Santa Barbara
15-10-2003, 03:27
OOC: Story setup for a historical RP. Main thread found here:
http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=1817755
--
Colonization, Part I
It hurtles through the cold wasteland of the infinite night, clinging to the chunk of rock that used to be a planet, huddled within its hardened polychloride shell, waiting.
Outside, stars pass. Slowly. The rocks only neighbors are the occasional clumps of interstellar hydrogen or micrometeors. Nothing living approaches within years-of-light, nothing moves, and it too does not move, passively waiting as the rock moves along its course.
It has a destination, though. Oh, to be sure, the rock blew apart in a random direction away from the blast. In the vast universe, it could travel several eternities before hitting anything. But the burning, alien hatred inside knows that it will land, depositing itself safely on a new land. It does not loathe the long years ahead, because it is patient. It has existed for hundreds of thousands of years, in supercolony, colony, subcolony and spore forms, alternating in a leisurely lifecycle that outspans the lives of entire civilizations. Now it bends its will toward the new land, wherever it will be. A destination.
A new home.
-----
Millions of years later, a Conglomerate researcher in L-Bay 2 writes a short, excited letter to his friend and colleague, Eldebrath Yorn. He does this as soon as he is showered and dressed, skipping his usual tomato salad breakfast and swilling a cup of de-coffeenated caffeine. He is bald, and his ears don’t fit on him right, and he is short, and he is late for an important meeting.
“To: E-brath@omf.sec.pcc
Re: findings
Eld, its more than that. I’m saying it’s alive. Not fossilized, not proto-organic, but living even now. I can’t explain half its organic processes, but the hard exterior is chlorinated waste, and it is a protective outer shell. Apparently the gas pools were a result of its biochemical processes, not to mention the other historical incidents. But... well, we have to move this to Frigido. The sample, the research. That is, for cryogen and the island. The thing inside is highly dangerous, but knowing exactly what it is, and exactly what it does-- Christ, exactly what it can do...! Well anyway, that’s why we have to get to Frigido. We’ll need archaeologists, historians, physicists, chemists, xenobiologists, psionic researchers, and no breeches in security. At all. I don’t mind troops in this one. As long as they don’t try to take command of everything. I’ll explain all this further when we meet. Gotta run.”
The researcher rushes out of his studio apartment, which sat on stilts overlooking the other L-Bay cities and the coast of Lompoc, and makes his way to his magcar. The early morning sun shines bright and warm already, the semi-tropic heat and humidity turning the shininess of his shower damp to the sheen of sweat.
He is just thinking of the best route to take to the spaceport when the bright, silent, burning energy of the laser punches through his skull, piercing his brain stem, killing him before he realizes it.
-----
An Ill Dream
June 1012 AD
Laclayli
Uravonc, a High King, is angry. And when High Kings get angry, there is no telling what might happen-- primarily because Uravonc happens to be the first High King, the first true autocrat of his people, indeed the only leader of so many of the tribes to come in hundreds of years. But like all leaders, he has flaws, and his is wrath. He storms down the open halls and courtyards of the Great Palace, a bronze armor plate covering his torso and glimmering in the sun, his white-painted leather leggings asserting his authority, his commanding brow furrowed with rage. In his hand he holds a crafted, sharp, strong sword made of iron-from-falling-stars, which he uses now to chop the heads off the the seasonal flowers growing along the stone pathways.
Pulac, one of six viziers, tries to calm him, unsuccessfully. “I’m-I’m sure it’s nothing to fear, Holy One, the Plains people are known to be unusual-”
“I don’t care what you’re sure of!” Uravonc snaps. “I want him brought to me safely and quickly. I know that this is not impossible.”
“Of course, of course,” Pulac coo’s, his own brow furrowed, mostly out of concern for his own neck.
“Where is he?” Uravonc asks a moment later.
Pulac is flabbergasted. He has what another people would call deja vu, but to him is essentially a form of confusion. “I’m sure he’s- he’s on his way, he can’t be too long now...”
“No, where is he from? What village?”
“Manca, sire!”
“Fetch me the mule train. Round up the guard, and we will go now towards Manca. Maybe, we shall meet him in between!”
“Sire!” Pulac exclaims nervously. Although he does not feel a particular concern for Uravonc, there is one thing he fears more than Uravonc’s wrath-- a lack of Uravonc. He is dependent on the High King for his job, his status and wealth. He doesn’t want the High King speared to death by some crazy monsters on the Plains. “I- I feel that is not wise, sire!”
“You’ll feel my blade if you don’t do as I command, impudent wretch!” thunders Uravonc to the cowering Pulac.
Suddenly, the low grumbling bleat of the whalefish horn could be heard, signalling that the portion of the guard sent out to retrieve Orogen had arrived. Immediately, the High Kings wrath was replaced. Now he was beset with thoughtful concern, wariness. He knew what was at stake, and like a chameleon, his personality shifted automatically for the possible task at hand.
Orogen entered the first courtyard’s second ring of olive trees, when Uravonc intercepted him. Orogen stood taller than Uravonc (this displeased him), was older, but had a calm, commanding presence, radiating intelligence and wisdom.
“Orogen. Many greetings,” Uravonc said, extending his hands politely.
Orogen took them, his hands warm. He met Uravonc’s gaze evenly. He was as cool as ice. “Greetings and praise to you, Sire,” he said.
Uravonc decides not to beat around the bush. “I have not read your tales, scribe,” he begins, unable to resist putting the man in his place, “but, I know that in it, you describe your journey to the Plains, and what you found there.”
“I only describe fiction, Sire,” says Orogen, smiling. “For, other than my journey across the Plains to this great City, I have never been to the Plains.”
Uravonc, however, does not smile. He has had men read the scripts. He is about to offer a counter argument when Orogen goes on, good naturedly: “My daughter, she enjoyed making me design clever fictions to tell to her at night. Of course, she is grown and married now, and has another clever fiction!”
The man’s charm is nearly irresistible, and Uravonc finds himself wanting to smile and chat with him. Almost. But he has had ill dreams lately, and his expansions into the greater central Plains have met with all kinds of opposition within the tribes, and without.
“Come now! Do not tell me untruths. I can see through you, and I know that you know . . .” he trails off, suddenly searching for words, “...that you know of what . . . might come.”
Orogen crooks an eyebrow in concern, but replies sadly, “I can not foresee the future, High King. No mortal can.”
Uravonc stares into space, apparently satisfied with his interrogation, and Orogen turns toward a nearby tree, which bears ripe fruits in the sun. Suddenly he is grabbed in the arm by Uravonc, who has a mad look in his eye.
“Tell me. I’ve had the dreams. I know you have. Tell me what the dreams mean,” he says, desperately, his voice in an ashamed hush. He does not mean to sound pleading with the little man-- a commoner, just an average fisherman, even. It spills out of him, like a winter flood.
Orogen appears to think for a moment or two, choosing his answer carefully from among multitudes. “High King, uneasy dreams are also a clever fiction, meant as a test from the gods. Do not let them tear asunder your senses, and all will be well.”
At this, Uravonc seems to relax, hearing an answer he liked. Orogen had given him an answer which at last, did not seem misleading, despite the vagueness of the question.
“Now, High King, what of this tree? I’ve not seen the like of it in the North,” Orogen blathers pleasantly. The two talk for a few moments later, and then Uravonc has him stay at a Laclayli chieftain’s house to rest and eat. Uravonc has what he wanted, for now, and is not interested in learning from or continuing conversation with the man.
http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=1817755
--
Colonization, Part I
It hurtles through the cold wasteland of the infinite night, clinging to the chunk of rock that used to be a planet, huddled within its hardened polychloride shell, waiting.
Outside, stars pass. Slowly. The rocks only neighbors are the occasional clumps of interstellar hydrogen or micrometeors. Nothing living approaches within years-of-light, nothing moves, and it too does not move, passively waiting as the rock moves along its course.
It has a destination, though. Oh, to be sure, the rock blew apart in a random direction away from the blast. In the vast universe, it could travel several eternities before hitting anything. But the burning, alien hatred inside knows that it will land, depositing itself safely on a new land. It does not loathe the long years ahead, because it is patient. It has existed for hundreds of thousands of years, in supercolony, colony, subcolony and spore forms, alternating in a leisurely lifecycle that outspans the lives of entire civilizations. Now it bends its will toward the new land, wherever it will be. A destination.
A new home.
-----
Millions of years later, a Conglomerate researcher in L-Bay 2 writes a short, excited letter to his friend and colleague, Eldebrath Yorn. He does this as soon as he is showered and dressed, skipping his usual tomato salad breakfast and swilling a cup of de-coffeenated caffeine. He is bald, and his ears don’t fit on him right, and he is short, and he is late for an important meeting.
“To: E-brath@omf.sec.pcc
Re: findings
Eld, its more than that. I’m saying it’s alive. Not fossilized, not proto-organic, but living even now. I can’t explain half its organic processes, but the hard exterior is chlorinated waste, and it is a protective outer shell. Apparently the gas pools were a result of its biochemical processes, not to mention the other historical incidents. But... well, we have to move this to Frigido. The sample, the research. That is, for cryogen and the island. The thing inside is highly dangerous, but knowing exactly what it is, and exactly what it does-- Christ, exactly what it can do...! Well anyway, that’s why we have to get to Frigido. We’ll need archaeologists, historians, physicists, chemists, xenobiologists, psionic researchers, and no breeches in security. At all. I don’t mind troops in this one. As long as they don’t try to take command of everything. I’ll explain all this further when we meet. Gotta run.”
The researcher rushes out of his studio apartment, which sat on stilts overlooking the other L-Bay cities and the coast of Lompoc, and makes his way to his magcar. The early morning sun shines bright and warm already, the semi-tropic heat and humidity turning the shininess of his shower damp to the sheen of sweat.
He is just thinking of the best route to take to the spaceport when the bright, silent, burning energy of the laser punches through his skull, piercing his brain stem, killing him before he realizes it.
-----
An Ill Dream
June 1012 AD
Laclayli
Uravonc, a High King, is angry. And when High Kings get angry, there is no telling what might happen-- primarily because Uravonc happens to be the first High King, the first true autocrat of his people, indeed the only leader of so many of the tribes to come in hundreds of years. But like all leaders, he has flaws, and his is wrath. He storms down the open halls and courtyards of the Great Palace, a bronze armor plate covering his torso and glimmering in the sun, his white-painted leather leggings asserting his authority, his commanding brow furrowed with rage. In his hand he holds a crafted, sharp, strong sword made of iron-from-falling-stars, which he uses now to chop the heads off the the seasonal flowers growing along the stone pathways.
Pulac, one of six viziers, tries to calm him, unsuccessfully. “I’m-I’m sure it’s nothing to fear, Holy One, the Plains people are known to be unusual-”
“I don’t care what you’re sure of!” Uravonc snaps. “I want him brought to me safely and quickly. I know that this is not impossible.”
“Of course, of course,” Pulac coo’s, his own brow furrowed, mostly out of concern for his own neck.
“Where is he?” Uravonc asks a moment later.
Pulac is flabbergasted. He has what another people would call deja vu, but to him is essentially a form of confusion. “I’m sure he’s- he’s on his way, he can’t be too long now...”
“No, where is he from? What village?”
“Manca, sire!”
“Fetch me the mule train. Round up the guard, and we will go now towards Manca. Maybe, we shall meet him in between!”
“Sire!” Pulac exclaims nervously. Although he does not feel a particular concern for Uravonc, there is one thing he fears more than Uravonc’s wrath-- a lack of Uravonc. He is dependent on the High King for his job, his status and wealth. He doesn’t want the High King speared to death by some crazy monsters on the Plains. “I- I feel that is not wise, sire!”
“You’ll feel my blade if you don’t do as I command, impudent wretch!” thunders Uravonc to the cowering Pulac.
Suddenly, the low grumbling bleat of the whalefish horn could be heard, signalling that the portion of the guard sent out to retrieve Orogen had arrived. Immediately, the High Kings wrath was replaced. Now he was beset with thoughtful concern, wariness. He knew what was at stake, and like a chameleon, his personality shifted automatically for the possible task at hand.
Orogen entered the first courtyard’s second ring of olive trees, when Uravonc intercepted him. Orogen stood taller than Uravonc (this displeased him), was older, but had a calm, commanding presence, radiating intelligence and wisdom.
“Orogen. Many greetings,” Uravonc said, extending his hands politely.
Orogen took them, his hands warm. He met Uravonc’s gaze evenly. He was as cool as ice. “Greetings and praise to you, Sire,” he said.
Uravonc decides not to beat around the bush. “I have not read your tales, scribe,” he begins, unable to resist putting the man in his place, “but, I know that in it, you describe your journey to the Plains, and what you found there.”
“I only describe fiction, Sire,” says Orogen, smiling. “For, other than my journey across the Plains to this great City, I have never been to the Plains.”
Uravonc, however, does not smile. He has had men read the scripts. He is about to offer a counter argument when Orogen goes on, good naturedly: “My daughter, she enjoyed making me design clever fictions to tell to her at night. Of course, she is grown and married now, and has another clever fiction!”
The man’s charm is nearly irresistible, and Uravonc finds himself wanting to smile and chat with him. Almost. But he has had ill dreams lately, and his expansions into the greater central Plains have met with all kinds of opposition within the tribes, and without.
“Come now! Do not tell me untruths. I can see through you, and I know that you know . . .” he trails off, suddenly searching for words, “...that you know of what . . . might come.”
Orogen crooks an eyebrow in concern, but replies sadly, “I can not foresee the future, High King. No mortal can.”
Uravonc stares into space, apparently satisfied with his interrogation, and Orogen turns toward a nearby tree, which bears ripe fruits in the sun. Suddenly he is grabbed in the arm by Uravonc, who has a mad look in his eye.
“Tell me. I’ve had the dreams. I know you have. Tell me what the dreams mean,” he says, desperately, his voice in an ashamed hush. He does not mean to sound pleading with the little man-- a commoner, just an average fisherman, even. It spills out of him, like a winter flood.
Orogen appears to think for a moment or two, choosing his answer carefully from among multitudes. “High King, uneasy dreams are also a clever fiction, meant as a test from the gods. Do not let them tear asunder your senses, and all will be well.”
At this, Uravonc seems to relax, hearing an answer he liked. Orogen had given him an answer which at last, did not seem misleading, despite the vagueness of the question.
“Now, High King, what of this tree? I’ve not seen the like of it in the North,” Orogen blathers pleasantly. The two talk for a few moments later, and then Uravonc has him stay at a Laclayli chieftain’s house to rest and eat. Uravonc has what he wanted, for now, and is not interested in learning from or continuing conversation with the man.