Daniel
| File:ZTSXJ.jpg | |
| Name | Daniel |
|---|---|
| Gender | Male |
| Born | 18 September 1994 |
| Weight | See: Snorlax |
| Hair | Black |
| Affinity | DEATH |
| Alignment | Lawful Newtroll |
A mystery hidden within an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, toasted with a question, marinated in a conundrum, gently roasted in mystification and served with a side of a Gordian knot.
Characters
Countries
Optional RP Settings
The snow glowed white on the mountain that night, not a footprint to be seen. It was a kingdom of isolation, save for a small café built into the side of the mountain. The building was a cozy place, made out of rough-hewn logs chinked with an amber glue that glowed with the firelight within. The tables were wooden as well, as were the chairs. Behind the wood bar stood a hefty man dressed in light furs, handing out beverages for a fair price to any passerby. The sign out front read “Big Olaf’s Tea and Coffeehouse.”
The sky above the port was the color of television tuned to a dead channel, a pure black that glowed around the edges from the light pollution of the endless Sprawl. The darkness was broken by the flashes of light as lightracers, jacked into their bikes via neural interfaces shot overhead, and then around again. On the ground below their elaborate skydance, the multitudes clamored and shouted as they betted on one racer, than another, the nanoimplants in each person’s throat registering and recording their calls for automatic transfers of virtual currency from one account to another. Flows of ones and zeroes that made and broke fortunes, lives, and families.
The endless, dusty shelves of the Ever-Library stretched in every direction to vanish in the gloom. The cavernous rooms, linked by massive, open archways, were lit by floating candles that glowed with a flickering blue light. In some rooms, the mystical candles had failed, leaving them pitched in utter darkness until a visitor wandered through them, shrouded in their own sanctuary of light, be it a lantern or flashlight. Every now and then, one would see the guardians of the library walking by, steel golems rusted with age but nevertheless mobile, replacing dropped books and watching for thieves.
In a time now long since forgotten, the moon of the uninhabited planet had been shattered by some superweapon or another. The shards had spun apart, and then slowly been pulled back together into an odd co-orbit, 12 massive expanses of stone spiraling around one another in a stable, but erratic orbit that repeated itself exactly every eleven years. They wove and danced together, coming sometimes as close as a few hundred meters from one another, so their atmospheres would intertwine in violent windstorms that lasted minutes at a time only to die down once they had moved apart once more. Some of the larger chunks were now inhabited, the exposed core of the moon excellent for mining. The largest, Eta-1, hosted a population of nearly a thousand, ranged across a half-dozen mining claims on its southern surface, surrounding the only town in the moon-system.
Someone had once named the place the Dustbowl, and the name had stuck. The valley was nestled between two massive mountains of sandstone, formed in an odd geological time. Rain rarely reached it, and nearly everything was coated in a fine layer of the silica dust that blew from the guardian mounts without end. The plants here were a hardy sort, with few leaves, their tough bark scarred with the heavy dust. Few people chose to live here, and those that did mostly walked around with respirators. No one wanted to contract pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis if it could be avoided.
The Black Castle of the Most Ancient And Noble House of Grymes was a monolith of black granite that jutted from the surface of the empty moors, its spires like an army of spears, thrust into the stormy skies above. It had stood for generations of Grymes, playing host to their atrocities and their philanthropies, each descendent trying to redeem their reputation or return it to infamy. The current Lord Gryme, a young man named Aleksander, seemed to lean the former route. To show how good intentions to the people of his land, he was hosting a dozen banquets, one for each month of what he was calling ‘The Year of Return.” The first had been a smashing success haunted slightly by unsubstantiated rumors of missing guests. The second was tonight, and invitations flowed like water across the surface of Disparatus.
