Welcome back to Our Brave Boys, a quest that is more about worldbuilding (or loredumping) but also a somewhat light RP setting. You are all young men of 20 years of age and are part of the Nation's Apprenticeship Required for Male Youths, otherwise known as ARMY. The Nation is one of many countries of the Empire, but after decades of suppressing Republican Revolutions, the Nation emerged as the leading faction championing the Monarchy, placing the late Princess of your Nation on the throne as Eternal Empress.
The quest essentially runs as a world event where you are all common soldiers who have little control over the progression of the war, but are nonetheless free to write bits of your characters' thoughts and even subtle actions to bring life to your characters.
The Nation has a mandatory conscription policy for all young men, who must serve for 5 years after conscription at 20 years of age. Nearly a year and a half has passed since the quest started, although new boys are welcome. You might want to skim through the archive to understand the lore.
<span class="mu-s">Summary</span> You are the junior brothers of Lexion XXI, 41st Artillery Cohort, Battery Green, Section 1.
The Empire has been ever watchful over Republican Revolutions in neighboring states. When the Southern Principality erupted into revolution, Legion XXI was commanded to establish a foothold to prepare the rest of the Imperial Army to land for invasion. You and your brothers had successfully assault and captured a small port town just outside the Ancient Capital, holding it for a few weeks. Just then, the rest of the Imperial Army arrived...
War War Never Changes. They finally fucking did it. The bombs fell not long ago. The world is over. No more people. Just shambling radioactive corpses. No more nations, just glowing craters, dust, and shadows of people that once were. No more seasons, just nuclear winter. Shopping? No such thing. Have fun struggling to find a drop of water or a crumb of food that won't kill you. The RADS oh god the fucking RADS, inescapable and everpresent. Truly the end of the world. Rapture maybe happened and whatever is left...well, most people are quickly giving up on God. Kinda hard to keep believing when the world ended, and you were left behind. Except for the zealots, anyway, but those guys are crazy as the cannibalistic raiders.
That isn't even getting into all the weird shit that keeps happening and becoming. Makes you wish it was 'just' a nuclear winter. Walking corpses. Mutants. Inexplicable anomalies. Unnatural terrain. Strange whispers that you aren't the only one hearing. Honestly, it just keeps getting worse...especially with everything you have to do just to 'survive'. Living...living is just a luxury that only the pre war world got to enjoy. You meanwhile, are just another poor sucker caught up in this clusterfuck, trying to survive.
(This quest will be ripping heavily from games like Fallout, Metro, Stalker, and Bioshock basically anything that fits within the setting theme to keep things interesting)
>Character Creation You may choose any trait from any game OR include a custom option that may be vetoed by me IF it's too unbalanced. Custom traits MUST include both positive and negative effects otherwise, it's an automatic veto.
The first character will be a young male because this is about a dynasty over the generations. So long as you have a living family member the game will not end however, your characters can and WILL die over time.
Anyway the last character DIED without offspring, resulting in game over, so now it's a restart with some adjustments. So here we go again. I wasn't joking about the difficulty...
It is the chirping of the birds which first jolts you from your stupor, proudly sitting upon their trees, singing jollies to and fro of the merry morning lights. You, who had found no rest, no shut eyes throughout the night, take it simply as an ringing pain on your head. For though you had momentarily found yourself lacking in cognition, it was not rest which you had felt, but a lapse in concentration, a departure of your thinking to some state of sickly torpor.
You had not slept for the entire night, and certainly, it hath given no benefit to your condition. But then again, how could you, with the challenges that you faced?
You are <span class="mu-s">Alessandro Galliota</span>, the Viscount of Portblanc. That much you can be sure of, even in your sorry state...you, who had been brought here to this land of Nera, this distant land from your own, by your great liege <span class="mu-s">Don Carles IV Brascarams</span>. You had come here to wage war in the name of the Spisa family, allied to your country, against the forces of the Fortelli, friendly to your foe. You had launched a campaign throughout their borderlands, partaken in a siege, and most of all, you had faced a force far mightier than yours, many times greater in both number and capability, aided by scores of Himmmerian Giants, those most fearful of enemies of the human race. For a whole day, you had succesfully fought them of, and, shattering the bridge which they sought to take in an pivotal moment, you had sunk to the depths of the river hundreds of their men.
You escaped death, too, by a hair's breadth, when the infamous <span class="mu-i">Famiglia</span>, those mighty knights of Nera, armed with beastly amazonian mounts, had been able to momentarily breach your formation. It was only by bidding your musketeers to fire upon them even as they fought your own men that you had survived, though at the cost of your entire retinue. All those things and much many others had happened yesterday, in this battle upon the Vessena. This battle, you are certain, has not ended yet, and it is this which brings you trouble. For today you must <span class="mu-s">seek out victory</span> and find a way to hold your foes at bay until the city of Montechia falls!
For now, however, breakfast will have to do. Shaking yourself out of this stasis, you raise yourself from the piece of wood that you had used as a seat for the night. <span class="mu-i">Because you had fled into the grove to make your camp</span>, you did not have the amenities of your lordly tent. Of course, compared to those amongst the soldiery who did not have any tent at all, you were not in a poor state. You order one of your servants to gather up whatever is available for you. What you receive, after some time, is...some bread, and some of the cheap rum that was served to the soldiery. Though it be enough to fill you, you cannot help but feel some manner of bitterness in the knowledge that you stand but a few minutes of travel away from your supply wagons.
<span class="mu-i"> In times of old, there stood many a great kingdom or realm, their lines proud, their kings great, and their works were legendary. It was a time of greatness for all, from all classes and races, for it was a time when the yields were abundant, the cattle fat, and the weather favourable.
This changed, however. A creature with a heart pitch-black and eyes of darkness and despair that rise and shrink with hate. All despaired at his coming and the hordes and legions he brought with him. Crowns were broken, castles slighted, and the kings lay broken. Like a vile black hand, his reach seemed boundless; with his fiery red eyes, his gaze kept his subjects obedient, and from a dark tower, this lord of evil watched over his realm as the land fell into darkness and despair, with hope fading like a dying ember.
But embers can flare up, and like the phoenix, a new generation of heroes and their hosts of light broke the chains, shattered his armies to the winds and finally brought an end to his reign of terror. As the morrow broke once more, it was thus proclaimed that nevermore should his name be uttered, nevermore should his remains be seen, and nevermore should there be fear of his tyranny. And so, the people rejoiced in their newfound freedom, rebuilding their shattered world with hope and determination for a brighter future. His artefacts and symbols, buried deep beneath the sands and earth, were so well hidden that not even the most fanatical cultist would find anything.
And yet in that lies the danger; dead though he may be, there are still those who revere him as though he were a god-king upon this earth, and his ilk have a tendency not to stay dead… There are still whispers, mutterings and vague prophecies about his return, though none have come true as of my writing this tome…. His name was struck from the lists of both paper and mind, so one would never again say that name which struck deep grief into the hearts of all peoples…. I shall end this book with a warning: if he does return, do not try to fight him; run. Run to the nearest authorities and alert them; fighting him alone shall surely be your doom, even if he's weakened, but the worst thing you can do is to let him speak; his words shall gnaw in your mind, his arguments shall be so persuasive that you will drop your weapons, and he shall weave a web of deceit that will ensnare even the strongest of wills. Hearken unto him, no matter his guise and form, and before too long you shall find yourself in eternal servility. </span>
It is nearing a year since you, The Courier, fought and secured independence of the Mojave from domestic and foreign powers. Mr. House was put on ice, the NCR got sent packing and even the mighty Legion tucked tail and fled back East.
Now, the New Vegas Directorate, your new government, faces as many challenges as it does opportunities. Industry is rapidly expanding and agriculture is now firmly established while migrants from around the wasteland flood in looking to change their fortunes.
But the Boomer Blight, an engineered plague from parts unknown, is spreading throughout the Wasteland and little looks uncontainable. You continue to walk the line in courting both the NCR and the Legion, seeking to be a stable power between the two warring giants.
A new player comes into the picture and he brings with him hundreds of Enclave descendants eager to start again. You have agreed to welcome them into the NVD but time will tell if you can hide their influence from the NCR while keeping other factions happy.
With the looming NCR election, the hostile President Kimball seems poised to lose to the unknown Allgood Murphy while Caesar continues to see you as his Augustus, urging greater cooperation between both nations.
The one-year anniversary is rapidly approaching and while a grand celebration is planned, existential threats lurk everywhere and with Mr. House on the loose, you can be sure you’ll see him one last time.
It has been millennia since humanity became a star faring race. Enough time for stellar regimes to have risen and fallen, for technologies to be forgotten and relearned and for a diaspora of life; both human and alien to spread across the galaxy.
The Raihan Empire is but one splinter of the human diaspora. At its height the Empire spanned eight star systems but eventually corruption and decay set in. The Empire collapsed, its great works crumbled, its worlds became isolated. For a thousand years it was so…
Until a new warlord arose on Raiha, one that managed to quell the disparate factions fighting over the Throne world. When all his enemies were vanquished he marched upon the palace district where the remnants of the Imperial family cowered. However, instead of seizing the throne for himself Arcturus Garan pledged himself and his army to the service of the remaining Empress and took the title of Lord Commander.
Together the Empress and Lord Commander began the process of rebuilding the Empire, first securing the home system, then bringing each of the wayward colonies back into the fold.
Five out of the original eight colonies have been absorbed back into the resurgent Empire. Only the systems of Noto, Higg and Kornen actively resist annexation. Together they have formed the NKH Defence Pact, or simply the Pact.
Now the Pact must guard its independence against the growing might of the New Raihan Empire. The odds are not in their favour, they are outnumbered and outgunned, but the Imperial Forces have not yet regained their full power and the war is not over yet…
Your life was an unmitigated disaster. A comedy of errors that would be funny... If it wasn't you.
You USED to be a star. You USED to shine brighter than any other.
You were a prodigy. You used to be... Someone. Everything you ever wanted and needed was within your grasp and you lost it.
Now, though? You're nothing; your purpose has been ripped from you and you can't let it go. Everyday exists for you to daydream about what could have been. A pointless and painful exercise in imagination.
However, you've realized something. If you can't achieve your dreams maybe your children can. It wouldn't be you, but at least your child would embody some of your essence. Their story would start from you- you would be an undeniable puzzle in their greatness.
And that's almost enough.
The question is... What was your passion? What is your regret?
It was late in the afternoon, as staff were starting to wrap up testing, check-ups and other activities in the deeper parts of the facility. However, whilst most subjects were being brought back to their containment, this was not the case for Kaenum. In fact, she was currently following Catherine to a place she hadn't visited before. "So, who are you bringing me to?" Kaenum asked calmly, looking around and noticing that there were a few guardsmen around, which made her both curious and concerned. "Her name is Edith Astor. Codename, PW-87. I designed her with Roraima. However, after she refused to do what Roraima demanded of her, he... punished her." Catherine said in a regretful tone, Kaenum giving an understanding nod. "I fortunately managed to take full control of her, ensuring Roraima doesn't hurt her further. Unfortunately, she has been rather scarred by the experience. Which is why I was hoping that you could help her out. Perhaps give her some therapy to help her cope with things."
Whilst Kaenum was saddened that a subject had to suffer so much under Roraima, she was optimistic that she could help out here. After all, she had trained quite a bit when it came to therapy, and knew that she could help anyone out with enough time. "Of course, Catherine. I'd gladly help out." Kaenum responded, Catherine smiling with relief, as the two headed towards the secluded and relatively well-guarded chamber. Until finally, the two would reach the large set of doors leading to the chamber. "Will you be joining me?" Kaenum asked to Catherine, who paused before reluctantly shaking her head. "I want this to be between you and her. I've talked with her a bit, but... I could not get her to talk much. She needs someone else. Another subject..." Kaenum nodded again, taking a deep breath before looking ahead. "Very well then." With that, Catherine would give a nod to the nearby guardsmen, before taking a step back.
Kaenum stepped through the door after it opened, entering the small space which separated the outside world from the containment chamber. Though once the second set of doors opened, Kaenum was met with a rather neat and homely looking room. Clearly, Catherine had tried o decorate the room in such a way that it helped Edith feel more at home. Though, given how things looked eerily untouched, it had not been too effective. Not to mention, the fact that Edith wasn't really doing anything in the room. Kaenum spotted her in the corner, sitting on the floor and facing the wall. "Go away..." Edith mumbled in a worn-down voice, Kaenum remaining calm and quietly entering the room. Kaenum looked over the subject, quickly noticing all the combat features Roraima had clearly given her. Those large and long wings, those clawed hands and her stature all were traits meant to appear intimidating. And yet, Edith appeared more sombre than scary. "Edith, it's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Kaenum. I am here to talk to you."
You remember primary school: running past metal doors and out into the recess playground, the teachers would always say "don't play rough." But inevitably someone would cross the line, and pushes and kicks and punches would be thrown over a crude joke or a prank, or for any one of a million stupid reasons.
You were never one of the offenders. But you do remember a close friends being a frequent troublemaker and an almost semi-permanent fixture inside the principal's office; on returning he would parody the principal's lecture in a faux serious voice—”propriety this, behavior that,” and other such things that kids liked to make fun of.
But at the end of whatever day he'd decided to make trouble, you would always spot him sitting on a chair inside a bereft classroom, looking downcast. Then you'd see his mother and the homeroom teacher deep in conversation, walking down the hallway and entering the room, closing the door behind them.
The following day he'd always return muted and solemn, and no roughhousing would occur for several days. You'd learn many years later that at dinner, when his father would ask "How was everyone's day," his mother would report on her son's mischief. Sometimes his father would wait until after dinner to bring out his belt. Other times, right there and then, he would administer his displeasure.
It befuddled you. Education at the point of the sword—a paradox if ever you saw one. But it wasn't something you ever personally experienced growing up, getting "disciplined" in that manner.
Your father…
>wasn’t around much >wasn't around at all >wasn’t prone to violence
<span class="mu-i">Once upon a time, there was a stricken land where there was no such thing as day, nor morning, no sunrise or sunset, but endless dark. It was alone and obscure, on an island surrounded by waters as black as the sky. Yet the wind carried whispers of warmth and light, so the sad peoples of this land, intoxicated by the drink called hope, entreated their king to find the mythical sun and bring it to their lands. The king of the dark vowed to bring the morning to his people, and departed.
After five years, while the king did not return, the morning did come, with all of the light and warmth that could be dreamed of. Yet while the people were happy, the new king’s heir, his granddaughter the crown princess, was skeptical of this new light. So, she ventured over the dark waters towards the light, and finally, she found a great tower atop which burned a sun nothing like had been spoken of, nor what seemed to create the new day.
There she met her grandfather, and demanded of him the truth. Was there a sun, or no? Were they living in a day that was just night under a mask? Her elder, sad and weary, asked the simple question of if she could tell the difference. What distinguished the False Light from the Dawn?
She could not answer, and returned home, keeping the secret to her grave. Yet, friends and followers of Ange, what if the Dawn that comes is false? What if it is so convincing that none of us can tell it true? What if indeed, the facsimile created is the true one after all?</span>
-The Heresy of the False Light, Apocryphal Speech said to be performed by Disgraced Socalist and Disciple of Anton Ange, Aster Du Langue
