#rimworld lore

[justadumbasskid]

Feeling kinda bitter and underwhelmed that the RimWorld fanbase largely isn’t concerned with the wider lore of this massive and vague universe they find themselves in. Meanwhile Minecraft fans are having a grand ol’ time speculating about an equally massive and vague universe. C’mon, guys, the “RimWorld Lore” tag is barren!

[herobrinezombiealso]

A cloned memory

Oh, to go back to the morning where everything was fine, that cool winter morning. Left my chamber and enjoyed a lavish breakfast with you all. Jests at one another for the coming day ahead. A sausage slipping from my plate and pounced on by one of Buttercup's wargs before it hit the floor. This world may have been a rough one to land on, but this home was a sanctuary among the hell.

We left the table to go complete our daily tasks, Inko to tinker with his mechs, Vortex to further train his already impeccable pistol aim, Jutely restocking the kitchen before going to her artworks, Teddy & Buttercup training the colony animals, and Quiver to do whatever it was he does. My friends, slaving to maintain our home and safety. And then me, to go and study the inexplicable. The living dead, an enigma we learned to replicate. The flesh creatures from below, unlike anything we'd seen before here. The near-invisible mind stealer, it would have taken Vortex from us if it wasn't for one of Teddy's thrumbos screaming at a glimpse of it. All these things came with malice and only brought blood forth as we fought them.

Only one had yet to bring pain, an obelisk as black as the starless night, fallen from the sky 3 days before. I'd had yet to go near it, but as curiosity called, I had to relent. The imposing sculpture, as if placed on top of my vision instead of in the reality of our valley. I kept my distance initially, it felt as if dread almost radiated from its core. I think I heard Inko yell out momentarily, likely one of his mechs malfunctioning during a repair. Nearing the obelisk, its surface looked so smooth, not an imperfection or indent the human eye could see. I gingerly reached out my hand to feel it. And as my fingers hit the cold metal, it felt like lightning struck.

Everything went, every sense overloaded, pain, comfort, hot, cold, every nerve, every synapse, every neuron, everything at once. It felt as if my soul was burning, it may of been. My hand jerked back from the thing. The agony felt like it lasted eons, but I hadn't even had the time to start screaming. I collapsed in a heap, trying to recover from the shock. As my body started to obey me again, I tried to get up, I reached out, and someone grabbed my hand to help me. My eyes, still barely functioning, tried to make out who it was. As information started to flow through them, I nearly collapsed again. I looked up as they hoisted me to my feet and peered straight into my own eyes.

That's when I finally screamed, they had the same eyes, same face, same clothes, same everything down to the scar on my left hand that I got when I was 5 chasing a muffalo. It was indescribable, the confusion and terror. My face, my body, my clothes, but not me. A thousand questions ran. I met my gaze to ask at least one of the dashing thoughts and saw they were shared, but in that moment, my skin finally decided to reconnect to the rest of my nerves, and the cold, cold winter breeze hit. I had my clothes, but I did not. I watched as the realization uncannily started to dawn on my face as it dawned in my own mind. I wasn't me anymore.

As we both also realized I wouldn't stand the cold, we made our way back home. The path simultaneously familiar, but unknown. Thoughts still ran rampant, fear and confusion eating away. We neared the base and I heard my voice call out for help, my own voice chilled to barely a whisper. The others quickly gathered and for a moment, I felt like it was going to be okay, but Vortex quickly readied his charge pistol. A chilling instant passed, but felt like ages before I heard myself tell him to lower it. She tried to explain, but neither of us really knew what had happened. All everyone else saw was me and something else.

I ended up quarantined and tested for a while, but they found nothing awry. I got released back into the colony, but it doesn't feel like home anymore. The animals that had nuzzled in the evenings now recoil from my hand. I'm only seen as not her. They occasionally forget, but return at realizing the error. Only myself sees me as her, but it's cautious as I have her mind and her mine. Seeing yourself as not you never eases. I've taken up the minor tasks no one else wanted to do before retreating to our room to write before things start to deteriorate. I want to leave something that would show I'm me, not just a part of her, behind. The obelisk wasn't perfect. There's a slow droning in the back of both of our minds, it grows ever worse with each day and we both know what it means. Our mind was split and it can't last apart forever. We agreed to keep it quiet until the others start to notice, but we know what choice will need to be made, and it won't be a difficult one for them. I'm just the copy.

[archotechfanatic]

Archotechs Sing to Each Other

The way distant Archotechs communicate with one another is much like birdsong. Sung on a level human ears can't detect, unless you're mere inches from an Archotech structure. If you're still, and very quiet, with a clear mind, you can listen in on their melodies.

Archotechs' song can still affect the minds of lesser beings, though. Archotech superstructures project a radius of their song that induces headaches and visions in the minds of lesser beings. Sung loud and strong enough that their waves are visible in the air. Through psychic soothes, a distant Archotech's lullaby puts an entire continent at ease with their voice. Or perhaps good news that's shared as a joyful announcement. Generally, you'll know if the nearest Archotech is in a good mood.

Or a bad mood. A psychic drone is a song of anguish, or otherwise great suffering from the voice of an Archotech. We can only imagine what brings pain to such a being of titanic influence. It's a song of loss, prone to driving the minds of lesser beings mad.

Psychic drones and soothes can be activated by lesser beings, though, through artifacts like pulsars or psycasts. I imagine that the pulsars are simply stored songs. Or poetry written by an Archotech and placed into this construct to be released on-demand later. Still imperceivable by lesser minds aside from the soothes they produce. Meanwhile, soothe psycasts made by a human psycaster is the Archotech form of gibberish. They are speaking the right language, to produce the right emotions in lesser minds, but to the mind of an Archotech they aren't really saying anything. Imagine words that sound like they're from your language, but aren't, they're just similar sounds.

Just some fanmade, unofficial lore I've been thinking about for a while.

[mtb-tv]

Wasters

I love the Wasters in Rimworld. They remind me of the ghouls from the Fallout franchise and it's pretty easy to see why.

I keep finding myself thinking about Wasters and how they would fit into a community that's dominated by some other xenotype. They're capable of living in this unpolluted environment, but it's not as comfortable as it could be. Special care would have to be taken for them by the other members of the community, in the case of their Psychite dependency. Also they're not the prettiest to look at (Rough, papery charcoal-black skin stretched taut over a bony, gaunt frame. With perpetually-bloodshot eyes sunken in their sockets), and that of course affects their social standing.

Then, how a community of Wasters would appear to another xenotype as they pass through, or visit for a short time. I can imagine that a bunch of Wasters grouped up can carry a lot of negative stereotypes, like how they deliberately pollute the environment to better suit them, or how they're constantly high off their asses on Psychite. Like a group of thugs or bandits, nobody wants to mess with a group of toxic Wasters on their turf.

Then I think about the xenotype's origins. Genetically-engineered to live and breed as living area-denial weapons. Used en-masse by urbworld military generals dumping them onto a toxic battlefield just to make the area worse for their enemy. Scorched-Earth tactics taken to their logical extreme as an entire group of people lives on and defends an otherwise inhospitable scrap of land. I think of Wasters in these systems dreaming of a promised land, a paradise where they can live away from their enforced obligations as living bioweapons.

I think that a navel ship crash-landing on a rimworld would probably be the best thing that could ever happen for their Waster charges.

[herobrinezombie]

The Tale of Hermine the Mechanitor

Many solar cycles ago, another poor soul crashed and stranded on this dreaded planet. Separated from her interstellar ship by a chance asteroid encounter, her ship fragmented and careened down towards the surface. Luck on her side, made it out injured but alive from the crash, the last kindness this world would grant her for a long time. Scraping together repairs for herself and some surviving labor mechanoids from the scrap and slag of the impact; the lone mechanitor stands alive and unwilling to concede her life.

The weather however, had other plans for this woman. Chilling winds began to blow within a week of her arrival, signaling the turn of the seasons. Priority shifts from not only shelter, but also to rations for the winter. Leaving the digging and walling of a cave to her mechs, the Mechanitor set off with her rifle. Navigating the thick woods, finds a many unsuspecting animals, hauling each meal back to her cave, now a proper shelter with the mechs' work. Starting a fire inside, the Mechanitor prepares for the coming long and cold months.

A mere month before the planet played its hand once more. A team of raiders arrive, having seen the tracks of valuable mechs in the thick snow. Scouting out the mountain, they count 3 of the mini gold mines collecting resources and constructing an outpost. Moving in to strike they prowl closer and closer to the mechs. Then as one raises their revolver to disable one of the robots, a single crack is heard ringing throughout the forest.

The raider drops his gun and stumbles back, clenching his forearm, blood starting to seep from between his fingers. Realizing what has happened the other two marauders spin wildly, hoping to spot their attacker. Another crack echos out, curses are yelled as one grabs his thigh and stumbles to the ground. Again a crack, the first bandit goes limp. Finally, the last raider spies the source, the Mechanitor crouched in the snow with her rifle, barrel pointed dead center at him. Having only moments to react he rapidly fires in her direction as he ducts behind a tree. A single cry indicates he hit the target. Peeking out, seeing their attacker lay still in red stained snow, he laughs. The raider turns away to locate his ally, hoping to patch them up enough to get back to camp. Just as he pulls out the gauze and starts to wrap the leg, fear enters his accomplices' eyes as a drop of blood splatters against the snow from just out of view. Twisting around one final time he gets a glimpse of his reaper, her left eye torn from his grazing shot and a muzzle close enough to stare down. A last crack rings across the white mountain side.

As winter's peak was reached and surpassed, the Mechanitor received a visitor and a plea. Another stranded soul thrown onto this planet, wishing for a place to carve out survival from. With a tale so similar to her own, despite her own wish of isolation, the resolve melted like the snow off the cliff sides she built under. The extra pair of hands even though from a sub species built for war, were more than useful with their green thumbs. Alas there is a reason her name is unknown to anyone but the Mechanitor. As winter drew to a close, so did the supply of steroids the botanical soldier needed to live. The withdrawal first weakening them, the soldier hid her ailment as long as she could, only sharing when they collapsed while tending to the crops. Many nights now spent restless between them, one's own body fighting against them, the other fighting to keep them alive. Now stopping every passerby and trading caravan in hopes that one would know where to find the needed steroid.

Little time was left for the soldier, having slipped into a coma. The Mechanitor not having properly slept for many nights now caring for her. A couple of travellers from a nearby settlement make their way through the area. Once more, almost routine now, the Mechanitor stops them and asks about the needed drugs. Pleading with them for help, she spots the precious green bottles in their bags. The travellers noticing she's seen the steroids, quickly shift them out of sight, claim ignorance and ready themselves to leave. She begs, offering them everything they have in trade. The travellers disregard her cries and start to leave. Just standing there, broken as they walk away, she thinks back to her partner slowly slipping further and further into death. The Mechanitor, steeling herself, focuses back on the departing travellers, and raises her rifle.

Relief filled the room as the soldier pulled back from the brink of their coma. A tear filled embrace that lasted long into the morning hours, only broken by the call of daylight and the warcry of the buried travellers' settlement seeking retribution for their fallen. The details of this battle are long lost to time and grandiose myth, but only things that ring true through those myths, that the Mechanitor alone was left standing among the ruins and her new lover buried deep in the mountain with a hole through her chest.

And so began the Mechanitor's long isolation, only broken by the occasional refugee from the world's factions or one rejected from the stars, but none stayed for long. Made to leave or taken by the whims of this dastard planet like the ones before and buried with them. The pain of every loss mounting and growing on her, leading her further and deeper into her mountain. However, she was never able to reject those needing help like she once needed. Stories slowly spread, a bionic hand reaching out to pull people out of rubble, a mech showing up and guiding lost souls to a settlement, a sniper with a metal eye freeing the imprisoned, and a refuge for those with nowhere to go.

I got possessed by deadline and memories of a really good early game rimworld play through. Hope this first attempt at more myth like story isn't terrible More of my stories

[herobrinezombiealso]

The Tale of Hermine the Mechanitor

Many solar cycles ago, another poor soul crashed and stranded on this dreaded planet. Seperated from her interstellar ship by a chance asteroid encounter, her ship fragmented and careened down towards the surface. Luck on her side, made it out injured but alive from the crash, the last kindness this world would grant her for a long time. Scraping together repairs for herself and some surviving labor mechanoids from the scrap and slag of the impact; the lone mechanitor stands alive and unwilling to concede her life.

The weather however, had other plans for this woman. Chilling winds began to blow within a week of her arrival, signaling the turn of the seasons. Priority shifts from not only shelter, but also to rations for the winter. Leaving the digging and walling of a cave to her mechs, the Mechanitor set off with her rifle. Navigating the thick woods, finds a many unsuspecting animals, hauling each meal back to her cave, now a proper shelter with the mechs' work. Starting a fire inside, the Mechanitor prepares for the coming long and cold months.

A mere month before the planet played its hand once more. A team of raiders arrive, having seen the tracks of valuable mechs in the thick snow. Scouting out the mountain, they count 3 of the mini gold mines collecting resources and constructing an outpost. Moving in to strike they prowl closer and closer to the mechs. Then as one raises their revolver to disable one of the robots, a single crack is heard ringing throughout the forest.

The raider drops his gun and stumbles back, clenching his forearm, blood starting to seep from between his fingers. Realizing what has happened the other two marauders spin wildly, hoping to spot their attacker. Another crack echos out, curses are yelled as one grabs his thigh and stumbles to the ground. Again a crack, the first bandit goes limp. Finally, the last raider spies the source, the Mechanitor crouched in the snow with her rifle, barrel pointed dead center at him. Having only moments to react he rapidly fires in her direction as he ducts behind a tree. A single cry indicates he hit the target. Peeking out, seeing their attacker lay still in red stained snow, he laughs. The raider turns away to locate his ally, hoping to patch them up enough to get back to camp. Just as he pulls out the gauze and starts to wrap the leg, fear enters his accomplices' eyes as a drop of blood splatters against the snow from just out of view. Twisting around one final time he gets a glimpse of his reaper, her left eye torn from his grazing shot and a muzzle close enough to stare down. A last crack rings across the white mountain side.

As winter's peak was reached and surpassed, the Mechanitor received a visitor and a plea. Another stranded soul thrown onto this planet, wishing for a place to carve out survival from. With a tale so similar to her own, despite her own wish of isolation, the resolve melted like the snow off the cliff sides she built under. The extra pair of hands even though from a sub species built for war, were more than useful with their green thumbs. Alas there is a reason her name is unknown to anyone but the Mechanitor. As winter drew to a close, so did the supply of steroids the botanical soldier needed to live. The withdrawal first weakening them, the soldier hid her ailment as long as she could, only sharing when they collapsed while tending to the crops. Many nights now spent restless between them, one's own body fighting against them, the other fighting to keep them alive. Now stopping every passerby and trading caravan in hopes that one would know where to find the needed steroid.

Little time was left for the soldier, having slipped into a coma. The Mechanitor not having properly slept for many nights now caring for her. A couple of travellers from a nearby settlement make their way through the area. Once more, almost routine now, the Mechanitor stops them and asks about the needed drugs. Pleading with them for help, she spots the precious green bottles in their bags. The travellers noticing she's seen the steroids, quickly shift them out of sight, claim ignorance and ready themselves to leave. She begs, offering them everything they have in trade. The travellers disregard her cries and start to leave. Just standing there, broken as they walk away, she thinks back to her partner slowly slipping further and further into death. The Mechanitor, steeling herself, focuses back on the departing travellers, and raises her rifle.

Relief filled the room as the soldier pulled back from the brink of their coma. A tearfilled embrace that lasted long into the morning hours, only broken by the call of daylight and the warcry of the buried travellers' settlement seeking retribution for their fallen. The details of this battle are long lost to time and grandiose myth, but only things that ring true through those myths, that the Mechanitor alone was left standing among the ruins and her new lover buried deep in the mountain with a hole through her chest.

And so began the Mechanitor's long isolation, only broken by the occasional refugee from the world's factions or one rejected from the stars, but none stayed for long. Made to leave or taken by the whims of this dastard planet like the ones before and buried with them. The pain of every loss mounting and growing on her, leading her further and deeper into her mountain. However, she was never able to reject those needing help like she once needed. Stories slowly spread, a bionic hand reaching out to pull people out of rubble, a mech showing up and guiding lost souls to a settlement, a sniper with a metal eye freeing the imprisoned, and a refuge for those with nowhere to go.

[archotechfanatic]

Archonexus Core

Contrary to popular belief, an Archonexus Core isn't actually a very important piece of an Archotech. Archotechs don't reside on the mortal plane of 3D space. Their minds and psychic presences have all long since ascended to higher dimensions lesser minds cannot comprehend. The structures they leave behind are mere constructs that can invoke or carry out their will even through the fabric of time and space. They are conduits to great power.

Think of the Archonexus like a bell; ringing it will get you the direct attention of the Archotech that put it there. However, this ring can only be properly done with clear intent and understanding of what you're doing. Not just anybody can get the attention of an Archotech, even if they stumble upon an Archonexus core.

Judging by the numerous corpses that can be found around an Archonexus, improper reverence of this bell could tear your mind and body apart with the sheer power that you have foolishly invoked.

Mechanoids have always been attracted to Archotech structures and artifacts. So it can be assumed that whatever malevolent force guides them seeks to also understand the power of the Archotechs to use, and/or salvage these hyper-advanced pieces of technology for their own use.

Just a bit of unofficial lore I've been thinking of.