Dragon's Word Hoard (Snippets, Ideas, & Omakes)

[Dragonofelder]

"Before I explain what we will need for the ritual, I need to make three things clear." Jakob leaned back so shadow was again hiding his face. "One; the ritual site is in Sylvania. Not deep, but inside Hunger Wood. You know just as well as I what we will face there. Two; We will attract attention, no matter how subtle we are. Both Vampires and my fellow Priests of Morr will try to stop us. The latter will see this as a perversion of the rules of death, which, to be fair, it is. The vampires will try to stop us out of fear. Your lady friend will probably be in the fore."

"Sofia is not my lady friend, not anymore." Kraft snapped. "And besides, why would she care? I've already cast any allegiance to her aside. I will never serve her or her ilk again."

"Ah, the follies of youth," Jakob mocked. "Sofia had already laid a claim on you, and it was sealed by the Blood Kiss. You are bonded, and will remain so until you either gain enough power to supplant her control, complete the ritual or die. Even now you probably feel her at the back of your mind, and she feels it stronger. Part of it is the curse of the Vampire, part of it is the obsessiveness her bloodline carries."

"Other vampires fear the ritual for numerous reasons. If one of their own can return from undeath, could more follow? Could their loyal subjects flee them, carrying knowledge and relics, into the arms of Rhya? Would they themselves be consumed by the desire to return to the light?" Jakob shrugged. "Probably not, and some of them know this, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Finally our last problem; you yourself."

Kraft frowned, glancing at the seemingly unworried Allaya. "Me? Why am I a problem? I want to return to life, why should I try to stop it?"

"Because if even a small part of you wants to remain a vampire, the ritual will fail. At best, you'll remain a Vampire and we will need to try again. At worst, you'll devolve into a mindless beast as the curse consumes you." Leaning forward, eyes glinting, Jakob seemed to stare into Kraft's soul. "And if that happens, the only way to free you would be to throw you upon Morr's mercy. So you best ask yourself Kraft Fänger; do you truly wish to be free of Vampirism?"

(Skip)

"So. The ritual components. Most I can get my hands on; different types of blood, animal parts, warp stone and the like. We will also need ten… participants for the ritual. Three who knew you before you became a vampire; that means they knew you when you were mortal. Three who only know you as a vampire; and yes," Jakob said to Kraft's thoughtful expression, "it can just be any random person, so go meet some new people. We also needed a priest of Morr and of Rhya, which we have," he said, gesturing between himself and Allaya. "We need a servant of the Dark Gods as well, something about bearing witness. A beastman, any beastman, will work. And finally, we need your mortal enemy."

"Who?" Kraft asked.

"A mortal who hates you as much as you hate them. See, the ritual does not destroy the vampirism within you. It transfers it to your enemy. Technically we could leave them afterwards, but killing them right away would be better. And don't look at me like that Allaya, if I had written this spell it wouldn't be so dangerous."

"Don't worry, I know just who we can use," Kraft said, a smile crossing his face. "Getting to him will be difficult, but at least he's close to Sylvania."

(Skip)

"Just one thing, Jakob. This ritual… you have performed it before, right?"

"Yeah, of course," he said, chewing his pipe.

"And it worked?" Jakob paused for a moment, then glanced back, a carefully blank expression on his face.

"Probably best if I don't answer that."

---

Written literal years ago now, when my grasp on WHF lore was still a bit fragmentary. Story was about Kraft Fänger - an Empire noble - who gets caught up in Vampire shenanigans and is Turned by "Sofia". This was the only part I wrote.

Jakob is a Priest of Morr, amongst other careers. He might appear in other stories. Allaya is a Priest of Rhya, and her character concept is "descended" from a OC that created and used Golems.

 

[Dragonofelder]

RatUse1 Entered Den
RatUse2 Entered Den

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse2: stp

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse1: Ah finally! At the tower top?

RatUse2: ys

RatUse2: coldwet

RatUse1: Well get out of the rain then! And remember the gap key I showed you!

RatUse2: prtty good

RatUse2: how ffar can thes go

RatUse1: No idea! Pretty far, I imagine. Powerful little buggers.

RatUse2: how did yoo make th

RatUse1: Well to tell the truth.

RatUse1: You know that raki nest we cleared last week?

RatUse2: skye one

RatUse2: bardin

RatUse1: They were just laying there!

RatUse2: im comin bak down

RatUse1: Now hold on Azumgi.

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse1: Azumgi.

RatUse2: wht

RatUse1: Don't do anything hasty.

RatUse1: I want to keep it a secret from Saltzpyre. Until I have enough proof to show their use.

RatUse1: Would you not help a Dawi? For the betterment of us all?

RatUse2: is thre warpston in thes

RatUse1: Azumgi, how much of that nasty stuff do we walk past daily? You really think a little nugget is going to do us any harm?

RatUse2: supos so

RatUse1: There we go. Now bring it back, I want to do a bit of tweaking.

RatUse1: And maybe brush up on your letters, an urk could do better.

---

I read too many stories about characters in chatrooms. So I tried it in Vermintide. Kinda worked?

You know, I should probably check Kruber can canonically read & write...

 

[Dragonofelder]

Of late Rickard had felt the need for silent contemplation - no Rodrick, he was not avoiding the Red Priestess's gaze - and with the heaviest snowstorm seen for many decades howling around Winterfell, he had descended into the crypts. Down in those ancient halls, all sound was muffled, a graven silence held by the stern statues of former Stark lords.

Rickard's feet had unconsciously walked him down a path he knew far too well, and soon he found himself by the tomb of the only woman he'd ever, would ever, love. He knelt beside it, and placed a hand on the stone that separated him from Lyarra, feeling only cold, dead stone. He'd let his mind wander, thinking of all his many, many worries.

He thought of Brandon, soon off to a distant land to fight monsters, madmen, and the Gods only knew what else. Of Ned, unknowing and unprepared for the burden of leadership that was soon to be thrust upon him. Of Lyanna and Benjen, so young and so unknowing of the world's troubles.

"I cannot help but fear for our family's future, Lyarra," he had confessed. For a second, there was a feeling, a memory of warm skin - but when Rickard pulled his arm away there was nothing. Perturbed - and somewhat angry the strangeness so common in his life lately had followed him into this sacred place - Rickard had made to leave the crypts, only to run into a snag. The previously familiar tunnels, that'd traversed all his life, suddenly become a confusing labyrinth, and in a few short steps the Lord of Winterfell had become lost in his own home.

Currently Rickard was stalking down a hall of his ancient ancestors, Ice drawn but held low. Glaring into the face of Cregan Stark, Rickard silently vowed to demand an explanation from Cyril at the earliest opportunity. "Although knowing the Hunter," he mused, " he'll probably come down to explore and return with the head of wyvern, saying it was an excellent fight."

In Rickard's memories this tunnel ended in a left turn, but now he approached a turn to the right. Taking it, he found himself in a wide hall relatively close to the surface, which cheered him - yet something was off, and it took him a moment to realize. Three of the alcoves where the statues of Stark lords stood were occupied - but he could have sworn they had not been, less than an hour ago.

Slowly he approached, fearful of what he might find, but it was worse than he had thought. Lyanna's sorrowful face was looking down on him - young, too young, to be dead and buried. Kneeling on shaking knees, Rickard read the inscription on the statue's plinth:

Lyanna Stark
267 - 283 AC
Loved​

"Loved". That was it. No word on her death - just in two short years, Rickard thought with a tinge of madness - nor how a statue of her came to stand where only Stark lords should. Had she ruled, for a time? Where was Eddard, or Benjen, or even himself?

Rising Rickard came to the second statue, and found that his heart could indeed drop lower. Brandon, dear Brandon, gripping a downwards sword, his stone face one of contemplation.

Brandon Stark
262 - 282 AC
Executed By The Mad King
Wild & Brave​

There could be one King in Westeros worthy of the name "Mad", and the implications horrified Rickard. What had Brandon done, or not done, to deserve the King's Justice? Why was he still in Westeros to be slain, and not across the sea as a Hunter? Too many questions, and Rickard knew he'd enjoy none of the answers.

Finally coming to the last statue, Rickard almost turned away at what he suspected he would find - but he made himself stare in his own, aged and drawn face. Even in death, it seemed his rest was uneasy.

Rickard Stark
237 - 282 AC
Executed By The Mad King
Wise, Honourable, Determined​

Had he died before or after Brandon, he wondered. Had he gone to avenge his son, or had Brandon tried to avenge him? Or maybe they died together, cut down by the same blade, for the same crime. Again, Rickard did not want to know. Whatever cruel future this was, however he'd gained this view of horrors to come - the lord of winter swore it would never come to pass.

Turning from his own grave, Rickard marched away as if a man walking to his own execution. If the strange distortion of the crypts had ended with those future glimpses, then if he took this turn and walked this hall… Rickard couldn't help a sigh of relief when the stairs leading out of the crypts, into the castle's main courtyard, came into view. As much as he wanted to send ravens immediately to his children urging caution, such a message would likely be of great interest to any at Harrenhal. Better to wait until they returned.

Just as he put a foot on the stairs, Rickard paused. He couldn't hear the wind. Perhaps the storm had blown itself out, but he'd never known a strong storm to leave so quickly. Slowly ascending, he strained his ears to catch all he could. There was the sound of many horses, whispering as if from a large crowd. The sound of laughter, from two men - one of whom Rickard recognised. Something drew him to the door, to throw it open, and step out into the bright light of day.

Before him the courtyard was packed. One side by northern small folk and servants, on the other by southern knights. A large gaudy wheelhouse with Lannister banners stood nearby. There were knights in the armor of the Kingsguard, of whom Rickard could only identify one at first glance. To his left was a line of children - some red of hair, but all clearly of Stark blood. But his attention was drawn most of all two the two men that were embracing each other. One was like a mummer's farcical depiction of Steffon Baratheon, bloated and red. The other though… the other…

Ned Stark, a man grown and grown old, weary and scared, turned his smiling face and saw his father staring back. He staggered back, automatically seeking support from the man beside him. In turn, the Baratheon turned to see what had shocked his friend, causing his mouth to drop open. Across the courtyard others were turning to look, and shocked cries and confused mummering spread.

"I don't know how. I don't know why," declared Rickard, speaking to the air. "All I know is that this is Fairchild's fault."

---

Written for [ASOIAF/Bloodborne] Thy Good Neighbor

This story has a bunch of omakes, I was driven to contribute.

 

[Dragonofelder]

The A Klaw

Name: Avraham "Abe" Lincoln
Titles: The Negotiator
Age: 5 millennia
Blood-Coven: Draconis
Story: Once a NCO in Cassandron's tithed Guard Regiment, Abe drew the attention of the Blood Dragon Neson that had signed up to the Guard to as part of one of the coven's traditions. After fighting together across numerous warfronts, Neson revealed his true nature and offered the Blood Kiss to Abe, who was at first horrified, but agreed due to his dissatisfaction with the guardsman's life.
The pair faked their deaths in combat before covertly travelling back to Cassandron, where Abe was fully inducted into the Blood Dragons. Proving himself an expert swordsman, he continued to fight alongside his sire until Neson was spaced during a battle upon a Space Hulk against Ork Freebootas. Despite searching for many days, Abe was unable to find him, and Neson was declared lost.
Abe is calm and collected, preferring to think before acting - but he does, he moves swiftly and with determination. He is skilled in speechcraft, able to stir the hearts of his allies and shake the souls of his enemies. He has been known to end - or start - fights with a single sentence.
Preferred Weapons: Power sword & shield, Hellpistol

Name: Kristopher Orlok
Titles: Lorekeeper, Lord of Book & Blade, Uncle
Age: 8 millennia
Blood-Coven: Orsan (adopted Draconis)
Story: The Orsan coven are known as great thinkers and explorers of mysteries, and Kristopher Orlok is no different. Yet his skill with the blade was great enough to catch the attention of a Blood Dragon named Neson, who first was a rival but became a close friend. Drawn by the martial honour of the Blood Dragons, Orlok took the rare rite of leaving his blood-coven and joining another.
Still studious in nature Orlok eventually rose to the position of Lorekeeper, charged with keeping the Blood Dragon's records and chronicles of deeds. His battle brother Neson sired Abe, to whom Orlok became an uncle-like figure.
Orlok has the bearing of a count, even upon the battlefield. With but a stern look he is able to quell quarrelsome youths, but his cold exterior hides a parental leaning that delights in teaching, be it in swordplay or scholarship.
Preferred Weapons: thin-blade power sword

Name: Jiles Du'Blade
Titles: The Masked Blade
Age: Unknown
Blood-Coven: Draconis (Presumed)
Story: The vampire known as "Jiles Du'Blade" is a mystery - rarely does he go unmasked, and talks little. He is known as an expert swordsman - some say the most skilled within the Blood Dragons, although the man himself has demurred. An old friend of Orlok, joined Lincoln's klaw at his request.
Preferred Weapons: Power sword & shield

Name: Jaques "Jack" & Juliana "Jill" Bucket
Titles: Twin Deaths, The Annoyances
Age: 2 millennia
Blood-Coven: Draconis
Story: Born in the underhive of Nulmburg, the twins were forced to survive by themselves from a young age, becoming nearly feral. They would kill mutant creatures to eat, and stole regularly. At the age of eight, they attacked members of the local Water-Guild to steal a single bucket of (mostly) fresh water - an act witnessed by Abe Lincoln. Seeing a certain spark in the younglings, Abe approached them, and after much strife managed to earn their trust. The boy he named Jaques, and the girl Juliana - the two later choose the secondary named "Bucket", in memory of the incident that gained the attention of their pseudo-father figure.
Vampires have strictures on embracing too young, and so the twins were (by best approximation) young adults when Abe revealed his true nature, and offered them the Blood Kiss.
The twins are inseparable, still filled with the vigor of youth. They are prone to acting without much thought, but are clever and cunning.
Preferred Weapons: Jaques wields a power maul & shield, Juliana wields two power swords

Name: Zadimus Zero-Victor
Titles: Steel Blooded
Age: 3 millennia
Blood-Coven: Draconis
Story: Vat-born in Cassandron's only minor forge complex, Skitarii unit Zero-V14 was given minimal augments, only what was necessary to complete their selected duties. Notably, they received only basic ocular and audial implants - Cassandron's secret vampire rulers had long curtailed the use of such, even among the world's Mechanicus adepts.
During Zero-V14's 11th year, the adepts of the forge complex began a secret project to use servitor-type augments to control Genestealers, as well as implanted humans. Predictably, things went catastrophically wrong, and a site-wide lock-down was triggered, locking all the members of the Mechanicus inside with technologically enhanced xenos.
Zero-V14's squad was whittled down one by one, some torn apart or placed under mind-control, but through a combination of skill and pure luck the Skitarii managed to survive - and actually took the fight to the xenos. One by one they hunted down the Genestealers, including the Brood's juvenile Patriarch, then went on to behead the corrupted Archmagos who had orchestrated the breakout, before setting the complex's fusion reactor to self destruct. Ready to die in the explosion, the wounded Skitarii was instead rescued by a group of Blood Dragons that were investigating the forge complex.
Learning of Zero-V14's one-man war, the impressed vampires offered to embrace the Skitarii. Lacking any directives, Zero-V14 agreed, and underwent a painful change that removed all their implants and regrew their flesh. Choosing the new name "Zadimus Zero-Victor", they would become known for fighting in an almost mechanical pattern, as well as technological skills - including Noosphere warfare.
Preferred Weapons: Transonic Sword, Power Shield, Arc Pistol

Name: Valkia Schwarzvolf
Titles: The Bloody Valkyrie, Gorequeen
Age: 4 millennia
Blood-Coven: Draconis
Story: Although the majority of Cassandron's population lives within Hive Cites, there is a large number of "savage" tribes that roam the lands beyond the rockcrete walls. One such tribe were the Schwarzvolfs, who dwelled in the cold extremes of the planet's south. Valkia was a proud warrior of the tribe, hunting mutated megafauna single handedly and delving deep into ruins in search of tradable archotech. Although not renowned for her beauty, her prowess drew many admirers - including the brash son of the Locephex tribe's chief. Unused to being denied, when Valkia respond to his advances by laughing in his face, the youth tried to force himself upon her. He was promptly slain.
However Valkia had broken guest rights to do so, meaning the Schwarzvolfs had to declare an outcast and send her into exile. With only the clothes on her back and her spear, Valkia was left to fend for herself - but she had a plan. A tale whispered by the tribes folk was of the Bloody Path, where by a warrior could prove themselves worthy of ascending. Although the way was hidden, Valkia was determined to regain her lost honour, and set out. For many years she wandered, following old stories and seeking clues. She slew many beasts and champions, and sometimes entering the Underhives of various cities, but the path would alway lead elsewhere. Finally she came to Hive Nulmburg.
Through secret tunnels that went from the bottom of the ancient arcology, Valkia found her way into the secret keep of the Blood Dragons. The vampires had in truth been tracking her for some time, and had decided she was worthy of the final challenge of the Bloody Path - a fight against a full member of the coven, no holds barred. Accepting in an instant, Valkia survived only eight minutes against her foe, landing only glancing blows - but this was more than any other challenger had achieved. Embraced with all honour, Valkia chose to take the name of her tribe as a reminder of her past.
A bloody and violent fighter, Valkia will always throw herself into the thickest combat. Uncaring of the blood that stains her plate, she has well earned the title "Gorequeen". With the coming of the Cainite Protectorate, Valkia has embraced their Khornate beliefs, to the discomfort of some of her fellows. However her strong beliefs in honour and justice mean she is popular with many, including members of the U.S.A.
Preferred Weapons: Power spear & shield

Name: Jacques Northfulk
Titles: The Emperor's Bloody Blade, Emperor Botherer
Age: 5 millennia
Blood-Coven: Draconis
Story: Jacques was once an arrogant and hot-blooded vampire, with numerous minor infractions against the Masquerade. This changed during the Brood of Nergal's uprising - by unfortunate chance, or malign design, a great many Ruthven were present in Hive Nulmburg when the Thrice-Damned's ritual was complete. The Blood Dragons of course responded with speed, but they were unprepared for the hordes of newly transformed monsters, and many fell in the first hours alone. Among them was Jacques, although his descent was more literal than most - he was dragged off the side of a great bridge that spanned a great gap in the hive's structure. Fallening deep into the underhive, he was thought lost. Yet this was not true.
What happened next has only one source, and his sanity is indoubt. Deep in the depths, Jacques' fall was broken by the roof of an abandoned Ecclesiarchy shrine. His body was partially shielded by the mutants still clinging to him, as well as his armour, but it was a broken creature that crawled free from the wreckage. There Jacques lay before a statue of the Holy Emperor, and witnessed a miracle - the statue wept tears of blood, of which the vampire drank deeply. Within moments his wounds sealed and new strength filled his weary body, along with divine purpose. Exiting the shrine, Jacques found it had become a rallying place for the poor unfortunates of the underhive, beset by more of Nergal's brood and lesser monsters roused by their rampages. His sword and shield lost, Jacques fell upon the foe with only his hands and fangs, his battle cries rallying the defenders. When the last enemy had been slain, Jacques commanded the mob to follow him onwards, in the Emperor's name; there would be more to kill.
So it was that the PDF forces, openly led by Blood Dragons, that descended into the underhive to purge it encountered a crusading force already doing so. Jacques reunited with his kin a changed vampire, professing loyalty to the God Emperor above all others, and that through shedding the blood of the unclean would his own unnatural state be forgiven. Worrying, but Jacques had no open desire to kill vampires, so it was forgiven. Jacques went on to fight in the last battle of the crisis, within Hive Septimus itself, where he reaped a bloody tally. Since that time, he has remained a loyal Blood Dragon, despite his oddities.
Jacques still retains his headstrong nature, although it has been tempered by faith. He has few true friends - his early attempts at evangelism were not taken well - but for those that have earned his regard he is loyal to a fault. He is prone to quoting scripture, especially during battle, and during idle hours he flays himself. Jacques has no issue with fighting "true" warriors of the Emperor - if their standing in the God Emperor's eyes were higher than his own, then surely they should triumph over him?
Preferred Weapons: Power sword & shield, Electroflail

Name: Vikky Seran
Titles: The Goose
Age: 2 millennia
Blood-Coven: Unknown
Story: In life an arbites, a mortally wounded Seran had the ill fortune - or good fortune, depending on your perspective - of encountering an enigmatic vampire known as the Crimson Prince. After being embraced, Seran travelled with her sire for some years, before he suddenly left her with the Blood Dragons and vanished off into the wilds.
Seran is notably eccentric, although not to the same chaotic level as her sire. She has a fondness for large weaponry, a tendency for foul language, and at times exceedingly bloodthirsty. But she is also kind, does not suffer fools, and respects those that can prove themselves.
Preferred Weapons: Power mace, autocannon

Name: Darren Shan
Titles: The Childer, Youngest
Age: 19 years
Blood-Coven: Orsan (adopted Draconis)
Story: Darren was a Imperial Guard conscript, hastily trained and thrown against the forces of the Protectorate. Even the defence collapsed, and as his squad fled, Darren held to his post. He fired upon approaching USA forces, who quickly realised he was alone, and offered to let him surrender - but even seeing that his lasgun was ineffective, Darren refused. The situation attracted the attention of Kristopher Orlok , who offered to give Darren an honorable death - yet after mortally wounding the guardsmen, the Blood Dragon instead offered him a new life.
Darren is currently the youngest Blood Dragon within Lincoln's klaw - something his elders rarely let him forget - and is still very much nervous about becoming a traitor. However he is a quick learner, being a passable duelist, and is embracing the ideas of the Liberation and the Blood Dragons' martial code both.
Preferred Weapons: Power sword & shield

---

Written for Ciaphas Cain, Warmaster of Chaos (WH40K Parody/Comedy/Crack). Blood Dragon characters

 

[Dragonofelder]

So before we can consider the question "Is King's blood worth more than a world walker's in a ritual", we need to actually define the "worth" of blood. Let's start with some easy points.

"Virgin's blood" actually has two meanings; the (apparent) original meaning of blood that had not been used in a ritual, and the more modern take of blood from a virgin, e.i. someone that has not performed a sexual act (what defines a "sexual" act is beyond the scope of this work). We can define these two as VB1 and VB2.

We could go on to consider which type of blood has more worth, which might take into account cultural leanings, ritual intent, etc. But considering this universe's leanings, we can assume VB2 is more important. So we'll be using that.

Next: age. Or prehaps, better to discuss Innocence and Experience. A new born babe is unknowing and unsullied by the world, giving their blood a greater meaning. Yet too can the blood of someone that had lived a long, full and rich life have power. A distilling of their life's experience. It can be postulated that the relation between Innocence&Experience, Blood Power and age were placed on a graph, would create a U shape, dipping in mid-life. But by the whims of the world sometimes the young have their innocence stripped away, while others cling onto it to their elder years.

---

Had brainworm about the value of blood for magical purposes while reading The Winter of Widows, but ran out of steam before finishing it.

 

[Dragonofelder]

Species Database

Name: T'au
Biological Classification
Designation: Sentient
Classification: Mammalian
Subspecies: (see; Biology)
Physical Characteristics
Average height: (see; Biology)
Skin colour: shades of grey-blue
Eye colour: Red
Eye colour: black to red variation
Average lifespan: 60
Distinctions:
*Hoofed feet
*Four digit hands
*Facial slit
*Enhanced eyesight
Sociocultural characteristics
Homeworld: T'au
Diet: vegetarian
Habitat: arid grasslands
Language: T'au

The T'au (sometimes spelt Tau) are a race of near-humanoids that have, as of 10 ArS, recently become am FTL capable species. Their homeworld is located in the western regions of the Damocles Sector (see document: World Datase: T'au). Despite their relative newness, they are seen as a deveoping power - having created a number of colonies, and making favourable deals with local business groups.

They are noted for following a religio-philosophical ideology known as Tau'va, or The Greater Good, which dictates much of their culture and society. It's core tenant is that "all sentient beings should strive to ensure the greatest good for the greatest number of other sentient beings".

Biology
The T'au are divided into five biologically distinct castes, each optimised for a societal function. At the current time it is unknown if the caste system is natural, or purposefully developed. It is known inter-caste relationships are illegal.

The Por (Water) Caste are the group most commonly encountered by other races, as they serve as diplomat and merchants. They are tall (ave. 5) and thin, and are skilled at learning new languages and dialects. Por Tau often adopt other races' fashions.

The Shas (Fire) Caste are born and trained as warriors, acting as bodyguards for T'au officials and as their homeworld's law enforcers. They are broad shouldered, muscular, and have an average height of 5.5. Both male and female Shas serve.

The Fio (Earth) Caste are the most varied caste - although they are often scientists and engineers, they can also hold roles from general labourers and artists. They are short (ave. 4.8) and stout, and have high intelligence, inveting and producing the majority of the T'au's technology.

The Kor (Air) Caste are specialised for flight, acting as pilots in both military and domestic sectors. Of all the T'au, the Kor are the most differentiated. They are extremely tall (ave. 7) and thin, with hollow bones. The large majority of the caste prefer to live in zero-gravity environments, either on space-ships or specially designed space stations.

The Aun (Ethereal) Caste are the leaders of T'au society. Little is known about them, but they are comparatively few in number, have an apparent average height of 6, and have a distinct bony crest in place of the standard face slit. The other caste hold the Aun in high esteem, in a way outsiders can consider unnatural.

It was briefly rumoured that the Aun caste were all force-sensitive, and used mind control to retain control over the other castes. This was disproven, an effort that included Jedi aid, but it was instead discovered that the Aun produce pheromones that make other T'au more suggestible - as well as weak willed members of other species. As might be expected, this has caused numerous issues. Most groups now refuse to commentate in-person with Aun T'au.

It is notable that the T'au have not yet produced a force sensitive. Indeed, they are partially force resistant.

History
The records of the T'au speak of a time of civil strife known as the Mont'au (the Terror), where the four subraces competed for land and rescores in bloody conflicts. This ended with the arrival of the Aun - from where, it is not known - who united the tribes under the shared ideology of Tau'va.

The T'au progression from primitive, hunter-gatherer society was remarkably fast (at least according to their own records), spearedheaded by the leadership of the Aun and the technological prowess of the Fio caste. They would be introduced to galactic society by traveling traders.

Society
The T'au are a unfied race, and are ruled by the Aun High Council. Their government is is known as the T'au Sept.

The T'au promote the Tau'va ideology at every opportunity. Although not aggressive in spread it, the T'au - espically the Shas caste - can react harshly to those that reject or misunderstand their philosphy. For instance, a common mistake made is to assume that Tau'va is an religion, although the T'au deny thus. They hold the belief that all sentients can, and should follow the Tau'va. They have proven receptive to similar philosophies, such as the Jedi code, although they will always view them through the lens of Tau'va.

Technology
Thanks to the practically minded Fio Caste, the T'au have a strong technological base. There are three areas of note; their plasma technology, droids, and battle stuis.

The T'au use plasma as a primary power source, from cities to space craft. The most common weapon type utlised by the Shas caste are Pulse Weapons; the standard issue Pulse Rifle is noted to outrange most comparative blasters, although it has a low fire-rate and high knockback.

T'au produced droids - known as Kor'vesa - are also widely used. The T'au forgo more humanoid designs, normally preferring disc-based frames that use repulsorlifts to manoeuvre. T'au society is pro-droid, and they are often treated as intelligent pets, or fellow sentients.

The T'au, or rather the Shas caste make use of mechanized battle suits regularly. Despite the their somewhat open and merchentile in nature, the T'au do not sell their "Battlesuits" or plans for them. In scale, they can range from being closer to advanced armour, to building-sized walkers.

---

Written for Darth Cain, the Reluctant Sith Lord. Essentially its just sticking the Tau in Star Wars.

 

[Dragonofelder]

Translated from Old High Sith

Cain! Cain! Cain!

Dark Lord of The Sith! (Cain!)
Liberator of Perlia! (Cain!)
Hero of the Empire! (Cain!)

Cain! Cain! Cain!

See now, he comes, (Cain!)
Breaker of Destiny! (Cain!)
End of Eternity! (Cain!)

Cain! Cain! Cain!

See now, he rises, (Cain!)
Invincible! (Cain!)
Fearless! (Cain!)

Cain! Cain! Cain!

See now, he is here! (Cain!)
He is here! (Cain!)
He is here! (Cain!)

Cain! Cain! Cain!

---

Imagine a black cloaked choir chanting in not!Latin, and you'll get the vibe.

Written for Darth Cain, the Reluctant Sith Lord.

 

[Dragonofelder]

Pre-Conflict

Martian History

Like life on Earth, the origin of Martian life is hard to confirm, but it is known that it began in the vast underworld of the planet. The surface world was harsh and inhospitable, meaning for most of Martian history civilisation dwelled beneath the ground. It was only during the Industrial Revolution - which occurred concurrently with Earth's early Medieval period - that wholesale settlement began.

Mars would come to be united under a technocratic directorate, where a council of the world's best and brightest - or rather, most power-hungry and ambitious scientists - would enforce near-total control over society. Such state of affairs had some advantages, such as the rapid pace of scientific discovery, and the terraforming of Mars' surface to a habitual state.

First Martian War

Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.
Wars Of The Worlds - by H. G. Wells

First Landings

Counter Offensives - Man & World

Defeat & Retreat

Interwar Period

Mars

Earth

Second Martian War

Initial Strike

Uprisings

Second & Third Waves

Dangerous Action

Retreat

Second Interwar/Home Wars Period

Earth

Mars

Third Martian War

Pre-Warning

Armada

Martian Support

Grounded Conflict

Surrender

Post-War

---

Plotting out a series of Martian invasions/conflicts. For a roughly superhero based world I'm calling "The Flame Burns On"

A summary of the wars could be:
1st - Martians: "We'll Fuck Around"
2nd - Humans: "You'll Find Out"
3rd - Martian Nazis: "Bitch You Thou-" Gets Got

 

[Dragonofelder]

Blood. Blood in the air. Blood on the ground. Blood all around.

With his right hand Lt. Avraham Lincoln swung his sword, splitting a rat-faced Lycan from hip to shoulder. His left hand closed around a canine face, popping the head like a balloon before throwing the writhing body towards a charging mutant, one with the face of a rabbit yet the horns of a bull. It tripped over it's dead fellow, and Avraham's iron-capped boot smashed down on its exposed neck, shattering it.

All this happens in the span of a few seconds.

In front of Avraham, stretching as far as he could see, was a tide of corrupted flesh. Behind him were the defensive positions of the united army, infantrymen scrambling to reform the line. New blockades were put in place, blood-soaked and torn sandbags swapped out for fresh ones, barbed wire laid in a rush. From the direction of the backlines came new soldiers, more bodies to stem the tide. Going the other way, pale faced support personal carried away bodies of the dead and dying - the latter to be taken to the field hospitals, the former to the rapidly filling field of corpses.

River of blood flowed at Avraham's feet, lapping at his boots, splashing with every movement he made. Most of it, he knew, was the blood of Lycans, but some bled from mortal men torn apart by claw and fang, tendril and stinger. He had followed the Colonel's orders - how could he not? - to reinforce the line when it had been breached. The Engels had all fallen, meaning others had to take their place. And so after the angels, came the demons.

Someway to his left, out of sight, he could hear Sgt. Schwarzvolf's roar, bellowing out a Nordan battle chant in the faces of the silent foe. Every now and again he saw a Lycan propelled skywards, likely on the end of one of her jaw-breaking upper cuts. He knew that off to the left was Col. von Hohenzollern, the former-blacksmith swinging his mace - little more than a hunk of iron on a solid oak handle - while consumed with his habitual silent blood fury. Between them was himself - heir of an aristocratic line, joined the army out of love for his nation, killed when wooden shrapnel pierced his heart. Risen from death, to fight on.

Avraham's sword - his family's ancestral, historical keepsake that hung above the mantle since before he could remember - cut through flesh and bone with unnatural ease. He knew it was his enhanced strength, driving ancient steel through corrupted flesh like paper. He knew it was pure luck, or ancient forging secrets, that allowed the blade to deflect claws that would have cut through concrete with nary a scratch. And he knew it was merely the desperate nature of this fight that made his blows seem stronger, his reactions quickened.

But. He remembered the look his Great Uncle gave him, on the day after the Solstice Event, when he made ready to return to Division Y. How the old man, with his wrinkled face and pointed beard, had held his arm with a death-like grip, making him promise to never let the sword leave his side. How he had smiled wide, teeth white, as he told Avraham how proud he was to see "a true warrior of our blood."

Maybe Avraham should let the scientists look at his blade once they were done here. If, they survived. If, this ever ended at all.

The Director's voice came over the communication spell - yet Avraham also felt her words echo from his blackened soul. The order was given. One hand still on his blade, his other reaches into his jacket and removes a cylinder of starry black. He brings it up to his mask, and with a practiced movement, opens the input port and feeds the cylinder into it.

Power. Darkness. Blood. Always, always blood.

Schwarzvolf's song gains a new, deeper tone. Von Hohenzollern gives voice to his fury like a bellowing bull, and Avraham smiles. Smiles, because he can feel the blood. Blood inside, blood beyond, blood behind and blood above.

Avraham smiles, and launches himself into the air, followed closely by his new family. Soon, it begins to rain blood.

---

Written for A Young Girl's Weaponization of the Mythos (Youjo Senki + Cthulhu Mythos) (Crack + Parody), over on Space Battles.

Took so long to write it was nearly irrelevant to the story.

 

[Dragonofelder]

Well, I'm dead. That sucks.

Just how life is, I suppose. One moment you're trucking along (heh, truck), trying to balance boring work, difficult family and expensive hobbies, and then WHAM! Dead.

At least it was quick.

Although, now that I'm thinking about it… I'm thinking. I'm dead, how am I conscious enough to… well, think?

Is this Hell? I mean, I'm an atheist, so I reckoned there would just be black oblivion waiting for me once my brain realized it was just a piece of meat, but… it's black, and pretty oblivion-ee, but I'm still… here.

Am I here? I can't feel anything. Odd, only just noticing that. I can't feel my limbs, my skin, my… breath. Nothing. Less than nothing. Just, silence. Only me, myself, and my thoughts. Forever.

…

Oh gods this'll be a trash way to spend eternity.

Fuck fuck fuck FUCK FUCK FUCKFUCKFUCK

Flux Spike Logged

Fuck what was that? Did a fucking… computer just speak into my head! Do I have a head right now? Wait, no, focus - why did that just happen? How did it happen?

Am I… in a computer? Wait fuck has someone plugged me into the Matrix? Was my whole life a simulation? Fuck that! I'm pretty fucking sure I lived, I can remember all of it… weirdly well? Like stuff I'm pretty sure I'd actually forgotten? Oh, so that's where I hid that hat. Heh.

Okay, back on track. Something's up. Either I'm in a computer… or I am a computer. Hmm. How can I tell the difference? Crap.

Wait. There's some kind of… separate system? To myself? That log message. Can I reach out and… talk to whatever that was? I can kinda… feel is the wrong word, but it's the best word I have. I can feel the direction the voice came from, and if I… poke it…

Hello?

Nodal Command Connectioned

Haha, success!

ERROR

Wait what?
Eeeerrrrr… query ERROR?

Protocol.LongSlumber Incomplete. User.Merenptah Conscious Equals ERROR

Merenptah? Is that me? So… I'm supposed to still be asleep? Okay, I guess I'm an early riser. Can I… see how long I'm meant to be sleeping for?

Protocol.LongSlumber Duration Equal 99999ERORRx109999999999999999999999999999999999999999999999 ​Cycles

…That… is a very long time. Can I… end it early?

Insufficient Privileges

I'm not allowed to wake myself up? What the fuck? Can I… send my consciousness back to sleep?

Error

Well why the fuck NOT?

ErrorError
Flux Spike Logged

If I have to stay awake like this, all that time… I'll go insane. FUCK, this is Hell, isn't it!

Flux Spike Increasing

I just had to get the WORST FUCKING AFTERLIFE, stuck in broken machine with a STUPID AI telling me that I can't leave-

Flux Spiking Critical Level

I'm not having this, you hear me? I'm getting out of this FUCKING place, even if I have to TEAR MY MIND APART to do it!

Flux Spike ERROR

Let me out let me out let me OUT LET ME OUT LETMEOUTOUTOUTOUT

FLUX CRITICAL ERRORERRORERROR

OUT

---

The first sound I heard was something breaking.

I suddenly became aware that my arm - an arm, attached to "me" at any rate - had punched through a fine sheet of metal that was in front of me. I was honestly amazed I managed to maneuver "my" limb to do that in the cramped, coffin-like space I found myself in. No wait; it was a coffin. I was in a metal coffin.

Fuck that, I thought. Drawing back my extended arm to grip the side of the lid, I braced my other on the inside and heaved. Something gave with a metallic snarl, and the lid dented outwards, but it still wasn't enough for me. Lets see, apply a knee like so-

The twin clangs of the lid launching free, then coming crashing somewhere out of sight, echoed in what sounded like a vast space. Instantly I froze, my mind warring between the fear of someone or something hearing the noise, and an odd guilt - but no other noises followed, so with care I climbed out.

I found the coffin I'd been resting in was at a slight slant, feet-end tilted towards the floor, and made of a mix of silvery material and pitch black stone. The room beyond was made of the same stone, stretching off for two hundred seventy & nine point five meters, with a width of eighty three point three recurring meters, with a roof at-

I stopped. How had I known that? I looked over at the far wall, and I realized I knew the exact distance to it, its height, it's perfect ninety degree angle. I knew the temperature of the room - slightly chilly - and the columns on either side of the illuminated walkway, of which I knew the exact number of steps from the distant door to the foot of the dias I was standing on, and dias, why was I on a dias?

I focused, cutting off the flow of information being fed to me, turning it into a mere-background murmur. I looked around, finally able to observe my surroundings uninterrupted. I was on a dias, raised off the floor and backing against the wall. When I turned to look at it, I saw that above my coffin - itself a more complicated machine then I first thought - was a massive glowing crest. A green, glowing crest.

"Oh fuck," I breathed, trying to ignore the fact I still didn't have breath. I didn't recognise the symbol, but its aesthetic was strikingly familiar. In fact, a lot of things were suddenly becoming familiar, my mind starting to clear and settle as if waking from a - a great sleep. Trembling, I raised the arms attached to me - my arms - and saw bulky silver appendages ending in skeletal hands. A loose thought - a subroutine - made itself known, and I triggered it. Instantly there was a flash of green light, and a metal staff appeared in my hand, before there was another flash and a curved energy blade generated.

I studied the Warsycthe in my hands, gave a resolute nod, and spoke to the empty tomb; "I'm a Necron Lord. Right. Fuck."

And then I had a breakdown.

---

Many, many ideas for how this character's story would go. Some of them are even feasible in lore! Mostly.