Been thinking:

I don't want Lancer's galaxy being "Big, Strange, and Old" to evoke fear of the unknown. "Bring a friend" shouldn't evoke fear of the other.

I tweeted this earlier this AM and it has... sat sour in my stomach since. Not gonna delete (the art is incredible!) but:

https://twitter.com/Lancer_RPG/status/1138450812370345986

Thinking about "Big, Strange, Old" as I work on the final act of "Wallflower." NRFaW, more than anything else that I've worked on for Lancer, has evolved with the concerns of the main text. First, it was a simple playtest exercise. Then, a concept text. (Spoilers incoming!)

And fresh(ish) in time for the weekend -- here is the updated text of No Room For A Wallflower, our introductory module/setting for Lancer!

Link to the PDF is here: drive.google.com/open?id=19qeWD…

https://twitter.com/Lancer_RPG/status/1101241930661408769

For a sense of some flavor going in...

And now, for Part II of Loyal Wing Solmaz's (@LBrawlo) three part introduction arc!

>//...

>//...

>//BEGIN “Sixteen KIA, could be more because of the ‘wash-burns.” The deck tech shook her head. “Fucking sludge." She tucked her clipboard and walked to the next shuttle.

Ten of them, ticking and cooling in the Kano’s hanger. Quiet.

They carried the dead.

Hi everyone, happy new year!

On the heels of 1.8, we've got the first of our community pilot stories!

First up, we meet Solmaz bint Aziz Ibn Bilal Al-Almuli, a veteran Albatross pilot (@LBrawlo) on campaign.

>//...

>//BEGIN_TRANSMISSION Solmaz winced, but did not cry out as her Wings pried off her shattered cuirass.

“A good hit,” Ali muttered. “Superficial, and straight through.” He tossed the ruined armor aside, wiped his hands.

Layla flushed the wound with warm water. She apologized, and pressed hard.

>//...

>//pulled an interesting one

>//...

>//not

>//sure how many people know this

>//...

>//remember John?

>//they do. On Mariela, in the Constellation, Master Teacher reclined on a wide marble bench and watched the children run and play. Never a kinder sound in the whole of the galaxy than the laughter of children.

Crystal-in-fall.

Even those made in the image of a monster had sweet voices.

>//...

>//...

>//all these little [stories] get lost. Galaxy's a big place, after all.

>//...

>//...

>//too many moving [parts]

>//let me see what I can send along.

>//... The bar was forgettable.

Another wonder of gold and marble. The bar a crescent moon suspended above a world below, a robin’s egg.

Shuttles cut white scars on descent, and Laurent was stuck in a wondrous, forgettable bar.

{UNIT INTEGRITY CRITICAL: NULL VITAL 17/20}

[[in darkness, METAT preserves. Take heart and march on. A martyr is blessed in--]]

{UNIT INTEGRITY CRITICAL: NULL VITAL 18/20}

[[his light. In darkness, METAT preserves. Take heart and ma--]]

{UNIT INTEGRITY CRITICAL: NULL VITAL-- Roland’s HUD flashed calming scripture under critical warnings.

{UNIT INTEGRITY CRITICAL: NULL VITAL 19/20}

[[Walk as one does at night: carry your blade and light close, and no harm shall come to you]]

Roland checked his hardlight. His light and blade.

The Warpriest was firm.

“You will take up the arms of your brother and sister-pilots,” he growled at the Chosen.

His voice was clotted, wet. Attendants daubed the corner of his mouth where pinkish foam dribbled out.

“The dead make no use of them. Your sin is necessary.” The Ofanorium was a dirge cacophony of wailing Souls and techs loading ordinance.

Roland helped Neeraja up into the dark of the martyr’s Ofanim. She could feel the Soul inside, probing her interpellate.

“Is it safe?” Roland asked.

“Where is my Moral?” The Soul whispered.

Dawn over Boundary Industrial.

A sick, orange wash. The engine-burn stink of smoldering metal, propellant. In the distance, a gun banged away, a muffled sound.

It had been quiet since the Aunic orbital came down.

Something else was coming. Boundary Industrial wasn’t a city anymore: it was a grave.

Cornucopians burned their dead. Mixed the ashes in with the cement as it set.

The fresh dead lay atop the old; the old dead fell in rubble over the new.

Boundary Industrial wasn’t a city anymore: it was a monument.

In the academy, they teach you first in normal gee: down, when you’re up there, is an idea. An agreement, to force your animal brain to process how to fall forever.

Pick a point. Orient all other movement around that point. Override instinct with perception.

This is step one. The shuttle ride up from Karrakis to the High Dive is turbulent. They like to launch cadets into hurricanes, give them a real fucking fear of what down could mean.

You’re in your hardsuit at this point, and it takes only ten minutes to go from ‘well to null.

A Request, Sent From Bended Knee --

Para: Alma de Cielonegro, may my message find you in grace and good health.

I send a plea for aid knowing this will not be answered.

I beg of you run, seek High Ground. Beyond our land we have ventured, discovered we a golden host: them they are the AWAHN, and they sharpen blades beaten from sunlight.

They do not mean to make peace. They have rejected our emissaries, on word of IT:

I saw Cradle first from above (in space, you are always above).

Opal had been scoured. We had torn ourselves apart in war.

I was a child, the last of my line, and I was alone in the hold of a creaking Unionite hospital ship. There were thousands of us, adrift above heaven. Our journey from Opal aged me ten years (and one hundred).

The Unionites who answered our first distress call had died of age by the time we arrived at their home.

They had sent their children to save us: those children returned, younger than their ancestors.

[Log:::precycle/debrief+++SUBJ:::NHP.LIC:::CSG.CRATER.LAKE]
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[U.NAV.ARCHIVE.ACCESS=(Y)///SD:::5010.11.02---5010.11.??]
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>BEGIN::: -- What is Legionspace? A perfect ballet. Water flowing with precise economy. The fall of sere leaves without collision.
= Subjectivity?