shipwreckedadventure-blog

[shipwreckedadventure-blog]

==> Dakorrs: Wallow in self pity

Ceriali: Stop leaving your shit in the gestation bay.

==> Dakorss: Be someone less pathetic

Your name is CERIALI DIMANES and by deduction, you must be SOME AUTHOR. Technically, you're a ghostwriter. You make your living by helping fat old seadwellers and the rare purple or blue dress up their exit reports for publication. Sweeps and sweeps ago the empress mentioned offhand that she enjoyed reading them, so it's since become fashionable to doll them up and present them as 'accurate' and often 'inspiring' accounts of the glory of military life. As a former abhoristorian, you're more than qualified for the job. In between books, you usually work the scraps of scandals you've picked up from your clients to your second job: freelance journalist, or more accurately, gossip columnist. You're very discrete, of course; you never sell out a client, just anyone else that they might happen to let something slip about. Your job requires you to know as much about them as possible, so you often play moirail, lusus, and confessor. You pck up far more than they ever realise.

At least, you usually do.

This current job is going south fast. The captain hired you to write up his life before he takes his semi-cushy governor's seat on some quiet, out of the way world where he can be forgotten and left to rot, but so far getting more than a syllable out of him at a time has been like pulling fangs. The man refuses to tell you anything about himself. You've known seadwellers with clam lusii who were more open. As is, you only have old performance reviews, cursory mentions in reports, and the odd newsfeed to work with. Your first draft is a shambles. Your life isn't looking much better. If you don't manage to get this book in shape you are going to be completely, utterly screwed.

You need a plan.

[shipwreckedadventure-blog]

==> Be the Pencilpushing Seadweller

Who are you callin' a pencil pusher? Your name is Dakorrs Vaquero, and you're Alternia's BIGGEST RODEO STAR!

...

At least, uhhh... you were up until recently. Now? You're a literal fish out of water.

Your primary hobby is tying up the most dangerous marine wildlife you can find and riding it until one of you is too beaten up to move, and your secondary hobby is going on an adventure to the most remote marine chasms you can find to acquire said wildlife. You live for action and you live for the outdoors, albeit a definition of "outdoors" very specific to those of the royal caste. Before you were dredged up and corralled into the Fleet, you had never stepped foot above sea level in your life, never talked to a non-seadweller troll, and never even walked. The academic pursuits bore you to tears- you didn't even learn to READ until you were four sweeps old, for glub's sake!- and being cooped up indoors is a nightmare for you.

Unfooooooortunately, spending all your time on the back of a seabull and not inside learning about how to game the system came 'round to bite you in the ass. You were hoping to land a sweet position on an exploration team, or a gig in showbusiness taking your rodeo shenanigans to the next level. Heck, you'd even settle for a job as a bouncer for your favorite glubstep artist of all time, Krillex. But nope. You were unceremoniously shunted into a shitty bureaucratic job nobody else wanted and plopped on some terrible goddamn ship destined to a colony you couldn't care less about. Sure, your living quarters are cushy and your pay is great, but your job is so incredibly mind numbing (writing reports for the Empress??? Does she even read this crap??? Does anyone read this crap??? Can anyone even read your handwriting?!?!) that you find yourself wondering if you could get away with stealing an escape pod and zooming off to an uninhabited water planet.

Sigh. You wish.

[shipwreckedadventure-blog]

==> Be The Shadowy, Imposing Figure In The Medical Bay

Your name is Salicae Eacilas and you are somewhat of an...unusual case.

Since you were a meager grubling, you demonstrated a great affinity for amputations, resuscitations, operations, transplantations and many other important sounding words ending with -tion, all skills that hoisted you out of the miserable stigma of your nauseating blood color and into the spotlight as one of best General Hacktitioners at Her Imperious Condescension's disposal.

At least, that was before your accident.

Since the emergency amputation of your left arm, a loss that haunts you day in and day out, you were reassigned to a more "low stress" environment (meaning: a ship kept afloat by a collection of the saddest, most irritating assclowns to ever be put into orbit). You're attempting to look on the bright side of the situation, since it was only by your extraordinary talents, "for a lowblood", that you were not culled the moment you became dead weight.

Though you're beginning to suspect that death would be preferable to the sorry state you've tumbled into.

Wheeee.

[shipwreckedadventure-blog]

The Alternian Empire...

Glorious, spanning across the galaxy and tightly controlled by the Empress, Her Imperial Condescension, the fleets are some of the finest ships in all the galaxy, powered by psychic energy, each a bastion of strength and a display of the might and wealth of the Empire.

Except for this one.

Your name is Terolys Thorani and you are the single Threshecutioner assigned to the HIC Pipwicker, the shittiest cargo freighter in the galaxy. This ship doesn't even have a proper psychic helmsman, it's stuck with the substantially slower computer piloting system. There's nobody even on this ship to Threshecute, just a Seadweller pencil pusher, a creepy lowblood general Hackticioner and some author hired to write the biography soon-to-retire Captain Kalikir Bernius, also known to all aboard as the Crown Prince of assholes. And yours and their lusii. Also hundreds and hundreds of completely useless, inactive drones.

You were assigned here after a MILD SCANDAL broke out that almost resulted in your premature death, but your service record allowed you to survive, though your PUBLIC DISGRACE meant you have to lie low for a while. You were going to be permitted to leave and get on to the closest Warship once the freighter docked at your intended destination, but judging from the last few snippits of prattling from High Command to the Captain, your ship has been redirected to unload cargo on a planet much farther than your original destination.

Meaning another fucking extra quarter of a sweep on this Shitboat they call a Cargo Freighter.

Wheeee.