Open Buried Beneath The Tears of Ankh’Yula

[Ira]

Atum.

The cold, toxic world of Ankh’Yula possesses nine moons. They are considered, affectionately, the world’s ‘Tears.’ During the Final Galactic War, the Tears were rapidly colonized by billions of inhabitants of Ankh’Yula. A bioweapon released on their homeworld threatened to eradicate all life. Short term moon habitation was deemed the only acceptable solution.

Shu.

But not all Ankh’Yulians fled their home. Millions decided to stay and purposefully expose themselves to the virus. 98% of all life on Ankh’Yula, sentient, non-sentient, plant, bacterial, and microbial were eradicated. The entire planet nearly suffered a total, catastrophic biosphere collapse. However, the lucky few who stayed and survived found themselves changed in ways they could never have anticipated.

Tefnut.

Those who stayed behind, those who survived, declared themselves the true Ankh’Yulians and denied their separated brethren return to their homeworld. With powers beyond understanding and rapidly expanding political authority with their use, the ‘true’ Ankh’Yulians became unstoppable. In less than a decade after the end of the war, the True Ankh’Yulians had gained full control over their entire sector of space.

Geb.

With no other option, the old Ankh'Yulians attempted to colonize their moons in a way that would be more conducive to permanent habitation. The moons that bowed the knee to the True Ankh’Yulians were given designations of racial minority status and were supported in their terraforming efforts. The moons that resisted were crushed, their inhabitants forcibly assigned their new racial statuses and their basic rights stripped away. To live on a moon that resisted, even now, is a fate some consider worse than death.

Nut.

Now, a thousand years since those dark days, the galaxy remembers not the way their fates came to be. Their histories are recorded in the religious texts of the Seventh Book, whose accounts cannot be discerned between fable and reality. The Nine Tears, benefitting from the immense soul wealth of Ankh’Yula, are powerhouses of industry, production, and capitalism. For those blessed to live near the surfaces, life is not too miserable.

Osiris.

But for those who live beneath the moon surfaces, buried alive under thousands of feet of steel and death, life couldn’t be closer to hell. For even a few examples- The moon of Amut is cold all the way through. The atmosphere of Isis is not breathable, so recycled air must be pumped in 24/7 or inhabitants suffocate. The moon of Geb? Beautiful from space, a garden world, for those that can farm the surface. For those below ground? Only darkness and corpse work remains.

Isis.

You begin on the moon of Shu. An industrial moon covered over and over with layer upon layer of hive steel. Perhaps you were born here. Perhaps you fled here from the core worlds, no one would dare look for you under the gaze of Ankh’Yula. Perhaps you were just unlucky enough to be dumped here as a corpse, resurrected by aspiring necromancers. Whatever the reason, you’re stuck here. For now.

Set.

The balance of power is shifting. The Ankh’Yulians have become restless, the intergalactic worship of them as gods has faded in the most recent century. The Emperor, praise be his immortal form, is finally considering naming an Unloved Son as heir. The INFINITE Hive has suffered a great biosphere collapse on their primordial world, prompting the growth of deadly hunter drones. Such things, and more, have made space a very dangerous place to be. Perhaps Shu is safer.

But are you the type to prefer safety?

Nephthys.

 

[Ira]

More information to come, check this post later for edits.


The Races:

In a time beyond memory, humanity took to the stars. In their desperation to not be alone, they searched all they could reach for signs of intelligent life- signs of life that looked like they did. They found what they were looking for. They did not find what they were looking for. Life in the cosmos existed, but it was nothing like humanity.

So Humanity splintered, separated, and changed themselves to suit whatever new world they colonized. As a result, in the year of our current memory, there are as many different 'races' of humans as can be imagined. While each race traces their origin to a planet, no race is truly a product of their homeworld. Rather, they are the products of intense, rapid, controlled evolution. Each one is fundamentally different from the other, but no single one cannot be called 'Human.'

The greatest example of this rapid, controlled evolution is the Ankh'Yulians themselves. Standing at an average height of 3.2 meters, the Ankh'Yulians are perfect gods cast in marble and gold. Their skin is as white as fresh snow, yet as powerful and resilient as granite stone. Their eyes are always striking blue, and their skin never wrinkles nor tans from the sun. They look, at all times, as if they stepped free from an oil Harennaise painting hanging in the garden of the Emperor, praise be his immortal form.

By contrast, the inhabitants of Shu, referred to officially as 'Shu-ites,' are squat, powerfully built sentients. They stand no taller than a meter and a half, their bodies grow no hair, and they live no longer than fifty years on the dot. They are built to live in the Hive steel cities and tunnels of Shu, tending to work in the dark with eyes that can see in even the lowest of lights. They are naturally inclined to enjoy work with machines, and grow to adulthood in a matter of months after being born.

The ever illustrious Isitite, Emirina,
noble of the family ruling Isis.​

Specific races will be added below, as well as racial restrictions, but feel free to craft for yourself a race of any kind and give it a homeworld. I will approve/disapprove of races on a case-by-case basis.



Soul Energy:

A thousand years ago, a powerful bioweapon nearly destroyed all of Ankh'Yula. It entered the body and altered the composition of every cell, every microbe, and every single atom in every living being. It tore them apart and slammed them back together, over and over again until the living organism ceased to function.

Whether it was the bioweapon or not that caused the next event is unknown to the greater galaxy, but roughly 2% of Ankh'Yulians on world did not die from this massive destruction of their bodies. Instead, they discovered the existence of the Soul, and how to harness it as a source of energy.

Utilizing this knowledge, the True Ankh'Yulians conquered all that they saw before them. Then, when they looked upon their sector and saw that it was good, they established themselves as gods. No other race is able to utilize Soul Energy in its natural state. However, the graciousness of the Ankh'Yulians knows no restraint. They have created technology and devices that allow lesser races, the rest of the galaxy, to utilize Soul Energy in limited forms.

The study of Soul Energy is a well-coveted secret among the Ankh'Yulians, and through their influence, they pressured the Emperor, praise be his immortal form, to outlaw its study outside of the atmosphere of Ankh'Yula. But after a thousand years, a few key secrets have been discerned.

Please DM me if you would like to incorporate Soul Energy into your character.

 

[Ira]

-
Ancient Remembrance- 700 years before the current time.

The Bombardment of Nephthys, from the perspective of an Imperial Navy Officer.


The Ankh’Yulians were the first to suggest its usage. The Tear of Nephthys had always been an unruly moon. Its toxic atmosphere from a hundred years of intense industrial work on the surface has primed the locals for near-constant revolution and revolt. But even the Emperor, praise be his immortal form, did not believe the gods of Ankh’Yula would strike down their own Tear as a testament to their power. I thought perhaps they might turn it upon a rogue hive world, or a desolate planet.

But who am I, a mere mortal of Harennai, to question the minds of gods?

Their vessels are immense. We were not given any information on their workings or their construction. However, by looking through the viewports of our vessels alone, we are able to make a few assumptions. Our finest ship is the Yarrow. It is a Demeter-class Carrier, measuring 1,100 meters from rear to tip. Her compliment of fighters and railguns are to be reckoned with, and since her christening, she has remained undefeated in combat.

The Yarrow traveled in the wake of the closest Ankh’Yulian vessel to observe its combat capabilities. I believe the gods called it the ‘Raqote.’ To say ‘the gods’ vessel is large’ is as gross an understatement as saying ‘the stars are hot.’ The Raqote- it made the very idea of comprehensible size fall into question. The Yarrow was to the Raqote as a swarm fighter was to the Yarrow.

We were no more than a fly on the wall, observing as the energies of space and time bent to the will of the gods. The demonstration was over in seconds. The hemispheric surface of Nephthys facing the Raqote had been reduced to ash. We know not of what weapon the gods deployed, or how they deployed it, or how they could have possibly built it. But what was evident to the galaxy were these three statements.

The Ankh’Yulians are gods. Gods are not to be fought. Gods are to be worshiped.

-Character Sheet Template-​

Name: 'This is who you are, or at least, how you are known.'

Homeworld: 'This is where you are from. Perhaps it is not your home, but it is the reason for everything you began with. Your homeworld shapes your race, what you are good at, what you are bad at, what you can do, what you cannot do. Choose wisely. You are encouraged to create your own homeworld, but you may also choose a Tear above.'

Race: 'This is what you are. It is not a matter of skin color, for such trivial things have long been abandoned by all societies. It is what your DNA comprises of. The shape of your muscles, the twists of your bones, the breath in your lungs, or the lack thereof. It is shaped by your homeworld, but it is not who you are. Do not mistake your race for anything more than a facet of the gem of your character, you are not Ankh'Yulian, after all.'

Description: 'This is what you look like, more than your racial traits, more than a set of genetics passed down through careful selection over thousands of years. This is the color you chose to dye your hair, the scars of a thousand small interactions, and the lines of smiles or frowns across your face. You are a painting, display yourself.'

A short excerpt about yourself: 'This is who you really are. So who are you?'

 

[illirica]

A Name

Eshe Kanika, Sekhem of the Black Jackals of Anubis

A World

Duat Mechane, a world built on gears and bones. It was once an asteroid, perhaps, or a moon: hollowed out to the core, with the glinting lights of the metal cities lining the walls of the chasm that stretches ever-downward. At the center of it all lies the Resurgence Machine, a long-ago gift of the Ankh'Yulians. The twisted arches of black metal stretch out in every direction, turning the corpses of the dead into the fuel to run itself and the world around it, tainting the slurry of humanity with the barest amounts of once-gifted Soul to turn it into raw energy to power the machines of the world that support the people that die there, giving them the time they need to create more weapons to kill one another, so that they all may return to the Duat in time.

Riddled through its capacious tunnels and up and down the climbing chasms, the Everwar rages. The Resurgence Machine needs fuel, and the people of the world must provide it corpses - one way or another.

A Race

They have sought perfection in the images upon the tombs - tanned skin, black hair, black eyes. They look human, for to look otherwise is of the gods, not the mortals. Yet they are not without change - the people of the world can survive on the barest amounts of oxygen drawn from the thinnest of air. Their inner ears are fine-tuned even in a vacuum, and their bodies think and act easily in three dimensions rather than two.

Their bodies are holy to them, as are those of their enemies. Destructive weapons are anathema, for anything that does not leave a corpse goes against the tenets of the world itself.

A Description

Half a person, half mechanical, Eshe's body is melded with the metal embrace of the Black Jackals, the corpse-gleaners of Duat Mechane. She lives, or half-lives, for a time, in control of herself and her small unit of ghoul-Jackals, those who no longer possess minds of their own, dead bodies in cold metal, moved about by the commands of the still-living commander with them, until the day when she, too, will become one of the mindless and another shall take her place.

If she cares to take off the headpiece or arm-and-leg armor of her mechanical body, Eshe looks much like a human, so much so that some find it quite disturbing. The torso of the mechanical body, however, cannot be removed, for it is grafted on, skin and spine and flesh and all machinations of the interior. To be a Black Jackal is to submit to a quarter-life: half mechanical, and half foreshortened.

An Image

An Excerpt

The straps around her limbs held her taut against the metal slab as the knife descended, parting skin and flesh and baring her organs to the gods and those who followed the gods. Blood drained into channels for the purpose, spilling down off the slab into basins where it would be collected, and the machines in the dim unseen background whirred softly, pumping chilled fluid into her veins.

Eshe watched, her eyes half-open, as the hands reached down and gently lifted the organs from her, one at a time, to be placed in their waiting vessels. First, the ones she would not need - kidneys, liver, the long rope of intestines. Everything was sacred. Everything was saved. They would be distilled of their essence in those jars, crushed into slurry and mixed with the cold viscous synthfluid and the barest whisper of Soul, kept for her and her alone, to power the thing that she was about to become.

The embrace of the mechanical carapace was not one sought by many, but there were enough of them - always enough. Some, for desperation. Some, for fanaticism. Some, for love. The Black Jackals of Anubis, corpse-gleaners of the Everwar, those that braved the fields and the alleys and all the many places where people killed one another, to bring back the dead to the Resurgence Machine and feed its animations.

Once her own essential organ mixture was gone, she would be fed from those same dead, filtered through the Machine - but because it was not of her own, she would lose herself in it, become mindless as they all did, a machine herself for the next Half-Dead to command, as she would command the mechanized corpses of those who had lost themselves before her.

You will struggle to breathe now. Words, from the attendants. Eshe blinked once, for understanding. The suffocating came quickly as her lungs were removed to their jars, the tubes replacing them yet to feel natural. She counted, in her mind, as she had been taught: zero, one, ten, eleven, one hundred... until breath lost meaning and the machine's supply was satisfactory.

Her calm was regained, as it should be, controlled and prepared, the synthetic fluids doing their part to keep her sedated. Consciousness was key to the machine, of course, but the mind must not panic. That was why they had to be willing, all of them. For one reason or another - but yes, willing. Eshe let her gaze travel around the dimness where she knew the jars were waiting, and wondered how long they would last her before she, too, was gone.

If she had any feelings about this matter, they ceased as a hand descended, and tore the heart from her chest.

 

[Ira]

-Gerard Albertus Imperator-

-One Thousand, Eight Hundred, Seventy Fourth Unloved Son of The Emperor-​

Homeworld:
"I was born on Harennai, seat of the Emperor, praise be his immortal form. It is the final world to be uplifted into an ecumenopolis in the Emperor's name, praise be his immortal form. It is a world of beauty, of art, and of extravagance. Death is unknown to the nobles of Harennai, and the world's children form the finest of those in service to the Emperor, praise be his immortal form. The world's biosphere is immaculate in every way, even its slums are considered beautiful by other races.

"It is, quite possibly, the most sickening display of decadence that exists in all the galaxy."


Race:
"I am Harennaise. We are a people who most closely resemble the 'Humans' of ancient and bygone Sol. Our bodies are mundane, no more than two arms, no more than two legs. We possess two eyes with limited night vision, a single nose, and two ears. There are five toes on each foot, and six fingers on each hand. I am told the 'Humans' of old did not often possess six fingers, but we have no way to verify such beliefs.

"As Harennaise, our claim to strength lies in our genetic lineage. Traceable back to the Emperor himself, praise be his immortal form, we possess a fraction of his great strength within us."


Description:
"I am, most assuredly, as plain as a Harennaise can be. I stand no taller than 5'9, I weigh no more than 140lbs, and I move with the speed and strength of the average man. My eyes are black, a testament to my right as an Unloved Son, as are my fingernails, a testament to my love of the color. My hair is brown, as is my short, scraggly beard. I wear glasses, my eyes are particularly sensitive to light, and I'm thirty-one years old.

On a final note, grafted into my arm is a controlling piece of technology that I will not explain."


A short excerpt about yourself:
"What do you know of the Emperor, praise be his immortal form, and of his Unloved Sons? What do you think you know? My father has created many a child, yet he has named none of them his heir. The public understands this as a form of honor from our father, that he expects us to prove ourselves to be worthy of the throne before permits us to truly prepare to take his place. This is a lie.

"The Emperor, praise be his frustratingly immortal form, has no intention of ever electing an heir to take his place. He plans on living forever. So we, his Unloved Sons, fight and murder each other not for a chance to prove ourselves to 'daddy,' but as practice. One day, one of us will kill him, and when that happens, we will rule the galaxy.

"This is a good transition point into me, and my story. I did not plan on murdering my brothers, nor did I have any intention of taking the throne. At least, not at first. Then, in my twelfth year, one of my brothers tried to assassinate me. He took a kitchen knife, killed my maid, and attempted to stab me to death. He failed only in that he did not stab me enough times, I lived. He was not punished for his attempt on my life, of course, but he was reprimanded for killing a maid.

"In my thirteenth year, I discovered a secret of the gods. Using this, I killed my older brother as revenge for the death of my maid. This would not be the last brother I killed, but it was my first, and his energy now feeds my strength. Even since that kill, I have studied every aspect I could of my discovery. If my studies are uncovered, I will surely be executed. But death at the hands of my brothers or death at the hands of my father's soldiers, it is death either way.

"I will become the new Emperor, but only to stop the senseless cycle of violence our father encourages. Once my changes have been made permanent, I believe the galaxy should move toward a more democratic society. It existed once before, long, long ago in the pages of the Golden Scrolls. Why could it not thrive in our galaxy once more?"

 

[Publius]

"PUBLIUS - born Dormin Γ-93 (pronounced "Gamma-Nine-Three") - is, in my view, the most complete human of our time. Not inasmuch as he possesses a stronger form, or an extended lifespan, or immunity to disease; no, he is fairly regularly constituted, as humans go, rejecting cybernetic augmentation beyond the ordinary, and boasting few genetic enhancements aside from those which have rendered him and other residents of Geb more robust. Rather, it is the strength of his convictions, the icy steel of his mind, which he wields like a blade, and his mastery over words and logistics which transfixed me so...when I was finally permitted to visit him, I found him hard at work at his desk, dictating orders to numerous deputies, gazing at a star chart.

He greeted me with a warm grin, motioning that I enter the tent he stood in; I could see in an instant that he had already been apprised of my visit, and had scanned me from head to foot, nodding in approval as I walked toward him. He took my hand in his own and gripped it firmly, and I saw not the contempt that I was used to from the deacon-managers of the Nine Tears, but rather the recognition of a fellow man. Here was one who had been declared a terrorist across the known universe for his subversion - for his heresy - but I did not find him evil. His presence was one of command.

I felt as though he had his own gravitic pull. I was supposed to hate him, but I was entranced by the force of his convictions. By his genius.

Dormin Γ-93 spoke casually of his upbringing on Geb. From a young age, he had been fascinated with literature, and had produced a number of poems and pamphlets, many of which authored to celebrate the Emperor - praise be his immortal form - though none had seen widespread circulation, and had been published at a financial loss. He had no siblings, and derived from a middle class clanhold - not destitute, but not wealthy, in the liminal space between the garden beauty of Geb and the squalid underhive. He was, in his words, rich enough to be comfortable, but poor enough to want more for himself.

In his youth, Dormin was transgressive, unruly, and handsome. He possessed a keen intellect and had a clever streak that got him into trouble on more than one occasion. He courted the daughter of a wealthy judge (he is, today, unmarried) and attended a university, where he might one day develop the skills to extend the Ankh'Yulian bureaucracy. Instead, he dropped out, continued to author his works, and eventually became connected with unemployed malcontents from the underhive. It is an apocryphal story that he set a fire in his home nest, and stirred a riot that led to the burning of his university; more likely, he was already offworld. When I inquired as to the truthfulness of the story, he merely smiled.

After leaving Geb, Dormin became politically active beyond the reach of the Tears. He demonstrated an affinity for violence - unpredictable, ruthless, and exacting, he became known as a one-man swarm, capable of raising militias anywhere he went. For it was not his physical aptitudes which set him apart, but rather, his acute ability to stir individuals into a fervor - a surging wave, which he could then seemingly direct where he pleased. And all the while, he wrote - disturbing and fascinating polemics against the Masters, distributed by word of mouth or by packet travel between ships. He recruited anyone he could and put them to use: soldiers, farmers, intellectuals, bioslaves. He promised them each brotherhood - an equal share in the conspiracy to kill the divine.

That, he explained to me, was REVOLUTION. For you see...a change of ownership, of property regulations, without a corresponding change of government is not revolution, but a reform. A rebellion, the lesser form, is mere violence to destroy a man or men. A revolution aims to destroy both man and principle - to turn against fate itself. And so a hero emerged, driven by a stormy nature, a living lightning bolt aimed to strike back at the Emperor himself, and the Ankh'Yulians behind him. I perceived that he was gathering all enmity against authority into himself - drawing it to his right hand, clenched in judgment, as a black hole draws in energy...and preparing to strike.

And he explained his philosophy to me. Confronted by the untamed evil and greed of the Emperor and the Ankh'Yulians - confronted with sheer nihilism, all humans, from the very depths of their souls, scream for justice. There is something among the stars, he explained, which is not right. That according to all we are taught, and all we are bred to be, that Fate has ordained our suffering. Fate does not allow judgments of value. It replaces them by the statement that "It is so"— which excuses everything, with the exception of the Gods, who alone are responsible for this repulsive, scandalous, evil state of affairs.

And thus his project is one of deicide. He exhibited, as I spoke with him, the ruthless discipline for which he had become infamous. He did not conduct terror attacks on random civilians - his cells, when activated on farworlds, seized the rich and powerful, and publicly executed them before great crowds, with an almost religious fervor. He has presided at these killings. He has declared that the current order of affairs is nothing short of a crime, for which the punishment can be only permanent death; and that the greatest criminals are the Unloved Sons, the Emperor above them, and finally, the Ankh'Yulians above all. He makes these proclamations and then vanishes into shadows - a devil-like figure, hunted for his heresy. In his eyes, no one reigns innocently, and the passive will be punished along with the guilty. His is a revolution of Terror.

His aim, as I see it, is to destroy the very universe itself. He threw himself headlong into bloodshed in a futile attempt to destroy the Gods. Years ago, a mere bureaucrat...today, the head of a gory Revolution. Leading personally, recruiting new soldiers, executing spies, delivering speeches, and passing judgment on the innocent and guilty alike - those who merely wish to live within our system!

I asked him how he could be so mad, to try such a thing. To confront reality itself.

He answered me thus:

"All that is needed is a plan. And I have wrought plans within plans."

- From the testament of Aswad θ-472, Imperial Chronicler
​

Name: Publius. Born Dormin Γ-93 of Geb.
Race: Gebite. Average height-to-tall; pallid; five fingers on each hand. Intellectual and logistical. Ruthlessly rational. Entrepreneurial spirit.
Noteworthy Equipment: An oversized gauntlet upon his right hand, embedded with suspensor technology for field-projection, allowing flight, repulsion, and remote manipulation. Plated armor for self-defense, augmented by a head-to-toe energy sheath when engaged in violence. Publius prefers to avoid direct conflict, employing drones and subordinates for combat.

 

[Azra]

War Is Art

Name:
Hekari Ptah "We each take the name of our world over family. I weep for the loss of individuality. That name is also more a rank in war."

Homeworld:
Ptah home to the Ptahran is a world once of artistry that has become a foundation of industry. Anyone from here is almost guaranteed an artist or was supposed to be. They were born into talents repurchased and retooled to be beings of war. "We are slaves to the forge. They will tell you we are no more, no less. A truth and a lie, for we are also slaves to war."

Race:
Ptahran are a people who's skin is a mixtures of jade and azure hues. Altered by radiation from a emerald star for a sun. As a people we developed elevated senses, specifically taste sight and hearing. Ears that function better at parting sounds, eyes that see at night, and taste that can usually tell ingredients. "We should be chefs, we make poisons for war. We should be musicians, we hear the difference of guns during war. We should be artists, we forge for the purpose of war."


Description:
Hekari often called Hek for short is a woman of five feet tall and slender build. Eyes a sky blue, skin a soft shade of blue as well. Naturally her hair is white, though dyed a mix of jade and pink on the right side. Her right arm is a bio-mechanical replacement the metal painted jade and pink colors it's mostly just an arm outside of the connection to her mech. Able to summon it to her side. It's bio connection designed to help increase ability to call the mech. "I am nineteen now, when I was fifteen I said no to entering a battle. They took my arm. I was not to choose art over the forge. Not to chose crafting over service in war."

Gear:
DJ Dead is a customized version of the Djed combat mech. At eight feet tall some might call it more power armor then a mech proper. A suit of armor more so then a personal fortress. Each foot of DJ Dead is equipped with mag locks and anti grav to help adhere to surfaces, while that's standard DJ Dead is equipped with heels these can extend functioning as spikes for reinforced stability. Each leg is equipped with a customized tri missile pod. An addition of Hek's for additional firepower, the right leg is equipped for anti vehicle it's detonations a vibrant pink, left anti personel its detonations a shimmering violet. On the hip is the shield generator styled like a belt found on any Djed model helping shield it from attacks and re-entry its shields always an electric blue in color. The chest piece is thick with armor like any Djed, DJ Dead however is modified with a small flamethrower under the armpit spitting fire white hot from orange painted barrels. Each back of the Djed equipped a jet pack helping it fly through the battlefields. DJ Dead is modified with wing designs, expression over function admittedly they provide no benefits.

The right arm is outfitted with the ANC often called "Ank" Armor Neural Cannon. Linked to the mind assists the weapon rotate in the munitions of choice. The Ptahran people fond of variety in dealing death. Its dominant weapon choice is the laser alternating between blast and beam. The blast is short range a cone of energy to deal with waves. The beam for range. Hek has chosen additional Cloud Shells. Cloud Shells fire from the cannon a armor piercing over sized bullet that cracks open releasing a poisonous gas. Additionally Hek has selected the "gun blade" varient the large cannon having a plasma bayonet feature underslung along the barrel. The left arm of a Djed is usually optional in selection some chose another gun or maybe a shield. Hek picked the battle hammer. The head fortifies the shoulder, handle folds into the arm. When resting it forms a underslung barrel to the arm able to fire repulsar blasts. Folded out its a hammer thats repulse tech helps amplify the already substantial shockwave and striking power.

The mech head is dome in shape. A case of hardened metals that projects a 360 screen around the pilots. Head entering the mech equips the heads up tiara the neuro link it provides helping improve pilot ability and awareness of a Djed's status. Radars to harden the senses to be ever aware to the symphony of battle. The mech itself is painted coral and jade, though it has a coated splatter pattern of red to it. When the light hits right sparkling as if gore painted. "Home is the engine roar, lonely am I when the wings sore. At peace I'm suppose to be in war, hate all I find in my engine core. My mech is my art I can't ignore, its the death of self I go to war. I dance to the gunfire, I return home to cry on the floor. Home is the silence when the engine doesn't roar, home I fear I'll see no more. For home is the engine roar muffling all but the hymn of war."

A short excerpt about yourself:

Hekari grew up as a child loving the structures of Ptah the city looked to kiss the heavens. In the city one could see it every window a mural in the glass. Each building an inspiration of architectural works. Her people used to live for stylization to craft things that spoke volumes to who they were. As a kid she roamed the city seeing how paintings were covered by propaganda and advertisement. Ideas and identity lost to the hypnotic patterns of corporations. She soon realized that the Ptahran were not a people, they were servants to the Emperor "praise be his immortal form."

The world teaches its children the arts, of engineering and forging, smything and crafting. While they should function as people there is priorities. A child can fail at history, but to fail at math is insulting. They don't need to know politics but to fail at mechanics is insulting. Hek was good at what she was supposed to be, she pushed though to know the arts. She wanted to know of paints and music, she was mocked for this. Until at fourteen she was able to be enlisted. Sometimes a Ptahran had the choice, she didn't she would join the navy. She would be apart of the Ptah Core. They saw she liked paint, her training showed her blood. They saw her draw to music, they made her go to sleep listening to the sounds od war.
"For the Emperor my art need be of symphonies of death. For the Emperor, praise be his immortal form, I am war."

Trained for six months, sent into a war early. They should have had three more months of training but her unit was needed. She was to finish being forged by war. Seven months of fighting and she knows now what it means to be Ptah Core. She wishes to grieve for her brothers and sisters who died I'm battle. To make art in their name . They said "another tear needs you, you've no time to shed your own." She tried to stand her ground, they took her arm as punishment. A Djed beside her commanding officer dropping a hammer on her arm.

More wars she serves, more time in trenches she's allowed chance to sing only when the hymns of the military. She's allowed to paint, expression only allowed to her mech and equipment. It molds her into the woman she is today. Outside of DJ Dead she is usually a pacifist drawn to anything of artistic potential. Be it a vehicle to study, a building to admire, or the music of another world. She usually though will prioritize tools of war though, it was engraved into her people. While slivers of who Hek wishes to be remain, a Ptahran is to be a student of arms and armaments over all else. "I dream of home, I dream of art. I'm told to settle for a bunk, tomorrow we tear the sky apart."

The ship of the Ptah Core has landed here on Shu. It's staff free to roam the surface. Most knowing they are slaves to the war efforts. So they don't venture out much because a Ptah is a soldier "for the Emperor, praise be his immortal form." Hek however does explore because some piece of her longs for more. She is a pilot she is a soldier, she was raised to be a tool for the Emperor's war efforts. As she looks over the city though she can't help but whisper. "Damn the Emperor, it's not enough. Praise the architect, the craftsman, the artist."

 

[Prudence]

Eryss Veyne​

Homeworld:
Ossyra was not a world at peace with itself, though its inhabitants once were, so the Elders say. They say our world was plagued by violent, endless storms and irregular seasons. It is even said that time was not a constant on Ossyra. Knowledge of our world has been relegated to memories. When the false-gods came to Ossyra they were not gentle. It has been near a millennia since a member of our diaspora has set foot on the homeworld; so the elders say. Our world is lost to us now, but its memory lives on.


Race:
Ossyrians are a scattered people, we live in small communities across the stars wherever we can find refuge. The gift of genetic drift over time has given us the abilities to retain memories across generations. This is the most precious resource of our people, as it is the only way we are able to hold onto remnants of what we once had. We are also able to communicate with one another through touch, intertwining our minds until they become one. We call these abilities reverie. Not just any young Ossyrian can see through the eyes of the ancestors or intwine their mind with another. It takes time and practice to manifest the gifts, though it can be hastened with chemical intervention.

We had a rich culture before the false-gods cursed Ossyra with their presence, so say the elders. We know the stars to be the true divine entities of the universe. They are the wardens of life, the providers of energy and the keepers of time in the universe. Each night for centuries, Ossyrians would pray that Ossyra might find peace in her endless dance with the star Ossyrion. Now, both are so long-abandoned that no Ossyrian can even identify which point in the night sky we came from. It is only in our thoughts and our memories that we can speak of the false-gods as they are, for fear that they or their agents might visit more persecution upon us.


Description:
Our people are pale in appearance, with fair skin and hair as white as the distant stars. Even in the dim artificial lighting of starships and underground cities where we are so often resigned to live, Ossyrians stand in stark contrast to the masses around us. It is said that in our blue-gray eyes you can still see the maelstrom of Ossyra’s raging seas.

I stand at five-feet, four-inches tall, and weigh only one-hundred-fifteen pounds when I can find sufficient food to eat. Like many of my race, my appearance has been described as elegant. My pale skin is largely unscarred, despite the poor conditions I’ve lived in. Though I have seen centuries of memories, I am only twenty-eight years old.


A short excerpt about yourself:
I was sixteen years old when I saw through the eyes of my forebearers for the first time. I was sitting on the deck of a starship, in a small cargo hold. Sitting across from me was the sister of my mother's mother, her eyes locked with mine. I tried to ignore how the thick steel deck beneath me sapped the warmth from my body. We were alone there, with the cabin lit only by small artificial candles and the faint glow of access panels on the walls. I maintained her eye contact, even as nervous anxiety welled up within me.

She passed a small bowl of Helis to me and I scooped some onto my index finger. It was my first time ever experiencing the drug. Much like the frigid steel beneath me, the fine white powder slowly sapped the feeling from my index finger. I knew what to do, though. I held my finger to my nose and sharply inhaled. The numbing sensation spread across the rest of my face, and my head began to feel hollow and light. My thoughts became sharp and erratic, and my stomach threatened to expel all I'd eaten that day. Still, I remember what came next with vivid clarity. She took my hands in hers, massaging the back of them with her thumbs as she recited words older than either of us.

"Through the tides of memory, my soul to your soul. What was known is now shared; what was lost is now found."

We repeated this communion many more times. At first the memories were warm, those of families gathered together in cherished moments of celebration or comfort. However, soon she began to show me the more important memories. They were difficult to witness. I still remember the feelings, my face pressed against the cold glass of a small freighter’s viewport, unfamiliar tears streaming down my face as I watched the bastard Emperor’s warships tearing apart a civilian vessel. My sister... no, her sister, my grandmother, was inside the civilian cruiser. I was watching as my grandmother died, along with countless others from my family. Clinging to my leg was my mother, though she was only half the age I am now, her face buried against my body.

These memories hurt to witness, but they were essential. They were vibrant reminders of the tangible things the bastard Emperor has taken from us. They are a wake up call that we must fight.