Bay 12 Games Forum

It is the 41st Millennium. For more than a hundred centuries the Emperor of Mankind has sat immobile on the Golden Throne of Earth. He is the master of mankind by the will of the gods and master of a million worlds by the might of his inexhaustible armies. But for all their multitudes, they are barely enough to hold off the ever-present threat to humanity from aliens, heretics, mutants -- and far, far worse. There is no peace amongst the stars, only an eternity of carnage and slaughter, and the laughter of thirsting gods.

These are not the tales of those times, nor of mankind's triumphant rise and subsequent fall, nor of the eldar's unquestioned primacy and desolate despair in the wake of near-annihilation, nor of the numberless orkoid's wanton slaughter and perpetual mirth. Rather, these are the tales of a lesser, stranger race, in older days going onward, and the struggles and sagas known, perhaps, to them and them alone. The whims of fate paired with the breadth of their wisdom will determine whether they survive the horrors that await, if not intact, alive and untainted, while the narrowest of branching paths promises they be vaunted and exalted to an empire that may bring the galaxy to shake.

Such thoughts are as far from the present as the rise of man from the first rising of algal murk on Terra's cradle. In this distant era, the most fundamental questions are to be answered and they, more than any other, will determine the future course.

In the infancy of the Milky Way Galaxy, where did the star system soon to be home to this struggling race coalesce?

The Galactic North: In the here and the now distant yet not absent, the system can take solace in idyllic isolation but in time, the story of the eldar will be told and the prospect of enduring its ending is slim to none.
The Galactic East: Only one system amid a sea of nameless stars, the potential for life arising is great indeed, as is the progress that such pitched competition will force on nascent species.
The Galactic West: Farflung and sparse in density, the teeming dark is broken only by the light of nebulae which clog its ranges and give rise to esoteric superstitions among the rare few reared and raised within their embrace.
The Galactic South: Ancient beyond reckoning and bearing thin soil for lively seed, of no consequence to the reaches beyond, its scarcity could be argued as a purchase of precious time to the desperate.
The Galactic Center: Silent now, yet treacherous and terrible in the times to come, any risen here would face man at its grandest height of mercy and wonder, and suffer along their side, legacies of the past forgotten in favour of rabid zeal upon the onset of its dreaded fall.

Across the boundless expanse of the cosmos, untold billions of worlds are born, grow old, and in time, ancient. Many of these are born of natural processes, swiftly forgotten, or the side project an individual deity, either eager to test their limits or satiate their urge to see art. Some of these worlds are beautiful, and indeed, some of the most successful are fortunate enough to derive an intelligent mortal race. The luckiest worlds, however, are overseen by a pantheon of deities, and beneath their guiding hand, are able to truly prosper.

True, their infighting inevitably causes some measure of strife and woe among the mortals, but their urge to compete drives innovation, which in turn drives industry, and eventually, progress. Exotic, otherwise impossible forms of life and entire systems of untold sorceries are born from their divinely inspired designs. Indeed, it cannot be argued that a pantheon isn't the ideal for any world to truly expand in growth, and as these six divines, five goddesses, one god meet on the outskirts of a newborn, empty reality, there isn't a doubt in their minds that one way or another, they're to see its potential through to the fullest. But first, they have to decide, while the shape of things are yet unbound and may be molded, what sort of reality is it they want to see?

Citizen of the Imperium, through inconceivable effort or impossible happenstance, you have been appointed Planetary Governor of Trevantis V, a recently colonized planet on the easternmost fringe of Segmentum Ultima. Ordinarily, you would not have been chosen, but following a heretical uprising, a series of pirate raids, and the near-total destruction of the world's infrastructure your predecessor was executed for his incompetence and the High Lords of Terra were forced to find a replacement on short notice. You happened to meet the bare minimum qualifications, and given your system's isolation, you will be allowed to exert an otherwise unacceptable degree of independence in your authority. Know this, should you fail in your duties, you will be removed and replaced. Do not fail.

-In the Name of the God Emperor.

Who are you, to have been given such an honor?

Esteemed Aristocrat- As the fourth heir to a Segmentum Solar hive world Governor's position, you never expected to rule but your talent for statecraft did not go unnoticed, it was deemed unacceptable to let your skills go to waste, and your family managed to pull enough strings and call in enough favors to get you appointed Planetary Governor.
  + 10 bonus to diplomacy and persuasion
  + 400,000k starting Thrones
  + Influence among the nobility

Imperial Guard General- Once a lowly conscript, your tenacity saw you rise through the ranks until you led a regiment of your own, and following a brilliant campaign which saved an entire sector, in recognition of your efforts you've been rewarded the position of Planetary Governor.
  + 10 bonus to military command
  + One regiment of veteran Imperial Guardsmen and their equipment
  + Bonus population from your settling troops and their families

Former Rogue Trader- For decades you have braved the Warp, plying goods from across the Imperium and furthering the boundaries of known space, and have been granted the opportunity to retire as a Planetary Governor.
  + 5 bonus to both diplomacy and persuasion, and military command
  + 200,000k starting Thrones
  + Tarask-class Merchantman with additional Lance batteries

The age of creation has come and gone, and in its place, the age of decay has begun. Most of the gods are slain, crippled and maimed, languishing in chains, utterly unhinged and insane, knowingly cruel and willfully malevolent, corrupt and twisted shadows of what they once were, or at best, absolutely apathetic to the plight of mortals. The few morally upright gods that remain are weak and enslaved by their stronger peers, have gone into hiding with their followers, or do what they can to safeguard the last of their faithful in their crumbling heavenly realms, without the courage or the power to make a difference in the prime reality. A handful of gods remain with the will and the strength to stand against the coming darkness, but they are few and far between, flickering candles soon to be snuffed out.

In the absence of the gods, the mantle of stars has commenced its decomposition. Each year to pass, an abandoned heavenly realm is consumed by the encroaching void, and a star forever fades from the night sky. Each decade, the sun itself dims as its eternal fire begins to cool, and sooner or later, it will burn its last and remain no more than ashes until the end of time. Already, it is gray and each winter seems to be harsher and longer than the last.

Beneath the rotting cosmos, the world below has fallen into despair. The knowledge and prosperity of empires long-past has failed, man-eating monsters once thought extinct have returned with a vengeance, and all manner of plague, famine, and catastrophe struggle to shatter the few bastions of civilization that still strive to survive the end of days. In ancient times, mankind suffered dark ages, but then, they knew that no matter how dire their straights, the gods watched over them, and one day their suffering would come to an end. Those alive in this age of decay know no mercy. To them, the end is inevitable, a matter of time, all that remains is how long they have left.

Unless a true hero arises, to do what the gods of old couldn't do and make things right, in a thousand years the world will be no more than a maggot ridden corpse, a mere memory in the minds of the starved spirits that once claimed divinity.

Come the thousand hells or heaven high waters, you intend to be that hero.

But first, who are you?

A Mortal: One in a million, you're already a hero, and you've already made the world a better place, but your efforts will mean nothing if there's no world left to save. You're a truly exceptional mortal, able to do what others could never dream of doing, but in the end, you're only mortal, and will that be enough?

An Angel: The immortal servant of a forgotten god, against all odds, you withstood the corruption that consumed your old master and as you fled, claimed a mote of divinity. With this, you wield power beyond compare, but compared to the coming end, you are but a speck of sand before the tsunami. You're more than any man, but do you have the strength to restore what was lost?

A Deity: Either the recently awaken shard of an old god or a young god, newly born into a dying world, you are a fledgling divinity with the repair what was broken and a flock of humble faithful ready to see your will be done. Though you are a mere infant compared to your elders, you have the youthful vigor they lack and the unmatched potential of a god, but will it be sufficient to succeed where your predecessors failed?

You are a youth on the cusp of adulthood and have spent nearly the entirety of your life learning the arcane arts. You're decades if not centuries from mastery, but you've made enough headway in your chosen discipline to earn the title Wizard. With nothing save the robes on your back and a precious spellbook tucked away, you've set out into the world as an adventurer.

Before we begin, we must know who you are.

Are you a man, or are you a woman?

As Wizards do not concern themselves with the physical, the sex of a Wizard is of little consequence. That said, several cabals, disciplines, and opportunities are open only to one sex or the other, and a Wizard's sex often influences the perceptions of their mundane counterparts.

Now that that's out of the way, what race do you come from?

Human: Humans, the descendents of a once prosperous interplanar empire, are cursed with short lives, but are often tempered with great ambition and a broad insight that others may lack.
Half-Orc: The result of an Orc coupling with a Human, Half-Orcs often lack finer intellect and are widely despised, but have an impressive physique, and an innate talent for warfare.
Elf: Elves are endowed with millennia long lives, immense intelligence, inhuman grace, and unmatched arcane talent, but the mystic mastery of life and death eludes them.
Dwarves: Dwarves are as sturdy, slow-to-age, and patient as the mountains they call home and almost never forget anything they've learned, but their connection to the arcane is subdued.

With that in mind, which discipline have you achieved basic competency in?

Evocation: The arcane art of unchained destruction in each of its myriad forms, favored by those who prefer simple solutions to complex problems.
Illusion: The arcane art of deceiving and misleading the primary senses of one's foes, a potent discipline, but easily countered by skilled abjurers or those of exceptionally strong will.
Abjuration: The arcane art of shielding oneself from magic and dispelling the curses and spells of one's foes, often used in concert with other schools of sorcery.
Communion: The arcane art of calling on the denizens of other planes, be it for favors martial, arcane, or informational, usually requiring extensive knowledge and careful ritual.
Transmutation: The arcane art of shifting the physical form of oneself or another, often for combat or for disguise, but clever mages are even able to heal the wounds of others.
Necromancy: The arcane art of bending death itself to one's whims, to reanimate corpses as unthinking cannibals thralls, flay the life from the living, and even twist souls to one's own ends.
Restoration: The arcane art of manipulating the benign essence of life, to heal the direst of wounds in mere moments, turn the undead to dust, and even bring the dead back to life.
Elementalism: The arcane art of controlling one of the primary elements, fire, earth, water, and air, each of which has its own strengths, weaknesses, and alien planes.
Divination: The arcane art of sight without seeing, understanding each of the thousand tongues, deriving the exact function of an ancient artifact, and discerning the whereabouts of one's foes.
Artifice: The arcane art of binding the energies of magic to artifacts, with which, anyone is able to channel the effects of imbued spells, be they mundane or be they arcane.
Enchantment: The arcane art of shaping the minds of another to one's will, to follow their commands and further their ambitions, or experience a sudden, overwhelming emotion.

So be it. Lastly, how did you come to an understanding of the arcane?

You were taught at an Academy: Recognizing your talent, one of the many Wizard's schools across the land took you in, and taught you all you needed to know and more. You may select an additional discipline from the above, thanks to the academy's extensive curriculum.
You were apprenticed to a Master: In need of a domestic servant or to sate their loneliness, a renowned master of your art took you in and taught you until you came of age. You have a measure of expertise in your discipline unusual for one of your age, thanks to your master's skill.
You taught yourself: Stumbling upon a deceased Wizard's spellbook or awakening an arcane spark, you've struggled to learn the rudiments of a single discipline. You receive no benefit but the satisfaction that your progress is due to you and you alone.

In the year 2220 the world is a grim and dark place, filled with crime-riddled urban sprawl and barren wasteland, swamped with pollution. What's left of the U.S. government is ineffective and corrupt, and the mega-corporations and criminal cartels have by and large taken its place. In the near-apocalyptic aftermath of WW3, global climate change, and economic collapse, technology has advanced to heights unimaginable to those of the past, but the knowledge of its manufacture remains in the hands of a mysterious few.

Little over forty years ago, a blindingly bright light hit worldwide and in its glow, the first supers emerged. In the confusion that followed, many tried to use their powers for good, but many more used them to further their own ends and for years, anarchy reigned. In time, society recovered and in the interest of preserving order, the government established the Meta Reform Initiative, (MRI), a federal agency dedicated to gathering supers, training them, equipping them, and enlisting their aid in quelling the new wave of crime and terrorism, ostensibly to prevent another bright war, but in reality, to keep supers under surveillance and control.

At the moment, there are three super classifications, Villians are supers that use their powers to defy the law for personal profit or philosophy, Heroes are supers that have joined the MRI and use their powers to enforce the law and stop rogue Metas with a minimum of collateral damage, and Vigilantes are supers that have taken the law into their own hands, and dole out their own, often brutal version of justice on the streets.

You are a teenager in the USA's northeastern mega-metropolitan sprawl's slums, and only yesterday, you manifested superpowers of your own. Whether you embrace Villiany, Heroism, Vigilantism, or go Rogue is up to you but remember, the world is a dangerous place, and your survival isn't guaranteed.

Orion Schulz

18

You can hardly believe it. You've Triggered, and now you're one of Them. A Meta, Para, Post-human, no bullshit or beating around the bush, you're a genuine, honest-to-god, bona-fide Super. A Changer to be exact. You dig deep inside for half a minute, and slowly but surely, your arms and legs split into the powerful slippery and spiked tentacles you still haven't gotten quite used to. Another thirty seconds, and they're back to the way they were. Damn, you don't know if you're ever gonna get used to this, but you guess you've got to.

Recently, you've been doing well for yourself. The time you spent with the Slick-Steppers street gang has left you with little over $800 dollars, untraceable, in cash, and by some miracle, a clean criminal record. Whew. At the moment, you're sitting in room 636 of one of Green Rose Tenement's establishments in the Eastside district by the coast, it's got a bedroom, a bathroom, a closet, and best of all, as long as you can pay the $300 dollar rent every four weeks, the Land Lady doesn't ask any questions. You're a super, and the world is your oyster.

What do you do?


Ethan Summers

7

You've Triggered. T-R-I-G-G-E-R-E-D, you say the word, Triggered. TRIGGERED. Triggered. Crazy, but now your words have power, and as long as they're none the wiser, you can influence anyone listening with a sentence at most. Of course, the standard restrictions mostly apply, you can't have someone outright shoot themselves, but you could have them say, hand you their gun and walk away with their hands on their head. Ordering someone to do your bidding without even knowing they've been commanded... It's an incredibly potent power, and you've got a hunch you'll put it to use in the coming days.

Life has not been kind to you. First, you got fired from the job you've worked six years so the manager could promote their bratty little nephew, then, you were kicked out of your own home on a fraudulent drug charge your asshole of a neighbor cooked up, and last, but certainly not least, your childhood sweetheart informed you she'd been seeing other people for months, and had been waiting for an opportunity to let you down easy. Everything you've ever known went up in smoke, and in less than a week, everything you'd spent your entire life building came tumbling down. Come to think of it, that's probably why you Triggered in the first place. You have what's left of your life savings after a foreclosed bank account, $60 dollars, and you're out on the streets without a roof to sleep under.

What do you do?


Jocko Nix

16

5

You're sitting in room 485 of Eastside's Green Rose Tenements, staring at a pile of junk and the chrome bracelet sitting on-top of it. You don't know what came over you, actually you do, you just can't believe it. After months, no, years of being left in the dark, your endless efforts to try and learn everything there is to learn paid dividends and you Triggered. You didn't set out expecting or even trying to Trigger but the concept always lingered in the back of your mind, and sometimes, late at night, you'd imagine what it'd be like. And now it's happened, and you're a Tinker.

Honestly, you'd thought you'd end up a Thinker if anything, but you can't complain, this is even better. Slightly worried someone might walk in, you take a minute to make sure you're the only soul in your three room apartment, and once you're satisfied no-one's eavesdropping, you grit your teeth and slide the bracelet on your wrist. The relief when it doesn't explode is palpable and as you examine the Tinker-tech, it all comes flooding back. Hours in a semi-conscious haze, calculating, analyzing, slowly coming to an understanding, and this is the result.

Unnamed Tinker-tech Bracelet: It's made of a strange metallic plastic, and appears to passively monitor your vitals and display them on a nifty screen. Not the most useful thing in the world, but it doubles as a wrist-watch and proof of concept.

You get the impression if you want to build something more complicated, you're going to need some material, a workshop, and a power source. There's enough scrap from the pillaged guts of your refrigerator to tide your material needs for a few more days, and you figure a common tool-set and bench should be enough for simpler experiments, but you're going to have to get creative for electricity. Maybe the $400 dollars in your wallet could help...

What do you do?


Lilly Sharpe

17

They've always called you tiny, little, bitchy, and they might've been right but now no-one'll ever say it to your face. No, not after you Triggered. You remember what went down in vivid, flawless detail. Almost a decade ago, you joined the Alleyway Reavers, a minor street gang in the Eastside district to survive. At first, it was hard and you had to do a lot of things you aren't proud of, but over the years, you managed to build a connection with the rest of the gang, and eventually, they became your family, and you, theirs. For a while, life was good, as good as it could be for a homeless street thug. It would've stayed that way if it wasn't for the Cargo 290, a much larger, much more organized gang.

Little by little, the Cargo 290 muscled in on the Alleyway Reaver's turf, and bit by bit, they disrupted the black market. The Alleyway Reavers fought them tooth-and-nail under the city's flickering lights, and they put up a good showing, but they were outnumbered, outgunned, and no matter how motivated they were, they didn't stand a chance against the Cargo 290's team of Metas. Eventually, the Cargo 290 started doing hits on crack-houses and abandoned businesses, trying to pin down the Alleyway Reaver's headquarters, and after two months of digging, they found it. The Alleyway Reavers were gunned down by the dozen and for every Cargo 290 thug that went down, three more took their place.

When the night was over, your brothers-and-sisters in crime were dead or scattered to the winds, and an unlucky few, yourself included, were captured. They tied you in a dark room somewhere no-one could hear you scream, and then, they went to work. They demanded you tell them where the rest of your gang was, but you didn't know and even if you did, you wouldn't have told them. They thought you were lying, so they tortured you, and as minutes turned to hours turned to days, something inside you snapped, and broke loose in a fit of vengeful, furious rage. They'd tried to break you, but you didn't give in, and in your deepest darkest hour, your inner strength awakened and in your rage, the pain they inflicted on you was their undoing.

That happened yesterday, you don't have any idea how many goons you tore apart, and you've got nothing to show for it but a new set of scars, a pistol you pinched from a corpse, and little over $600 dollars in cash. You honestly don't know where to go from here. At least a dozen, maybe two, maybe three of their men are dead, and the Cargo 290 will be hunting you, but you don't care, you're ready for them and nothing they do can hurt you anymore than they already have. There's still a few Alleyway Reavers left, maybe you could get them back together and start a new gang. Maybe you could sign up for the MRI, you never really liked them, but they'd protect you, give you a place to sleep, and train and equip you to use your newfound strength. Of course, you could always take things into your own hands, and handle their whole gang yourself.


Jackie Lexis

1

Your last name is Lexis, and as a slum-raised orphan, that's the only thing you know about your real family. The kids on the street always called you Jackie, and Amie did too, and Amie always knew what he was doing, so you did too. Amie's the boss and father figure of near two dozen street urchins just like you, and ever since you could walk, you've been pan-handling for spare change and scavenging for scrap to sell to keep everyone's bellies full. You're good at it, too, the best in the whole Gang. Every time you bring in a nice haul, Amie gives you that smile, the one that says he's proud of you, and that sense of approval, that's what you live for. You're not really a kid anymore and you're starting to wonder and worry about how things are gonna be once you're all grown up. Or even, once the whole Gang's all grown up. Amie's almost thirty, and he's different from when he was when he raised you, but deep down, he's still the same kid.

His thirtieth birthday's in a week, and you wanted to get him something special for the occasion, so you went a bit deeper in the slums than you usually do. You're out of the Northside streets, into Eastside gangster territory, and you've made a mistake. You found a mint-condition antique set of X-Acto knives some rich kid or someone stupid had left in a dumpster, and you knew they'd be the perfect gift for Amie, but, then it got shot. Blown to pieces by a shotgun blast, ripped apart, bent, broken, and ruined. Half a dozen men in black pants and green shirts walked into the alleyway, toting guns, knives, and baseball bats, and when they saw the look on your face, they laughed and for the first time since you were a kid throwing tantrums, you got pissed.

Something deep inside you broke, and running on berserk instinct, you glare at the dumpster and everyone's jaws dropped as a light blue energy wraps around it, shatters it, and levitates the scraps to weld them onto your skin. With a wave of a hand, the bits and pieces of the knife set fuse into a single blade, leap up, and stab into your arm, but it doesn't hurt, and as you realize you can shift it in and out, you begin to put the pieces together. You've Triggered, you're a Meta, and now you can make these bastards pay for ruining Amie's birthday. One of the gangsters panics and shoots you straight in the heart, but your rusty chest-piece deflects it and all they did was chip the paint. The rest are getting ready to brawl and now it's your turn to strike.

What do you do?


Seth Vimes

9

You're a little exasperated, because recently, your life's been a train-wreck. Last week, a Meta Villain tried to strangle you with a telekinetically-controlled length of wire for your wallet and as you suffocated, you screamed for help and the choking stopped. The wire fell to the concrete with a clatter and after staring at you like you were a ghost in the flesh, they ran away faster than you've ever seen someone move. You felt a bit of pressure in the back of your head, and it was giving you a headache, so you willed it to go away and the wire slid up into the air to follow the fleeing Villain. That was a week ago, and after a metric shitload of deep thought on the matter, you've come to the conclusion that you've Triggered as a Trump, and gained the power to cancel out powers.

It's a bit strange, to have the power to deny supers their powers, and the more you think, the more you realize the only way you're putting it to use is if you fight Metas. But how would you do that? Vigilantism in these streets is near-suicidal, and you don't know if you have what it takes to be a Villain. If you went Rogue, there's no way your power could make money, you'd be indistinguishable from an average citizen, not to mention how much trouble you'd have keeping it all under wraps. If nothing else, the MRI would be ecstatic to have someone with your abilities among them, but do you really want to sell-out to the government? Do you even care that you're a super? The bank you had your life savings in has foreclosed without compensation, you've barely got $90 in your wallet, and sooner or later, you've got to pay rent!

What do you do?

You are a Hero, a wandering adventurer of great power. You have four Personal Stats, Martial, Vigor, Cunning, and Charm which display your personal might, and two stats, Wealth and Renown which display the legacy you'll leave behind, your "final score" if you will.

The Stats:

Martial: Your physical prowess; skill at arms, strength, and dexterity.
Vigor: Your overall resilience; resisting poison, wounds, and possession.
Cunning: Your mental prowess; cleverness, education, and sharpness of wit.
Charm: Your charisma; inspiring, convincing, and intimidating others.

Wealth: The treasure you've accumulated over the course of your adventures, it can be spent to acquire followers, equipment, and favors, or hoarded to improve your financial standing.
Renown: The notoriety, good or ill, you've acquired throughout your adventures, it waxes and wanes, eventually fading away, unless you've been immortalized in legend.

As Heroic as you are, you are mortal, and over time, old age will begin to claim you. At first, it is a mere number, a marker of how far you've come, but eventually your stats will decline, eventually culminating in death when you're Vigor reaches a negative number.

On your adventures, assuming you survive you're bound to come across items beyond the mundane and far superior to any other. These items and oftimes blessings are called Boons, and bolster your Personal Stats so long as they are equipped. Boons come in many forms, are incredibly rare, and almost always require an adventure or great sacrifice to obtain.

Over time, you will gather friends and hirelings, Companions and Followers respectively, and they will accompany you on your adventures. Companions have their own Personal Stats and will follow you to hell and back, Followers come in large numbers, don't have Personal Stats, are usually only loyal as long as they're paid, and will generally refuse to accompany you on particularly dangerous quests without some form of extra compensation.

The world is by and large in its Early Iron Age, and at least at first, can be considered equivalent to a Dwarf Fortress's world's Age of Myth. Fearsome monsters prey on civilized men, marauding barbarians ravage the edges of civilization, and countless ruins from a time before time beckon intrepid treasure seekers. It is an Age of Adventure, and as a determined Hero, the world is yours to take.

What is your Name? No Titles, not yet, those will come later.
Which of the four Personal Stats do you want to receive a bonus in?