conversations: human
conversations:  Yawhé Sector. Three thousand years after Adolf Hitler, mankind has forgotten itself.
  Humanity spread across the void and made a home of it. The years of Planet Earth are long lost in legend, and history has taken its natural course. The tribes of mankind have become isolated. For centuries, few or none ventured beyond their solar orbits.
  Science and the arts are dead, only low oscurantism and meager protraits have survived the toll of societal entrophy. Technollogy is at a standstill, and so is philosophy. Our spirit is gone. Humanity is dead.
  
  But centuries of separation have given birth to new and separate cultures, each one more unlikely and insane than the last, and each one makes perfect sense within its domains. As far as thought goes, Mankind, as Darwin's pigeons of yore, has created many species where one once existed, fitting their ways of thinking into their differently harsh habitats.
  These cultures, nonsensical to each other, are reaching their height at the beggining of our story. On the lonely sector of Yawhé, four powerful nations have risen, dreaming to take back the power of the Ancients, yearning to dominate, dreaming to kill.
  Legend says that the gods once lived in the orbit Yawhé Zero, but they left. It was too dangerous.
  And from this system, deserted by the Makers, forgotten by gods, shall rise the empire that ruled them all.
  
  Let the players be introduced...
conversations: alexeduardo:
conversations: human
conversations:  Dorbae Bitnotha, who's name meant Daughter Of Ravishing Beauty And Elegance Blessed In The Name Of The Holiest Ancestor, was not happy. She drummed her fingers on the armrest of her throne that overlooked the Noble Arena Provided To Our Second Circle Of Lord's Light. Naptoscoll was more lavish than other coliseums of appeasement, but then most nobles didn't attend in person. Dorbae's mood lightened just slightly as she noted how most nobles were too grotesque to make public appearances due to their "divine heritage." All Dorbae had to endure was a lack of legs, and that actually made her sympathetic to the people.
  
  Still, the de facto queen of the system's second planet did not like the way things were going. Her husband, Brother Of Quick Understanding And Might In Arms, had decided that the palace-carrier of the Bitnotha family would be leaving orbit to head travel to the nearest system, having recovered the maps from the days of transcendance. Her eyebrow perked as she saw the next match, a reminder of why she didn't like the idea.
  
  The battle would be between four criminals that had punished with a trial execution and one of the failed attempts to improve on the patrol beasts. The system was simple: The guilty party would be assigned a task that would likely be fatal, and would be released when the work was done. In the case of these four, the task was a year working as a gladiator receiving no more than neccesary for survival: Patchwork medical treatment, bland yet nutritious food, and cramped quarters.
  
  The guard beast prowled toward the four men that had circled in the arena. They had coordinated in selecting their equipment, as all had opted for lengthy electric prods and riot shields. As the horse-sized rodent was driven back by three electric stings, Dorbae found the controls to the power relays on the gladiator's prods. Whether or not she'd need it, however, depended on the tactics of the gladiators.
  
  The creature was quick to do the math, and shifted so that it'd only have to deal with two prods. Perhaps, it thought, it could muscle past a lesser pain. It lunged, and twin jolts of pain drove it back once more. It shook its head, and looked around in surprise: The formation had split in front of it, and the gladiators now surrounded it in a box pattern.
  
  Disciplined, tactically sound... Dorbae found the profiles of the criminals. One was a political criminal with a military background, two had histories in organized crime, and the fourth was a suspected spy from another noble house. This was exactly what she dreaded: People getting hope of defeating the warriors of The Immortal Lord Divine. Once, twice, three times Dorbae's fingers drummed on the controls to one of the prods.
  
  The creature was in great pain, being forced in a circle by the stinging prods as the gladiators moved in for the kill. Then... relief. The suspected spy had brought his prod up to examine the tip as it flickered off, struggled back on, then finally was snuffed for good. It was all the opportunity the creature needed to slip out from the trap and bring down the headcount of its enemies, illiciting sympathetic winces from the crowd.
  
  Dorbae watched as the creature used its superior agility to overcome one of the organized criminals next. She perked a brow as the soldier snapped the head off his prod, making a crude spear. She was tempted to restore the power that he had wisely severed... No, she'd see how it played out.
  
  The creature could barely contain itself, revealing the flaw in its design: Once it got started, it couldn't bring itself to stop killing. The electric prod didn't even phase the beast as it battered the shield of its third victim, pinning him with its weight as it clawed open the man's face. It took it a moment to register the horrible pain in its eye... Not being able to see with said eye added to its eventual alarm.
  
  Dorbae grinned as the man shifted in front to the creature, aiming to take out the brain with the makeshift spear. A fine idea, if the brain hadn't been replaced with a synthetic AI spinal cord. She'd need to give it to him to avoid exposing the secret. As the spear thrust, her fingers drummed on the controls once more, restoring power to the survivor's prod and sending electricity arcing through the creature's innards.
  
  The man cast aside his spear after it was drawn from the beast's corpse, and he looked toward the royal observatory as a sinister laughter played across the coliseum's sound system.  "Well done, well done. Your trial shall come to an end a month early, warrior, as you have earned my respect. From this day forth, you shall serve at my side." 
  
  As the proper guard beasts hurried out to clean up the corpses and reclaim her new drugged thrall, Dorbae smiled to herself. Let  that  be the lesson to the people: Those that survive fighting the powers that be only do so because a fate worse than death is planned for them.  "It'll be a step away from inbreeding, at least." 
conversations: Ganurath:
conversations: human
conversations:  Plamen Starguide sat in his office, surrounded by documents. His ship, tiny, and fairly ugly, orbiting closer to Y-0 then any other Circle Vessel. From this tiny office, with it's beaten chair, and desk supported by an old reinforcement beam after both of it's front legs had given out, the Circle was run.
  
  That wasn't to say Plamen controlled the Circle. No one did that. The Caravans were individualistic, and did what they thought was needed. Eventually, a few, then more would decide that they had gained all they needed from this system, and move out. He would encourage that. They would need relations with any of the other groups in this system. Eventually the Circle would leave, but he did not believe that would be for a Generation. Y-0 was a very promising system.
  
  So Plamen sat. Starguide was his title, not his true name. Came from the old days, when the Caravans were guided by sight, and such tools as they could build, find or purchase. Each ship had it's Starguide, who coordinated with the other ships in the caravan, and each caravan it's head, to coordinate with the other heads. But as they had gathered technology, the Starguides had been removed. Until the last one was left aboard this ship. And it was determined that he would remain, to coordinate the Vessels, and report to the Council of Caravans. And Plamen had been it for many years now. He foresaw himself dying in office. His Eldest Sister's youngest boy, currently his assistant, would take over once he was gone. The Council would of course have to vote, but in matters of succession, they gave wide latitude to the Star Guide.
  
   "Milosh, has Tobar sent in his yields yet? Nicu and his Caravan need several of the rare elements they are supposed to be refining to finish the ship they are constructing." 
   "I know Uncle. Yanko's caravan has already offered to shuttle the processed materials over to Nicu. The  Great Plow  will be finished in time. Has the council begun discussing which of the Caravans it will be allocated to?" 
  
  Plamen smiled. Milosh knew that he was his Uncle's heir apparent. Someday, he'd have to jerk the boy up short. But not today.
  
   "Most likely they will end up forming a New Caravan to handle the constructed ship. Nicu's Cousin wants a chance to lead, and the Council is like to grant the request. Is for the best. Most of the Caravans are to large as it is." 
conversations: Tackyhillbillu: