Carlau breathed in and did not feel the air filling his lungs. He breathed out, and felt the steaming exhaust wash over his carapace. He clenched his hands and felt neither the flesh nor muscles of his finger. He loosened his grip, and felt the shifting steel and the hissing pistons of manipulators four meters long. He saw nothing with his eyes of flesh and blood, not even darkness. Instead, he saw what optics of electrical artifice and mana-infused glass showed him, something no mortal could ever hope to understand. He towered over the settlement, a giant of mana-steel more than twenty-five meters tall. His body was an awe-inspiring thing, a hunch-backed giant that stood on six legs, with two claw-tipped hands meant solely to grasp and rip. His back blocked out the sun and cast the world beneath in shadow, save for the glow of fires reflected off of his metal hide. The greatest sound was the hum of his engine, a core of reacting, burning power that roared with every step he took.
In this form Carlau was no mere mortal. He was not a bureaucrat bound to spend his days behind a desk.
No, in this form he was a man of the Third Sphere, sacred before the gods, a champion and protector of humanity. He knew a body of flesh and blood sat in his chested, behind layer after layer of protections, but it was not him, no matter what others said. It was merely his engine, the source of mana which fueled his true body. This was his true body, this terrifying giant of metal. This was who he was.
A roar filled the air, and Carlau's head shifted to the grind of gears and the hum of electricity.
A goll stood at the edge of the settlement, glaring at him with its single eye. It was taller than Carlau, with mangy fur, gnarled muscles, and twisted limbs -like someone had taken a stray dog and stretched it into a cruel mockery of its proper shape. A sad, brutish, ugly thing that had no place in this world. The perfect monster for him to kill.
If Carlau had had a mouth, he would have grinned. He let a deep, basso rumble ring out from his core in challenge. The fires of the burning settlement danced in time with the sound. He strode forwards towards the creature, his six legs moving with the heavy, deceptively fast speed of a twenty-five meter tall machine. The ground groaned and cracked beneath the weight of his tread. Rain hissed and the air steamed as water met his burning hot carapace. The goll responded in kind, loping forwards without care for the buildings in its way.
They met in a thunderous crash of metal and meat. Buildings crumbled and the air shook, mortal artifice crumbling before the might of devilry and divinity.
The goll stumbled, its two hooves and lesser mass unable to stand against Carlau's greater force. Its ape-like hands scrabbled at his metal armor, tearing shallow furrows into the surface. Useless before the strength of mana-steel forged inside the Foundry itself. Carlau's claws, however, found easy purchase in the goll's weak skin and dug in. He tore free great chunks of flesh and tossed them aside, unmindful of the streets, stores, and domiciles surrounding them. This was just a minor settlement, the mortals either evacuated or shiftless beggars who did not know when to run. The battle was more worthy of his attention.
The goll screamed and abandoned its attempts to claw past his armor. Instead, it bucked and twisted its head, the tips of its malformed goat horns scraping across Carlau's neck.
The move cost the beast what little stability it had, and he seized the chance to grab it with both hands and one foot. Metal claws gripped the goll's side, breaking bone and pulping flesh. With a twist of his torso, gyroscopes spinning and metal ligaments pulling, he tossed his foe to the side, letting the creature's bulk crash through a block of row houses.
Wood splintered and cement tore, leaving behind sparking power-lines and spewing water mains around the battered, bloody body.
The goll pulled itself up onto unsteady feet. Brackish blue blood poured from a dozen wounds, matting its fur and mixing with filthy sewage. It glared at Carlau, its one eye showing not even a hint of fear.
Good.
Carlau braced all six feet on the ground and shifted the systems inside his upper torso. Machinery whirled and roared as his back panels peeled open to allow a powerful, oblong cannon to emerge out into the open. The Earth-Shaker Spear was more than enough for this pitiful beast. It would show all monsters the folly of challenging Avalon and its people.
The barreled pointed at the goll and began to charge. Clouds of white exhaust spilled from the sides and into the air, venting waste-heat before it could build and ruin his shot. A white glow woke inside the cavern of the weapon's mouth. The goll let out a roar of fury and-
<Priority Appointment Alarm. Priority Appointment Alarm. Disengaging Simulation. Disengaging Simulation.>
Carlau would have stumbled if he were not sitting down. All sensation from his body, his systems, his weapons, vanished, replaced by dull aches and a throbing tiredness that sat behind his temples. For a moment he thought he had been hit with something, and then his flesh and blood eyes opened to show him the dim interior of his cockpit.
"What?" Carlau muttered. His voice sounded as dusty with age as it always did.
<Apologies, Sir, but your appointment with Abbess Igraine is scheduled to being in five minutes.> Ella, Carlau's secretary in all but name, echoed inside the cockpit. Like all Avalonic spirits, there was the telltale underlay of synthetic reverb and emotion to her voice. False emotion, of course, but it always added something to interacting with them.
"Gods dammit," Carlau muttered.
Gnarled hands wrapped around the armrests and forced his body out of his cockpit even as the doors hissed open. His teeth bit back a groan as his fleshy body's aching muscles and aged joints complained about the movement. They always complained, even if he did the recommended exercises and maintained his personal health. Besides, the dull red spikes of pain were familiar things. They only left him alone in the simulations, but otherwise stayed by his side, like old 'friends' he hated but couldn't bare to part from.
Even as he leveraged his body into his chair and looked around his office, the pain stayed with him.
Four walls, a door, a window. It was a spartan thing. There were no pictures of friends or family. No fancy art pieces of useless knickknacks. The only real decoration was the broken, damaged remains of his Armature's core. It had no limbs, no sensors, and no systems of any kind. Too damaged to even connect to such things. It was little better than a paperweight, taking up a full third of the space like the macabre statue it was. Only thing it was good for was reliving the glory days.
The only other object in the office was his desk, covered with a disorganized mess of papers.
He was still sifting through them when the door chimed. Right, this was an in-person meeting. She'd come all the way here for some reason.
"Enter," Carlau growled out, not even pausing in his search.
The door slid open and a woman -mortal, frail bodied, boar-kin, nervous but trying to hide it behind a confident posture- stepped in. To her credit, she didn't flinch or pause when she saw him, like so many others did.
She was dressed in the formal robes of an abbess, many layers of green and white cloth with gold trimming. Here in the city, it would denote someone from a middle temple, probably dedicated to Bedwyr or Rhea. But she didn't have the look of a city-dweller. Scars around her lips and weathering in her cheeks and brows, hidden under a layer of simple, inexpertly applied makeup. Her right tusk was broken, leaving the left to pull at the corner of her mouth and give her a permanent look of dissatisfaction. Her robes, the highest sign of office she likely owned, were old and worn, fraying at the edges and ever so slightly faded from the sun.
This was a woman doing her best to look pristine, despite being unfamiliar with it. She was trying to meet the image of status and prestige associated with her office. Trying, and failing.
It was the gun on her hip that told the truth of her. A simple pistol, sleek black plastic and well polished metal, he recognized it as Foundry work, if one suitable for mortal hands. He could see the places where old parts had been stripped and replaced with new ones, and where the woman had taken the time to clean and maintain the ones that were still functional. It was the kind of weapon a woman of the frontier relied on more than anything else.
"A moment, Sister," Carlau said. Silence filled the air as he kept looking. Tension filled her body, but she kept her patience in check, waiting for him. She knew to respect him.
"Here we are," Carlau said, pulling out the desired file. He held it up in front of his face and blinked, twice, to let his eyes adjust to the fine-print lettering. "Now, you already know that I'm Minister Carlau Harling. And you're High Abbess Igraine Kernow, of the Northlight Settlement?"
The woman nodded. "Yes, Minister Harling, and I-"
"And you're here to petition the High Council," Carlau cut in, not really caring for whatever platitude she had been about to say. "Asking for…more forces?" He blinked at the formal lettering on the document. That couldn't be right.
"Yes, Minister Harling," the Abbess said. She gave a deep bow, one hand placed over her heart with the thumb folded against her palm. "While my people have been able to meet the challenges presented to us, the Sidhe and Fomoraigh presences remain prominent. And that is without mentioning the other difficulties in my report." Her eyes were pointed at the floor, and so she didn't see the blank, owlish blink Carlau gave her.
"Have you…suffered more causalities since your last report?" Carlau asked. He didn't think she had, but maybe some paperwork had been lost. It would explain why she came all the way here.
"…no?" Igraine said, before catching herself. "That is to say, the figures remain the same. One in ten soldiers are dead or injured for at least the next half-year. We have only a handful of Pilots of the Second Sphere, with the rest are stuck firmly within the First."
Carlau waited for her to elaborate on that, but she did not. The silence stretched until he asked, bewildered, "And that is not enough?"
"No, Minister. It is not." Igraine finally broke out of her bow, her head tilting up to meet him, resentment clear on her features. That was surprising. It had been a long time since any member of the clergy had looked at him with actual resentment. "It's why I have been requesting reinforcements for the past three years. We need more defenders if we are to keep harvesting materials."
That's right, Northlight Settlement had been set up to gather resources of some sort or another and send them back to Avalon. In that case it should have been called 'Northlight Outpost' or some such. Still, he failed to see why that would mean she needed more. If anything, it meant she had too much. Not that it would have mattered if her need was genuine.
"Denied," Carlau said, putting the document back down on his desk.
Igraine stood straight, her face already morphing into one of shock and anger. "What? But-"
He cut her off. "All assessments indicate your settlement should have more than enough combat potential to meet any realistic threats to your safety. The same is not true for other parts of Avalon's domain, who are in more need of reinforcements. As such, the standard tithe of mortal soldiery will remain. May the gods watch over the rest of your day, High Abbess."
She stared at him, jaw working soundlessly like he'd just told her something ridiculous. Hmph, mortal foolishness. Did she think she was special just because some of her people had died? At least he had finished this meeting early. He could return to the simulation before his duties called him back.
Carlau pushed himself to his feet and bit back the scream that rose to his lips. His bad leg had fallen asleep, and the damn thing almost collapsed under his weight. Amusing, in a way. Age had caught up to him after all these years, and yet that hobbled him more than any pain or infirmity.
"I'll stop our shipments."
Carlau paused, hand resting on the release trigger for his cockpit's doors. His right ear flicked in irritation, and he glanced over his shoulder. "What was that?"
The woman set her features into a grim look. "If you do not give Northlight the forces we need, then I will stop all shipments of supplies back Avalon."
Carlau stared at her for a long moment. She could not be serious. The only end to come from withholding shipments would be her execution. Avalon would never let one of its children become so unruly. And she seemed to know that. He could see the anger burning in her green eyes, but there was fear there as well, buried deep inside her heart. This would end in her death, but she was doing it anyway.
The cheek on this woman. High Abbess she might be, but her 'settlement' was little more than an outpost. For a moment, a brief moment, Carlau considered just turning away, to leave her standing there in his office. A thought occurred to him, and he found himself asking, "What resources does your settlement provide?"
"Heart Crystals," the mortal said. "We're right atop a vein of Heart Crystals."
Shock and surprise rose up inside him, and for a moment Carlau thought to grab the side-arm still stowed away in his cockpit, a memento of better days. He restrained that urge, just as he did the curse that rose to his lips. Forget execution. She and all under her would be exiled for trying to withhold such a vital resource.
But, once everything settled, the High Council would investigate. They would see that their request for soldiers had gone unfulfilled, that resentment against Avalon had driven them to such madness. Someone would need to take the blame, and he'd be an easy scapegoat. They'd fire him, execute him, or worst of all scrap his Armature.
He shuddered to even think of a life without it, even if it was wrecked and ruined. It was his. No one else's.
"Very well," Carlau sighed and rubbed at his temple with one hand. Now, what kind of forces could he shake loose? "Ella, assign a…company of pilot recruits and their commander to accompany the High Abbess on her return trip."
<Yes, Sir. I will find an appropriate force to redirect to Northlight's next tithe.> Ella said.
Carlau met the Abbess's gaze and saw that she still wasn't satisfied with that. He hopped the Fomoraigh killed her.
"Do not try to push," he growled. "I was not lying when I said other parts are in more need. Avalon is pressed all along our southern border. A company is the best you can get."
Igraine considered him for a moment, before dipping into another bow. This one was not nearly as deep or respectful as before. "Thank you, Minister Harling. I am pleased the High Council heard the needs of those under my care."
Carlau laughed, a reedy, weak thing on his aged frame. "If your 'request' had been made to the High Council, they would have struck you down where you stood. Be grateful you had to deal with a 'mere' minister."
Without a word of dismissal, he stepped back into his Armature's cockpit. He wanted to loose himself in some simulated violence for a while. It was the only thing left to him in his old age.
This Quest draws on several sources of inspiration. Arthurian Romance and Celtic Mythology, the Lancer TTRPG, and Xianxia as a literary genre. In addition, a bunch of the worldbuilding is inspired by Yrsillar's Threads of Destiny. I greatly admire him and his writing, so it only felt proper to acknowledge that.
The story is centered around a novice Pilot, a mortal who has been found able to channel and manipulate mana, and is thus capable of piloting a science-fantasy mecha called an 'Armature.' They start out in service to Avalon, an Arcoplex city-state that has carved out a small fiefdom for itself on the world of 'Vestige.' The protagonist and their company have been assigned to reinforce Northlight Settlement, an Avalonic outpost that harvests valuable material for its parent City. The prologue will cover the journey from the company's departure to its arrival at the settlement.
But first, we will need to make that protagonist, including their name, gender, background, talents, and trait.
Backgrounds: There are many places in Avalonic Society that one can occupy. While these are far from the be-all end-all of determining a person's life, especially for Pilots, they do have an outsized influence on where someone ends up. Each Background influences your skills and abilities, as well as largely determining your character's starting personality and goals.
[] High Noble: You are a low-ranking scion of one of the Nine Families, the most powerful Clans in Avalon. Raised in privilege and provided excellent education, you have yet to achieve anything above 'average,' and are in real danger of being deemed 'Mediocre' by your family's elders.
- Advantages: Political connections, resources, advanced education. Special Armature from your Clan that already has a unique upgrade.
- Disadvantages: Middling mana reserves, low social ability, distorted idea of what's 'normal.'
[] Orphan Acolyte: Like many dispossessed children without family or community to take care of them, you were raised by the priests and scholars of the Foundry, the center of Avalonic faith. Your love of books and learning let you fit in easy enough, and if you had not had the Talent, you likely would have become some mid-ranking priest of one sort or another.
- Advantages: Academic and spiritual education, religious connections. Special Armature from the Temple.
- Disadvantages: Little martial experience, few personal bonds, unfamiliar with non-ecclesiastic matters.
[] Crecheborn Soldier: The origins of humanity are lost to time and myth, but many hold that Avalon's creches, the automatic systems which artificially incubate and birth new people in low density hab-blocks, are that origin. You are one such Crecheborn, only recently discovered to have the Talent. You are not a noble nor a commoner, but are heir to a long legacy of soldiers dutiful in their service to Avalonic society.
- Advantages: Well rounded education with a focus on combat, connections to an entire class of people. Armature can be easily specialized.
- Disadvantages: Completely removed from your social context, low mental ability, no skills unrelated to combat.
[] Lowborn Scholar: There are millions of commoners scattered throughout Avalon's levels and settlements, and you grew up in a close-knit community not far from the City itself. You were always a bright and studious child, and it was thanks to everyone's support you advanced far enough for your Talent to be noticed by the local Temple Fortress.
- Advantages: Good social ability, plenty of practical skills, starts off emotionally stable and healthy.
- Disadvantages: no resources or influential connections. Armature is an all-rounder that does not do well in any role.
[] Indentured Criminal: It is said that in Avalon, no one goes without. This isn't true. Even in the city itself, in the hidden slums and broken outskirts, there are people just trying to get by, like you. You and your 'gang' were like that, doing your best to have just a little of something without ever hurting anyone. Then you got caught, and were sentenced to 'repay your debt to society.' Your Talent just means you're doing it in another way.
- Advantages: High mana reserves, good mix of combat and social skills, experience with low-level leadership.
- Disadvantages: No resources, social stigma, no education, start with a significant enemy. Armature is an all-rounder that does not do well in any role.
[] Wildborn Conscript: There are many human communities outside of Avalon and its settlement network, and you've heard tales of other distant Cities, just as powerful and arrogant. When your village was destroyed, you fled and stumbled into one of Avalon's convoys. Because you have the Talent, you were forcefully recruited into a Pilot Training Company. You don't know what would have happened otherwise.
- Advantages: High mana reserves, familiarity with non-Avalonic human culture, practical survival skills. Armature can be easily specialized.
- Disadvantages: No connections. No resources. Weirdo 'Savage.' Twice the work for half the credit. Armature starts out with no equipment.
Talent: Every pilot finds their mana working in different ways, and their Armature tend to develop to favor those styles. This does not lock you into a combat role by any means.
[] Melee Combat
- You find yourself more able to use your Armature in melee combat.
[] Ranged Combat
- Ranged weapons and indirect fire come easily to you.
[] Support/E-Warfare Combat
- Your mana naturally attacks the enemies' minds and bolsters your allies'.
[] Subsystem Fabrication:
- Smart mines, guided rockets, and good old maintenance is second nature.
[] Information Control:
- Your mana trends towards things like radar jamming, active scanning, and stealth systems.
Gender: Avalon as a whole places little direct relevance upon one's societal role based upon their gender, but it can -and often does- slip in and effect one's life in unnoticed ways. Pilots often find such meanings fall away as they advance through the Spheres of power. There is no mechanical effect to this.
[] Male
[] Female
[] Non-binary
Name: Of course, the protagonist needs a name. Aim for something that fits within either the Arthurian Romance or Celtic Mythology. First Names only, the Backgrounds either have pre-chosen last names or none at all.
[] Name
And finally, the protagonist's Kin-Trait: As far Avalon is aware, all humans fall into one of thirteen 'kins' and have some animal features. Think anime cat-girls: humans with a few body-parts stapled on. This is a sort-of fluff item but also not. Even though no one has yet been able to figure what determines someone's Kin-Trait, Avalonic society has a whole complicated social system of assigning traits, assumptions, and attitudes to someone based off what kind of trait they have. They are as accurate as star signs, astrological charts, and birth-calendars are in real life. As a result you are making this choice blind.
[] Goatkin
[] Boarkin
[] Catkin
[] Stagkin
[] Wolfkin
[] Scorpionkin
[] Horsekin
[] Bullkin
[] Birdkin
[] Serpentkin
[] Foxkin
[] Bearkin
[] Harekin - note, considered very unlucky and untrustworthy. You will be the subject of discrimination
These will be plan votes, so format accordingly. Any votes not properly formated will be discarded. Here's an example of propper formating below.
[] Example Plan Name
-[] Sample Background
-[] Sample Talent
-[] Sample Gender
-[] Sample Name
-[] Sample Kin-Trait
