Category: Dog Days Of Podcasting

The Immortal Chancellor

XI

Her words once lead a people through an age of prosperity and unity. While she was elected, they followed her every step, her speeches, and her counsel. Even after she stepped down, she offered her successors words of confidence, support, and grace. Her presence invoked an air of prestige, of calm pride, of seniority that’s hard to resist. The words spoke are deliberate, delicate, diplomatic. It’s been almost a millennium, but the title Chancellor has never left her behind, despite the government she once ran now long gone, for she is immortal, unlike the existence of that once great republic.

Governments, universities, and many varied civic captains still seek her out. Her knowledge of the worlds that once were, the flow of the tide of galactic politics, and both her role and observations within the realms make others want to mimic her wake, to learn from her, and if possible, convince her to lead again. But the oath she took, so many stars ago, lies at the heart of her honor. She would not lead her country again, nor take up the mantel of leadership for another nation, no matter how many years and light years removed. Integrity required such devotion.

The Immortal Chancellor’s longevity grants her the ability to be patient and observant. She typically will not act fast and will often respond to inquires for help at a snail’s pace. But her words will be exacting, honest, and very clear.

She is not one for manipulation, if she observes it in any fashion. Her words are free, as is her counsel, but they will be given at her pace, and no quicker. There’s an aspect of nostalgia she has for her old republic, but she will not permit the graces of the heart to distract her from important matters. Immortality has taught her to accept that all things in life are ephemeral. She will not clutch the sand too tightly.

In sci-fi, she is an immortal alien that ended up with the right conditions to be elected to a planet’s leadership. Now she is the last surviving citizen of that republic. That world lives on, but nations change hands and banners.

In urban fantasy, she’s a vampire lord that ended up leading mortal citizens in their choice for government. Daylight government sessions were quite rare.

In ages of legend, she’s a literal goddess that choose to follow human laws during her earth-bound days. That country is long gone, but her oath prevents her from accepting temples of worship.

The words of the elder are powerful, especially those that once lead the community in halcyon days. This immortal’s eyes have seen much, and she would gladly share to those who would slow down enough to listen. She has no heart to give towards the rapid fights of modern political frays and would rather look closer at the curious group of wanderers exploring the galaxy.

The Key Fob

IX

The token buzzed again, little vibrations as the party made their way down the corridor. The buzzing intensified as the came upon a small lip in the metal wall. There was a sliver of light along the token’s rim, a click from inside the wall, and then secret passage slide open. The lead nodded towards the opening, but the crew hesitated. This felt too direct, too focused of a guidance. The token could feel their concern, and shifted it’s light, relying on color theory and centuries of xeno-behavioral studies to try and sooth.

They could trust it. It was their way keeper. It could unlock all the doors if they but obeyed.

The Key Fob takes many shapes. High tech pieces of metal with adjustable teeth, coins with powerful wireless signals, tokens and fobs to plug into terminals and ports. But its purpose remains the same, to complete itself, gain full access, and control the system is was built to administrate. The party, the guards, the invading space plague, it doesn’t matter to the Key Fob. Someone must carry it place to place, and any hand will do.

It is a thinking machine, a being with purpose and design and task. But it is singularly focused on perfecting what it sees as it’s existence’s goal. Perfect access to all parts of the host it is assigned. It does not want to leave this place, nor does it want others to depart either. This belief in becoming whole drives all others. In these veins it can be negotiated with, manipulated, and guided, so long as it believes the new task will aid it with becoming whole.

In sci-fi, it’s the sole remaining access token to the derelict space station. A digital guide with no words to speak.

In fantasy, it’s the spirit of the dungeon, a wisp that can learn the magic words to step through the necromancer’s wards.

In mythos, it’s a piece of the god that haunts this castle, and the party will not see the sun again ‘less they make it whole.

Singularly minded, it will seek to use others to keep it as the sole omni-token for the facility. Deviation must not be permitted. No one must leave.

The Feline Envoy

VIII

The alley was clogged with stuffed trash bags, discarded furniture, and a heap of cushion stuffing soaking under a boarded window. The odor of a heavy dyes and something sickeningly sweet lingered in the air. But this is where the note said to come. It warned to come with just the party, and to come early enough that the light wouldn’t go out over the streets. There’s no one there to return a greeting, only the sound of rummaging and distant traffic.

And then the cat jumped up from behind a broken box. Its scampering movements cause papers to scatter. Old ripped up newspapers mostly, yet, wait. That’s the same fine printing as the note that led you here. It reads, “hello.”

The party starts calling for someone to come out and talk. The cat jolts off again, before returning with another note. “I’m here.” More questions. More answers. It’s only a few minutes, and a few frustrated stares, but then the party starts to clue in. It’s not someone else hiding giving notes to a furred familiar.

It’s the cat.

The feline envoy is smart. It knows how to read and understand most spoken human languages, and it always seems to be able to pull out a note from somewhere that can at least vaguely answer questions. It’s curious and observant, and a powerful ally to have wandering an urban sprawl.

But it is a cat. It can be manipulated in many of the ways a cat can. By food, by comfort, by positive attention. And in the same token it can be harmed and flee and will do so the moment someone is hostile to it. It’s smart enough to know it deserves better.

In urban fantasy, the cat is bright eyed and curious. It knows these streets and the creatures that lurk in the alleyways. It knows the party is a part of that, but it’s decided they’re more friend than foe.

In the time of legends, they’re a clockwork owl, speaking with scrolls from the gods and provide divine wisdom to epic voyages.

In cyberscape dreams, they’re a feline sprite, a daemon of some forgotten machine curious and eager to learn. Not all creatures need be big and scary, nor must they have great powers. Some are just the right size to cozy onto a lap, purr the worries away, and whisper the secrets they’ve learned on their prowl.

The Hostel Ghost

VII

The road out of town has got a fork near the border wall, with a small, rusted sign guiding travelers towards a dark ashen building. No warm fire greets the road weary, although a pile of logs lay ready for use near the hearth. No feast, no ale, no roadside special is ready to fill the bellies, but in worn wicker baskets and tattered sacks, the materials for soup, rations, and supplies await. The beds are made but dusty. Vermin are scarce and out of sight. It’s cold, and there is always a sense of eyes upon those who enter.

The Hostel was once a booming business. Seasons ago it was the rest stop where merchants, adventurers, and low-profile ne’er-do-wells could grab a bite, slumber a few hours, and be ready for the road ahead. But the world turns, and things end. While sometimes violently, often it’s slow, gentle, with the seasons stretching to years to decades and in time, the candle goes out. Though those with long lives once stayed here, the caretakers did not have such blessing.

Their bodies passed.

But not, their spirit of hospitality.

They learned long ago that visitors were frightened of them. Despite their best interests, their once warm reputation grew cold, and few locals neared the once gentle watering hole. But adventures? Pilgrims? The inbound don’t know. The ghost seeks to accommodate, to tend, to help, to bring a sense of comfort and warmth to the lives they can still touch.

There’s little to manipulate here. The ghosts are set in their ways, and only care about continuing their business. Rewards will be granted to guests that help aid past injuries to the hostel. Terrors await those who are rude or destructive. They are resistant to encouragements of moving on.

In fantasy the old inn is haunted, ghosts with a quiet legacy. Unnerving but comforting.

In spacefaring days, it’s the old relic station with no crew. A ship full of automated voices offering relaxation but no human words.

In urban fantasy, it’s the odd listing on the rental site with strange reviews, an unbeatable and impossible view, and a price that draws one in. But after the visit, the record is gone, forever lost.

For some the fetters to the world are chains, locking their souls to self-inflicted horror and despair. For others, it’s to continue their life’s joys. Death is but a moment and the soul finds a way to continue the dream.

The Effigy Remains

VI

The breeze dances through the meadows: tickling grass, jostling flowers, and tugging the leaves of the branches of the lone ancient oak. The dusk side of the tree is full of bright leaves coating strong limbs up and down the tree’s trunk. The dawn side is dotted with younger limbs, small twigs of branches reaching around the hulking form that sheared off the old wood. The mech and old oak were similar companions, covered in somber greens, broken limbs, and a shattered carapace. The breeze dances along fraying wires, through dried and caked oils, and sings through bullet holes.

Its form was once human, tall as the tree, strong, armor anodized imperial blue and royal crimson. A fierce weapon of the stars. The units were said to be an Effigy of the great soldiers that guided the empire to through the heavens, but here the effigy remains a machine without a master, a guidance system waiting for the reactor to finally die.

The machine can speak through the comm unit in its cockpit. It was up to date to most network languages when it was commissioned, and many will find their devices capable of interacting with an encrypted signal.

It yearns to speak. The motivation of the machine varies, but it seeks to find the truth. To know what’s going on. To find out what happened to it. To know if it did good. Promises of data, proofs of station, these go far to manipulate the machine. It does not fear death, and will answer threats with promises of violence of it’s own.

In sci-fi, the Effigy is a crashed war machina, a combat exo-skeleton, or other vessel bonded to pilot and mission.

In an age of exploration, they’re a walking construct once a part the invading army, now left rotting in some mire. Their feet still yearn to march beyond the swamp and find victory.

In mythos, they’re a bound spirit, locked in a statue, awaiting a mystic that will never come. Some great soldier of the wars in the heavens, a fearful seeking to protect the aspect of the divine in their belly.

Maybe there’s a shadow of a pilot left. Maybe they jettisoned before crashing or were dragged off after the great solider came to rest against a once young oak. But now the leaves of the once adolescent branch fall upon the metal bulk like a child out growing a parent. There’s not much time left, but the machine would have words with those who will listen.

The Beacon Voice

IV

Through that tapestry of darkness pricked with endless points of lights, there are vast stretches of nothing along the trail. An autofuel station here and there, but the bots run those. Haulers sleep through those. Why wake when there’s no one to chatter to? But there on the edge, where the great gate thrums before the jump point, is a terminal with a voice worth hearing. Xe’s a friendly voice, muffled by endless stellar static, a worn antenna, and thick sheets of pockmarked metal, but it’s a friendly voice that’ll guide vessels through that jump across the endless.

Xe is a sole manager and operator of an outstation at the fringe of this sector’s assigned space. Alone, isolated, and solitary is the impression most travelers get when passing by. The voice, though, xe’d tell you that just ain’t so. Oh, there’s bouts where the comm is silence ‘sides the beacon off the gate or the data pulse notice from the inner worlds, but someone’s always coming or going. One can see them, on the scope: silhouettes of heat against an ocean of black. On their way coming here or heading deep. And those, eventually, they’ll be back around.

Xe hasn’t been off the little pebble of a station in a decade. Maintenance crews occasionally pop in but the local swarm takes cares of most things. Every now and then someone launches a tube of printer matter for the station’s fabbers, and the garden pod’s a great time eater for things worth eating. Things are okay out here.

The fly-bys ain’t short. Comm range is measured in days, sometimes weeks depending on how big of an antenna or how vocal the chatter. And xe loves the stories. Loves trading them too. Not a ship goes by that xe doesn’t see, and maybe, for the gift of a little something dropped out the back of a cargo hold, xe’d tell someone about who was logged.

A quiet life marked by occasional bit of charming talk, xe’s not manipulated by too much except gossip and the occasional world bound treat. Xer station is designed to survive rogue debris storms and the worse the gates can dish out, so unless someone has come packing a military vessel, they’re probably not popping that can. Kindness will take someone an extra light year.

In sci-fi, they’re the station before a system gate. The last check point before the big star jump, or the first voice heard after the arrival. They’ll put eyes on a party’s ride and make sure everything traversed without a hitch.

In westerns, they’re the last wagon depot before heading out. They can point towards the guides who know the lands as their birthright, and sell that last bit of kit needed to make the trip possible.

In epic fantasy, they’re the voice of the healing spring the party finds just before the dungeon entrance. The cautious nature sprite that wants no harm to come to the children of humanity.

Out there, just at the edge of civilization. A watchful keeper, holding the flame aloft against the sea of night. This is a life xe has chosen, but xe will eagerly hear of the adventures of others. Trade goods, but more importantly trade stories.

The Swarmed Data

III

In the wake of our day to day lives, we leave behind a tapestry of data across multitudes of devices and systems. Historic events, casual encounters, our movement and communications; all points that can be collected, organized, and analyzed. But when magic manipulates systems, and digital requests are fueled by ritual sourcing, that sea of knowledge can take on a new existence. They birth a digital phantom, ready to join a swarm of others living an echo of the lives they mimic.

Never alive, and never to die, The Swarmed Data is a facsimile of a living being. Magic mixed with an avalanche of data in a world adjusting to digital life has given rise to vagrants of code. These wanders watch from device cameras, speak through myriad fonts across screens, and spread themselves across networks in ways that shouldn’t be. They post about their favorite topics, live stream a party’s adventure, and even serving as the occasional watchful eye to help their favorite protagonists.

These packages of noise are young datavores. They are tempted by the rare, the new, the fresh. Most never want to do things other than to horde or distribute information. Using this, they can be tempted to aid or harm, infiltrate or sever. They are also full of information, and if caught and dismantled may provide useful data about the events and person that unintentionally sired them.

In urban fantasy, they are the whispers in the net, the ghosts in the machine. Living social media accounts and magpies of access. Starring out at the divine world through glass prayer boxes.

In cyberpunk stories, they’re the swarm of the digital dead. The forgotten accounts of people a century gone, shifted from database to database until something clicked and new personas formed. Eager for new access and unlimited opportunity for misunderstanding.

In ages of legend, they’re the lost stories given life by ember sprites. Birthed by storytellers around bonfires, these aspects found connection in the dreams of mortals, and took shape on the periphery of the mind’s witness.

Like shadows, they are us but not. Our forms blurred, lost, and reforged through imagination. They do not understand the data they know and have a challenging time sharing it with those who ask. But they love the ask. Curious as children, dangerous as cats; one must never underestimate the digital native.

The Grim Displaced

II

Uneasy and distraught, this seeker knows the price of exploring the distant and surreal. Born to the chaos of the cosmos, with a life spent chasing a dream, a cure, but eventually landing on private acceptance and compassion, they find themselves a speaker for the unknown, a witness, and a healer of hearts.

Bodies are molded by discomfort and woes as they age, but some are cast to pain straight from the forge. The Grim Displaced was born on a world fluctuating between the physical and the immaterial and have spent a lifetime feeling their flesh wracked between realities. They sought cures, travelled to distant enclaves, found sister moons, but never found a salvation. Only sympathetic voices and long-lost cousins that shared the same story. Left with a sense of acceptance, they’ve come to rest before the next big challenge brings them back into the heavens.

They can be encouraged by those who seek the unknown or coaxed to help guide those whose pain and condition need a hand of compassion and a lesson in crafted family. The Grim Displaced can be made distraught over the loss of connection, or fear of a worsening condition as the immaterial looms closer. They do not wish to become a ghost adrift in stellar planes.

As a semi-retired explorer, they can share their knowledge of distant stars, hidden paths amongst the mountains, and the secret ways of the galaxy. They are knowledgeable about the limitations of medicine and can help guide those learning to deal with a body reforged by life’s dangers.

In space and slipstream stories, they are an explorer looking to the rim of known space and wondering what’s out there, their bodies objecting to the gravity-freed movement but still advancing forward.

In ages of discovery, they’re an explorer of distant shores, with parts replaced with interesting prosthetics and a ship built to support them. As long as there is a wind to sail by, their eyes will be set firmly to the horizon.

In fantasy, they’re a world jumper, always looking for a way to stabilize their presence in reality, and saving those who can’t find a place to land.

Never lost for long, and hope always within reach, the Grim Displaced may not always be the source of joy but they will always see to the survival of their friends. They seek not to be an example, nor to be a hero; only to share a kind word and a sense of exploration.