Monday, March 25, 2013

The Roots of Frozen Tekojarvi

[CALDARI PRIME. Reluctantly, camera drones descend the eviscerated slopes of a barren island set amid broken ice. Beeping and meeping to one another through the desolation, they flutter above snow and exposed rock here and there, searching...

Searching.

Finding, they vibrate excitedly in place - and wait.

Temperate Command Center "LUOSTARI-JO GOGOMO," courtyard. Enormous dogs of ambiguous cybernetic pedigree howl. The pot-bellied Ealurian in crimson-lined cold-weather military gear, the crone all in fluffy black, and her cylindrical kameira crush across freshly fallen ice to a sled of weathered wood and woven rope.

With a wave of hand and a flick of bits, the crone launches the powerful dogs into motion. Barking excitedly at one another, they charge into driving sleet.

Down, down and around, they advance inexorably toward the frozen shore. The towering, gilded sheath of Loustari-Jo Gogomo, though gleaming, fades quickly into grey oblivion. As the sled draws near, the camera drones perk up, zoom about briefly, and chirp. The crone pets each of them in turn.]

Oh, you've found something, my lovelies!

[The cylindrical kameira pulls a heavy, circular metallic shovel-like tube from the sled, and approaches the spot identified by the drones. Carefully, he places the tube against the ice, and with slow determination crushes it down. Upon reaching an appropriate depth, he twists and shifts the metal, then withdraws it.

Returning to the sled, he extrudes a core of frozen muck.

Excitedly fastidious, the Ealurian darts gloved fingers through the sludge, separating decaying vegetation from more precious material. Hands on hips, the crone casts a disapproving glance at drifts of snow. Scooping some up in a palm, she manipulates it with one thumb.]

Oxidized tritanium dust! We won't produce a sufficient quantity of modified bacteria to isolate nearly enough before the partial melt. Redouble extraction of aquatic samples. We'll also want to improve our air filtration. The summer stench is going to be something else. How about the roots?

"Oh, yes, madam," chirps the Ealurian. "Wonderful, wonderful! I look forward to studying their cryogenic properties."

[The crone picks up a bulb.]

There's a lady I know, for whom all that glittered was once gold. Now, she tends her garden in a guarded cage. I wonder if she might have any interest in the roots of frozen Tekojarvi...

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Stabilizing Caldari Prime: Luostari-Jo Gogomo

[CALDARI PRIME. Camera drones race above the fractured and tumbled floes of great frozen Tekojarvi. The ghosts of Amsten and Etee wail on a cutting gale - a banshee's cry across plains of ice. Lights on the horizon, and the drones beep to one another almost in relief.

Temperate Command Center "LUOSTARI-JO GOGOMO." On a suitably high balcony of the gilded but otherwise functional structure, our dear crone stands almost indistinguishable in black, unnaturally fuzzy furs from head to toe. To her right in pristine white stands the diminutive and alien Other Rabbit; left, decked in crimson lined military cold weather gear, a pot-bellied Ealurian with fine spectacles brushes ice from his neatly trimmed mustache. Behind them all looms the silently cylindrical kameira, blotting out the walls of the command center with his formidable bulk.

Below on the tarmac, cadres of stoic employees wait patriotically in the cold for twelve long torso choir boys to finish the State anthem. At its conclusion, Deteis with immaculate and identical blond crew cuts lead units of co-workers through morning calisthenics, chanting "Go Go Go.. GO-GO-MO" in flawless unison.]

"The supply lines are unusually long, of course," observes the Ealurian after some time. "This consumes more power than may otherwise be necessary, limiting our total productive capacity."

As it must be, my dear Dr. Mheket, to extend our good fortune to as much of the troubled surface as possible! Bacteria, proteins, and biofuels - a humble but necessary beginning to a glorious journey of medical science!

"The characteristics of this planet are most intriguing," agrees the good Doctor. "Will the Brutor be delivering biomass from Aphi III? We will need it to begin on the viral agents necessary for our vaccination work. With so much die-off, disease presents a serious threat."

Never have so manky plankton given their all for such a good cause!

[The crone breathes in deeply.]

Oh, dear. I think I just froze my lungs. "Temperate" my, well, you get the picture.

"Yes, madam," agrees the cylindrical kameira.

Right then, everyone inside! Boys! Boys! This way. Warm one another up. Tea! Tea, please!

Romancing The Rod: Burnished Requiem

[CALDARI PRIME. A blonde Deteis in snappy dress the color of distant horizons walks briskly beside the crone through an imploded atrium. Mist filters from heights lost in grey oblivion.]

Ordinarily, I would have staged nine times as many boys for each Amarrati, but the numbers seemed as inappropriate to the task as they were to the circumstances. Twelve is much more intimate. My very best singers.

Such wonderfully long... torsos.

[The crone admires the reflection of her pressed gold body suit in a pool of brackish water. Camera drones skim through the atrium out to a basin of shattered infrastructure down to that sunless sea.

The ancient Ni-Kunni makes final preparations on the slopes, directing tall young men in sacred robes of rust-colored wool to crumbling blocks of different levels. Each group of four stands in a half arc around a disk of conspicuously cleared ground. They face the drifting mist beyond which Luminaire sinks lower in an unseen sky.

One beam of sunlight penetrates the vapors and bounces painfully off the old man's eyes, then another. Slowly, mist disengages the sky's dome; clouds break like thawing ice. With a quick snort, the Choir Master mutters that the young meteorologists will get to keep their left ********* after all. He starts back up the slope. Approaching the crone's cylindrical kameira, he whispers in the giant's ear; giant nods and witch gestures to clearing heavens.]

It's time!

[Rapidly appearing drop ships churn the dying fog and chew away late afternoon silence, to vanish as suddenly - snatched back by playful Ithaqua. After their passing, three tall wooden containers remain - attended by muscular eunuchs and a phalanx of cybernetic swordsman. With reverence, the eunuchs guide their floating boxes out of the atrium and down toward the sunless sea, each stopping at a cleared circle.

After light presses, front panels of each box shift in slightly, then open out. Moments pass, and like curious lion cubs, a small child emerges from each box. Boyish bangs bounce lightly in cold breezes; jacinth eyes sparkle. The imps explore their binding circles, and then don pristine robes of white and gold handed to them by deferential attendants. The eunuchs withdraw, taking their floating crates with them.

Above, cloud bellies glow dull orange and light pink. Everyone to their places. In unison, the boys and fey pucks pull forward their hoods and settle in to a standing trance. Thirteen Sebiestor in maxtlatl of fine white feathers and basalt mud race to assigned positions. With practiced synchronicity, they slam palms against chests, beating a Taiko rhythm with only flesh and bone. They conclude, and the first lycanthropic bunny boy emerges from obscuring shadow into spreading light.

Not a Sebiestor, but a tube baby come home, the gaunt, miniaturized Other Rabbit moves with great difficulty through the heaviness of the planet's well. His skin is pale, unnatural, almost ashen - and buried under layered white fur. It wraps around him like falling ribbon, up, up to a brilliant ushanka of snow dipped in gold.

Flanked by two Brutor in ceremonial dress, Other Rabbit moves somberly to the focus of the Choir Master's grand arc. Facing Luminaire's spreading burn, the porcelain figurine speaks hoarsely through an atrophied apparatus of natural voice. Beneath, behind, and around his words, a whisper builds:]

O Saamelaihenki!

These brave warriors, our foes and allies, now lay amongst your rock and alppikukka.

Cry out O Sammelaihenki!

Bear their souls aloft to the halls of their fathers.

Requiem aeternam dona ets, Domine

Bear their souls aloft! to their mothers' hearths.

Requiem aeternam dona ets, Domine

That they have given to you, now give to them.

Kyrie eleison.

Carry them home

Kyrie eleison.

and ask them to war

Sanctus. Sanctus, Sanctus,

no longer.

Osanna in excelsis.

[At the conclusion of Other Rabbit's words, the choir builds.

One Brutor steps forward, offering a lacquered tray of Ealorian grain. Weakly, Other Rabbit digs his fingers in and scatters grains on the wind. Hostias et preces, tibi, Domine. The first Brutor steps back and the second forward, bearing a wooden grail of sacred wine. Holding the goblet only with assistance, Other Rabbit pours its contents slowly over the suffering earth. He and the Brutor kneel.

Hostias et preces, tibi, Domine.

Silent to this point, the Amarrati at last begin to sing. Tempests rise within an intercostal vice, constricted by slender throats, slamming against bone and fragmenting through brilliant white teeth. Faces, placid and serene, betray none of the maelstrom below. Near the cherubim, the sound is like a milling saw, piercing and inhuman. It swells to fill the cratered space, and in reflection from the hardened surfaces - each bounce calculated by the ancient Ni-Kunni and his clapping - it returns as the Voice of God. Rising and falling, in places mellowed by the accompanying singers and a low rumble from the Sebiestor in their feathers and mud, in others, accelerated, it is a sound to carry souls of the dead into setting sun.

From their final peak, voices follow Luminaire's light down into a golden arc on the horizon. Precisely at the Choir Master's calculated moment of darkness, silence falls.

No one moves for many long moments. Reaching in to his furs, Other Rabbit produces a small namesake. As he sets the tiny creature down, it clearly weighs much more than nature would on her own allow; the fibers of its white coat permit no stain.

"Become the fear of fear itself, Carbuncle."

The small creature gives a knowing wink, and splashes into spreading night.]

Romancing The Rod: Scouting Party

[CALDARI PRIME. Camera drones race across a plateau of shattered rock and artificial ruin. Precipitation alternates between jagged wedges of ice and leaves of dirty grey slate. The small machines struggle under rime as they circumnavigate a fallen arcology. Scurrying through ruptured lesions in the fallen behemoth's ceramo-polymer skin, they dart down, down to a sunless sea.

Picking his way slowly along that body's shores, taking care not to disturb the fallen where they lay, an ancient Ni-Kunni claps his large, calloused hands repeatedly. More drones hum and zip to their proper places, assembling a finely nuanced image of the pitted cavern's acoustical characteristics.

In a tent high above, fresh-faced young meteorologists divine the atmospheric future of that inhospitable world.]

[Higher yet floats FEDERATION CUSTOMS TESTING FACILITIES, LUMINAIRE VII, MOON 1. The footsteps of a crone and her cylindrical kameira echo off the distant walls of a restricted pressurized hangar bay. Above, the sleek, unmarked hull of a Redeemer carves a silhouette from the station's illuminated shaft.]

Oh! How could I not love - adore! - a station built like this. These Gallente - such marvelous neurosis! Where have they been all my life? I suppose right here.... But can there be any doubt, I mean really, that they were influenced by depraved sadistic sodomites fleeing the collapse of ancient Araz?

[A lift descends from unpressurized regions. Moments pass, its doors slide back. An enormous, sealed black palanquin glides forward on floating coils, each side burned with the golden mon of Her Highness, the Dowager of Hilaban. The palanquin and dour cybernetic escort reach the crone and pause.]

The main event! The headline act! Three little birds with the Voice of God. Did you enjoy your trip, boys!

"We did!" cry the Amarrati in harmonious unison, eager footsteps falling here and there within their ominous artifact like boosted squirrels - barely more than twenty of the creatures in known space.

Ready for tubs and tubs of ice cream?

"We are!"

Excellent, sweeties!

Romancing The Rod: A Problem Arises

[CALDARI PRIME. Beneath a pitiless slate sky, camera drones race across a plateau of shattered rock and artificial ruin. The small machines deftly dodge embers between columns of acrid smoke as they press relentlessly into the heart of the storm. Beneath their hum, eviscerated bodies sink into the ignominy of futile war. Cresting a ridge, the drones swirl through ruined superstructures, down, down to a sunless, churning sea of waste and rainwater. Along its shores, Sebiestor underwear models in ripped boxer briefs affixed with bunny tails strike ineffectively at the desecrated earth with shiny mattocks. Appearing suddenly above them on an off-kilter terrace, a bent crone clings to the crooked arm of her towering cylindrical kameira for balance.]

Good news, everyone!

Do you remember that movie, you know, the one a while back, it was something like, oh, I'm not quite sure, I think it was... yes! Yes! That one: Blood Raiders of the Lost Temple of Death. That one. Do you remember the scene where the villains were digging in the wrong place? Oh! It's just the most amazing coincidence, Bunnies!

We're digging in the wrong place, too!

Tie an altar boy to the mantle and diddle him with a baster, would you believe it!? Not even just the wrong place, but the wrong planet - orbiting the wrong star! And more is the pity. Tibbus and his lads did such a wonderful job softening up the ground, here. Well, can't be helped - foot massages and warm oil tummy rubs for everyone!

Back to the ship! Fast march!

I love fast march.

Romancing The Rod: Initial Premise

Roughly six thousand years ago, Amash-Akura seized the throne of Dam-Torsad and embarked upon a series of conquests that would see him crowned First Emperor of Amarr. In the tenth year of His Imperial Majesty's reign, the skies went dark and angels descended from realms unknown. These brought gifts, and by gifts I do not mean taxes. Instead, they bestowed upon Amash-Akura the wisdom of Heaven, in the Crown Avetat; and, a fountain of ever-spurting youth, in the Rod Ametat.

Although I do not subscribe to the literal "angels" theory, if an advanced race parks its antediluvian titan over your capital, it cannot be discounted that they were directed in this undertaking by some higher power yet. Yes, yes, I'm aware of the pedestrian eclipse theory - trite silliness. An eclipse might have confused whatever "civilization" was crawling out of the mud on Pator, but come now. In any event, matters proceeded swimming for Amash-Akura, until they didn't.

That's how these things go.

There was a revolt, a plague or two, a Deceiver of some kind, Amash-Akura sent his guests away, and proceeded to win back his empire through personal determination. There was much rejoicing, until the Emperor died the next day. The Rod and Crown remained with the Imperial family for "centuries," but were eventually "lost" (how one misplaces immortality and the wisdom of Heaven, unknown at this time). The exact moment of their disappearance, also unknown.

About three thousand years later, my own bloodline began The Reclaiming. The Sani Sabik, or "Blood Fiends" first came into prominence around the same time. The Blood Fiends believed two things above all else: "savants" would rise to rule the multitudes; and, these "savants" would be immortal.

I redirect your attention, for a moment, back to the Crown (Wisdom) and Rod (Immortality).

The Takmahl were a breed of Templar associated with both the early Reclaiming and Sani Sabik sects. Still thousands of years ago, they left Amarr aboard cryo ships to settle the Araz constellation. There, within the span of a few hundred years, they developed cybernetic and bioengineering techniques far more sophisticated than anything left behind on Amarr at the time - as if guided toward immortality by an alien source of great wisdom. Parallel to Amash-Akura, however, calamity would overtake the Takmahl. Their civilization fell into ruin, picked over centuries later by Blood Raider birds of prey.

But did it end there?

As I mentioned previously, not only can one see the Mouth of God and gilded Amarr nebula from Araz, but so too does the Gallente nebula shine on a distant horizon. And by Gallente, I of course mean both Gallente and Caldari. As it happens, up until recently, the Caldari possessed a religious artifact known as the Creator's Rod. This was guarded by the Achura, which in turn leads me to:

The Takmahl secured the Avetat and Ametat during a time when they were trusted Templar, loyal to the Throne. Their study of the artifacts readjusted their spiritual priorities, turning them into eager, mystical proponents of a New World Order, in which of course, their savants ruled supreme and immortal. They moved too soon, however, and risked being destroyed by the sovereigns they once served. Badly outnumbered, the Takmahl leveraged a superior technological understanding gained from the Avetat to escape Amarr - using technology which manifested "immortality" in part as "cryo ships."

Power corrupts, and the Ametat and Avetat were powerful indeed.

Their civilization fell. Faced with collapse, desperate, some among the Takmahl once again took to space. One such group, carrying the Rod Ametat, reached Luminaire thousands of years ago and settled on what is now Caldari Prime. They took a name from the Emperor who first received their alien artifact: Akura. Having lived through two great falls, these mystics refused to repeat the mistakes of the past, and lived cut off from the outside world, guarding, but not abusing, the ancient relic - until the outside world forced itself upon them, and the relic was again lost.

Others fleeing the collapse of the Takmahl empire settled among the free spirits of what is now Gallente Prime, pampered by warm seas, and returned to the original function of their order: spiritual counselors to power, hidden even as the fangs of their more brutal descendantssank into surrounding spaces..

Was the crown Avetat also moved to Luminaire?

It is this question which draws me to the caverns of infrastructure beneath the Gallente's great cities - well, that and an endless legion of emaciated vagrant youths in desperate need of Mummy Noh's Mummy Dust! Who is a good boy!? That's right! You are! Now stick out your tongue and close your eyes, Mummy Noh will give you a big surprise!

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Tronhadar Jihad

The beast Tronhadar roared ten thousand years ago as she roars today, from the frozen teeth of Krusu down verdant cataracts of canopy and mist. In our present age, soulless machines bind her to their will. In ancient times, however, Jade Dragon carved granite and loam freely beneath light of Two Moons. The violence of that caprice drowned our supplicants in squalor or bathed them in great prosperity.

It was the time of our Virtue. Emerald-chasers built redoubts on Dragon’s Wings. There, the debris of a million years fanned across the valley floor shaded by a cavernous green. Krusual hunted stag in the trees with spear and brilliant light in the earth with trowel. Horn of ancient buck, hue of faceted gem, these served as loki to our people. We honored Tronhadar and she confided in us her mysteries.

When the Nefantar came to Dragon’s Mouth, they gathered alluvial stones for their huts and scavenged wood for their long ships. The insatiable tribe came to desire our loki for their noses and ears. We had learned much hunting in Jade Dragon’s embrace, and held them against the sea despite their great numbers. With Krusual in body and Nefantar in claws, we traded emeralds for fish and balanced tension prevailed.

But balance would not last.

In a pit of ancient silt, emerald-chasers struck metal buried in some antediluvian age. Deft hands cleared silt to reveal a misshapen cylinder. Twice the height of a man, it shone like gold but sounded harder than any metal known to that time. Confronted by its unfathomable purpose, the pit crew’s excitement turned to an uneasy dread.

They called upon one who Dreams with Earth. Elder Slumbering Owl laid hands upon the gilded carapace and fell still. For two days, he dreamed with that thing in the mud beneath the trees. When at last he awakened, the emerald-chasers knew his command. They abandoned the pit and dug a new channel from the river. Inexorably, the brilliant hues of that forbidden loki faded beneath heavy silt. Our people left the forest as it appeared in years before even they prowled those shaded banks.

At the time of their discovery, however, a Nefantar merchant was examining gemstones nearby for sale in his distant bazaars. The alien metal filled that man not with dread, but overwhelming covetousness. In the moments of initial chaos, he slipped away and arranged passage on a skiff, leaving his grandiose barge – laden with accumulated treasures – behind.

Familiar with our ways after so many years of trade, the merchant changed transport and direction many times returning to Dragon’s Mouth. There, the Nefantar Suzerain refused to act on words alone. The merchant countered that he offered more than mere words, however, for he would only have abandoned his wealth for a discovery of even greater value. The Suzerain considered that a while, and then ordered his mapmakers work with the merchant to locate Tronhadar’s forbidden totem. Though the trader had fled before Slumbering Owl descended into the pit, Nefantar long disdained our people’s desire to leave dark secrets undisturbed. Expecting we should bury the idol where it lay, they resolved to claim it when the time right.

The Nefantar had grown fat on the bounty of their merchant fleets. While prosperity amplified their greed, it did not make them reckless. The Suzerain understood he required allies for this enterprise. Across the sea, Starkmanir occasionally spoke of mysterious artifacts. That tribe did not consider them dark things, but catalysts for knowledge and power. Still under light of Two Moons, these vainglorious despots plotted to seize what none should possess.

They intended to lull us into complacency with outwardly benevolent cooperation. Nefantar ferried Starkmanir to Tronhadar’s coast in their galleons. Men who knew nothing about gemstones, metals, or woods joined merchant caravans. They called themselves wise, and took care to survey our valley and regale us with the virtues of its study. Predictably, the sight of Jade Dragon’s wonders stoked their greed. They lectured us on progress, that together we might exploit the abundance in our possession. Dreamers with Earth instructed us to aid them.

In this way, we came to know their desires – and what capabilities they possessed to realize those desires – as well as they. Some of our people professed to embrace the motivating greed of those ersatz benefactors. These collaborators revealed gem pits and stands of rare wood, slowly earning positions of confidence. The Nefantar and Starkmanir trained us in the use of their tools and application of their practices. Convinced their perceived superiority sprung from innate racial characteristics, thus beyond lesser tribes, the fools spoke casually around our people.

But the Krusual understood. We adapted.

Nefantar navies dominated the seas. From that, they preferred to fight at distance, hurling death with bows and large contraptions. The Starkmanir ruled an enormous landmass. Their cavalries and armored soldiers controlled enemies with coordination until heavy blades cut down all opposition. Together, these two considered themselves the military apex of our world.

In Tronhadar, we would deny them every advantage.

Their low estimation of our ingenuity sealed their fates. When Nefantar barges at last set upriver in numbers, we offered no resistance. In accordance with Starkmanir practices, they traveled many paths to mask threatening intent and obfuscate objectives. But their maps were our maps, and their hunger for the idol was long known to us.

We waited for them to pass.

When the last barge entered forest dark, we rose from silted waters and descended from the trees. On muddy banks, we raised bows of Nefantar design, fashioned with our mastery of wood and pitch. Decks burned and death raced through tight spaces. Our warriors armored themselves with only mud and determination, slashing with short blades from low stances. The Starkmanir could not don their armor in time, and fell screaming as we severed muscle and tendon in exposed legs. Chaos down river signaled attacks further up. Our narrow lines swarmed the invaders like the forest’s ferocious ants, and their buoyant fortresses burned.

Yet, it cannot be said the invaders lacked courage or skill.

Nefantar were accustomed to fighting on ships, while Starkmanir fielded Matar’s most disciplined military. Had we not disguised our capabilities for so long, our wave would have surely broken. Badly outnumbered, none of our boarding warriors survived. But neither did any of the lumbering vessels. Burning, beached, deprived of navigators and manpower, the armada returned to Jade Dragon’s breast. Of the enemy that reached shore, some few commanders coordinated a retreat through the trees. Those reaching Dragon’s Mouth numbered at most a quarter of their original force. The Krusual would not soon be underestimated again.

Though we drove the invaders back, Dreamers with Earth commanded that our people trade the darkness of valley floor for that of caverns deep. They knew the Nefantar would return with ruthless force to claim their gilded prize. Unwilling to wait on more Starkmanir, their Suzerain pulled catapults and trebuchets from his warships, and began to burn his way toward the artifact. We made no effort to slow that advance.

Our remaining warriors streamed southward along Krusu’s hidden paths.

Reaching the sea, we sacked Nefantar settlements along the coast all the way to Dragon’s Mouth. The walls of that fortress were high and we made no effort to scale them. Instead, we burned their farms as they had burned our forest. The Suzerain gained an idol; his people lost Dragon’s Mouth. Many fled to islands beyond our reach, but their lord would not escape the ultimate consequence of his avarice.

The artifact was too dangerous to move in ships of that time. Exceptionally dense, the risks of it shifting and capsizing any transport loomed large. The Nefantar secured it in their depopulated fortress while alchemists set to work on its mysteries. With only nonsensical devices, those primitives should by all reasonable expectations have accomplished nothing. However, as Slumbering Owl dreamed, the cursed artifact itself desired to communicate. Fisherman far out to sea perhaps glimpsed the first indications of its success as a colossal shadow rippled across our world. On the peaks of Krusu, we soon caught sight of the horror in our looking glasses. A grotesque thing, it tumbled slowly through clouds.

Like the rotting carcass of a gargantuan termite queen, the vessel disgorged a rain of larva as it moved. Thousands upon thousands of globules splashed down upon the waves. We prayed they held creatures as desiccated and lifeless as the behemoth that birthed them, but our expectations ran to the contrary. Clearly intending a more controlled encounter with our planet, and therefore not travelling at the speed of an errant meteor, the vessel nevertheless remained a flying mountain. When it hit the delta of Dragon’s Mouth, the shock of surf, mud, and shattered rock alone destroyed all signs of Nefantar settlement in the region. Then came the rest of the ship, breaking apart, welling with flame, exploding – hurling debris and inferno far and wide. What the Nefantar failed to burn in their advance perished to the consequence of that aggression. The cataclysm impeded Tronhadar’s flow, heavy toxins poisoned the earth, and invisible death lingered in the air. Jade Dragon’s deep greens remained orange and foul for many, many years. We would have descended into that decomposing maelstrom to hunt what larva might have lodged in our former home, but we saw only death and swirling decay from our icy peaks.

It was at sea where the new menace gathered, thousands upon thousands of globes – all within reach of the Nefantar. With an eye on future returns even in the face of present loss, that tribe scooped up the droppings. Inside each, like seeds in a pomegranate, the Nefantar found pale, frozen creatures densely packed. Many of the ancient support systems had long ago failed, but still an uncountable alien horde revived.

Those pitiful beings spent eternity frozen in a pristine environment only to awaken in a primitive society on a world with an active ecology. Pestilence claimed fully half almost immediately. But many tens upon tens of thousands survived. These were not the architects of the proto-titanic civilization that birthed them. They were common stock, the kind of beast relegated to transports prone to failure. Trapped on a savage world, any tools that might have bettered their lives lost to catastrophe, many fell into deep depression.

But the loquacious Nefantar saw potential profit in all things.

These feeble, moaning aliens presented opportunities beyond their burdens. Even before language barriers fell, the Nefantar showered their guests with writing utensils and urged them to record the past. Given the susceptibility of the aliens to disease, those notes – scribbled rapidly in a doomed language – would become a link to impossibly ancient times. When the imperative to survive evolved into a desire to prosper, the Nefantar began to realize returns on their investment. The newcomers called themselves Sebiestor, and possessed a perspective on technology other tribes could not then match. As the pace of innovation quickened through their influence, many across Matar grew removed from discomfort. Increasingly capable machines carried Man’s burdens for him, and the indolent called that progress.

In return for teaching Matar’s children how they might someday become desiccated larva in a doomed behemoth, the Sebiestor requested a land of their own. Reluctant to relinquish territory, the Nefantar pointed at unwelcoming Mikramurka. The inhospitable nature of that continent suited the Sebiestor tinkerers well. But for many, particularly our people, those forbidding wastes were a land of sacred trials. Krusual called to the shaman’s path would descend Krusu’s northern face seeking wood for a crossing kayak. Wrapping themselves as they had learned, initiates braved the frigid waters between Houdea and Mikramurka. From shore, they traveled north to the icy plateaus of Leng. There beneath merciless heavens, wendigo priests ruminated on a trial. My own test was that of the Twin Wolf. Survivors faced returning to Krusu greatly weakened, for there was little sanctuary in that frozen hell… until the Sebiestor brought their villages to its hot springs and frozen fjords.

We could not dislodge them. Nefantar controlled the seas and supplied their pets well. Eventually, the tinkerers tamed even Leng’s glacial skirt. So it went across all of Matar. Farmers forgot to farm, fishermen to fish, stonecutters to cut, thinkers to think. The time of Virtue fell to that of the Machine. We watched as men degenerated into larva rotting in the gut of a leviathan. But we struggled against that dissipation, some of us, even as the suffocating darkness grew absolute.

“Our struggle must not end!”

The old man lunged across the table. Despite youth and training, Elar Bh’uut could not react before a ferocious grip pierced the soft spots of her shoulder. Pain denied her any ability to move or speak. She had finished classified military training only a week ago, and to this point felt proud of her accomplishment. But now, an octogenarian’s iron fingers bruised the elite glow. Elar arrived in Hek’s Krusual Tribe facility only the day before to receive a new type of cybernetics. If she had them already….

With that thought, the old man’s story washed over her once more.

Elar had not originally wanted to listen. Her companion took his seat opposite her in that dive only after she’d settled down with her drink. Better to listen than retreat, she thought, though history had suffocated her for all of a nowhere life. Finally, she was going someplace. Finally, she would be free to make her own history! The old man spoke with great passion, igniting sparks of pride in her soul. Elar rejected those, intellectually.

Now was no time for tribal grudges.

Pain weakened her reservations. The old man’s forearm was horribly scarred and undeniably human. She had not received her implants. But would they have made a difference? There was more to his grip than strength. His eyes paralyzed her as surely as the pain. Neither terrifying nor unnatural, they were deep. Through them, Elar saw he was dying. Onlookers approached. She wanted to call out for help, yet the claw denied her. A nearby Brutor held up his hand, signaling others not to interfere.

No, no – the old man was dying! Help him!

When the ancient’s soul passed, his terrible grip did not diminish, though his eyes finally closed. Elar moved one arm, slowly, and then lost the will to break free. Why didn’t anyone help? A large hand covered hers gently.

“He made his choice,” the Brutor said. “What is yours?”

“I will return him to Jade Dragon,” she replied after a long silence.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Failure To Assimilate The Matari: Now Is A Happy Time

Ssakaa wrote:

I doubt you'd have the time to penetrate the many layers of it, nor have the inclination.

I've apparently had more time and inclination to penetrate the layers than many Matari - haven't I, sweetie?

Ancient rivalries have burned behind the facade of Matari unity for many, many ages. It is the most interesting feature of your people; and, coincidentally, the feature the least interesting members of Matari society run from. But the act of claiming membership in one tribe is simultaneously the act of disavowing membership in any other. The Krusual Tribe shall have its day in the suns, and I commend you for trying to put the Sebiestor at ease... before you cut them open and eat their hearts. We Amarr understand these things.

However, I am not after the destruction of a tribe my ancestors have contended with across many, many ages.

I recognize that the Sebiestor have genuine gifts. Although they created a bifurcated economy in Matari society, claiming the professional track for themselves, we Amarr understand these things. We are a civilization of earned mobility - the only true meritocracy in New Eden.

There have been several solutions to our crucible of hardships, now.

Most "tribes" that face the heat become completely assimilated - footnotes in history. But a very few adapt and prosper. Khannid excellence with arms elevated that "tribe" to complete independence and honor. The unassuming Ni-Kunni have quietly built their place as Amarr's sprawling middle and upper middle classes. The scheming Udorians are so in tune with the nature of Imperial politics, they now stand but one Trial from the throne.

I am absolutely confident that, in a thousand years, the Sebiester too shall emerge from this crucible of merit, much changed, much better - for themselves, and the Empire.

I thank you for your part in it. In time, perhaps history shall thank you as well.

Failure To Assimilate The Matari: The Sebiestor

Dear Sebiestor sweeties, the complex emotions that swirl around a realization everyone hates you are only natural. We Amarr understand this. Peas in a pod, you might call the two of us. I know, I know, your people have such gifts, have accomplished so much, and... made sure everyone knows it. Indeed, the first thing every Matari child will recite about the Sebiestor is that they are the engineers of the very civilization.

How could there possibly be animosity?

It was the Sebiestor who rediscovered thrust (remaining quite good at it... who *is* Mummy's little boy? That's right, you are!); the Sebiestor built all of the Matari stations floating majestically through space.

I'm very fond of the elemental thrones, myself.

Now, some might say this constitutes clear evidence of pervasive discrimination. We know better, don't we? The Brutor simply have different gifts. Professional divergence merely represents proper application of specialized advantage.

We Amarr understand this.

Peas in a pod, you might call the two of us.

It won't be easy to adapt to your new role. First, denial: this animosity is pure fabrication by an Amarrian witch; the difficulties we are going through are nothing more than typical political tension; even the other tribes insist all is well. "I consider selling the Sebiestor into slavery every day - ha ha, just kidding!" The fact denials are even necessary of course is cause for some suspicion. Why, the bastards might actually be...

Anger: Damn right we built those stations, and we can take them down, too. What happens if I vent this atmospheric recirculation system into space? Twiddle this stabilizer? Those backstabbing vermin would scream as they fell into the gravity well - if only they had air in their lungs! Ha! Oh, why has it come to this!?

Despair: I only wanted to act in the name of goodness, justice, and ponies! Bartender! Another vodka smoothie, hold the smoothie! Oh, what's the use, maybe...

Yes, yes, my sweets, acceptance: we'll show those Udorians how its really done. In a thousand years, we'll have our own royal house *and* our own empress upon the throne!

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!

Few understand the curse of being better than everyone and despised for it as do we Amarr. You simply belong with us - peas in a pod. The entire cluster realizes it, deep down - where things get interesting.

Failure To Assimilate The Matari: Further Pontifications

N'maro Makari wrote:

Now, the serious point, I would like to point out that the idea of a constituent tribe of the Republic selling another tribe or anyone for that matter into slavery, ventures beyond the wet-dreams of less... realistic slaveholders and into a realm beyond even the wildest socio-politcal theory.

Oh, *really*?

If in fact that is your grasp of slavery's history, then I am not the one living in la-la land and you, sir, need to read a book. Perhaps two. In reality, down through the ages, collaborators have been a primary vector for acquiring slaves among native populations and transporting said to ports where big ships come and pick them up.

So who might collaborate in contemporary Matari society?

Even a cursory examination of available materials quickly reveals an answer:

The Vherokior have been under-represented throughout Matari history. Isardsund Urbrald sought to address this by transferring power to the tribes and away from the central government. He was opposed in that effort by... the Sebiestor.

It is the Sebiestor who have historically dominated Matari society, lording their tinkerer skills over the other tribes. Naturally, the crafty little devils like the idea of a strong central government - one which they have traditionally dominated.

But wait! The Brutor are the rising stars of Republic life, and they see the present age as "their time." Oh, dear. That puts them in direct conflict with... the Sebiestor.

Meanwhile, the Krusual - who share the ingenious traits of the Sebiestor but have instead been demonized for them - harbor the least favorable opinion of their tinkering rivals among the lot.

Now, is there a common thread? Oh, look at that! It's that nobody actually likes the Sebiestor.

Add to this the economic difficulties which confront the entire Republic, and denials that some tribes might seriously consider jettisoning the least popular among them have a brassy, hollow ring.

Failure To Assimilate The Matari: Additional Thoughts

Ava Starfire wrote:

Gosakumori Noh wrote:

"Let's just take the Sebiestor off everyone's hands and call it even.

We bite. Viciously.

I believe I mentioned that!

Moreover, it's rather the point. Let's face it, the Brutor and Vherokior trust the Sebiestor about as much as they trust a Serpentis toxicologist to cure the common cold without harvesting the patient's organs.

Indeed, the entire cluster would be better off if the Sebiestor went the Udorian route. Such a transaction would improve the Republic's balance of trade while reducing the surplus pool of labor currently depressing her wages. We call that "win-win!" But how to do it? I'm thinking a Cartel front company (posing as a Gallente professional services management firm) buys up the Sebiestor and relocates... or wait, even better, a matriculation center for "freed" slaves...

Well now, isn't that a pleasant surprise?

Gar-sewn! Another smoothie!

Who *is* a good boy!? Oh yes you are!

Failure To Assimilate The Matari: First Impressions

So I've been sucking down vodka banana smoothies on the terrace of Atalantikiyo's here on Hilaban... what number is this, sweetie? Planet? The planet's number? You know, it's under the gate... to... you know... somewhere else.

Well anyway, I've been sucking down vodka banana smoothies in this gloriously overwhelming afternoon sun, three of my favorite boys curled up on the tiles around my feet - I just love running my toes up and down the bumps on their inhumanely long slender abdomens...

Why hello, Duchess! What a stupendous concoction of haberdasher mastercraftery rests upon thy regal noggin!

Bumps, smoothies... yes, while sucking down vodka and reading the wire, that discussion on "Tests of Faith" caught my attention (given that I so adore both). Now, whether or not this or that blood addled madman on this or that throne represents a "test of faith," a "sign," or (as is more likely the case) "business as usual" - the Empire's failure to assimilate these *adorable* creatures (now sweetie, you know he bites when you pinch those ) certainly qualifies as dropping more than a few ordained balls.

Behave!

The Ni-Kunni, the Udorians, the Khannid, the Parthinians, the Mohikans, the Kilts and the Kumquats, you name it, going back centuries into longer stretches of time, time and again, efficient Amarrian social integration flawlessly expanded the size and diversity of our Empire, repeatedly. Then, not that terribly long ago - at the height of its relative technological superiority - said Empire could not manage to assimilate three societies which had collectively gotten about as far as attaching an internal combustion engine to a buggy and calling it a powered wagon.

Although Jovian meddling certainly tossed the mother of all monkeys at that wench... wrench at these monkeys...

Gar-sewn! Another smoothie!

Right, although the Jove (may they rot in their vacuous graves) played foil to God's project plan, it wasn't really *all* them, now, was it, sweeties? Somewhere around my seventh smoothie... and I've completely lost track how many tummy bumps - kitchy kitchy kitchy koo koo!

Somewhere around then, it hit me.

It is the humble man who knows his place before God, and so it is humble Humility who rules the Virtues.

Trying to assimilate three substantially different beast tribes all at once - without vanquishing their respective primal aspects in turn - was not humble and led to catastrophic failure. Really, I should have seen this from the holos hidden away by Great Auntie Kali up in the monastery attic. Only two members of my extended clan have ventured into space, at least for any extended period of time, and we couldn't have been more different, Great Auntie Kali and me. She was a vicious, conniving, cruel dominatrix with a taste for bare bottoms and... so we couldn't have been more alike, Great Auntie and me.

Though she did not participate in the original seizure of Pitter-Pa'tor, after swimming in one of the lakes that you're not really supposed to swim in, she informed the family that the Lady of that Lake had demanded Auntie take to the stars. So off she went to Patagonia. She made nice with a Vharsoothian clan that offered to show her where Sebiestor were hiding in muddy holes - nothing changes, does it, sweeties? Who *is* a good boy!?

Well, there you have it. Had the Empire contented itself to assimilate one feral tribe at a time, matters would have proceeded as smoothly as a Versoopial teen's curving back. I therefore submit that rather than trying to re-assimilate the whole bloody lot of them, we just pick *one* of the Matari tribes to tango with at a time.

Gar-sewn! A tango!

The example of success would then surely facilitate swirling with the other two. But which to pick first?

Mummy has her favorite, doesn't she, sweetie boo-boo-moogie-woogie-woogies