This wide-ranging post has been assembled specifically to persecute Sigmacastell. It's a synthesis of several different things including an embryonic setting riffing off my Ten Thousand Empty Tombs post but refined and with more Meat Horrors (tm). It also includes a new combat sleeve, musings on a game set in the shadow of a Kardashev Type II civilization with no FTL, special forces as warrior societies/cults a la the Sardukar, and inventory worldbuilding. Think of this as a very focused slush pile post.
Scripture is adapted from and/or inspired by @gods_txt, a GPT-2 religious text generator.
THE INITIATE
"AT THE HOUR OF YOUR DEATH, ATTEND! ATTEND AND LET THERE BE DARKNESS IN THE WORLD."
The Body Of Tiba stood barefoot on baking sand under the agonizing light of the sun that had killed it. Brittle bones and knees gnarled like the branches of a desert tree stood at attention. Taller than she remembered but tiny before the long-fingered figures arrayed in a circle before her. Brilliant white robes caught the sun. A single soot-black blade against the brilliant white.
"LET IT BE EVERLASTING DARKNESS."
"Kneel," the voice behind her whispered. The Body Of Tiba stumbled as it lowered itself to the ground, steadying itself with a hand. At last, rest.
"LET IT BE THE ANGUISH OF THE WEAK."
The one with the knife took a single long stride forward. Sinuous muscle and a wedge-shaped head under the brilliant cowl. Pale under the blazing light. Razor teeth like a creature of the deep sea. Only the eyes betrayed a flicker of humanity. Solemn. Indifferent. Almost contemplative.
"Look on upon the light and cast it out," whispered the one standing behind her, setting a bony hand on her shoulder. "Henceforth, you will forsake the light."
"LET IT BE THE GLOOM OF IGNORANCE."
A single point of black. Held high.
"Give yourself to death."
"LET IT BE THE HEAVINESS OF OBLIVION."
And agony.
"And it will have no power over you."
"FOR YOU HAVE GONE WITHOUT FEAR INTO THE DARKNESS!"
"GONE WITHOUT FEAR AND RETURNED!"
A tidal wave of sensation. Sounds and scents and other things beside. Warm sand rustling like a distant stream. And someone else's memories. "Stand, [REPENT, SWEET CHILD]. In death you have been reborn."
THE "THIN MEN"
Thin Men, Chimneysweeps, The Plumbers. These are names outsiders have for the secretive order of warrior-monks that the Philosopher Kings refer to as the Reborn. The common exonym isn't accurate: most Thin Men are women.
Their sleeves are small and quick; flexible enough to fit through a space no bigger than a human head. Hardy enough to survive dormant in hard vacuum for weeks. Just barely big enough for an brain-urn in the chest cavity. For the most part, they live a life of contemplation, ritually interring themselves as a form of meditation and administering funerary rites to the faithful.
The Reborn were among the first to make use of crude combat sleeves in the war against the Monument Builders' empire. Without the ability to reliably remove all the dangerous parts of the Gardeners' biological horrors/tools/weapons, extraordinary discipline was required to retain any meaningful human perspective for even short periods of time.
THE HOST: Fits into tiny places (and likes it), hunts from the shadows with chromatophores. Far faster than a human; (analogous to a Horizon Reaper Sleeve). Ambush hunter by temperament; plays with its food. Despite modern improvements, the Host is barely controllable; not nearly as reliable as more common sleeves but thankfully much less physically imposing.
THE NUN: For all practical purposes, the Reborn are equal parts Jedi Knights and state-sanctioned death squad (the Philosopher Kings are not big on state killings, but like any state, they've got an intelligence service that sometimes wants people killed). They do also fill an important social role: counseling the dying and ensuring that the dead are respectfully interred. They preside over the funerals of the great and good and the common people alike. Elder nuns spend most of their time buried; meditating in complete stillness and are only disinterred occasionally when their counsel, religious services, or knack for violence are required. The extended meditation heightens already tremendous senses.
THE NUNNERIES: Stone towers in a UV-bleached desert. Once a seabed. Fossilized coral reefs carved into spires and limestone tombs. Decorated walls of fossils and bones
THE DESERTER
The sky is empty. The earth is dry and dead. The water is full of monsters who eat you then shit you back out again. The mercenary's mantra. A single long breath in. The report of the hunting rifle, razor sharp in the thin air. A spray of red on dead ground. "Little one, the flesh is the only truth." The child in the sling on his back wailed at the sudden noise.
[No little thing. Do not not fuss!]. The Host drummed softly from deep within cavernous lungs. Comfortingly. [I/WE will protect you from that sting. Warm. Fed. Safe.]
You're really causing us a lot of problems.
Indifference from the Host. Human problems were always too abstract. Too distant. Desertion? A matter of indifference in the face of more urgent matters.
[Be still. I/WE will chew your food for you. Hush. Still.]
THIRTEEN ITEMS:
- Responsibility for a human child (somebody else's); found crying in the back of a wrecked truck.
- Hunting rifle; found in the front of the same truck; resting on the passenger seat next to the charred bones of a local rebel fighter and a spent antitank missile warhead.
- Combat Sleeve-sized plate carrier (10mm of composite titanium and graphene composite) in the House of Urula's forest camouflage.
- House of Urula standard-form mercenary contract. Sealed in wax, signed in the Host's translucent blood.
- Jug of biodiesel; sleeve food.
- A dead deer; human food; the most nutritious bits are being steadily prechewed.
- A debt mark; repeatedly re-tattooed as the Host metabolizes the ink.
- Handaxe with a flint striker inside the handle.
- A badly water-damaged map annotated in pen; can't count on radio under an orbital blockade; compass is long gone.
- Plastic bag filled with white ash; used for cleaning.
- Sling; traditional in the Deserter's culture (the locals use manufactured products).
- Empty LMG drums for the shoulder-mounted weapon.
- Signal mirror.
THE SETTING IN BROAD STROKES
This is a slightly more developed version of the setting set out in my Ten Thousand Empty tomb posts: humanity finds itself in a system full of the detritus of a Kardashev Type II civilization; habitats; terraformed worlds. The builders are gone; maybe long gone. They were knitters of flesh and shepherds of proteins; seeded and guided DNA/RNA biology. Poor grasp of individual entities; causal chains are rights-holders. Left technology, biological tools(?)/weapons(?) behind; terrifying creatures designed to reproduce by subverting DNA/RNA biologies (not very prolific but have left a legacy of terror).
Humanity has regained its ability to travel the system after the fall of a powerful empire, the Monument Builders. Fractious worlds and habitats full of ruins and horrors. Megacorporations and states make their way as best as they can in a chaotic system.
Obviously, all of this is adaptable to regular MoSh with some details changed.
I am writing my little posts damn you.
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