Nadir (Exodus II)

Nadir (Exodus II) RPG
GM – Blossom

Genre: Sci-fi/Fantasy Adventure

Background:

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The Story:

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Setting:

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Farakzan Clans:

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People to Know:

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Characters:

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Rules:

- Read every post. It keeps us all on the same page and prevents any misunderstandings. Respond to the events and actions in other players’ posts.

- No god-modding; no invincibility or perfection. It’s boring. If your character seems overly-powerful, the GM will ask you to tone it down.

- No controlling other people's characters, unless you have gotten their explicit permission and have contacted the GM to say you've been given the okay.

- Give other players the time to react to your posts before moving action or dialogue on.

- Don’t flood the thread with long conversations. Limit yourself to two or three posts at a time per conversation then wait for other players to post before continuing.

- If you've posted and no one else is on do not panic. That's the magic of forums. It doesn't have to happen overnight. Please be patient and wait rather than simply adding for the sake of adding.

- If you are aware that you’re going to be absent for an extended period of time, please alert the GM and your character may be left to the care of another. If a player is absent with alerting anyone, their character will be NPC’d or killed at the GM’s disrection.

- Avoid one-liner posts or really long posts. Try to have your characters react to stimuli from at least two senses in each post.

- Fights between characters may be unavoidable, but players concerned should work out details via PM so the outcome is amenable to all parties.

- Double check spelling and grammar before posting – it helps improvement and makes posts much more enjoyable to read!

- Please PM Blossom with any concerns or post in the Discussion thread, rather than spamming up the RPG.

- Finally … obey the GM in all things, or there may be smiting!

Profile Template:

Name:
Gender:
Age:

Nation:
Profession:
Weapons:

Appearance:
Brief Background:


NB – if the GM does not approve of any part of your profile then you will be asked to change it.

Name: Ares Pyrrhus

Age: 20

Sex: Male

Nation: Farakza

Clan: Ruene

Profession: Former black ops soldier, has gone rouge since returning.

Weapon(s): Two daggers and six throwing knives

Appearance: Long black hair; dark blue eyes; 5'9" tall; has a very slim, feminine appearance and often gets mistaken for a woman. Has the word Ruene tattooed on the back of his left shoulder.

Background: Ares grew up in an orphanage since his parents were killed during the war. At a young age he showed impressive signs of speed, agility and intelligence, so he was "adopted" by a Farakza special ops agent and trained to be an agent since the age ten. He was one of the leaders during the expedition to the surface, where he butted head with some of the other soldiers (particularly an old Ingolian named Jamar Flax). Since learning of the betrayal in some parts of Farakza's military, he has gone underground (no pun intended) and is currently trying to assassinate the members responsible for the continuation of the war.

Name: Terrance Balenger
Gender: Male
Age: 42

Nation: Farakza (Clan Nedai)
Profession: Archivist/Writer
Weapons: Pen (it is mightier than the sword afterall ), a cane with a hidden rapier inside.

Appearance: Has a tall, slim appearance, with suave, wavy brown hair with a few gray hairs lining it. He is clean shaven, wears a gray suit, and glasses. He also carries a cane with an unusual sword-like grip. He also carries a silver pocket watch given to him by his father.
Brief Background: He was born into a poor family, and was never able to get a proper education. However he loved books, loved them all, he learned how to read books, and even taught himself how to write them. In his early teens he got himself a job at the local library, in order to read the books there. His interest in reading had been taken into notice and the owner of the library privately tutored the young Terrance in the liturgical arts.

In his mid 20s he started to write and publish books, based on and against the war. His writings have earned him a somewhat large amount of money, which he has used to purchase a house and books of many shapes and forms. He also learned fencing and became an adept at the sport, he even converted his cane into one, which he uses for self defense. He now works as an archivist, collecting histories, mythologies, poetry, fictions, anything he can get his hands on. He still continues to write and publish books.

Aeve Morrison

Age: 27

Nation: Ingolian

Profession: Botanical Systems Engineer: Designs and oversees systems for producing fresh food

Appearance: 5’4” athletic build.
Her eyes are violet, the lids tattooed at the lash line to look like she’s wearing thin slanted lines of black and cobalt blue eyeliner.
Mostly-straight medium-length hair is razor-cut in messy layers, top layers dyed burgundy, the under layers are deep brunette.
The tattoos continue in a delicate line of beauty marks down each side of the back of her neck and extending along her shoulders. Her left shoulder bears the tribal tattoo that she was given on the surface, making her a member of that tribe.

Usually wears an olive-green lab coat, her hair pulled up in a neat twist. Underneath the coat her clothes are edgy in dark rich solid colors, silky, and cut close to the body. Standard footwear in either case are knee-length black boots with a three-inch heel. She also still has and treasures the silky, feminine clothes and bangles she was given as a tribal daughter.

As an occasional treat for herself, Aeve indulges in smoking a thin clove or organic pure-tobacco cigarette. Either one is difficult to find so she can't afford to have much of an addiction.

Background: Aeve is by nature independent and reserved, a little bit of a workaholic. Aeve is friendly enough but it takes time for her to warm up to people. She’s been the victim of numerous attempts to fix her up with a nice guy but they all fell through. During the mission to the surface Aeve fought for her life, found a new clan, almost made a marriage of convenience, and unexpectedly fell for Lunan Sameth...who even more unexpectedly didn't run away like most men in her experience had.

She's joined him in returning to Ingolia and has his back, at least as much as one botanist can. As much as she'll be glad to be home where things are familiar she's also heard of mountains and hopes that she and Lunan can return to the surface in peace to investigate them and maybe live there.

Aeve also worries over Imoen, a Frakzan scientist who won her friendship because of their shared love for science and her gentle manner.

Name: Alexia Kiaran
Gender: Female
Age: 23

Nation: Farakza (Ardgall)
Profession: Medic
Weapons: Knife

Appearance: Alexia is tall with a willowy shape, her skin is lightly tanned, and she wears her dark hair tied back in a simple plait most of the time.

Brief Background: She grew up the youngest of her four siblings, and the only girl. Her father was a medic, and her mother a diplomat. She had a very happy, stable and sheltered childhood, and her parents encouraged and supported her as she trained to become a medic. It was a dream that she had, and the peaceful Ardgall approach influenced the decision, as she wanted to help the injured and have a positive role in the war.

She had just left training and started working in the warzones when she was chosen for the mission to the surface. Her parents encouraged her to take the opportunity to see the surface. It was not the adventure she had expected, and when the other medic was killed, Alexia found herself struggling under the burden of the sudden responsibility. She took the deaths of the other adventurers badly, especially Tony, a friend and fellow Ardgall tribesman, hating that she failed to save them. She also fell in love with Derek Aedrin, a scientist from Ingol.

She has returned underground, and has been working in secret to spread the news about the corruption of both Ingol’s and Farakza’s leaders.

Name: Milandro Spitaen
Gender: male
Age: between 25-30

Nation: Farakza- Ruene Clan
Profession: former pack leader
Weapons: war mallet and a combat knife

Appearance: green hair from the first Exodus has been washed out... blue burn marks on the right side of his body remain... strapping physique(6'4 240 lbs)... wears hooded robes now to hide his distinguished mug...
Brief Background: went into hiding after being set up yet again... he comes out of the shadows just long enough to kill a pawn and make the Ingolian and Farakzan politicians quiver... he leaves notes threatening General Sameth and Farakzan tribe leaders alike... he's coming...

Imoen Arkady

Gender: Female
Age: 24
Nation: Farakza; Clan Erira
Profession: Scientist, specialising in geology and botany

Appearance: Standing just over five feet, Imoen is very small and slight but has a calm, assured presence. She has long, curling dark hair that she keeps twisted up in a sensible and practical knot at the base of her neck, and wide, cornflower blue eyes – occasionally behind reading glasses. Her skin is very fair, and she generally wears practical, easy-to-move in clothes.

A bright and vivacious girl, Imoen delights in her studies and even more in seeing the objects of them first hand. She is a kind, warm person to almost everyone, and to very close friends she is playful and teasing. Before the surface expedition she bore a deep seated resentment, even hatred, of the Ingolians, as both her father and older brother were killed fighting in the war. Her younger brother is still a soldier fighting, and Imoen doesn’t know if he’s dead or alive. She is intensely against the war, an unusual trait for one of her Clan, and now more than ever determined to see it end.

Background: The middle of three children, Imoen’s mother died in childbirth and her father was usually away fighting so she grew up escaping into books. With a sharp, eager mind Imoen quickly rose to the very top of her class at school and once at university her ability and intelligence attracted the attention of one of the most prestigious scientists in Farakza, a member of Clan Calaya, and after she graduated he took her on as his apprentice. At his death he left her his wealth and resources, leaving her once of the most respected scientists in Farakza.

Because of this she was chosen for the surface expedition six months ago. While sceptical of any kind of truce between the two nations, she surprised herself by overcoming her prejudices towards the Ingolians. Any hope of permanent peace was quickly dashed, however, when she was brutally attacked by an assassin it soon became clear had been sent from below ground, and when they came across an old comrade of her brother’s who had discovered shocking information about their governments. He paid for his discovery with his life, and the information turned the rest of the expedition into fugitives.

Imoen has returned underground to Farakza, where she is currently in hiding and attempting to find out where her younger brother is stationed.



Lunan Sameth

Gender: Male
Age: 28
Nation: Ingolia
Profession: Ex-Elite soldier

Appearance: Lunan stands at 6’3”, is broad shouldered and clearly strong, his body corded with lean muscle. He has a hard, chiselled face that rarely smiles. His pale blond hair is on the longish side, falling forward into his blue eyes. Now a fugitive, he has abandoned the light blue and silver livery of Ingolia in favour of a dark grey shirt and black trousers and boots beneath a long trenchcoat.

Calm and rational, Lunan is equally able to accept orders and take command. He is intelligent, with a strong grasp of strategy and politics, and able to keep a cool head in a crisis. He has occasionally been accused of ‘overthinking’, but he has the respect of the soldiers he commanded who know he simply likes to be prepared and cover all bases. To those he is very close to he also has a more gentle, kinder side.

Background: The youngest of four brothers born to a prestigious general of Ingolia, Lunan’s entire childhood and upbringing has been one of war and hatred. At ten he passed the tests that would ensure his training as one of the most elite soldiers in the Ingolian army, which finished when he was eighteen. Lunan was chosen for the surface mission because of his superior fighting skills and known trustworthiness. He had misgivings, but accepted his orders nonetheless.

During the mission however, he found himself questioning what he had been taught; prejudices were able to be overcome when faced with obstacles such as stalker assassins, suspicious nomads and giant carnivorous sand clams. Then they came into contact with a fugitive Farakzan who held information that shattered Lunan’s world – his father, among others, had been trading information for years to prolong the war. Stunned and angered, he leaned heavily on the support of Aeve Morrison, a botanist with whom he had fallen in love during their time above ground.

He swore to return to Ingol and put a stop to his father’s treachery. This precipitated a fight with one of his soldiers, Jamar Flax, who then deliberately impaled himself upon Lunan’s sword. That still haunts Lunan as he seeks a way to bring to an end to the war.

Name: Abraham “Hammer” McKenzie
Gender: Male
Age: 48
Nation: Ingolian
Profession: Cook & Cannonfodder, as he likes to describe it.

Weapons: Proficient with nearly all kinds of military equipment, due to years and years of constant exercise. When forced into close quarter combat, he manages to make good use of and blunt object he is carrying. Weapons of choice is a short sledgehammer, which earned him the nickname “Hammer”.

Appearance: 48 years old, battle hardened, scarred, bearded, but above all else, large. Nearly 6”9, weighing well over 400 pounds, Abe is a giant of a man. The image is further reinforced by his dislike of shaving, and his habit to cut his hair by himself (most likely with kitchen utensils). He has several large scars across his body, but one that stands out; it originates at the base of his neck, and runs all the way along his spine. Finally, he has a shield shaped tattoo on his left shoulder.

Brief Background: Born and raised as the son of a minor Ingolian Captain, Abe’s life has been a simple one; do what is asked of you, keep your mouth shut, and you will a relatively easy life. Cross your old man, and get the belt. Life did not change much when he joined the military at the age of sixteen.

Abe was often referred to as the ‘gentle giant’, but those who saw him on the battlefield had a more fitting name for him; ‘Hammer’. Despite his prestige, he simply lacked the drive to make it up the ranks; he did not hate his opponents enough. In fact, he came to respect the Farakzans, much to the dislike of his commanding officers.

Abe’s life has been a simple one; sleep, fight, cook when he is not fighting or sleeping. Yet with recent changes, his life may just take a turn, for the better or the worse.

Name: Ruka

Gender: female

Age: unknown perhaps 25 to thirty years of age

Nation: Farakza clan Veyka

Profession: weapon/ war experiment (Veyka call her kind aggressors)

Weapons: two knifes that are due wielded

Appearance: Ruka’s hair is a Smokey black colour and is often loose and around her shoulders or in disarray and her eyes are pale blue. She has tattoos by her eyes that are tribal looking in nature. She stands 5, 8 in height and wears mostly black clothing with a red scarf worn about her throat.

Brief Background: Ruka was selected and raised by the Veyka warring class as an aggressor using psychological methods they have turned her into a weapon. However the Veyka are starting to recognise the aggressors as dysfunctional and are starting to phase out those that are showing signs of mental illnesses or recognising they aren’t happy with the path made for them. Ruka being one of those recognising what she does is not right continues to play the part of the aggressor frightened for her life and unwilling to die for what she believes.

Name: Raif Montague Smythe
Gender: Male
Age: 33
Nation: Ingolia
Profession: Soldier, sergeant (second grade) in the Ingolian Armed Forces, 5th special service regiment..

Appearance:
Albino, 6'6" with a hard, angular face, red eyes, almost white, porelain skin, a svelte, well-muscled build, strong legs, a trim waist and strong, broad shoulders. His back is a mess of whip scars and his nose has been broken more than once. Has a soldier's walk, speaks with a strong, clipped Ingolian accent. Shoulder length, sheer, colourless hair tied back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. Has a tattoo of a serpent wreathed in flames coiled about his right shoulder and arm. Carries a small silver time-piece.

Usually wears anunadorned steel breast-plate over his uniform of a deep blue surcoat with his rank markings on the shoulders and two rows of buttons down the front, a grey woolen overcoat, grey trousers, black leather gloves, belt and polished boots of black leather. The buttons on the surcoat and the buckles on the boots and belt are of polished, grey metal. Has two metal pins depicting the spider symbol of his regiment pinned to the collar of his surcoat. Like the rest of his regiment, he conceals his features with a gas mask of black leather. It covers his whole head and is featureless save for the crystal lenses and the filter.

Weapons: Repeater crossbow, Ingolian military sabre, curved, triangular shield, a small combat knife.

Brief Background:
Quick, quiet and superstitious, Smythe is the first born sona trading family from Hoiekh, a town on the Eastern fringe of Ingolia. Born hale and healthy despite his albinism, he was blessed with above average night vision, even among a nation of tunnel dwellers. A bright lad, he made friends slowly and never really took to education beyond basic reading and writing, which more or less killed his mother's dream of him following her into the family business. Knowing the disadvantage of being male in the female-dominated society of Ingolia and that he hadn't a hope in hell of making it as a merchant, he did what any other right thinking Ingolian would haver done: joined the army. He shipped out the day he joined at thirteen and hasn't heard a thing of his parents and three siblings since beyond scattered correspondence.

Whatever about leaving his family, the army was a sharp slap in the face for Smythe. If the eyes looking to pair him off with some promising lady were insistent at home, they more than doubled once he'd left. While men made up well over half of the population, it was rare that they would hold a position of power. Throughout his training, he never could shake the feeling that the commanders viewed him as some kind of rare delicacy they wanted to try.Three such officers, barely into womanhood themselves, seemed to make it their mission to have him. He knew they were trying to get him alone, and whatever about those that enjoyed such things, he wanted none of it. It all came to a head on the day he, at fourteen, was due to ship to a line unit. The three drugged his food, cornered him and attempted to force themselves on him.

According to the greying magistrate he was brought before the following morning it was the most berserk she'd ever seen a boy go; physically crippling one of the women and badly wounding the other two. While it was ruled, after a fashion, that he'd acted in self-defence, the crippled girl's mother was a woman of considerable influence and wanted him hung at the earliest opportunity. The instructors at the barracks objected, stating that Harper's talents were better employed on the battlefield than in a noose. The magistrate reluctantly agreed, sentencing Harper to one hundred lashes and immediate transfer to the most remote front line outift available. Smythe's been terrified of women ever since.

Assigned to the 206th Infantry regiment of the Northern Guard, he counted himself somewhat blessed and flung himself into combat after combat. Realising that such attention tended to be detrimental to his health, he was careful to stay out of sight and out mind of the upper echelons, becoming a gifted hand-to-hand fighter, marksman and masterful student of the sword with remarkably little said on the matter. Due to this policy of anonymity, his promotion to corporal took ten years and prompted his transfer to the 5th SSR, and his promotion to sergeant (second grade) another ten, coinciding with his receipt of the twenty-year service medal. Now, with the Ingolian Government in an unprecedented state, Smythe and his comrades in the 5th SSR are engaged in southern Fazraka along with another two regiments, fighting tooth and nail for the crossroads city of Bachaud.

Name: Jimmy Blue
Gender: Male
Age: 18

Nation: Farakzan, Erira
Profession: foot soldier, anything but elite
Weapons: baton (blunt force weapons), multi-use army knife

Appearance: Jimmy wears fatigues at all times, not just on duty. Still trying to get buff for the sake of being buff (weightlifter), he has blue eyes and military cropped hair.

Brief Background: Jimmy was born hating Ingolians, it’s just in his blood. Raised in a military family, he is the youngest of three brothers. Both brothers have received commendations for their work in brutal attacks on Ingol, where many Ingolian lives were lost. Jimmy dreams of becoming like his brothers, his greatest goal to rack up more Ingol kills than both. Hardheaded, it is unlikely he will ever waver from his upbringing.

Name: Brock Issen
Gender: male
Age: 28
Nation: Ingol

Profession: blacksmith

Weapons: A custom greatsword, which is actually three weapons in one. The guard and hilt are a warhammer with a short chain hanging from the end, allowing it to be used as a flail, while the double-edged blade is made of two longswords (one slightly longer than the other) placed back to back with their grips locked into two holes in the head of the hammer. Brock isn't extremely proficient with any configuration of the three, but he manages as best he can.

Appearance: Brock stands 6'6" tall with a dense, heavily-muscled frame. He has short black hair, deep brown eyes, the beginnings of a beard in his chin area, and dark tanned skin due to years spent in front of a hot forge. He typically wears baggy black trousers and a sleeveless grey tunic, covered with a blacksmith’s apron made of heavy tanned leather, along with thick leather gloves and heavy boots with steel caps on the toe and heel. When he goes outside of town, he usually carries a large crate strapped to his back, loaded with provisions, tools, and wares.

Brief Background: Brock was born the son of a blacksmith in a village where nearly every family had a man fighting in the war. His parents were opposed to the war effort, but knew what trouble would ensue if they voiced their opinion on the matter, so they show their "support" by living the simple life of blacksmiths, reluctantly making weapons and equipment for the conflict. Over the years, Brock has grown to be a prominent member of his community. He is easily the strongest man in his village and the local children often tell tall tales about him as if he is some kind of folklore legend, but he's actually quite humble. On an average day, he can usually be found in front of his forge, hammering at red hot steel, or with a pickaxe in his hand, helping expand the village.

Name: Moise Goodman

Gender: Male

Age: 23

Nation:Ingol

Profession:Former Military Weapons Specialist

Weapons: None (We'll what the game gives him)

Appearance: Long and very dirty hair that might have been a lighter shade at one point in time, though it appears to be black. Green eyes. Bushy beard over a gaunt face. Deathly skinny. Wears the dirty cloth sack garment which prisoners are made to wear. No shoes.

Brief Background: Moise had been taught from a very young age how to properly handle a gun. After all, his father was the Senior Weapons Specialist. It was no great wonder that Moise should follow in his father's steps and enlist as soon as he was old enough. He rose easily through the ranks and quickly made a name for himself, his skill with a gun becoming something of a small legend among the soldiers. Soon enough Moise was able to put in for a job working with his father and thus became the Junior Weapons Specialist. Most of the time he would accompany various groups of soldiers and ensure the success of missions. When he wasn't in the field, he would be helping his father maintain the weapons used by the military. No one knows what quite went wrong with the bright young soldier, but one day he snapped. His whole squad turned up dead and he was to blame. Moise was decommissioned and sentenced to life in prison. That was two years ago.

Reserved

Name- Aurich "Ironhide" Helmden (now goes by the alias "Zed.")

Sex- Male

Age- 65

Nation- Farakzan

Profession- Runs a book store as a front, deals in black market information and fugitive protection out the back.

Weapons- two, steel plated, six shot revolvers

Appearance- stands about 6'0" 150 lbs, his once intimidating frame has shrunk down to little more than saggy skin and bones over the years. he has a strong skull structure which serves to provide him with sharp features due to him being underweight. Though his his olive skin is weathered and wrinkly, his dark green eyes still shine bright with an intelligent vitality. Even though he's getting on in years, he has a full head of wily gray hair that runs down to his shoulders. He usually dresses in nondescript travelling robes when going on journeys or to meet with informants, and dons unremarkable, though polished, attire during business hours at the shop. All his outfits have tall collars, which he uses to hide a long scar that runs across the length of his throat, and wrists bear silver peice sized scars from large nails used to crucify him. His movements and mannerisms are odd and erratic, his attention span short, and he has an unpredictable temper, often giving the impression of senility. He also has a disturbing habit of staring at people (especially women's... assets.) for long periods of time.

Brief background- There is hardly a Farakzan soldier that hasn't heard the awe-inspiring tale of Aurich Ironhide; The elite, decorated war hero who was captured and suffered 2 months of torture under Ingolian pain specialists without spilling a single word of the secrets that had been entrusted to him. After 2 months of unimaginable agony, his Ingolian captors slit his throat and crucified him where his body would be easily found in the neutral territories, spreading word about how they had tortured and killed one of Farakzans greatest soldiers. Only he didn't die. Through sheer will alone, the mighty Aurich kept himself alive, and was able to give the coordinates of the enemy torture facility, along with his harrowing story, to Farakzan troops. After being told that his prospects for survival were slim, Aurich ultimately disappeared from Farakzan medical facilities, presumably back over enemy lines, to kill as many Ingolians as he could in the short time he had left. Or so the legend is told. The truth however...

Citizens,

Unfortunately it this government's sad duty to inform you that expedition to explore the surface world launched by both nations several weeks ago has failed. Though the temporary truce was set up for the purpose of this expedition in all hope that it would lead to a permanent armistice, most devastatingly we were betrayed and some of our own people have turned traitor.

Several members of the expedition themselves were killed in the course of duty, and will be given official commendations to honour their memory. Soldiers sent to capture the traitors were also cruelly and callously murdered. They, too, will be remembered with honour and awarded medals for their service.

The fugitives have since, reports tell us, returned below ground, no doubt meaning to further terrorise our great nation. All force necessary will be used to bring them to justice. They are armed and dangerous, and we would beg of all citizens to immediately report any sightings of them. Do not approach them. When caught they will be tried for treason and murder and sentenced accordingly.

A list of the fugitives and their descriptions follows. Please be on full alert, and take safety measures as recommended at the end of this announcement. Thank you.

~ from the announcement released by officials of both nations following the failure of the surface expedition six months ago.



The outposts of the two nations were lonely, desolate places. Beyond the cities and outer settlements, the painstakingly carved roadways and cultivated rivers, the underground world became hostile. There were caverns that could only be reached by climbing through ancient gas vents, or negotiating treacherous pits and marshes that would eagerly swallow the unwary. Beasts roamed, swollen insectile creatures with jaws that dripped with venom and were strong enough to shear off limbs.

This was a kind of no-man’s land, mostly untroubled by the war between Farakza and Ingol. Those that came here were the damaged, exiled or explorers. Those that did not belong in society, or sought to live outside its boundaries. The few that had managed to settle kept themselves to themselves and paid little attention to strangers; an attitude that suited those named as fugitives by both nations.

In one cavern was the small town of Cathay, a crude and empty place. Luminous fungi was planted where possible, but had not grown big and so, since lamp oil was scare, the place was always dark. Small, severe buildings hunkered unevenly together around small, twisting pathways. It was a town that ran on little more than hope. Rain was unending. Sometimes it fell in a fine mist, sometimes a lashing spray, but was nevertheless a constant; there were two large lakes on either side of the town, and more sprawling throughout the cavern. Their surface waters evaporated with the heat of the magma flows below, condensed on the cooler cavern roof hundreds of feet above and returned to lake in droplets. It was what had allowed the fungi to grow to the size they had, given the poor quality of the soil.

On the day Imoen found herself in Cathay the rain came in a heavy downpour, further obscuring vision already limited by the darkness. It was freezing cold, the cavern near enough to the surface to be far from the warmth at the core of the planet yet deep enough that the hot air from outside could not penetrate.

It was a soulless, terrible place, but hidden away from prying eyes.

In a rented upper room of one of the houses, Imoen waited. The walls were bare stone, her sodden pack set in one corner next to the single lantern she had brought. She wore cloak coated with beeswax, but it was not the cold that caused her to shiver.

It had been six months since she had returned to her home from the expedition mounted by both nations to explore the surface. Six months since her brother’s old comrade had divulged a shocking and terrifying truth; that the brief truce formed was a sham, and respect member of both the Ingolian and Farakzan governments had been trading information for years to deliberately prolong the war. That they had never been intended to come back alive. Six months since she had been brutally attacked by an assassin sent to dispatch of them all. She had been lucky, her attacker interrupted, though she still bore the scar on her back. Many of her friends had not survived.

Absently she traced the swirling pattern of the tattoo on her wrist, the symbol that marked her as a member of the nomadic Aiyehma, the tribe they had encountered above ground. It was also a reminder of why she was here; looking at it, she saw the world above their heads, the faces of the friends she had made, the people they had left on the surface and those who hadn’t made it back at all.

Six months. In that time, she and the others that had returned alive had gone their separate ways. While they all held a common goal and purpose, they each their own individual agendas to pursue. Through codes and hiding places, they had remained in touch.

They had arranged all of them to meet today, in Cathay, for the first time since they had returned.

Not, Imoen reflected, that all of them needed to. She knew what some her erstwhile companions had been doing: executing petty attacks on pawns and underlings, some successful others not; making threats both public and secret. They were already branded fugitives and traitors, ordered to be killed on sight by soldiers. The aggressive tactics by some of them simply further panicked an already frightened and angered public. Each nation had respectively blamed the other for the failure of the truce, and the populace were calling for an increase in the budget for their armies. Calling for revenge. War once again raged between Farakza and Ingol.

Yet rumours of what had truly happened above ground were also circulating, though they did little to break such a tide in favour of war. Imoen herself had managed to contact a few of her former colleagues and persuade them of the truth - though, equally, others had point blank refused to speak with her and even threatened to turn her in if she did not disappear quickly.

Over the last few months, however, Imoen’s main agenda had been to discover where her younger brother was stationed. Having already lost her father and elder brother to the war, she refused to let Joran die needlessly.

She had a letter, salvaged from her desk drawer before her laboratory was cruelly burnt to the ground by those who believed her a traitor, from the Dean of her University. It guaranteed Joran an honourable discharge from the army to make use of his talent and intelligence in higher education. If only she could find him. But the military had orders to capture and execute her, and the few comrades of her brother’s that she knew were not on the front lines had ignored the desperate messages she had sent.

She hoped the others were faring better in the tasks they had set themselves. She would find out soon enough, she supposed. Surely they could not be long now.

Spoiler:

Jimmy pushed the weight up for the final time that morning, setting it on its stand with a louder than necessary clunk. He sat up, rolled his neck, and let out an audible breath that spoke his smug sense of satisfaction that came with every workout. He stood, looking at his arms and flexing his sorry excuse for muscles, grinning at the misperception that his biceps were much bigger than reality allowed them to be.

“Little runt, my a**.” He’d show them, win more awards than both his brothers put together. First, he’d have to prove himself though. As a lowly guard, he didn’t really have much chance to kill the good-for-nothing Ingols, but he would get to that elite force. “Just watch.”

He crossed his arms and stood staring at the wall, covered with articles of mass destruction and his own ideas for self-glory. He paused on the press release from the failed surface expedition. He put a hand to his chin and studied the words. That’s it! he thought, just capture and kill a few of these wanted criminals, and I’m in! I’ll get whatever regiment I want. Front lines, dozens of dead Ingols, and more commendations than my brothers could could imagine. He soaked in the descriptions. Committing them to memory, he was sure he could recognize any if he came across them.

He’d heard some rumors, that it wasn’t all it was said to be. Bulls*** wanna-be pacifist wussies tried to claim it was all just a set-up. He didn’t know what those fugitives did up there, and frankly, he didn’t care. Bringing back a few heads would get him what he wanted.

He scooped up his bat, throwing it across his shoulder. He looked just as he always did, dressed in fatigues and ready for duty, he crossed to leave, taking care to let neither of his brothers guess his ‘ingenious’ plan. Jimmy scoffed, shaking his head. They would never guess he was about to become the famous Jimmy Blue, who captured and killed the expedition fugitives single-handedly.

I forgot how much I hate this hell-hole. Just as the thought came to mind, Derek checked his watch. 14:36 and 29 seconds. Six minutes off the mark today. That thought had crossed his mind every day near the same time for the past six months. He had been tempted to plot a frequency chart and then a graph of the results from month to month. It would almost be more effective than what he was trying to do.

He walked through the dark, dingy passages toward the town of Cathay. Not pleasant, but the memories of life above the surface made it not much different from the rest of this place. Not a day went by when he didn't wish he had elected to stay above and live as a hermit with Alexia for the rest of his life, looking at the stars and planets above.

Alexia... Always he worried about her. Always time was in the way. Too much time between their secret visits, never enough time during the visits. They had tried to make up for that by making their time together as beautiful as they could. But still the time was always too short. Their nations needed their presence to help stop this stupid charade.

Derek had met with only minor success. The scientific community that he associated with was sympathetic to his needs. His colleagues told their colleagues, and it seemed for a while, he might have had something going. Alas, though nearly all the scientists acknowledged that an end to the war and cooperation with the Farakzans would be mutualy beneficial...all felt there was nothing they could do, even united.

So, Derek had been pretty much helpless for the last month, trying to contact what very sparse other friends and family he had. He had gotten everything from shock to 'godspeed but no I won't help you', to death threats.

The coded message he had gotten gave him some hope. It was either from Imoen or Lunan, and it brought him to this place. He entered Cathay, holding a guitar case in his left hand that held his bow and quiver. He pushed his glasses up on his nose as he walked, looking for the inn that would serve as their meeting place.

Ares leaned against the wall of the inn, tugging his black cloak around him to stay dry. The air was cool and Cathay only had minumal lighting. This, he throught, this is where I belong. The night sky above ground was amazing, that is undeniable, but down here is his home.

No, that wasn't quite true. This place isn't his home, Ruene is his home. That is where he belonged, but instead he was branded a traitor. The bastards. Thankfully, his fellor spec. ops. soldiers know how loyal he is to Ruene, plus in this profession, you know not to believe everything you hear. They would give him the coordinates of people he had evidence against, and he took them out. There would never be an end to the pawns, but all it would take to turn things sour in this backroom deal, was for one side to make a mistake. Disrupt their communications and the chances of that happening go through the roof.

If only he could find some reliable info on Kit Sterran's location, he could end this fake war. Or possible get a meeting with Madam Hague.... no these were different plans for a different day. For now, disrupting communication was the best alternate for breaking up his enemies.

Slowly coming back to reality, Ares watched as a few people passed by and then someone familiar began heading his way. The glasses were a dead giveaway, it was the Ingolian scientist Derek. Look up at the approaching ally, Ares gave him a small grin and waved.

There was something about the dark. Some people found it creepy but not Smythe, for him it was almost soothing; a blanket that wrapped itself around him and hid him from his enemies. Reaching out slowly, he clamped his hands over the guard's mouth and drove his knife between vertebrae, severing the nerves. There was a rush of breath and the man crumpled. Leon smiled behind his gas mask, dragging the man back into the deeper shadows.

One more down.

Around him, the other members of his unit swept in, silencing sentry after sentry. They'd been here two months now, sowing terror, while the main forces fought for the streets. Every strong-point nullified was one step closer to a better world. It sounded as lame now as when he'd first heard it, but it was something. There didn't seem to be much of it around any more. Crossing the space to the building quietly, he sheathed his knife, hugging the shadows by the door while the lenses of the gas mask attenuated the surrounding dark through some witchery he'd never fathomed. A moment, then Baurus fell in at the other side of the door, nodding behind his mask. All across the building others did the same. Slipping his sword arm out of the shield strap, he readied the sword, listening. Inside was business as usual, footsteps and voices coming and going. After ten years of this he didn't need a face or a voice to name his comrades, and it never ceased to amaze him.

One soft tap. Baurus caught his eye, nodding imperceptibly. He flexed his fingers around the sword's grip as he and Baurus jammed the lumpy explosives over the edges of the door, attaching the fuses. Two Taps. Turning away, he lit the fuses on his side, he heard Baurus do the same. He felt a momentary pang of worry. He had no idea how they made this junk, but it only worked half the time. He hoped this was the good half. Three, two, one. Whirling back from the door, he covered his eyes and ears as a chorus of bangs and flashes pierced the night, then whirled back through the shattered doorframe, lashing out with his shield at the first body in range. The shield hit the Farakzan in the jaw, staggering him, and he screamed briefly before Harper ran him through with the sword, ducking beneath another blow.

Suddenly the building was a hive of activity, voices crying out in alarm. He spun, quick, precise strikes, crippling sword arms, stopping hearts, slight strokes that bled out in minutes. The room cleared, he rapped his sword off his shield three times, the sound ringing clearly in the stirred, gore-stained air. Soon another line of soldiers filed in behind him, and he saluted the officer quickly, the better to be out of the way quickly.

There was an unusual push for this town for some reason, beyond the usual. Command wanted it taken and that right soon. He wondered about that, hacking gracefully and parrying strikes from more soldiers. If they believed one of the traitors from the surface expedition could be passing through... It was a lot of effort, but he wouldn't have put it past them. Smythe shook his head, smiling viciously at the look of terror in the eyes of his opponent. Those traitors and their waste of time crusade weren't his problem, and all things going well, they never would be.

Brock stepped down from the train. This far from Larec, the stations rarely had platforms, just a deck of rotting planks, that only slightly shortened the mammoth step required to board or disembark the passenger cars. Brock leapt down, his boots landing on the old wood with a heavy thump. He was the only one to depart here, in this small rural corner of Ingol, but others were waiting to board, some he recognized.

It was always this way; more men boarding than leaving. Sometimes he wondered if this was the only reason the train came here; to pick up men for the war -- men who rarely returned. They ride the rails straight into Larec, straight to the army recruitment offices, and all we get back are lettters, he thought, frowning as he watched the men hug their wives and children. And for what?

One of the kids ran up to him. Timmy, he recognized him from the village. "Hey, Mr. I," the kid said, smiling form ear to ear. Others soon joined him; children always moved in packs. "My daddy's gettin' on the train, Mr. I. Ain't that neat? He's gonna fight and kill some Faraks." The boy said, pretending to shoot an imaginary gun.

"Umm... sure," Brock said, shouldering his crate, lightened by a day spent selling his wares in Larec. "Your daddy's a good man. Godspeed to him and I hope he makes it back." He nodded politely and began to walk away. The war wasn't his favorite topic of discussion, but standing there, by the train, it was all anyone was going to talk about.

But the kids followed him, like they always did. "When're you gonna go, Mr. I?" one of Timmy's friends asked.

"Yeah," another one said. "You keep gettin' on the train every week, but you keep comin' back. Are ya scared?"

One of the other kids shoved him for that comment. "Mr. I ain't scared o' nobody, 'specially not no Farak scum," then turned to Brock and said, "I bet you'd bust 'em up real good if you was fightin' in the war."

Another kid cut in: "Yeah, he'd 'wup some Farak a**."

The kids began to laugh, but Brock wasn't laughing one bit. "Don't say that. That's not a nice word," he said solemnly. "And it's Farakzan, not 'Farak'. You should have enough respect for your enemy to at least acknowledge their name properly." The children looked at one another curiously. Respect a Farakzan? What is he talking about? "Ya'll take care now," he said, waving to them as he picked up his pace, trying to leave his tiny entourage behind. "I gotta get back to the shop."

It was the same thing every week: he took the train into town to sell his wares and had to deal with this when he got back. 'Why don't you fight in the war?' 'What kinda man are you if you ain't fightin' in the war?' 'How many dirty Faraks have you killed today? Not enough, I bet.' It was the same crap all the time.

It was that message... the one about the expedition. It had gotten them all riled up. 'Blame it on the Farakzans' was their answer for everything. To Brock, that message was a beacon of hope. So what if the expedition had failed; at least they had tried to work together. To him, that actually meant something. "I mean, why not try again? We been shootin' and stabbin' each other for centuries and where has it gotten us? Nowhere."

But he knew that kind of sound logic was too much to ask. Not until people woke up and stopped believing everything they hear. "I just hope the rumors are true," he muttered as he stepped inside his small shop.

Drip...drip...droop... The pattern had remained the same for nearly 840. The noise conversed gently with its own echo off the stone walls of the dingy, wet and dark cell that had served as Moise's "home" for the past two years. The steady sound of those drops of water had been the only thing that had kept him relatively sane...but he barely even knew the meaning of the word anymore. Nothing made sense. It had all changed. Everything changed.

Two years prior, Moise had been one of the brightest young soldiers in the Ingolian military and second only to his own father when it came to handling a firearm. Farakza had been the enemy, there was no question about that. Yet things changed. Moise had stumbled across...something. Something the military hadn't wanted to let go of...something that could have ended the war. They found out that he knew...then there was prison and Moise's entire squad was dead. His name was like a poison among the citizens of Ingol. He had been cursed and renounced by his own father.

Moise had heard the guards idly talk of the surface expedition, and for a while it had been a glimmering light of hope for him. Then he heard about the so-called failure, how the men and women of the expedition had turned traitor to both nations. It didn't add up even from the beginning. The rumors followed soon...rumors they had found life on the surface, rumors that the nations had been purposely prolonging the war. When Moise heard that the people from the surface expedition had been branded as fugitives, his last glimmer of hope died.

A tremendous crash shook Moise from his reverie and his eyes burned as bright light seared his retinas. "Here's your food, ya bastard." The tray of moldy bread and disease ridden water clattered to the ground at Moise's feet. He hadn't eaten in three days...he couldn't bring himself to do it anymore. As the guard carried his light away and darkness enveloped him once more, Moise closed his eyes and resigned himself to the steady drop of water.

Somewhere between the stately caverns of Ingol and the outpost of Cathay a figure bent nearly double scuffled along a passage that was little more than a crack in the massive walls of stone. Each time the path diverged the small, weak light the figure carried would drift this way and that before both the light and the figure moved on.

As the shinestone waned the woman moved faster. Yet at the next choice of tunnels the light seemed to brighten for its final moment before it plunged everything into heavy blackness.

There was a thoughtful silence.

“Perfect.” Aeve said dryly.

***

When the expedition had first returned from the surface Aeve had worried about what they needed to do. Her fears at first seemed unfounded. Her parents welcomed Lunan even though they disbelievingly brushed aside the news of the long-standing treachery that made the war a never ending one.

Aeve was almost relieved they didn’t believe her. Maybe if they didn’t believe her it wouldn’t be happening. Maybe nobody would get hurt.

It was Lunan who wouldn’t let her fall into that comfortable denial and at first she almost hated him for it. They had gotten into their first shouting match before Aeve burst into tears, mortified for doing so. She knew Lunan was right. He had to confront his father.

Aeve went back to the lab and to work when Lunan left after she made him promise to be careful and promise to come back soon. As soon as she was back in the familiar confines of her workspace with her plants and her notes Aeve once again felt like everything might be okay.

She saw Derek often at their shared lab space in the University and though they hadn’t gotten along well on the surface they were compatriots now. Aeve knew he slipped off to somehow meet Alexia as often as he could. She had to cover for him a few times when others asked where he’d gone. In return she asked him to see if Alexia could confirm that Imoen was all right.

There were only two return messages from Imoen before her lab was burned and she vanished.

When the announcement was released by the government naming Aeve and the others from the expedition as terrorists she was arrested and subjected to the longest four hours of her life as they questioned her. She insisted on what she knew was true and was released to her parents' custody.

At first Aeve thought her release was because they believed her. But when she found she was being watched she knew it was so that she might lead the authorities to the other expedition members.

***

Flick!

The lighter illuminated the turning for a moment and Aeve placed her fingers on a carving in the rock before she let the tiny flame die. She turned to the right and moved into that tunnel, pausing for a moment and reaching into her pocket.

Damn, it was hot here. She had been told that there was magma somewhere below this area of the tunnels and she believed it.

Her fingers were sure from habit and she reached out a clove cigarette, planting it between her lips and lighting it, ignoring the dazzle to her eyes and the greenish afterimages of flame against the velvet black as she thankfully sucked in the spicy smoke.

The tiny ember seemed to guide her way as Aeve moved on.

***

It had been two weeks ago that she’d gotten Derek’s terse message when she was at the lab. It simply read Get out now.

Aeve didn’t question it. She grabbed her purse and left, not even bothering to turn the lights out. When she tried to return to her parents’ house they turned her away, explaining that the police had been there already and were likely to come back.

She joined Lunan in a hiding place they had prearranged. They were living in that secret cramped space, trying to decide what to do next, when Lunan discovered the coded message when he ventured out for supplies, hidden in plain sight coded into an advertisement.

She and Lunan agreed to come to Cathay separately. He hated letting her go alone. She hated that he might go back and try to convince his father again. This time instead of shouting they clung tight to each other as though it was their last night together.

***

The grating was old but the access panel gave way to Aeve’s determined kicking, falling with a squeal and a dull crash. She leaned against the wall, tossing her extinguished clove cigarette behind her into the tunnel and listening for any sound of pursuit.

There was only the sound of water. It trickled everywhere, disappearing into the tunnel where it most likely dried before long in the heat. A few sickly luminous fungi grew near the tunnel, seeming to suck in as much light as they gave.

When there was nothing to alarm her, Aeve moved out into where there was some ambient light even if all it did was paint the caverns in deep gray tones. Only the sound of rain greeted her and she paced forward into it as though through a curtain to a much wetter world.

Ahead she dimly saw an haphazard collection of uninspiring squarish structures. Aeve headed for them hoping that the message had been right and that Imoen would be there.

Rank-smelling water quickly soaked her hair and ran down her trench coat, running into the collar and dripping off her chin. She hefted her pack higher on her back and looked for the inn.

Lunan would show up, she tried to quell the fear that stalked her, he would be fine.

2:37, that's what the pocket watch said. He put silver item back in his coat pocket, the chain that kept it on his person, connected elsewhere. It was a gift, from his father, and it was given to his father by his father, and his father's father. Terrance smiled as the old days of his childhood memory flickered back to life. Though times were tough, he and his family managed, and had fun with it too.

The silver pocketwatch was the only thing of any value to his family, the money from selling it would have given them food to last a while. But they never sold it, the item was of their past, a family heirloom so to speak. Of course there was one other item of great importance to the old archivist, books, he loved them so, always wanted to read them. Due to the economic stresses of his family, the dream of owning books was never realized.

However his genious had shined brightly to the local librarian, a good friend to his family. He had been offered a job and private tutoring on reading and writing, to enhance his skills. As a Nedaian, he always preffered the peaceful life and truly rejected the prolonged war efforts.

"Damned fools should of stopped this thing long ago, already too much blood has been shed, why shed any more? The ground isn't going to get any redder."

He walked along the carpeted hallways of his mansion, the home of his many archived books. His cane made silent clunks on the padded floor as he meandered towards his personal library.

He remembered the expedition that had previously ensued 6 months earlier. He had hoped that with it peace could finally be ensured, however the betrayal had ignited the flame once more, causing both nations to go to full scale conflict. It seemed strange though, the whole 'betrayal' thing. Why betray the other nation, both were at a standstill, there was no point in it.

Terrance often formed theories based on the betrayal. One of them was that an item of specific value had been found, causing one to fire on the other. An accident could of happened then one blamed on the other proposign that it was on purpose. His third and most likely statement was the many years of hate between the two nations finally got the better of them, and the thunder ensued once more.

He reached the end of a hall to a large double door, he opened it and entered. Within the confines was his own personal collection of books, gathered over the many years of his existence. Books of fiction, science, algorithms, mythology, legends, and his personal favorite of the limited supply of muddled history, soured through the years of war. Most of it were bits and pieces to even bigger stories, the stories however, were most likely lost to raging fires, destruction, and defilement. It saddened him so that their history was in such a state.

Before perusing through his collection he made his way over to an old record player, cranked the handle, and placed the needle on the record. Spewing from its large horn came the sounds of soft classical music, a silent, somber, song of violins, brass, and other musical items. It really set the ambience of his lounge, and for him to truly be enthralled in a book, he need the right atmosphere, and the music created it perfectly.

He took a pipe from his pocket and a small pack, stuffing the leaves inside it. Then scratching a match along a wall he lit and started puffing from the wooden pipe, he then tossed the match into the fireplace, which slowly lit up into a crackling and persistent flame. Puffing at his pipe he browsed through a series of mythological selections.

Age of Tyranny... Reign of Kings... Chronicles of Meth gra Nure... ah! The Crimson Forest.

Terrance slowly took out the crinkling old book and brought it over to an end table setting it down. He got himself comfortable in his leather arm chair and was about to read the book when a thought occurred him. He remembered in the reports that there were also fugitives of the Farakzan Nation. He never knew too many people to defect and turn on their country, living out their lives as Terrorists, causing mass anarchy among the peoples.

Most defections had good reasons to them, though he had no idea of the cause of them defecting, he'd certainly knew, that for one fact, it was a good reason. That was all that mattered. Most likely, it would never concern the middle aged Archivist as he sat within the confines of his manor, reading through series of books, collected through his life. His writing genius had made him well respected, though some turned angry eyes towards him. He remembered a death threat one time, that nearly came true. Were it not for Terrance's skills with a rapier, he would not live, breath, nor read the book sitting to his right.

For now, he could ease his mind in the knowledge that poured from the legendary tale. And so repeating the process of looking at his watch, he closed it up and began to read the story, from page one to the end.