And if you aren't okay with mild to concerning swearing happening all up in this b***h then you are in the very wrong place. 𝐼 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃. I promise. You're getting off easy with this.
তততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত Chapter One will take place on Raptus au Tennebraumis, the prison station. This is where the first meetings of the crew, as well as some backstory of each character will happen. Here, you'll get to meet and greet, and figure out personalities, and how each person vibes in their space. Feel free to make nonsense with other NPC prisoners. Meander the mess hall, the promenade, the cells, and the automaton nurse's station. (Think hella robotic medicine. Mr Handy from Fallout is a pretty good reference point)
তততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততততত All right assbutts we made it. Chapter two is going to be a bit of a journey. We're gonna get our crew situated on a ship -- Meet our next member. And perhaps even get this boat in the sky, and on the way to destination one. Make sure you reference the ship descrip for whatevs you need. But also remember that we have a bit of wiggle room for funsies. Still blowing through on the 'yes and' mentality that we love. If there's any questions, reach out.
The galleon resulted from the need to construct larger, ocean-going, cargo and passenger vessels. It had a tapered bow and a length-to-beam (maximum width) ratio of 3:1, sometimes even 4:1. On Spanish and Portuguese galleons, the part of the hull below the water line was covered with lead plating to protect the wood from the naval shipworm (Teredo navalis). The Spanish galleons generally had four masts, of which two were square-rigged. The stern superstructure could be up to seven decks high. Some famous galleons are the Golden Hind, sailed by Sir Francis Drake when he circumnavigated the globe from 1577 to 1580, and the Swedish battleship Vasa.
So this ship is a galleon style ship, in case you hadn't gotten the very historical hint up top.
Once a person stepped down the stairs from the deck, warmth would flood towards them. The lighting was simple, consisting of lanterns from many different cultures. The lights are all fae flame, and wont spread when knocked over. The floor was made of mahogany, shined and waxed to perfection.
The tables around the room were made of pale wood, covered with tablecloths, rugs beneath them to protect the floor. They were many different colors, holding with the consistency of several nationalities clashing to make a room. But somehow, it looked quite calm, even serene.
To the front area of the ship from this room, you can enter the galley. It's nothing to write home about. Cold storage, cupboards for dishes, and a large stove--black iron and brass, bolted to the floor. Everything one needs to make a meal.
A stairway to the back of this main gathering room will lead to a floor that houses cabins for the crew and any passengers the ship takes on. Each is equipped with a large bed set into the wall, a wardrobe that is bolted down, and a desk and chair. There are rugs on the floor, and blankets in the wardrobe. Like the crew that had been here before had stocked the ship well. Each cabin also comes equipped with a small bathroom, which has toilet, sink, and stall shower.
Through the door on the deck, just below the ship's wheel (the quarter deck), was a small hallway with three doors. (Ship's stern for those who know) On the right side, the healing room, where the brass automaton healer would tend to the wounded should they need it. On the left side, storage. Straight ahead, the Captain's quarters and chart rooms.
The quarterdeck seems normal at first perusal. But when hands are laid on the wheel itself, floating screens will come up to life around them. A way to pilot the ship. A method almost forgotten by time.
Down in the hold, a strange sight can be seen: a man in a white suit with a purple shirt is frozen in ice. His long green hair flows around him in the cold, as if he was suspended in water. Eyes are closed, and his feet are bare. Just behind him is resting an odd figure. Pale skin and bright green hair, almost neon. She looks half machine and half... dead? That's right folks. It's Fanks. She's still sleeping back there. Makes light wheezing noises once in a while. Her heart beats an unsteady beat, and can be seen as a soft red light against her chest. Smells like death. Who knows if she'll wake up anytime soon.
Doctorae Crew
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Doctorae Crew
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Posted: Thu Sep 17, 2026 4:47 pm
ꂵꍏ꒒ꀤꀘ'ꌗ ꓄ꀤꍏꋪꍏ
ᴍᴀʟɪᴋ'ꜱ ᴛɪᴀʀᴀ
The Vengeance finally breaks free of an asteroid ocean that seemed to have no end. Crowding your ship right up until the end with rock and wreckage in dense streams that just narrowly missed the hull. Emerging at last into a bubble of empty space nearly half the size of a planet. Like some twisted eye of the proverbial storm in the middle of this impassable sector.
No…not empty.
For as the systems tune and the eyes adjust one may find a terrformed landmass nestled in the center of this hollow sphere. A bundle of tethered asteroids leveled to make way…for a city. How? They saw no field. They saw no shimmer of light nor energy.
The ship navigates of it’s own volition. Emberosa’s craft beyond something as simple as navigation; and finding it’ way to the docks.
The Dock which was wholly unmarked. No beacon, nor customs arch, nor greeting light…just a reinforced platform cut into the side of the tethered rock. Wide enough for multiple vessels, divided, with clamps that engage on their own, and extending walkway that stretch forward without anyone asking it to.
The gangplank of the vengeance mimicked this function; and the crew was ready to explore. As their boots hit stone that has been leveled, and long sealed. Stone so old that the seams have darkened. Above them…they see it now. Somehow this refractive thing was invisible from the outside; but from the inside…they could see.
The barrier is there. A faint, translucent shimmer, curved over the whole city, holding the air in, and the void out. It hums low enough that you feel it more than hear it.
From here you can already see them. The greatest structures built upon The Crown. The Twin Spires. Two towering spires, serpentine–dark–rising above everything else. Their flanks traced in wine-dark red light that pulsed with a life all its own. So identical in structure it was a bewilderment to most that the interiors were vastly different.
But they would discover that much later.
The docking gates are devoid of airlock; and yet the crew is forced to pass a decontamination chamber. A few minutes of being stuck in a small room as a dense blue projection of light and laser covers their bodies. Their skin and hair undisturbed yet they feel the static energy around their bodies fluctuating. Feel the germs and bacteria of Raptus Au Tennebraumis being removed by technologies well beyond those of some of the most well-known planetary coalitions. The doors would finally open; and they would find their way into the residential district.
The Residential District.
The winding road takes you up–in–past trees that should not be alive in space yet somehow are. The irrigation is still running. Ponds are still full. Grass is still green–a little long now–spilling over curbs. Over paths in places where no one has trimmed it for months..this place was neglected.
The homes are clustered but not without their moderate amount of space and even charm. Built into terraces, and tucked against the rock. Their doors are open. Their windows are dark–occasionally a dim light left on peeked from an empty building.
Empty…yes. For all the residential buildings have been emptied of most things. The crew can tell by the outlines. A pale rectangle on a wall where something hung. A hook with nothing on it. A kitchen with cabinets open–and nothing inside but dust.
There were some things left behind…but even they could tell: what was left here? Was left deliberately.
At the base of almost every door and window; there are pictures. Small toys. Mementos laid out like tributes. A framed photo set face up; a small carved token; a dried flower; a serpent’s fang; a child's drawing; weighted down with a stone, and fading with time. A scarf folded neat. No notes. No names you can read from the walkway. Just objects placed carefully…as if someone knelt there, set them down, and never came back.
No one answers when you knock. No one has answered in a little under a year by the look of it. The dust is thin; but not deep. The air is still warm. The city is not ruined. It is…frozen. Paused. Lost in a time that only one among their crew could ever claim to remember.
Onward they went.
The Commercial District
The road widens. Shops alongside stalls and small workshops line either side. Their fronts shuttered…but not locked. As the crew inspects through glass that is still clean…because something still cleans it.
The shelves are mostly bare. Perhaps a few tools left on a counter. The occasional display case with nothing in it but a price tag. A chair pulled out…as if someone stood suddenly and with purpose.
The perpetual systems have kept their protocols. Lights cycle. Vents breathe. The barrier holds. Water runs if you turn a tap. The occasional small robot wheeling by in hues of white/red plating as if scuttled to vacuum or mop some small discrepancy.
It feels less like a ruin. More like a place where everyone stepped out at once…and the city never seemed to notice.
Above the rooftops–the crew can see. The Twin Spires are closer now; and you can see how much of the city is arranged around them. Everything curves toward them. Everything defers to them…and within the first tower–something awaits them.
Awaits them; within the Chapel of Ar’Malik.
The Chapel of Ar’Malik.
Massive–gigantic–nothing seemed to quite do it justice. It was simply a miraculous feat of architecture. Towering in a way that makes you lower your voice without ever actually deciding to.
Doors wide enough that even the vengeance might pass through were left open; and untended. Their surface formed of glimmering silver scales which were both smooth as well as clean to the touch. The exterior is dark stone. The polished monument faces of a female figure most of the crew had never seen before. Serpentine lines rising–coiling–up into spires that lean above, prompting one to wonder…if they are listening.
Inside? Inside…it is breathtaking.
The nave–the main floor–was long, and spacious enough to fit the entire city’s population at once. High and narrow columns twisting up on either side of the central aisle like they were grown there.
Wine-dark red light falls through stained glass windows facing the second tower; mingling with the bright pale-white lights which lined the wall in a thin seam; and pooling across the floor in culminating gentle pink-golden hues.
There are rows and rows and rows of pews…all empty. There are altars–offering–ledges–all clean. There is no dust on the central dais, however, because the air system still moves…and some quiet machine still tends it.
The crew can feel the reverence hanging–even still–within the breath of this room. The sacred ground upon which they tread was justly that because no bone in their bodies could dispute the weight of it. Their footsteps echoed too far. Their every sound came back to them doubled by the distance.
It is the kind of beauty that was built to make a crowd feel small together, and with no crowd…it just makes you feel small.
Something flashes in the center of the central dias; and something is awaited.
When their duties are finished…they march on. On to the second tower; and their final destination within the city of Malik’s Tiara.
Malik’s Promise.
A proverbial wonderland of R&D.
Clean rooms behind glass. Labs with instruments blinking in standby; screens still lit with data you cannot read at a glance; growth chambers; fabrication bays; test rigs for propulsion, navigation, and a cornucopia of materials you do not recognize.
Everything is next-generation; everything is orderly; as if the people who worked here finished their shift–shut down their stations properly–and never came back.
One floor hums with cooling. Another smells faintly of ozone and soil. Another is dark except for a single row of status lights.
Green–patient–waiting for an instruction that has not come in months.
Nothing is broken. Nothing is looted. It is simply waiting.
Waiting…for Vengeance.
ꋪꍏꉣ꓄ꀎꌗ ꍏꀎ ꓄ꍟꈤꈤꍟꌃꋪꍏꀎꂵꀤꌗ
ʀᴀᴘᴛᴜꜱ ᴀᴜ ᴛᴇɴɴᴇʙʀᴀᴜᴍɪꜱ
𝒲𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒, 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓇𝓈, 𝓉𝑜 ⱧɆⱠⱠ
It is said that when the station was created, it was made in the thoughts that those who committed crimes would be rehabilitated, and later returned to work the planet's surface.
However, many decades have passed since that idea subsequently died, and Tennebraumis remained active, even without it's prime directive in place.
Cold walls line every room on this station, and none have the pleasure of comforts. Cells are given a single thin mattress on a metal frame, and a blanket that has perhaps been through many prisoners before. A singular window looks out in every room into the darkness beyond.
Nothing beautiful in sight in this dark, desolate place.
The halls are long and the doors are thick. The temperature is kept just above cold. The warden has decided that comfortable is not something prisoners should be awarded.
Silence reigns here.
The mess hall is the one place warmth is afforded, and that is perhaps only by chance. The kitchens work to create food that will allow for survival and nothing further. It is bland, tasteless, and unappetizing to look at. The smell, however, rivals each level, and though each prisoner will choke it down, they are sure that the smell itself is punishment enough for any crime.
Above everything is set the control booth. Here, the warden and their guards watch the prisoners as they mill about. Guards are only sent down if someone dies, and prisoners are often left to their own devices.
Along a quiet hallway in the north is the only access in or out of the station. It is guarded by three checkpoints, three heavy doors, and many heat sensors and guns along the walls of it.
Prisoners will see this place exactly once: when they are marched down the hall and released into the halls of their new home.
At the end of the hall lays the docks. All of the smooth and sleek doors and hatches that lead to ships that seldom stay docked long. They appear for dropoffs, and for resupply missions, and leave soon after.
However, most recently, a ship has been docked at the furthest reaches. A callback to a time before, when ships were built for beauty and not for necessity. It's lights remain on, and prisoners can see it through the aft windows if they look.
⟿Height: 5'3" ⟿Hair: Pure white ⟿Eyes: Blue with gold rings | clockwork ⟿Scars: Rope burn scars on her wrists, five years old | 3 clawmarks from her right hip to left ribs ⟿Tattoos: Gears on her right arm, shoulder to elbow | Sigils down her spine. ⟿Piercings: 3 in right earlobe, 4 in the left | industrial in the right ⟿Other notable features: Her left arm moves strangely at times. If you lean in, you can hear gears moving on the inside. Her shoulder to her elbow can be opened up, and you can see the machinery hidden. Her canines are sharp, but they are seldom seen, as she seldom smiles wide enough for them to show.
☽【❖ ᗩᑌᗪᗩᑕITY ❖】☾
⟿Likes: Tea | Exploration | Mysteries | Books | Music | Clockwork ⟿Dislikes: Bitter/bland foods | Being late | Small spaces ⟿Personality: She is spontaneous and ready for adventure at all times. She has a moral code that she has never breached, and does always what she feels is 'right.' Her mask of military stoicism and proficiency is almost always in place, and she keeps her serious facade when anyone is looking at her. When she is on her own, however, the smile will spread and the plotting part of her can be seen in hidden moments. ⟿Theme song: ꈤꍟꂵꂦ ⟿Backstory: She was born among the stars.
When Luna was young, she spent her days traversing the cosmos with parents who loved her, and doted on her. Three other family units traveled with them, and things were perfect. She grew in love, and flourished under the knowledge that she knew the difference between right and wrong.
She became an incredible pilot.
Luna, when she came of age, joined a fleet of officers that patrolled the galaxies, and brought peace to the realms, underneath the name of Tier. A military-type organization that spanned far too wide. She made Captain of her own crew quite quickly, and rose through the ranks as a no-nonsense person who would do what was right every time. She became known as Tier's Demon. However, a couple of years into her work with them, she started to see the cracks.
She saw the corruption.
She saw the greed.
And underneath all of it, she saw the darkness.
It came to a head one day when she was flying out to a "rescue." When she arrived, she found that she was much more keen on helping out the bandits that were breaking the law rather than the slavers who were following the law to the letter. Forty-seven lives were saved and returned to their home, and her logs read that she had done the right thing, and ruled with her own judgement.
Her moral compass, secure.
When she returned to base, her crew of twenty was executed for following her orders, and she was sent to Tennebraumis to rot. And there she stayed for years.
To remember.
To let her rage simmer.
To create a plan for vengeance.
EᗰᗷEᖇOSᗩ -- [ 𝒮𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝐹𝒶𝓉𝑒 ] -- Ghost | the Vengeance herself | Ancient of Spirit | Database
☽【❖ ᭙ꫝꪮꪑᦓꪻ ❖】☾
⟿Full Name: Ancient of Spirit | Emberosa ⟿Nicknames: Ember | Em ⟿Race: Spirit ⟿Age: Unknown ⟿Gender: Undecided, most often rests on female ⟿Orientation: Unknown
☽【❖ νιѕυαℓѕ ❖】☾
⟿Height: Varies ⟿Hair: White with a prismatic hue when they are solid ⟿Eyes: Bright gold ⟿Scars: None ⟿Tattoos: None ⟿Piercings: None ⟿Other notable features: When she is not inside the walls of the ship, she is vaguely opaque.
☽【❖ ᗩᑌᗪᗩᑕITY ❖】☾
⟿Likes: stories | rainfall ⟿Dislikes: reminders of what the architects have done ⟿Personality: Kind of like a poltergeist, Emberosa is full of mischief and will cause trouble just for the fun of it. After all, they've been around for far too long. ⟿Theme song:Alive ⟿Backstory: Emberosa has been dead for a long time. In fact, they don't exactly remember how they died, and how they came to be existing as they do. Emberosa was a spirit haunting the space bound ship that the Architects stayed on. When the ship was brought down planetside and destroyed, they lingered in the area. Eventually, they found a way to hop from artifact to artifact, and made their way somewhere else. Emberosa is the only one of the Architects that survived both purges.
ᕼᗩᐯEᑎ -- [ 𝒮𝒾𝑒𝓂𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒶𝒹𝓉 ] -- Professor | Hacker | Digital renegade | Powderman - Demolitions if preferred
☽【❖ ᭙ꫝꪮꪑᦓꪻ ❖】☾
⟿Full Name: Haven Emory Phillips ⟿Nicknames: Haven ⟿Race: Human ⟿Age: 37 ⟿Gender: Male ⟿Orientation: Pansexual
☽【❖ νιѕυαℓѕ ❖】☾
⟿Height: 6'0" ⟿Hair: Dark Brown ⟿Eyes: Pale blue ⟿Scars: None ⟿Tattoos: Band of runes around his right forearm ⟿Piercings: Two in each earlobe ⟿Other notable features: His smile rises slightly higher on the right
☽【❖ ᗩᑌᗪᗩᑕITY ❖】☾
⟿Likes: Computers | Scotch | Lists ⟿Dislikes: Dust | Casual clothes ⟿Personality: Haven is one of those that will joke first and ask forgiveness later. He knows computers in and out, and often likes them better than people. ⟿Theme song: Cosmic Castaway ⟿Backstory: Haven was born into a richer sector of the 'verse. He was caught hacking into a place he wasn't supposed to be in. His time in the colony was spent looking for a good way out, and collecting things he needed to do what he did best. Cut and run, and leave no trace behind.
⟿Likes: music, exploration, discovery, ancient things, primordial things, fighting, drinking, smoking, singing, flying, fixing, building, and inventing ⟿Dislikes: cowardice, betrayal, treachery, dismissal, irreverence, moping, sappy s**t, losing her tools, neglect of maintenance, being hungry, and slavers most of all. ⟿Personality: Brazen, brash, reckless, spirited, easy-going, immutable, obstinate, stubborn, loyal, determined, compassionate, empathetic, valiant, principled, and downright renegade. ⟿Theme song: “Winter Blues” – Joyner Lucas ⟿Backstory: Heckler never knew her biological parents. Story goes she lost them before she was even a year old. They’d been gunned down by the same shitbag slavers that sold her off to the loons who raised her. A fringe cult of celestial-worshipping nutjobs with a few talented minds at their disposal. Apparently these crazies–“Gorgytes,” they called themselves–believed in a snake-haired celestial being that would come and visit wrath upon all the universe. Knock off all the non-believers, leave only the Gorgytes, and carry the faithful on an endless journey across the stars. To that end they prepared themselves for the coming day…and did everything they could to make sure they saw it. ⟿Over generations they’d learned to modify themselves. Added experimental and military-grade cybernetics to their physiologies in order to beat the reaper. Push the clock a little further out. Good for them. If that’s all they wanted to do then so be it. But they were running out of “new blood.” They’d been living too close for too long. Hiding away from society on their roaming meteor-shower settlement for too many generations. So they’d reached out. Hired some slavers to fetch some “promising genetic potentials” they’d managed to scan up. Slavers didn’t care if it was kidnapping toddlers or infants. They only cared about the pay. ⟿Her life among them wasn’t bad…and it wasn’t abusive. She was a terrible child. Always stealing. Always fighting. Never content. They were decent enough. Educated her on navigation, engineering, physics, and even some biomechanics. Told her about their rituals. Taught her their ways. Explained the stories and fables of their deity…and somewhere in her heart it started to take. Even if only a little. The idea that they were a special people–hidden from all the universe–and waiting to be carried off in the arms of a greater being. There was a wonderment to that…but nothing good ever lasts. ⟿She was seventeen when they loaded her full of cybernetic implants. Branding her with their tattoos and their emblems with refractive shimmering inks. She was supposed to be “the first of the new generation.” It was when she woke up from the operation that she overheard them. The old bastards talking about “who would be first.” About who would “be the first progenitor.” Well the funny thing about loadin’ a smart woman up with a lot of metal…you ought not to try and manipulate her. ⟿The night of her escape was a gruesome one. She doesn’t like to talk about it. But she did–in the end–get away. Took to the stars. She was too old to be seen as anything but a potential threat with no governmental credentials. So she took to the life of piracy. Running with a few different crews. Starting and disbanding a couple of her own. She made a little bit of a name of herself. “Heckler,” they started calling her, for her rather pointed way of speaking to others. She leaned right into it. ⟿Fast forward to age 32. The lawman has put an end to her runnin’, and ol’ Heckler’s locked down tight. The prison isn’t an environment she hasn’t been in before. But for this particular crime she wouldn’t be seeing the inside of a cockpit ever again. Not if the government has their way. That is assuming–of course–...
⟿Full Name: Mrulg 'Splodah ⟿Nicknames: Most people 'splode b'fore dey can gimmie one! ⟿Race: Goblin ⟿Age: 24 ⟿Gender: Chaos! (She/Her if arsed about bronouns) ⟿Orientation: Chaotic Neutral wink
☽【❖ νιѕυαℓѕ ❖】☾
⟿Height:3'3'' ⟿Hair: Red ⟿Eyes: Orange-red ⟿Scars: A few. Ya don't escape playin' wiff foiyah wiffout gettin' a few scahs! ⟿Tattoos: None... where yew can sees 'em. 4laugh ⟿Piercings: Ears ⟿Other notable features: She short and GREEN! And her VIOLENTLY COCKNEY accent
☽【❖ ᗩᑌᗪᗩᑕITY ❖】☾
⟿Likes: Fire. Explosions. Alcohol. Sex. Food. ⟿Dislikes: Rain (it puts out the fire), children, annoying people. ⟿Personality: She seems designed to say the absolute wrong thing at the precisely wrong moment. Easy to anger. Holds a grudge. Get on her good side, though, and there's no one sweeter. ⟿Theme song: ⟿Backstory: Roight, so, I've got this youngah bruva named Glurm. I don't remember me parents, they 'probly died or somefin'. Anyways, Glurm's me siblin', except he got all the ugly in the family and is dumber than a bag of hammers. So he finks he can just go do the usual raidin' and pillagin' and make a life fer 'imself loik that. But I discovered I was good wiff tools 'n such. So I started makin' fings. Oh yeah, an’ there wuz this Dwarf named Blundy Boomcrackle. He found me rootin’ frew his garbage, an’ took a shine to me. Taught me everfin’ I learned dat I didn’t already know! Has an academy fer weirdos he says. Guess I fit the bill. Anyways, Next fing I know, bam! I can make magic fings. It's a lot more complicated than that, but I'm better at doin' than talkin'. Oh yeah, and I loik fiyah. I really loik fiyah… Me ‘n Blundy have dat in common! We loik it when fings go bewm!
Sos, how'd I woind up in da prison? Yew's gonna hafta ask ta foind out. Iffin' ya lasts two weeks, I moight bovah ta learn yer name.
This is me for forever... One of the lost ones The one without a name ... Without an honest heart as compass This is me for forever .... One without a name These lines, the last endeavor .... To find the missing lifeline
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