <span class="mu-i">just</span> fine. Now fly far, far away, as far as your wings will take you. You've very precious cargo in that haversack, and you must keep it secret and safe..."
At that reminder, you dry your tears with a wipe of your sleeve and bolt down the sewer's drainage way. Your arms pump with every step, your breath not quite too heavy to keep a curse from your lips: "Damn you, Father. This wasn't the plan!"
Yet you know plans change. It's more important than your father's life that the tome you carry and the ring you wear do not fall into the hands of unruly savages. Two hundred and seventy three forbidden spells are sealed within the tome against the day they are needed. Orcish shamans would use them without a care in the world for the consequences. As for the ring...
It is one of nine. Nine rings for the nine kingdoms, held in trust by the greatest sorcerers in the land. Father's ring holds domain over illusion magics, the magics he past down to you: his familiar, turned daughter, turned apprentice. With his fate sealed, you must bring it to the Conclave for safe keeping, until it chooses for itself another worthy hand to truly <span class="mu-i">wear</span> it.
The sewer line exits into a grate, where you return to the form of your birth to flutter through the iron bars. Your blue feathers match your hair, the golden beak matching your eyes.
You run faster as a human though, and to a human you return to follow the river to the sea.
The docks are clear, or almost so. Off to the side, a pair of orcs have struck a bounty of a lone guardswoman, whom they slowly strip of armor. You hear her squealing voice as they grope her shouting, "Get your hands off me, you dirty pigs!"
Roll a d100 and... >Save her. >Do not help her. >Save her and demand she help you as payment. A swordswoman could be useful in your quest.
Choosing not to hijack another thread because the mods will probably not be too pleased (I think it only worked / went under the radar for the original thread because it was already about evolution games, so it got traffic from people who play evolution games). I'm not the original hijacker, but I'm keeping the same rules: Go evolve, one alteration at a time.
Cladogram attached; if you evolve from something in the first thread, please specify which one you're evolving from. After that, reply to your chosen ancestor for each evolution.
The first thing that you remember is that you are dead.
The total separation of your head from the rest of your body took less than a second, but one's perception of time becomes warped in moments of extreme stress and stimulation. For you, it felt more like a year, like twelve months of terrible agony. Now you are alone and there is nothing but absolute sensory deprivation, a void that encompasses the entirety of your being.
Yet somehow, you are aware of it. You're dead. You shouldn't be aware of anything.
<span class="mu-b">Who are you?</span>
Those three words reverberate in your mind. They feel like a thought, but they are too coherent, too deliberate, too sudden. They came from nowhere, they were precipitated by nothing. The question comes from beyond the void, from outside of yourself. Someone, or something, wants to learn who you are. Reflexively, you recall your name and by doing so, you inadvertently share that information with this intruder.
<span class="mu-g">Sasha Malevich.</span>
That isn't the only information that you provide. Everything that you think, everything that you feel, the totality of yourself is bared with your captor. With nothing but your own thoughts to occupy you, it seems as though as an eternity passes before the next external thought is thrust into your brain. In this abyss, it is impossible to keep track of time.
<span class="mu-b">Sasha. You died ten years ago, during the Fall. Fortunately, we were able to retrieve a copy of your ego, and many others, from a TITAN uploading facility. This means that you can be resleeved. You will be able to live again. How do you feel about this prospect?</span>
Your memories are still coming back to you, slowly but surely. You are yet to recall what a TITAN is, or what the Fall was. However, you are able to remember what resleeving is. Your ego, your mind, can be copied and placed within a new morph, a new body. Back when you were alive, it was a relatively new process, one that rendered death inconsequential and was surrounded by controversy. After all, the copy isn't actually you, is it? It would be a newly born entity, with your memories. But if that is true, then what does that make you, in your current state, floating in this empty abyss?
>You feel horrified. The real you is long dead. You are nothing but a soulless replica, you shouldn't exist at all. This is sick and wrong. >You feel angry. You died ten years ago, why couldn't they do this any sooner? You have every reason to resent a world that left you behind. >You feel wary. There has to be some sort of catch. You won't agree to anything until you know what this stranger wants from you in return. >You feel grateful. It doesn't matter that you're a copy, or that it will be a copy of you walking around in a new morph. You will persist. >Renew your neuroplasticity. You recall how to prevent your true thoughts from being read in situations like this. However, the intruder will be aware of your resistance.
The Eternal Empire has stood for 14 millennia and has endured hundreds of wars, calamities, and rulers of every type. For the first time under the reign of House Heinrich, an armed expedition has been sent into the Lost Reaches.
Far from an exploration attempt, it's chasing the promise of piratical treasure.
