A time of peace and prosperity. For centuries, the known universe has been benevolently ruled by great old families that exercise fairness, imagination, and flair. The constellations have reveled in this harmony, and the races have thrived for it. Technology, art, and magic have all advanced in leaps and bounds. All is, and has been, well.
Mostly.
For in this universe, no age has existed wholly without conflict of some sort. The Golden Age, magnificent as it is, is no different, for there cannot be light without casting shadows. There exist, in dark corners where brilliant starlight does not shine, and the families' rule does not reach, creatures as old as time itself: fearlings. They hold many names and take many shapes, but their goal has ever been the same: to instill fear where there is happiness, bring darkness where there is light, and sow discord where there is harmony. For a long time, the fearlings kept to the edges of the galaxies, venturing further only briefly, and rarely.
Lately, they've become bolder.
They were quiet, at first, targeting an outlying constellation, ruled by a small family. They were surreptitious in the way they slunk across the planets, disseminating fear and winking out hope. It wasn't until trade routes were disrupted that the other families took much notice.
Some of the constellations had been lackadaisical about responding at first, assuming it was an isolated incident and denying any exigency. They were wrong. Emboldened by the peoples' passivity, the attacks came more frequently and more boldly. It took a full scale assault on one of the larger constellations before the rulers of the Golden Age realized the gravity of the situation, and the enormity of their enemy's strength and prevalence. Then the campaigns began.
There had always been soldiers, even in the time of peace, ranks filled with volunteer forces that were well-trained (depending on their ruling constellation), but had never seen live battle. That changed quickly.
For most of the planets, life carried on as usual. For them, war was a far away thing, little more than dinner conversation or regaling bedtime tales for children with great, shining heroes. For the constellations under the Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff, war was a little more real. The Lunanoffs, more than any other family, had pledged their resources and efforts, and the efforts of their people, to the war effort. For their subjects, the reality of war was that sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, sometimes never came home. War never came to their doorstep, thanks to the efforts of the Lunanoffs' astral navy, but their people saw the effects of war, nonetheless.
The Lunanoffs' army was great in size, with some soldiers that excelled in the art of war more than others. And while there were a great many storied and well-decorated persons among the ranks, few were more talked about currently than one Kozmotis Pitchiner, a man who was merely a lieutenant when the war against the fearlings began in earnest. Through his strategy and leadership, he had risen remarkably quickly through the ranks to commander, then captain of his own ship. A few weeks ago, he was granted title of General, and given charge of a small fleet.
"General on deck!"
Another day, another campaign. But this one was a little different. They had received intel this time, and they would be lying in wait when the enemy arrived, instead of rushing headlong to mitigate an invasion in progress.
Boots pound heavy on the deck of one of the astral navy's finest warships. Sailors line up in formation to greet their commanding officer as he boards. General Kozmotis Pitchiner comes to stand before them, dressed in a uniform of black and gold. The breast is well decorated, despite his relatively young age. The General surveys the lot almost gravely for a moment, before his silvery eyes glimmer and a small smile breaks across his features. Pitchiner is a kind and charismatic man, with a tendency to be a bit grandiose in his presence and gestures when he gets excited. Most considered him remarkably personable for one of his position.
Hands folded behind his back, as he often stands, the general begins to address them. He welcomes the new soldiers he notes among them and noting what most already know: they are going into certain battle, and the reality of it was, there was a chance that some wouldn't come home. But Pitchiner had one of the best track records when it came to winning battles and, more importantly to him, ensuring that soldiers and sailors came home. He intended to keep it that way. The speech is brief, underlining the urgency of this particular mission.
As he steps away, one of the officers begins calling orders to prepare to set sail. The general stands aside, observing as the sailors go about their duties. There's one particular sailor he's looking for, however, and wordlessly he scans the multitude of uniformed men and women for him.
no subject
A time of peace and prosperity. For centuries, the known universe has been benevolently ruled by great old families that exercise fairness, imagination, and flair. The constellations have reveled in this harmony, and the races have thrived for it. Technology, art, and magic have all advanced in leaps and bounds. All is, and has been, well.
Mostly.
For in this universe, no age has existed wholly without conflict of some sort. The Golden Age, magnificent as it is, is no different, for there cannot be light without casting shadows. There exist, in dark corners where brilliant starlight does not shine, and the families' rule does not reach, creatures as old as time itself: fearlings. They hold many names and take many shapes, but their goal has ever been the same: to instill fear where there is happiness, bring darkness where there is light, and sow discord where there is harmony. For a long time, the fearlings kept to the edges of the galaxies, venturing further only briefly, and rarely.
Lately, they've become bolder.
They were quiet, at first, targeting an outlying constellation, ruled by a small family. They were surreptitious in the way they slunk across the planets, disseminating fear and winking out hope. It wasn't until trade routes were disrupted that the other families took much notice.
Some of the constellations had been lackadaisical about responding at first, assuming it was an isolated incident and denying any exigency. They were wrong. Emboldened by the peoples' passivity, the attacks came more frequently and more boldly. It took a full scale assault on one of the larger constellations before the rulers of the Golden Age realized the gravity of the situation, and the enormity of their enemy's strength and prevalence. Then the campaigns began.
There had always been soldiers, even in the time of peace, ranks filled with volunteer forces that were well-trained (depending on their ruling constellation), but had never seen live battle. That changed quickly.
For most of the planets, life carried on as usual. For them, war was a far away thing, little more than dinner conversation or regaling bedtime tales for children with great, shining heroes. For the constellations under the Tsar and Tsarina Lunanoff, war was a little more real. The Lunanoffs, more than any other family, had pledged their resources and efforts, and the efforts of their people, to the war effort. For their subjects, the reality of war was that sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers, sometimes never came home. War never came to their doorstep, thanks to the efforts of the Lunanoffs' astral navy, but their people saw the effects of war, nonetheless.
The Lunanoffs' army was great in size, with some soldiers that excelled in the art of war more than others. And while there were a great many storied and well-decorated persons among the ranks, few were more talked about currently than one Kozmotis Pitchiner, a man who was merely a lieutenant when the war against the fearlings began in earnest. Through his strategy and leadership, he had risen remarkably quickly through the ranks to commander, then captain of his own ship. A few weeks ago, he was granted title of General, and given charge of a small fleet.
"General on deck!"
Another day, another campaign. But this one was a little different. They had received intel this time, and they would be lying in wait when the enemy arrived, instead of rushing headlong to mitigate an invasion in progress.
Boots pound heavy on the deck of one of the astral navy's finest warships. Sailors line up in formation to greet their commanding officer as he boards. General Kozmotis Pitchiner comes to stand before them, dressed in a uniform of black and gold. The breast is well decorated, despite his relatively young age. The General surveys the lot almost gravely for a moment, before his silvery eyes glimmer and a small smile breaks across his features. Pitchiner is a kind and charismatic man, with a tendency to be a bit grandiose in his presence and gestures when he gets excited. Most considered him remarkably personable for one of his position.
Hands folded behind his back, as he often stands, the general begins to address them. He welcomes the new soldiers he notes among them and noting what most already know: they are going into certain battle, and the reality of it was, there was a chance that some wouldn't come home. But Pitchiner had one of the best track records when it came to winning battles and, more importantly to him, ensuring that soldiers and sailors came home. He intended to keep it that way. The speech is brief, underlining the urgency of this particular mission.
As he steps away, one of the officers begins calling orders to prepare to set sail. The general stands aside, observing as the sailors go about their duties. There's one particular sailor he's looking for, however, and wordlessly he scans the multitude of uniformed men and women for him.