Slivers & Shards: Jaunt Info

[powersthatbe]

Slivers & Shards
Post-Apocalyptic Psionic Kaiju Funtimes
December 1 - January 24

First was the Age of the Ancients. Nine billion Ancients ruled over all of the Living World, ripe with mushrooms, blue with water. They lived on the High Tables, for they were ascended beings and knew the secret of breathing there. They reigned, we think, for a hundred thousand years, since the birth of the world. They knew Paradise, and they built Heaven. But they were fools, and used fire in war. They burned the World down.

Second was the Age of the Mystics. For ten thousand years after the Death of the World, the Mystics built Spires on the edge of the Tables, unlocking glorious powers and sheltering a chosen few - eight million, it is said. They ruled whole Tables, but no one ruled all the Dead World. The eight million Mystics knew secrets of fire the Ancients never did, and while the World was not theirs to travel, everyone in it lived safe, and no one died before they turned one hundred. But they were fools, and their power ran on water. The seas dried to dirt, and the Mystics died.

Third was the Age of the Shadow. For one thousand years, the Umbrian Protectorate united the Vales of the Fallen World. They could not live on the High Tables any longer, and all people were born thirsty and died thirsty, but they were still united, and they were careful with their resources. They ruled Nations the size of Vales. They delved in the depths for crystals, and found they could place thoughts in them. Many of the secrets of the Ancients and Mystics still rang in the depths. The world had died twice, but the Umbrians thought if they could control the minds of everyone, they could prevent a third apocalypse. But they built the hellstones, crystals that could destroy Vales who wanted to think for themselves. And the hellstones, being a violation of the earth as the Mystics violated water and the Ancients violated fire, drew the third apocalypse up from the heart of the world. The Nation-Eaters devoured Vale after Vale, and the Umbrian overlords were shattered for their hubris.

This Age doesn’t have a name. It’s been a hundred years since the Fall of the Protectorate. By the end of the Age there will only be 60,000 people left, they say. Nobody rules anything larger than a Spire, and anybody who thinks he rules a Spire himself best look out. The secrets of the past were lost when the Umbrian Shadow fell. The only secret knowledge people have now is what their grandparents told them - and their grandparents knew the world would end again soon. “Don’t fuck up the air,” we remind each other. Earth, Fire, and Water all turned against us, abandoned us. The world may be nothing but Slivers & Shards, but this is all the world we got left, and it’s going away soon. Hang onto it.

World Info | Surviving Flora & Fauna | Fallenheart Locations/Map | Vale Locations/Map | Glossary | Casting Call/Plot Role Announcements | Psionic Powers in the Vale | Spire-Specific Powers | Skills | Infiltrator/Investigator Roles | A Day in the Life | Calendar | Infiltrator Directory | Player Resources | Questions | Plotting

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A DAY IN THE LIFE

[powersthatbe]

When you wake up in the morning, you begin burning psi right away, to dull the hunger pangs and thirst. It’s just after dawn, and the temperature outside has risen from around 0 Fahrenheit/-20 Celsius to 50 F/10 C. If the burnt, hazy clouds in the sky clear enough for you to see the orange sun, the apparent size of a tennis ball, then in the late afternoon temperatures may spike as high as 115 F/45 C; on most days, though, it won’t get much warmer than this. As you emerge from the single-room stone hut you share with the two or three people you trust most, you scan the horizon for any signs of a dust storm, smog storm, or salt wind. They come about once every five days, and are more likely on clear days than cloudy days, as the heat boils energy out of the air.

You make your way downslope from the upper Spire, wary of cutthroats and bandits, but knowing as long as you’re not caught away from people, you have nothing to fear. Most people are good, and most people defend each other. You wait in line outside the qanat, a shadowy tunnel into the hillside, for a heavily armed guard with real iron weapons and defined muscles that say they eat too well to burn flesh. The guard escorts you in, lets you fill a single waterskin, and escorts you out. You take one drink - just one. You don’t stop burning psi; there’s no food in your house.

You move further downslope, past the angled stone walls of the Spire and into the Terraces. You’ll spend three or four hours grinding thorn-tree branches into pulp for the myco vats; carefully hoeing rows of walking leeks back up the dunes so they don’t escape; and carefully checking the rye fields for any sign of fungal plagues - grass soot or ergot. If you see a locust, you kill it right away, and inform the field proctor. You can keep the carcass to roast tonight - the only meat you’ve had in a year. You’ll find ergot on the grain (there’s always some) and give half of it to the vat-masters, keeping the other half for trade. A few lumpy pieces will get you a bowl of bone marrow soup, made from the skeletons of dead and salvaged animals, plus whatever foraged mushrooms people were willing to share and trade. Only after you’ve had a cup of soup - enough for the day - will you stop burning psi. You’re still hungry and thirsty, but only the dull ache you’ve felt every day of your life.

“Don’t fuck up the air,” you advise everyone at the soup cauldron, and they’ll laugh and tell you the same.

It’s getting close to noon. You go home to nap in the shade for an hour or two. After that, you have a choice. You could go to the Grand Menagerie, and look at the animals again - two of every kind known to exist in the Fallen World; or to the Mural Terrace, where they scrape the lichen into beautiful paintings; or to the Theater; or to the base of the Spire, to practice Vale Arts with the Factors there. Whichever you choose, now that you’re not burning psi, you occasionally hear the voices of friends in your head, Telling you what their plans for the evening are. When no-one is looking, you Teke a mushroom or two out of the feed bins in the Menagerie, maybe. You might Pin a particularly good lichen-painting so you can find it again in a few days.

Then there’s a commotion. Sirocco, the Tell goes around - a real man-pusher of a wind has kicked up a dust storm to the north. A moment later, the Tell says Caravan in Danger! and pins a location in your mind. Just like that, everyone you can see is running towards the desert, grabbing heavy cloaks veils or masks, and any waterskins or bags they can carry. You don’t ever leave a caravan in the open desert during a storm. When there’s trouble, everyone who isn’t a bandit helps out, always.