[X] Central Core
Echoes of Creation (30k/Exalted)
- Thread starter Yzarc
- Start date
- Crossover
[X] Central Core
- Location
- Arcadia
[X] Central Core
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Central Core
As if they weren't already the anti-Daemon legion. Still, it's a niche that's going to be underappreciated before it's very much needed (assuming the Heresy kicks off like it still might)
Having some kind of anti-daemon capacity would be useful, but it depends on how much AP it would cost, especially now when we are in a time crunch.
Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
No AP, just XP since it has been developed.
Ah OK, then I think she should grab it guys. Abilities that do not cost slots are very valuable to her. That is why lores and psychic powers are so good for her as well.
Turn 10: The Descent into Silence
Yzarc
The Spark of Madness
Colchis - 832.M30
The door to the central core slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a yawning corridor that stretched into darkness. The lights flickered weakly, casting long shadows that twisted and shifted with every step. The air inside was cold, unnaturally so, and despite the environmental controls in your suits, you could feel the chill settle deep into your bones. The silence was oppressive, as if the very station held its breath, waiting for something to happen.
You led the team forward, each step echoing in the cavernous corridor. Atarrus took point as always, his weapon raised, eyes scanning every shadow. Ziva walked beside him, her face drawn and tense. Varn brought up the rear, the weight of the station's ancient history pressing down on his usually calm demeanor. No one spoke. There was no need to; the Silent Beacon had already begun to exert its influence.
It wasn't long before the first signs of the station's malevolent nature began to appear.
At first, it was subtle, a whisper, barely audible over the hum of your suit's systems. You paused, turning your head slightly, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving only the echo of your breathing inside the helmet. You glanced at Ziva, but she shook her head, her eyes wide. She had heard it too.
You continued down the corridor, but the whispers grew more frequent. Faint voices, indistinct but insistent, echoed in your mind. They seemed to come from the walls themselves, as if the station was alive, watching your every move. The further you went, the louder they became, until you could no longer ignore them.
"They're not real," you muttered to yourself, focusing on the mission, on the core. "Just the station playing tricks."
But the voices were relentless. They whispered of failure, of betrayal, of things left undone. They taunted you, digging into your deepest insecurities, pulling at the threads of doubt that had always been there, buried beneath the surface. You tried to push them aside, but they clung to your mind like leeches.
"Do you hear that?" Atarrus's voice came through the comms, a rare tremor of unease in his usually calm tone.
"Yes," Ziva replied, her voice tight. "But we need to keep moving. It's trying to get inside our heads. Stay focused."
You glanced back at Varn. His brow was furrowed, his eyes darting around as if searching for the source of the voices. Whatever was happening, it wasn't just you. The station was probing, testing each of you, looking for weaknesses.
You pressed on, forcing yourself to concentrate on the path ahead. The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, the layout of the station a labyrinth of identical passageways and dead ends. Occasionally, you would pass a rusted bulkhead or an ancient control panel, but there was nothing here to offer any clues, nothing to give you a sense of direction. Only the whispers, growing louder and more insistent with each step.
Then, the illusions began.
At first, they were fleeting, a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, a shadow that wasn't there when you turned to look. You told yourself it was nothing, just your mind playing tricks in the dim light. But as you ventured deeper, the illusions became more tangible.
You saw a figure standing at the end of the corridor, shrouded in shadow. It was humanoid, but its features were obscured. You blinked, and it was gone, replaced by an empty hallway. Your heart raced, and you quickly glanced at the others, but none of them seemed to have noticed.
The whispers grew louder, filling your mind with doubts. You were immune to all forms of mind control. So what if it was real? What if you weren't alone here?
"Keep it together," you told yourself, but the station's presence was oppressive, making you question yourself, eroding your confidence with every passing moment.
Ziva stumbled, her hand clutching her helmet as if to shut out the voices. Atarrus steadied her, his grip firm, but even he seemed shaken. Varn muttered something under his breath, his usually collected demeanor cracking under the pressure.
"I see them," he said, his voice a low growl. "They're watching us."
You looked around but saw nothing. The station was toying with you, feeding off your fear, warping reality in subtle, insidious ways. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into a nightmare.
As you ventured further, the corridor twisted, bending at odd angles that made no sense. The architecture of the Silent Beacon was wrong, impossible, even. Corners seemed to fold in on themselves, and the distance between points fluctuated as if space itself was shifting around you. Your sense of direction wavered, and you began to wonder if you were even moving forward at all.
Then the temptations came for your companions.
They started as small things, memories from their past, flickering into existence like ghosts. You saw faces of people they cared for, their childhood, victories, and failures alike. The station was digging deeper now, not just probing their fears but offering you glimpses of what they had lost.
It whispered promises in all of your ear, promises of power, of knowledge, of things long denied to you.
"You could take it," a voice whispered, seductive and sweet. "All you need to do is reach out."
You shook your head, trying to clear the fog from your mind. But the illusions persisted. You saw yourself, standing on a throne, ruling over Colchis as its true master, with the secrets of the Silent Beacon at your command. You saw your enemies kneeling before you, powerless in the face of your newfound strength.
You closed your eyes and reached deeper into the well of your power, focusing on your ability to see the currents of magic. It was a skill honed over years of practice, an ability that had always given you clarity in the midst of chaos. You had used it countless times to unravel spells, to sense the invisible threads of enchantment that bound the world together. If the station was casting illusions, if these voices were a product of some malevolent magic, you would see it. You had to see it.
Opening your eyes again, you let your vision slip into the arcane spectrum, expecting to find the usual shimmering traces of spellcraft. You scanned the room, the walls, the corridor stretching ahead. But there was nothing. The familiar glimmer of magic, the subtle shifts in the air that always accompanied it, were conspicuously absent. The illusions, the voices, the shifting shadows, the visions tugging at your mind, left no trace. They weren't anchored in the warp, or any arcane force you could identify.
It didn't make sense. You focused harder, your brow furrowing as you tried to pry deeper, to see beneath the surface. But there was no disturbance in the magical fabric of the Silent Beacon. No conjured energies, no manipulations of the warp, no binding spells that might explain what was happening. The illusions weren't magical. They weren't made of the stuff you knew how to counter or control. They simply were, as if the station itself was weaving them from the very material of reality, bypassing all the familiar mechanisms you had come to rely on.
You listened again to the voice in your mind, smooth, persuasive, and yet completely disembodied. It sounded so real, so close, as if someone were whispering directly into your ear. Yet even as you strained to detect some magical trace, some lingering resonance that might explain its presence, you found nothing. It wasn't psychic, wasn't some form of trickery you could banish or ward off. It simply existed, beyond the scope of magic.
It was as though the Beacon was rewriting your perception itself. The unsettling realization crept into your thoughts: this wasn't an illusion you could dispel. These weren't magical threats you could see through. The station was bending reality in ways that didn't adhere to the rules you understood, and that frightened you more than any spell could. You were used to battling the forces of the warp, to confronting tangible manifestations of power. But this… this was something different, something older, something far beyond the reach of your abilities.
Your frustration built as you reached out once more, desperately trying to feel some pulse of arcane energy, some shred of magic to explain what was happening. But the more you searched, the more the void deepened. There was no magic here. No conjured illusion, no enchantment you could dismantle. The Silent Beacon's madness was woven into the very air, real in a way that defied the rules you knew.
And that made it all the more terrifying.
You glanced at the others. Ziva's face was pale, her eyes wide as she stared at something only she could see. Atarrus clenched his fists, his knuckles white, but he said nothing. Varn muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the comms.
"Keep moving," you said, your voice hoarse. "Don't listen to it."
But the station's temptations were relentless. Every step forward was a battle against the whispers, against the illusions that danced before your eyes. The walls seemed to close in around you, the shadows growing deeper, more oppressive. The air felt thick, like walking through water.
Then you saw it.
At the end of the corridor, just beyond the reach of your lights, stood a door, tall, ancient, and covered in symbols you couldn't decipher. This was it. The first checkpoint.
The door loomed ahead, a silent sentinel guarding the way forward. You approached cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. The whispers had grown softer now, more distant, but they were still there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness.
Atarrus reached the door first, his hand hovering over the control panel.
"It's sealed," he said. "We'll need to override the lock."
But before he could act, a soft glow illuminated the surface of the door. A series of symbols flickered to life, forming words in a language none of you recognized. The symbols twisted and shifted, rearranging themselves into something new, something you could understand.
A poem.
It was written in jagged, angular script, and though the words were clear, their meaning was anything but comforting:
Three paths before you stand, each wrought with fate,
One will test the body, through iron and gate,
Another calls the heart, where lies deceive and wait,
The final path twists the mind, where shadows animate.
The words pulsed with an eerie light, fading and reappearing as if alive. The choice was clear, three paths lay ahead, but the poem offered no clues as to which path held what danger. All you knew was that each would lead to a different kind of threat, one physical, one social, and one mental. But which was which? There was no way to tell.
You stared at the door, your mind racing. The Silent Beacon had given you a choice, but it was a cruel one. There was no guarantee that you would pick the right path. No guarantee that you would make it out unscathed.
You turned to the team. Atarrus stood ready, his face grim. Ziva looked pale but determined. Varn's eyes were dark, his expression unreadable.
"The choice is yours," Varn said quietly. "But we should decide soon."
You nodded, glancing at the door again. The three paths stretched out before you, hidden from sight, waiting for you to choose.
But there was no hint, no clue to guide your decision. Only the cold, unfeeling words of the poem, and the knowledge that whatever lay ahead, it would test you in ways you couldn't yet imagine.
Illusions:
The Illusions are just that, physical illusions not mental visions. The presence was able to get into the minds of your companions but your charms gives no Fs if the presence used magic or not and kept it out of your own. So they were catered mostly to them.
But it can still "talk" to you and was hitting you with repeated social attacks.
CHOOOSE 1:
[] Physical
[] Mental
[] Social
The door to the central core slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a yawning corridor that stretched into darkness. The lights flickered weakly, casting long shadows that twisted and shifted with every step. The air inside was cold, unnaturally so, and despite the environmental controls in your suits, you could feel the chill settle deep into your bones. The silence was oppressive, as if the very station held its breath, waiting for something to happen.
You led the team forward, each step echoing in the cavernous corridor. Atarrus took point as always, his weapon raised, eyes scanning every shadow. Ziva walked beside him, her face drawn and tense. Varn brought up the rear, the weight of the station's ancient history pressing down on his usually calm demeanor. No one spoke. There was no need to; the Silent Beacon had already begun to exert its influence.
It wasn't long before the first signs of the station's malevolent nature began to appear.
At first, it was subtle, a whisper, barely audible over the hum of your suit's systems. You paused, turning your head slightly, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving only the echo of your breathing inside the helmet. You glanced at Ziva, but she shook her head, her eyes wide. She had heard it too.
You continued down the corridor, but the whispers grew more frequent. Faint voices, indistinct but insistent, echoed in your mind. They seemed to come from the walls themselves, as if the station was alive, watching your every move. The further you went, the louder they became, until you could no longer ignore them.
"They're not real," you muttered to yourself, focusing on the mission, on the core. "Just the station playing tricks."
But the voices were relentless. They whispered of failure, of betrayal, of things left undone. They taunted you, digging into your deepest insecurities, pulling at the threads of doubt that had always been there, buried beneath the surface. You tried to push them aside, but they clung to your mind like leeches.
"Do you hear that?" Atarrus's voice came through the comms, a rare tremor of unease in his usually calm tone.
"Yes," Ziva replied, her voice tight. "But we need to keep moving. It's trying to get inside our heads. Stay focused."
You glanced back at Varn. His brow was furrowed, his eyes darting around as if searching for the source of the voices. Whatever was happening, it wasn't just you. The station was probing, testing each of you, looking for weaknesses.
You pressed on, forcing yourself to concentrate on the path ahead. The corridor seemed to stretch on forever, the layout of the station a labyrinth of identical passageways and dead ends. Occasionally, you would pass a rusted bulkhead or an ancient control panel, but there was nothing here to offer any clues, nothing to give you a sense of direction. Only the whispers, growing louder and more insistent with each step.
Then, the illusions began.
At first, they were fleeting, a flicker of movement at the edge of your vision, a shadow that wasn't there when you turned to look. You told yourself it was nothing, just your mind playing tricks in the dim light. But as you ventured deeper, the illusions became more tangible.
You saw a figure standing at the end of the corridor, shrouded in shadow. It was humanoid, but its features were obscured. You blinked, and it was gone, replaced by an empty hallway. Your heart raced, and you quickly glanced at the others, but none of them seemed to have noticed.
The whispers grew louder, filling your mind with doubts. You were immune to all forms of mind control. So what if it was real? What if you weren't alone here?
"Keep it together," you told yourself, but the station's presence was oppressive, making you question yourself, eroding your confidence with every passing moment.
Ziva stumbled, her hand clutching her helmet as if to shut out the voices. Atarrus steadied her, his grip firm, but even he seemed shaken. Varn muttered something under his breath, his usually collected demeanor cracking under the pressure.
"I see them," he said, his voice a low growl. "They're watching us."
You looked around but saw nothing. The station was toying with you, feeding off your fear, warping reality in subtle, insidious ways. Every step forward felt like walking deeper into a nightmare.
As you ventured further, the corridor twisted, bending at odd angles that made no sense. The architecture of the Silent Beacon was wrong, impossible, even. Corners seemed to fold in on themselves, and the distance between points fluctuated as if space itself was shifting around you. Your sense of direction wavered, and you began to wonder if you were even moving forward at all.
Then the temptations came for your companions.
They started as small things, memories from their past, flickering into existence like ghosts. You saw faces of people they cared for, their childhood, victories, and failures alike. The station was digging deeper now, not just probing their fears but offering you glimpses of what they had lost.
It whispered promises in all of your ear, promises of power, of knowledge, of things long denied to you.
"You could take it," a voice whispered, seductive and sweet. "All you need to do is reach out."
You shook your head, trying to clear the fog from your mind. But the illusions persisted. You saw yourself, standing on a throne, ruling over Colchis as its true master, with the secrets of the Silent Beacon at your command. You saw your enemies kneeling before you, powerless in the face of your newfound strength.
You closed your eyes and reached deeper into the well of your power, focusing on your ability to see the currents of magic. It was a skill honed over years of practice, an ability that had always given you clarity in the midst of chaos. You had used it countless times to unravel spells, to sense the invisible threads of enchantment that bound the world together. If the station was casting illusions, if these voices were a product of some malevolent magic, you would see it. You had to see it.
Opening your eyes again, you let your vision slip into the arcane spectrum, expecting to find the usual shimmering traces of spellcraft. You scanned the room, the walls, the corridor stretching ahead. But there was nothing. The familiar glimmer of magic, the subtle shifts in the air that always accompanied it, were conspicuously absent. The illusions, the voices, the shifting shadows, the visions tugging at your mind, left no trace. They weren't anchored in the warp, or any arcane force you could identify.
It didn't make sense. You focused harder, your brow furrowing as you tried to pry deeper, to see beneath the surface. But there was no disturbance in the magical fabric of the Silent Beacon. No conjured energies, no manipulations of the warp, no binding spells that might explain what was happening. The illusions weren't magical. They weren't made of the stuff you knew how to counter or control. They simply were, as if the station itself was weaving them from the very material of reality, bypassing all the familiar mechanisms you had come to rely on.
You listened again to the voice in your mind, smooth, persuasive, and yet completely disembodied. It sounded so real, so close, as if someone were whispering directly into your ear. Yet even as you strained to detect some magical trace, some lingering resonance that might explain its presence, you found nothing. It wasn't psychic, wasn't some form of trickery you could banish or ward off. It simply existed, beyond the scope of magic.
It was as though the Beacon was rewriting your perception itself. The unsettling realization crept into your thoughts: this wasn't an illusion you could dispel. These weren't magical threats you could see through. The station was bending reality in ways that didn't adhere to the rules you understood, and that frightened you more than any spell could. You were used to battling the forces of the warp, to confronting tangible manifestations of power. But this… this was something different, something older, something far beyond the reach of your abilities.
Your frustration built as you reached out once more, desperately trying to feel some pulse of arcane energy, some shred of magic to explain what was happening. But the more you searched, the more the void deepened. There was no magic here. No conjured illusion, no enchantment you could dismantle. The Silent Beacon's madness was woven into the very air, real in a way that defied the rules you knew.
And that made it all the more terrifying.
You glanced at the others. Ziva's face was pale, her eyes wide as she stared at something only she could see. Atarrus clenched his fists, his knuckles white, but he said nothing. Varn muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the comms.
"Keep moving," you said, your voice hoarse. "Don't listen to it."
But the station's temptations were relentless. Every step forward was a battle against the whispers, against the illusions that danced before your eyes. The walls seemed to close in around you, the shadows growing deeper, more oppressive. The air felt thick, like walking through water.
Then you saw it.
At the end of the corridor, just beyond the reach of your lights, stood a door, tall, ancient, and covered in symbols you couldn't decipher. This was it. The first checkpoint.
The door loomed ahead, a silent sentinel guarding the way forward. You approached cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest. The whispers had grown softer now, more distant, but they were still there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness.
Atarrus reached the door first, his hand hovering over the control panel.
"It's sealed," he said. "We'll need to override the lock."
But before he could act, a soft glow illuminated the surface of the door. A series of symbols flickered to life, forming words in a language none of you recognized. The symbols twisted and shifted, rearranging themselves into something new, something you could understand.
A poem.
It was written in jagged, angular script, and though the words were clear, their meaning was anything but comforting:
Three paths before you stand, each wrought with fate,
One will test the body, through iron and gate,
Another calls the heart, where lies deceive and wait,
The final path twists the mind, where shadows animate.
The words pulsed with an eerie light, fading and reappearing as if alive. The choice was clear, three paths lay ahead, but the poem offered no clues as to which path held what danger. All you knew was that each would lead to a different kind of threat, one physical, one social, and one mental. But which was which? There was no way to tell.
You stared at the door, your mind racing. The Silent Beacon had given you a choice, but it was a cruel one. There was no guarantee that you would pick the right path. No guarantee that you would make it out unscathed.
You turned to the team. Atarrus stood ready, his face grim. Ziva looked pale but determined. Varn's eyes were dark, his expression unreadable.
"The choice is yours," Varn said quietly. "But we should decide soon."
You nodded, glancing at the door again. The three paths stretched out before you, hidden from sight, waiting for you to choose.
But there was no hint, no clue to guide your decision. Only the cold, unfeeling words of the poem, and the knowledge that whatever lay ahead, it would test you in ways you couldn't yet imagine.
Illusions:
The Illusions are just that, physical illusions not mental visions. The presence was able to get into the minds of your companions but your charms gives no Fs if the presence used magic or not and kept it out of your own. So they were catered mostly to them.
But it can still "talk" to you and was hitting you with repeated social attacks.
CHOOOSE 1:
[] Physical
[] Mental
[] Social
[X] Mental
We are playing a Defiler, this is what we are best at, everyone else not so much. But we are one of the Infernal Exalted, for better or for worse we choose to be here in person. Fan could probably carry this on his own if he really has to.
We are playing a Defiler, this is what we are best at, everyone else not so much. But we are one of the Infernal Exalted, for better or for worse we choose to be here in person. Fan could probably carry this on his own if he really has to.
Also this Clark-tech stuff is reminding me of the Necrons, they are the ones who deal in 'I Can't Believe It's Not Magic' in canon. The only thing that speaks against it is that it does not seem to fit their aesthetics.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Mental
- Location
- Arcadia
[X] Mental
Technology so advanced that it is indistinguishable from magic. Only the Necrontyr ever reached that apex. Who created this station, then?
Quite a prize, one way or another, assuming that the situation can hopefully be resolved while leaving the station intact.
Truth be told, given the ominous nature of it all, Fan Morgal may have been better off investigating the station by himself without having to worry about protecting the others.
Technology so advanced that it is indistinguishable from magic. Only the Necrontyr ever reached that apex. Who created this station, then?
Quite a prize, one way or another, assuming that the situation can hopefully be resolved while leaving the station intact.
Truth be told, given the ominous nature of it all, Fan Morgal may have been better off investigating the station by himself without having to worry about protecting the others.
I mean for all we know everything is in fact glowing green and Egyptian themed. It's not like Fan would recognize it in character.
[X] Mental
- Location
- Arcadia
...Could it be possible that this station was in fact meant to imprison one of the sundered shards of the C'tan? Perhaps Mephet'ran, the Deceiver, considering all these whispers.
If so, the best possible thing to do is to repair the station, ensure that the Shard is properly imprisoned, and set up a guard to make certain that no other intrudes upon the station and risks releasing the C'tan Shard.
If so, the best possible thing to do is to repair the station, ensure that the Shard is properly imprisoned, and set up a guard to make certain that no other intrudes upon the station and risks releasing the C'tan Shard.
Golden Age Mankind had more than its fair share of I Can't believe it's not magic as well.
[X] Mental