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AzricanRepublic Ambassador & member of RPG for 13 years

Promethean Conversation Starter Author Inspiration World Builder Conversationalist Novelist Lifegiver Tipworthy Visual Appeal Group Theory Person of Interest Salesman

605,642 words written.
3,521 total posts.
172 words per post.
704 posts per roleplay.
998 average days in a roleplay.
5 universes joined.
6.75 INK received in tips.

Basic Information

Austin, Texas
Began Role Playing:
06 Feb 1994
Favorite Role Playing Game:
Game Master:
Favorite Setting:
Modern, Future, Post-Apocalyptic

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Sun Jul 06, 2008 2:34 am
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Tue Jul 27, 2021 6:51 pm
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Out of Character
(311 Posts / 15550.00% of user’s posts)
Most active topic:
To Forge A Nation. [OOC, Nation Creation]
(121 Posts / 6050.00% of user’s posts)

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Universes Created

WAR; Deniable Operations

It is the 25th century, and the galaxy once again teeters on the brink of a conflict that would bring every nation to its knees. War has been elevated to a new, secret, deadly level; Deniable Operations.

Whiskey Alpha Romeo

The line has been drawn and the machine of war has been stirred to life once again, across the galaxy nations prepare for the specter of war to descend upon their borders once more.

Iramorbus Wars

Follow in the footsteps of soldiers defending the last vestiges of humanity and battle waves of Infected in the struggle for survival throughout the war torn battlefields of Scatter.

The Kronedegor Incident

The year is 2600, and the United Coalition of Organized Nations has slowly reclaimed the Outer Empire following a devastating war; but there are still enemies at the gates, not just at the gates -- but behind them as well.

Most Tipped Posts

1.00 INK received for post #2816318, located in Bastion IV:

In orbit of Bastion IV

Amidst the clutter of ships coming and going, a single cruiser seemed to linger in the travel lanes of Bastion IV, holding a distant orbit above the planet. The TVSV Erikoure was rather large for a science vessel, though from its hull and structure the assumption that it had once been a military vessel wouldn’t have been hard to make. At nearly three hundred and thirty meters from bow to stern, she dwarfed some of the smaller freights and lighters that came to and from Paguarano, and due to her size those aboard had opted to keep the vessel in orbit rather than boldly attempt an atmospheric entry so early.

In her bridge, a man stood with two hands gripping at the rails of the captain’s deck before him. His drab jumpsuit bore two identifiers, on his left breast on shoulder, of the Xamoyos expedition. Studying a display, Doctor Paul Walton clicked his tongue as a fellow researcher beside him spoke.

“Welcome to Bastion IV, Doctor.” The scientist remarked dryly, leaning over the shoulder of one of the Erikoure’s pilots and studying his nav-display. “We’ll be launching stratolitte after sending a dropship down to the spaceport, I’ll be sure to feed you all the diagnostics from the passes.” He offered, finally stepping away from the pilot’s chair and holding a small tablet of his own.

“Won’t really tell us much we don’t already know. Model-Terran, rich atmosphere, reports of the megafauna have been more … interesting, though.” Walton said, his eyes focused on a readout of the planet’s cursory scan by the Erikoure’s quantum tunnel telescopes and RAILS sensors.

“Yeah, I wonder what all’s really down there … “ The young researcher began quietly, his eyes settling on the holographic display of the rotating world some thousands of kilometers below. Walton noticed that sparkle in the young man’s eye, curiosity of the unknown dribbling into the man’s mind.

“You ever been to a planet with megafauna, Mister Dralland?” Walton inquired, promptly turning away from his readout to address the young scientist. “It looks beautiful from up here, peaceful even,” He continued, stepping around to then stand beside the young man.

“But on a world like this you must understand one thing: nature’s ruled this realm for millenia, and the truth of what may be down there can be even more dangerous than anything soldiers or armies or the machinations of mankind can possibly dream of.

Vehicle Bay No. 2

Maksim Vytalion stifled a short cough as he finished the final disinfection of the Winstohl dropship’s main compartment. Stretching nearly 39 meters from nose to tail, the single Winstohl airjet was by far the largest vehicle held neatly in the Erikoure’s bays. They needed two whole bays to hold the expedition’s complement of airjets: four small Vultures, two old, medium Arukas and the larger Winstohl dropship. Holding up the spray wand, Vytalion heard the soft chirp of his comm-bead and flicked his finger across a haptic display in the corner of his vision. With a quick screech, the comm-line was opened and Vytalion was greeted with the voice of the expedition’s illusive director, Professor Willart Sigismund.

“Mister Vytalion, is our dropship ready for her first voyage planetside?” The cold voice inquired, and Maksim slowly turned to trot back out of the Winstohl’s large bay and into the cacophony of preparations that were taking place in Bay No. 2.

“Ah, I believe so - hull disinfection was completed three hours ago, and just finished on the insides.” Vytalion replied, stepping off the rear ramp of the Winstohl and making room for the pair of pilots that were soon boarding the dropship.

“Very good Mister Vytalion. I believe Doctors Walton and Adalet will be joining you and the first away team.”

Maksim gave a soft huff as he laid the disinfecting wand against a stack of crates and then seated himself atop one. Producing a pack of cigarettes, he’d take the time to enjoy one last break before the venture planetside. He scoffed at the mention of the scientists. While the pay was good, they hadn’t paid him nearly enough to simply babysit scientists and researchers.

As he lit the end of a cigarette and took a short pull, his comm-bead squawked once more, this time a call from the head of security - Valera Stashalenko was a retired Home Guard captain, and normally the two would be despised enemies. Funny how money changed that.

“Vytalion, this is Stashalenko. We’re in communication with the uhh … Pagaurano Traffic Control. Patching you in now.”

Leaning back, Vytalion took another long drag as the call connected with his haptic Focus, the lines giving brief bursts of static. While time delay was a factor, Vytalion estimated it was negligible however. Perhaps only a few seconds, at worst.

“This is Traffic Control to the TVSV Erikoure, we have authorized your landing at Dock 11. Welcome to Bastion IV and Pagaurano. You are green to approach.”

Maksim steadied a hand on his ear, pressing a delicate finger to the comm-bead. “This is Erikoure Lander 1-1, we read you loud and clear. We estimate uuuh, a two hour flight and then a 40 minute entry.” He spoke, soon nubbing the cigarette out and promptly dropping it into a refuse bin and standing up. “We’ll be relaying flight telemetry and underway soon.” With that, the connection was severed to the planet, leaving just Stashalenko and Vytalion on the channel.

“Mister Vytalion.” Stashalenko then said quietly, Maksim’s boots thudding against the ramp of the Winstohl as he then stopped in his tracks. “The Director said no weapons planetside yet but, we’ll keep that to ourselves. Don’t let the eggheads know but … keep a strap, for insurance.”

Vytalion chewed on the inside of his cheek as he listened, first taking a cautious glance around before adjusting the breast of his jacket, and checking the grip of the heavy blaster pistol strapped beneath his shoulder. “One step ahead of you, Stashalenko. Maksim out.” He remarked dryly, then severing the comms-link and obscuring the blaster with his jacket once more.

1.00 INK received for post #2814896, located in Orion Spur:


If this message reaches beyond the Veil, it should be known that eight years ago today war erupted between the powers of the Garden - a conflict which has brought the once great civilizations of Scatter and her territories into ruin. The great emptiness of space which was once the empire of our interstellar dreams is now a barrier of vacuum and radiation. It is with a heavy heart that I chronicle this broadcast for those in the stars beyond that soon, these prosperous nations and peoples may no longer be able to reach our brethren in the Home galaxy beyond the Charybdis Veil.

The Interstellar Nations and the Supremacy have turned our magnificent Garden into a battlefield, unleashing their war-machines in the hopes of crushing one another beneath the steel boot of states and militaries that have risen to challenge even the governments they are sworn to. As of this broadcast, every major population and economic sector of the Garden has become the colosseum of generals and admirals vying not to restore peace to our fractured homes, but build a new seat of power from the ashes after they have scorched our lands and boiled our seas.

For all their once thought unassailable authority, our governments have fallen one by one. Our leaders, deafened from cannon-fire, no longer hear their peoples. Our heroes, wrenched from their pedestals and forced to clash amongst the titans of our war machines and weapons of destruction no longer embolden our people’s hopes and dreams.

Our villains, now unbreakable in their strength and empowered at the failures of our lords, run rampant across the Garden in the quest to remake our homeland of mankind in their image. As of the time of this broadcast, they are winning.

And as of the time it is received beyond the Veil, they have won. Or at the least, our last ramparts are falling as the galaxy turns beyond. For those in the stars beyond, this is the last voice of our civilization. For those trapped beyond the Veil, you are the remnant of our kind, whether you be Garden-born, or Terran, or another breed of life from across the universes.

You are all that’s left of Scatter’s light.

A slow, dull humming cascaded throughout the inky darkness of the relay chamber while the last audio of the broadcast drew to a close. Stilhneer’s Ascension March, a solemn, quiet piece of a piano and violin died out while flickering lights materialized into a circle of uniformed figures. All surrounding a central node spewing forth a holograph of the galaxy, one of them reached a finger out to a glimmering icon and tapped it once.

“What … exactly does this mean?” A woman’s voice inquired, sharpened yet cool as she drew her hand back down to the great coat stretched across thin shoulders. The figure across from her, a swarthy man draped in a peacoat, answered bluntly.

“It means we’re on our own. Stuck across the Veil. Marooned.” He almost spat, drawing a gloved hand to his mouth to hide a quiet curse. “They’ve left us in the lurch, chasing ghosts all around the Deep Stars, while they’re choking to death on toxic atmospheres or burning up in renegaded stars.”

“We don’t know that.” Another voice chimed in, this one pressing a hand down against his starched uniform, a naval insignia pinned against his chest while he craned his chin towards the eight other officers standing before him. “We don’t know whether they completed Guarding Night and initiated Striking Dawn - “

The man in the peacoat let out a short chortle, looking to the naval officer. “If the Dawn had come we wouldn’t be hearing this. Are you listening to yourself? We knew this was coming when the Tenth Front reached Karelia. What we need to understand is that the Veil is sealed now, and that’s a good thing.”

A fourth man spoke up, adjusting the brim of the helmet draped across his head. He seemed to be sitting at a desk, legs bent and feet propped against a board of furniture. “A good thing? Are you serious? That was our way back home, now we’re stuck on the other side with god-knows what managed to slip through before we put the Cordons in place. You’re saying that’s a good thing?”

The other officer stiffened, adjusting one of the breasts of his peacoat to settle it on his broad shoulders. “What’s happened in the Garden has happened, it was not our mission to fight that war. We’ve succeeded in preventing the worst from trickling through the Veil and -

“Succeeded?! We’ve barely scratched the surface of it! Have you been groundside to the Shore Planets? I’ve lost whole colonies to Rogues - landers full of civilians butchered and eaten, picked apart like they were thrown into the jaws of a, a - Christ, I don’t even know how to describe it. And now, we’re stuck outside the walls!” The man at the desk suddenly rose himself up, practically knocking it away. Suddenly, another figure across the chamber spoke up.

“The Colonel is right, Commander.” The form spoke, an officer’s cap pulled tight across the brow as a white-gloved hand rose up to silence the dissent. “We can not derail the operation, contingencies were in place for losing contact with ISAAC and the Garden.” The stern words appeared to defuse the quarreling officer’s … for now, at least. As the figure lowered that hand though, a visible tension returned to the officer’s faces.

“That being said, it is clear the parameters of our mission have become broader than the scope of our abilities. We may need to discuss the option of altering our protocols.” The figure informed, while a few cautious glances were exchanged amongst the officers. The woman spoke again, turning to the obscured figure across from her.

“What do you mean, ‘altering the protocols’ … we’ve operated with strict instructions to stay away from other organizations and keep access to the Shore Planets as limited as possi - “

“I mean exactly what I said.”

Those short words drew wide eyes, and perhaps a gasp or two. The man in the peacoat clutched at the hem of his clothing, while his meaty face turned into a scowl. “You want to bring outsiders into this? I don’t believe that is a sound plan, Colonel.” He reported shortly, turning his head away. The figure didn’t seem to stall however, instead raising another hand as the command flowed.

“We have only so much time before our force concentration in the Shore Planets is overwhelmed … and there are still forces across the Local Region - the Apparatus stay-behind - that we must assume command of before approaching other states about this. There was a garrison force on Terra, the 666th, a static division. Part of the Shadow Authority. We will need them. And I need all of you to prepare yourselves.” The officers gave a cautious glance amongst one another, as if the ante of a game had just been raised drastically, while the figure gave a slow, parting word that would seep through the emptiness of space with the end of that mysterious broadcast.

“The war in the Garden might very well have ended. But ours is just beginning.

0.75 INK received for post #2816871, located in Outer Arm:

Behar was quiet after Kesslee’s words, and as he stood up the Almyrian adjusted the cuff of his shirt. As the Grand Confessor was turning, Behar tilted his head and drew up a single hand deftly. “I don’t doubt those are things you truly believe may happen - lies have an insidious way of metastasizing into a cancer of the mind once they’re drilled in and left to fester.” Behar started, giving a soft turn of his hand.

“I am far more familiar with the Apparatus than you, Mister Kesslee - and truthfully, your propaganda does an awful job of representing mankind’s inherent warlike nature that it can visit upon itself, both the guilty and the innocent. Granted, you’re a race that’s become soft and coddled with your ascendancy into the interstellar age, you were lucky, even - I’m not done with you yet, Mister Kesslee.”

Behar’s voice grew a moment, and he had an exhausted, almost disinterested look on his face as he closed his eyes to take a firm breath. “If your systems and policies were so superior as you purport, then the Langarites would have organized themselves along a similar way, no? If the way of protecting your civilization from those who seek its undoing - which, we agree, that there are indeed threats to both of our civilizations - were so superior then why is not your flag flying over Terra? Or Eden Prime? New Cosmora? Or New Empyrea, Tannhauser itself - even Scatter?”

The Artifex had taken his glass, holding it closely to his waist as he stepped around from the table. “Had the prosperous society your government chants to stand for materialized, this meeting would not have taken place. The Apparatus would not be on your doorstep sharpening their knives and loading their rifles - the people of your government would be uplifting your fellow man across the stars, as mine have done for centuries. As we did for the Terrans, despite your best attempts to shackle them, which - “

Behar stopped to take a single drink then, wetting his palette as he held up a single finger. “I understand your people’s resentment: how could such a stronger people ally with such a weaker one like the Terrans, rather the righteous, pure Aschen? I’m sure it’s something that just sticks in your craw. But the answer to that is, Mister Kesslee - and I'm sure Marlene, in her service of your previous governments long enough to see the costs of them in the wars with my nations have shown will tell you - is that you aren't. Just as mine are not so superior to rule the Terrans, or Aschen, or anyone as their masters.”

0.50 INK received for post #2816468, located in The Aurora:

As Aschen stacked up to prepare the breach with Duncan, he was pulling up the rear of the squad and barking into his comms-bead. “This is Duncan, I’m with the HN’s at the back of the Mansion. We’re breaching the cellar, lads!” He shouted to the rest of Alpha 2-1, who were busy preventing any approach by whatever was left of the insurgents fighting on the south lawn.

It appeared that most had either been killed or fled, a few seen tossing their weapons down as they disappeared into a dense tree line of forest that ran along the outskirts of the port city. There was the occasional snap of gunfire from the Exogarden marines, another bark of returning fire or the occasional scream of a man being hit somewhere deep within the woods as they retreated.

Across the lawn of the Governor’s Mansion, Alpha platoon had gathered and concentrated on the seized trench, giving covering fire to the Aschen and Duncan. Pasters and Rattaglio had moved up with their SAW-429s, both in the trench beside one another as the marines lay strewn throughout. “Anyone seen the fuckin’ commander?” Pasters finally asked, turning his chest on the lip of the trench. Rattaglio lay down the trench with a radio pack draped on a post of the trench next to him.

“I ain’t seen him since we railed this line - did Staff Sergeant say he’s with fucking hosties?” Rattaglio barked down to the trench. Private Yechezkel was beside him, holding his rifle up against his chest while pressed against the trench.

“What the fuck’s Sarge doing jumping around with fucking Aschen - are they up to something?” The Private barked, adjusting the brim of his helmet as a Specialist down the line racked the pump of his spent grenade launcher before holding up a 42mm shell.

“Bro, if we just invaded Aschen space I’m going to fucking laugh.” Specialist Sergej remarked, kneeling down in the trench as he began to feed a shell into the launcher. “How do you say ‘stay on the fucking ground’ in anquietas?”

“We didn’t fucking invade Aschen space, Indy - “ Pasters grunted as he hauled the SAW-429 and adjusted it against the trench. “Or at least, I’m pretty sure we didn’t.”

Duncan dropped his machine carbine into his sling and reached up to take his helmet free of his head. As the Aschen put their strobes together, the Staff Sergeant pulled free a pair of goggles from his helmet and drew them over his face, covering his head with a fabric cowl in his uniform. “Mind all the lights, boys. Remember, green is friendly this time aye?” Duncan remarked, drawing the daisy chained grenades together and giving them a spin before sticking down onto the door as it activated.

Ducking off to the side, Duncan grabbed his MP-24 and readied for the entry. When the grenades blasted with a wave of heat, it peeled through the metal door with a fizzle of of hot white and blue that burned a sizeable hole into the cellar. Duncan stepped down first into staircase it dropped down into, giving the Aschen a driving hand forward as he did.

The cellar stepped down into a deep complex underneath the mansion that Duncan and the Aschen had just blown their way into, on a corner where a marine was found behind a sandbag position.

Lance Corporal Patrick Madrolus laid the G4 down on the sandbags, pointing down the long hall of the bunker. “Holy shit! Where the fuck have you guys been? The Commander’s down in the comms bunk!” Just as he did, the insurgents strung out in a few last positions let of a snap of gunfire that made Duncan crawl into a nook of the bunker wall before unleashing a shower of fire from his machine carbine for the Aschen and Madrolus to attack. Down the tunnel, another sandbag position snapped off rifle fire, another marine firing off his G4K1 battle rifle into the insurgents.

0.25 INK received for post #1952068, located in Niihama:

; The furnishings of the dorm, while purchased by Scatterrans, was reflective of the student’s current country of residence. Holding ten separate rooms, some of the Scatterrans from more prominent aspects of Coalition society found their residences honestly lacking. For the majority of the students however, a mixture of Soruk and Azrican young adults, the chances to study in another country greatly outweighed the lackluster residence.

“Hey, the fuck’re you watching?” Joris said as he entered the living room, for once hearing Scatterran Aenlis rather than the native language of the country. In a cooperation between the Chagos University and another Taiyou institute, an exchange of programs between the Chagos’ Institute of Astrological Sciences. A number of the other students here with Joris were Astrology majors.

“Huh? Nothin’, just Brittlewood.” Another student remarked, looking over the couch for a moment and then turning back to the television screen. Joris narrowed his eyes at the screen and then clapped his hands together.

“Oh man, did you get to the part where the Commander throws a kid into the ion jet?”

“Hey, hey guys! You gotta’ see this, there’s a bunch a fuckin’ gangbangers in the street! It’s like that one movie ... what’d they call it ... “