a Lightning headcanon, regarding the Thunderbrook in that gothic post: while the Pointe does have a Thunderbrook nearby, this is not a name for that specific landmark, but rather a term used throughout the Expanse for any dry riverbed or narrow gorge that's prone to flash floods.
90% of the time they're just normal canyons, but when it rains they're transformed into raging rivers, producing a thunder-like rumble even if there's no lightning in the sky. They're marked on maps mostly for navigation purposes, and as a warning to fellow travelers not to use them for shelter. Many an outsider has mistaken the map markings to mean an actual water source, and paid the price for that mistake.
The priests of the Old Gods, modern mortals who’ve given themselves over to the old ways.
Celavis, Beloved of Dumat. A cryptid from the Foxfire Bramble, who deals in mysterious keys. Keys to open doors, and wounds, and secrets; it’s never quite clear what each one is for, until the moment it finds its use. She traded her voice to Dumat many centuries ago, in return for this power, and most days she does not regret it. The Silent One does not mind what she does with her power, so long as she comes when she’s called, and she uses the opportunity to do great good from the shadows. But some days she watches the mortals, their easy camaraderie, and she remembers what it was like to be a real person, and she aches.
Roach, Beloved of Razikale. A young sellsword who was working on the crew of a pirate ship when the ship had an ill-fated encounter with the leviathan. The moment he laid eyes on her, he decided she was his Charge; she should have slain him where he stood for the insult, but decided to keep him around, instead. Her gift gives him incredible regenerative power, to the point where he’s nearly impossible to kill. Despite his growing fame as a mercenary, she continues to see him as an insignificant little mortal; he’ll do whatever it takes to earn the admiration of the one he loves, even if it was rather doomed from the start.
Mavir, Beloved of Zazikel. Proprietor of a travelling merchant’s caravan, unique among the priests in that he isn’t actually aware that he’s a priest. Devotees of the Windsinger are taught to give kindness and hospitality to all travelers, and he takes that to heart more than most. He’s had several encounters with the mysterious masked Skydancer, and they’ve always ended in unexpected good fortune for his business. He’s half-convinced that he’s blessed by the Windsinger Himself, and makes a habit of leaving out little snacks and trinkets. Zazikel is entranced by the mortal, but a little shy about setting things right; they’ll tell him, eventually, just... maybe tomorrow...
Shir, Beloved of Lusacan. Before she came to the attention of the Old Gods, Shir was a devoted priestess of the Shade, attempting to grow Shade parasites from a sealed prison she’d discovered. Sensing an opportunity to destroy one of his competitors, Toth led her to the resting place of Lusacan, telling her that the Watcher’s vast energy would be the perfect breeding ground for more of the parasites she held so dear. She slayed Lusacan’s previous priestess and led the god back to her temple in the Carrion Canyon, where her cult could tend to him properly. Their worship stopped him from being destroyed outright, and he lives a tortured existence, always with her voice crooning in his ear.
Vaska, Beloved of Andoral. An archivist of lost souls, who uses the Chained’s powerful binding magic to settle restless spirits in the Cairnstone Rest. Their library is a historian’s paradise, filled with centuries worth of knowledge, straight from the source. They knew Andoral’s original face, thousands of years ago; they tried to stop him from taking the form of an Emperor, but were cast aside. Binding him beneath the Shifting Expanse was an act of pure desperation, and they’ve been in hiding ever since. His power has granted them supernaturally long life, and as much as they ache to join the spirits of their ancestors, they’re bound to this plane for the foreseeable future.
Notrath, Beloved of Toth. Born a prince of a powerful Arcane empire, but stolen away as an infant and denied his birthright. Though Notrath was raised among commoners, his caretaker whispered stories of his homeland as he grew. When he came of age he returned home, expecting a royal welcome. Instead he found the monarchy had been deposed. He lashed out at the citizens, furious- what was a king with no kingdom to rule? In this lowest moment Toth found him, brought him into his warm embrace. Together, they would burn the world down, destroy those who dared scorn them, and they would build something glorious from the ashes. (So Toth promised him, anyway. Would he really deign to share the spotlight with a mortal?)
Galadriel, Beloved of Urthemiel. A siren from the Crystal Pools with a taste for draconic flesh. Her beauty and her hypnotic magic are what first drew the god to her, and they’ve been fast friends ever since. She walks among her fellow mortals and picks out the best and brightest to lure back home to the Reaches; her liege devours their magic, and she’s free to consume the leftovers. She’s been His for so long that she no longer truly resembles a mortal, and it’s not entirely clear what species she was born as, either Maren or dragon. The implications of a draconic heritage are disturbing, to say the least.
Dumat, God of Silence. The most powerful of the Old Gods at their prime, now getting by on his reserves and biding his time. His domain is a portion of the Foxfire Bramble, a void-like maze with neither light nor sound, where even Shadow dragons lose their way and disappear. He has multiple plans in motion, and surely has ulterior motives, though he's largely an unknown even to his fellow pantheon. He does not speak.
Razikale, Goddess of Mystery. The second most powerful at her prime, once legendary for her prophecies. While most of the Old Gods are disdainful of dragonkind, she has a certain fondness for Waterborn oracles despite herself. She’s taken the form of a massive leviathan that haunts the Leviathan Trench, feeding on tales of the horrors of the deep. More animal now than she once was, she’s no longer capable of speech. Her attempts at telepathy often wreak havoc on mortals; the touch of her vast mind causes others to spout prophecies in her name.
Zazikel, God of Freedom and Chaos. The most mobile of all the Old Gods, they can go wherever there is Wind to be found. In the old days they took little interest in founding temples or amassing followers, and were looked down on as fickle and empty-headed. The joke is on the others- though they may not be all-powerful, they’re in no danger of fading anytime soon. While not necessarily a benevolent being, they’re more likely to hand out blessings than curses; ulterior motives require the ability to think ahead, an ability they no longer possess. They’re often mistaken for a form of the Windsinger, which is not ideal, but hey, power is power.
Lusacan, God of Night. Known as the Watcher, he originally took the form of an all-seeing Sphinx. He once made his home in the depths of the Hewn City, teaching the brave souls who found him the intricacies of Truth magic. He was discovered by a Shade cult, who attempted to steal him away from his place of origin. Drunk on the promise of worship, he followed, and they promptly corrupted him. Cut off from his place of power, beset on all sides by Shade, he will surely be consumed; how much remains of his tortured mind is unknown.
Toth, God of Fire. While the Forgewright was once the least well-known of the gods, the modern age has been kind to him: not one, but two modern Flights pay homage to the act of creation. The dragons of Lightning and Fire see him as a muse; sightings are thought to bring inspiration, breakthroughs on current projects. His newfound power has turned him bitter and petty, a spirit of ambition and rivalry, and he seeks to take it out on those who once thought him inferior. With Andoral and Lusacan out of the way, he’s set his sights on Urthemiel. (Overpowering Dumat may still be beyond his reach, but he’ll burn that bridge when he gets there.)
Andoral, God of Unity and Chains. Of all the Old Gods, he took the return of the Eleven the hardest. He tried to adapt by taking the form of a powerful dragon, hoping to convince the world’s new citizens that he was a prophet of the Icewarden. Unfortunately, he did not quite understand what a multi-headed Imperial entailed. Every dragon who looked upon him saw a monster, and he was reduced to something rabid and raving and mindless. Unable to reverse his madness and terrified of his rapidly growing power, his Head Priest sealed him deep beneath the desert, in a place that would one day come to be called the Pointe.
Urthemiel, God of Beauty. Known as the Architect of the Crystalspine Reaches, as his very presence warps how the mountains grow. He’s fashioned himself a massive crystalline castle, where he lives under the guise of a reclusive noble. Unable or unwilling to play the game any longer, he instead devised a new way to survive- he feeds upon the lifeforce of mortals. He’s the most similar in form and mind to a mortal dragon, and he seems interested in what makes them tick, though he still cannot grasp it intuitively. The unfortunate souls who wander into his castle are studied, then devoured the moment they stop being entertaining.
Note: Names and titles are from Bioware’s Dragon Age series, as they started as fandragons. FR interpretations and lore beyond that are my own.
Unit Designation: SHHH
>> the Simulated Helpful Hospitality Hologram
Common Name: Whisper
The Rattler’s Rest Saloon has now become the Rattler’s Rest Saloon and Inn! Poor Wyatt has been trying to kickstart a small motel for years, but he barely has the energy to run one business anymore, let alone two. And no flesh-and-blood dragon has ever managed to hold the position for more than a few months... So the scientists of Prowler’s Pointe decided to put together a little gift for their beloved friend.
The SHHH (or Whisper, as the locals have dubbed them) is unique among the Pointe’s constructs, as they lack a body at all. Instead they’re some form of electrically-powered illusion magic, capable of entering any room embedded with the lab’s electrical grid. Their ability to appear in multiple places at once is invaluable in keeping an eye on the... interesting sorts that frequent the Pointe. As such, they’ve taken over as the town’s innkeeper.
They’re softspoken and soothing by design, but also by nature. They show a keen interest in mortal emotions, and while empathy does not come naturally to them, they’re working hard on developing it.
They’re the first true AI the Glitch has made since the creation of Chrome (or, more accurately, ever, though only the Glitch and the Riftwalker are aware of that particular tidbit). They look up to Chrome as a sibling, though the older mech seems to harbor a one-sided grudge (which is probably not jealousy, and most certainly could not be fear).
@the-collective-consumed new kid got their accent! :D i’ve been drooling over these colors since they first appeared in @voidandstarlight‘s project list, i’m so happy i finally grabbed a kid!
67. “If it wasn’t illegal, I would totally murder your ass.”
A massive hand hits him in the small of the back, and Woodson is shoved gracelessly off of his perch. He sticks the landing, thank the gods, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it. He straightens and pulls his hood up over his head as two more thunks sound off beside him, barely heard over the clatter of the rails.
“You know,” he muses, “if it wasn’t illegal, I would totally murder your ass.”
Kadara’s screeching laughter is expected, and subsequently ignored. It’s Carver’s reaction that he watches for, though he’s sure he makes quite the sight staring her down- even her sword is taller than him, for Stormcatcher’s sake.
Luckily she cracks a grin instead of taking offense. “Worried you’ll arrest yourself, eh, Sheriff?”
He sticks his tongue out at her for good measure, before sealing his mask over his face. It’s as good a signal as any, and no more is said as the three of them get to work.
They have to work their way backwards a few cars, thanks to his… premature landing, but they locate the target easily enough. Kadara lays her palms flat against the car’s metal roof; smoke begins to rise as the material gives way to her bubbling acid. In less than a minute there’s a hole big enough to drop through, with instructions for their only non-Plague member to watch his skin.
“Yeah, yeah,” Woodson mutters, before taking the plunge (under his own power, thank you very much). Unfortunately, either their targeting was off or their info was bad, because this car is definitely full of civilians. Ah well. “Your money or your life! And so on, y’all know the drill.”
Anyway it occurs to me that not everyone may have heard of Andy in the past? So worldbuilding time! (He’s actually not a meme, unless you count “Good Ideas Abound In Lightning” as a meme. (which it is but I digress))
All buildings in the Pointe are shot through with three pipelines. The first two are connected to the electrical grid, powered by the clan’s personal Spire.
One is for defensive systems, lights, heavy machinery, etc- systems that are vital and/or a steady constant. It’s not readily accessible by anyone except the head engineers, to prevent curious bystanders from breaking anything important.
The second line is open to the public, for running personal gadgets, working Lightning magic, etc. It tends to go haywire fairly regularly, but that’s why it exists in the first place. (They learned fairly early on that redundant systems were the only way to go.)
The third pipe is part of an extremely sophisticated cooling unit, which keeps all Pointe structures at a controlled temperature, vital in the scorching Shifting Expanse. (The local Inn provides freezer rooms that can be life saving to visiting Ice dragons suffering heatstroke.)
The population’s general understanding is that there's a massive mechanical unit buried beneath the Pointe, affectionately referred to as “Andy” by the engineers. Most assume this is one of those acronyms the techs are so fond of, and if the pipes tend to creak and groan, well, they’re under a lot of strain.
Visiting Ice dragons, or particularly keen elemental mages, may notice that the pipes do not contain coolant at all, but rather a stream of raw Ice magic. It’s not really sophisticated at all, just a whole lot of brute force, though whatever source they’re using must be unbelievably immense. Neither Ice dragons nor mages tend to last long in the Pointe; those that do quickly learn not to question it.
Garrick had a super sweet gig as a Nature priest in the Gladeveins, taking care of his beloved rainforest from the comfort of his lavish temple, until a visiting merchant caravan introduced him to his Charge, which happened to be this Tiny Fucking Cactus. Tiny Cactus was Not Happy in the rainforest, so he was forced to move to the desert, which Garrick himself was Not Happy about (not that Tiny Cactus cares about Garrick’s feelings).
so a very grumpy Garrick waltzed up to the Pointe demanding a safe place to plant his stupid Tiny Cactus. he threw a big fit in the saloon and otherwise made a nuisance of himself, until Wyatt made Kit introduce him to a local Cactaceae she’d been befriending. he concluded that the Cactaceae was the best possible caretaker for Tiny Cactus, and hoped that entrusting Tiny Cactus to its care would release him from his obligation, freeing him to return to his rainforest home. this was… not the case.
Tiny Cactus now lives on Cactaceae’s head, and Cactaceae is not inclined to give it back. turns out that being too far away from it gives him terrible anxiety, despite the fact that he doesn’t even like it all that much, so he’s stuck in this hellscape for the foreseeable future.
In which the one who is not yet called Knox searches for sanctuary from his pursuers, and does not quite find it.
@fr-dew @lumoselm @arctic-rising @yuushanoah-fr
He hesitates too long on the threshold, and the door swings back to smack him solidly on the chest.
The ambient chatter trails off as one-by-one the patrons turn to stare; he stares back, and nearly turns on his heel and walks right back out. But someone says “C’mon in, man, you’re cool,” and though it’s accompanied by several snickers (he’s never been so keenly aware of the pallor of his eyes), well, he can’t just refuse.
He slinks his way over to the bar, or at least he tries. The massive Imperial has never been much good at sneaking, and instead he just looks hunched and awkward and miserable. There’s a glass in his hand almost before he sits down. He opens his mouth to say- something, he’s not sure what, maybe offer to pay- but the bartender cuts him off. “You need it more than I do, buddy.”
The man he was a month ago would have bristled at the show of pity; this man melts against the counter and gapes with wide-eyed helplessness. He’s gently encouraged to drink, and it’s a testament to his weary state that he doesn’t even hesitate. The liquid is cool on his tongue, water with just a hint of something other. It tastes almost like home.
He hadn’t realized how faint he’d been feeling until the world stops spinning around him. “Yeah, it’s hot out there, ain’t it?” He blinks back at the bartender dumbly. The man waits a moment, sighs, and tries again. “We don’t get too many of your folk out here.”
The man seems to expect some response from him, but he hasn’t the vaguest idea what it could be. The longer his silence stretches, the more restless the rest of the patrons grow. He’d find it comforting, that things seem to be going back to normal, if he wasn’t so sure they were all talking about him. He slouches further into his seat.
The bartender squints at him, a look of intense concentration on his face, and his hands start to move. After a brief moment of confusion, he realizes that it must be some sort of sign language, though not in any dialect he recognizes. It occurs to him, distantly, that the man is probably troubled by his non-responsiveness. Right. Talking. He can… do that. “That’s not… I can… Hello.”
The Bogsneak barks out a laugh, sounding relieved. “He speaks! Okay, let’s try that again. Name’s Wyatt, and you are….?”
“Here on business.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so sharp and cold; he regrets it a little when Wyatt’s face falls, and regrets it a lot when the background conversations grow into a dull roar.
“He’s one o’ them bounty hunters!” Someone shouts from the back, and it’s chaos as people start leaping to their feet. For a moment he’s sure that this is where it ends, torn apart by the ruffians he’d once considered prey-
Then the flat of Wyatt’s hand comes down hard on the bar, and he throws his head back and bellows, “SIT DOWN.” And, miracle of miracles, the crowd does.
“First off: so are you, moron, don’t think I don’t see you eyeing those posters back there.” The crowd does not like this. They hiss and jeer, insist but that’s different, we’re different. Wyatt talks right over them. “Second, if he starts trouble, I’ll deal with it. All I know is he’s weak as a kitten, and the only ones startin’ shit in my bar are you.”
The loudest of the mercenaries comes stalking toward them, radiating fury, but all he does is spit in their general direction and storm out the door. Wyatt snorts inelegantly. “That’s what I thought.” He continues to mutter darkly as he wanders off to refill the glass, which the Imperial hadn’t realized was empty. Without it his hands open and close listlessly, grasping at nothing.
A hand taps at his shoulder, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. A small Spiral girl smiles at him apologetically. “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart. Had some trouble with the Fortress of Ends recently, folks ain’t usually this jumpy.” She hops up on the stool next to him, though her arm remains outstretched, her fingers toying with the fine fabric of his collar. “You need anything, big guy? You look like a nice dark room would do you good. Our innkeeper’s… out, right now, but I’m happy to help.” He finds the sharpness of her gaze unsettling, despite her kind words. He can’t find his voice.
“Cal, give the poor thing a break, won’t you? Here, darlin’. You like chocolate?” A second Spiral, remarkably similar to the first, appears at his other side. She slides a plate in front of him, and while he can't identify the pastry it holds, he's certain it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He falls upon it without thinking.
When he finishes (seconds later? minutes? he can't say), he looks back up at her with dismay. “I can't pay you.”
The girl giggles. “We'll work something out, I'm sure.” She flicks a crumb off of him with one long fingernail, but like her companion before her, her hand lingers. He stares at it, slow to put the pieces together. She picks at a loose thread, fine and golden, and… ah. Beneath the layer of grime, his attire is clearly military, and well-made at that.
“Whoever you think I am,” he says slowly, uncertain, “I assure you I am not.”
“Bit presumptuous of you, don't you think? You some kind of mind reader?” It seems more teasing than offended, but her wide grin does nothing to ease his nerves.
“We're not runnin’ a charity, here,” the first interjects, “but it really is alright if you don't have cash. Plenty of honest work to be done.” That seems pointed. Also a bit unfair, considering the locale. His ego throbs like some phantom limb, but his bones ache with weariness and he can't be bothered to protest.
“Y'all can talk terms in the morning, let the man rest.” Wyatt returns, pressing a new glass into his hands. He seems in a slightly better mood, now that the mob has dispersed, but he's still subdued. The Imperial feels strangely guilty about that.
“It was not my intention to cause you trouble,” he says meekly. The bartender stares him down, and he has to fight the urge to squirm.
“Some folks are magnets for it, intentions be damned.” He clears his throat. “Appreciate the thought, though. Now shoo, go on.”
With the twin Spirals hovering at his sides, he rises. His knees tremble, but hold, and soon they're staggering toward the back hallway.
The room they lead him to is shockingly bare, little more than a hollowed-out cave. But it has a ceiling and a bed, which puts it well above many of the places he's slept in this past month. The one called Cal fusses over a pitcher, apparently struggling with the plain nightstand; he can’t get a good look at what she’s doing, as the other one is busy bullying him into bed. “Dinner’s in a few hours, please do drop by if you’re up for it.”
“We can worry about money in a bit,” says the first, which earns her a dirty look from her friend. Not that their guest is awake to take offense- he’s unconscious the moment he hits the mattress.
