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Thread: [M] The Price of Freedom [OOC - Damonique & Hannelorian]

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    The Grey Lady
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    Default [M] The Price of Freedom [OOC - Damonique & Hannelorian]

    Rated M for Mature Themes, Violence, Gore, Sexual Situations etc...

    Nearly 90 years ago, the world erupted in war for what most felt, would be the final time. The threat of mutually assured destruction was not enough to stop the gears of war from lurching ever further forward. The Earth burned, most regions rendered uninhabitable, the global population decimated. In the 12 years that followed, the remnants of the population were gathered and organized under a single banner, Sauveterre. The current year is 78 AU, after unification. Sauveterre is lead by an oppressive regime, that on the surface celebrates the continued survival of the human race. There is no opposition. There is but one government, one world, one people. The fight for freedom comes at a high price, rebellion is only met with death.

    Character Information:

    Official Record: Publicas MJRN-870 was born in the glorious year 51 AU, youngest daughter to father Publicas MJRN-562, a worker at the state owned waste treatment facility, and mother Publicas MJRN-573, house cleaner for for a Civitas family. 870 has been assigned the same occupation for a well regarded Perfectas family. As members of the Publicas caste, she and her family members bear alpha numeric designations, not worthy of proper identity. They exist to ensure the State is in continual motion, they are neither to be seen nor heard.

    Unofficial Record: Publicas MJRN-870 was born in the year 51 AU as Civitas Genevieve Auxerre, youngest daughter to father, Civitas Procellarus Auxerre, a professor at the State University of the history of modern Sauveterre, and mother, Civitas Clotilde Auxerre, a state censor. Genevieve and her family were re-classified as Publicas following the execution of grandfather Aristarchus Auxerre in 70 AU for high treason. Aristarchus was rumoured to be smuggling classified information to rebel forces, whether or not this has any basis in fact remains unknown.

    Before the family name was stricken from existence, the young Genevieve was regarded as kind, generally jovial and particularly intelligent. She was known in her community for her beauty, kindness and wit. A decorated member of the State party youth program.


    870 inhabits a tenement style apartment with her parents and siblings in the slum neighborhood known only as Mare Undarum, or Sea of Waves. Aptly named, as there is a permanent dampness everywhere in sight. Mare Undarum is the exclusive home of many of Sauveterre's Publicas population. While there is electricity, the residents mostly live in darkness due to the nature of routine rolling blackouts to ensure there is power a plenty for the higher castes. 870 awakens in darkness each morning, consumes her allotted morning ration. Physical contact between Publicas is strictly prohibited unless properly authorized. Oral and written communication between Publicas is discouraged.

    870 is generally monitored, as there is concern that any resentment harbored for the change in caste may result in treasonous acts. It is suspected she may be a member of the resistance, but no evidence has been collected to support this. When in the home of the Perfectas family she serves, any and all mistakes are met with physically violent "correction.' The hours are long, and isolating.

    Medical Note: 870 and siblings are generally in good health, and have been sterilized to ensure the treasonous family is terminated with their eventual deaths.

    Following work, 870 returns to her squalid living conditions to consume the Daily Broadcast as is required. The Broadcast brings news of the day and tidings of the government. At periodic intervals 870 will disappear in the Publicas crowd during evening commute. It is heavily suspected that these may be for resistance meetings.


    Sample Post (Note: you do not have to do this, I'm just trying to get a feel here)

    The small room was enveloped in darkness. In the stillness of the early hour, the air hung thick, heavy ever stagnant. The stench of the slum permeated every square inch of the space. There was no escape, the stench of a humanity that had been utterly abandoned by its creator. The room was cursed with reminder that this indeed was their reality. The sounds of labored breathing, of coughing, of pained groans. If it weren't so dire, it might almost be comical, the sounds joints made, bone grinding against bone after years of forced labor had worn them down to nothing. The sound of the ever present drip from the dilapidated ceiling, water always coming, coming, coming, drop after drop hanging on for dear life until burdened by the weight of itself, it would crash down, shattering against the cool stone floor. The soundtrack of oppression, of poverty. The soundtrack of those who had no hope remaining, save for a swift end to the misery that was their existence.

    Breaking the sounds of eternal suffering, a radio crackled slowly, slowly growing in volume until the infernal anthem sounded, signaling a start to the day. For many, the day had long since started, for they lay in their bed roll, unable to sleep amidst the noise, amidst their own fear, if they were new to the depths of the Undarum. Others were so wrapt in their own mental or physical anguish that sleep always seemed impossible. Who hadn't seen a Publicas lose the last of their sanity? Sleep deprivation breaking the proverbial back of the camel. Running wild through the streets as though they were a beast unchained, finally liberated, only to be shot down.

    In that small room bodies began to stir. "Someone shut that damned thing off!" a voice called. A voice, that attracted attention and garnered panic glances in the darkness, even if none could see. It wouldn't be worth it to reprimand the speaker, for to speak once more would be nothing but trouble. For the Publicas, there was no rule that prohibited them from communicating, but after a near century of being beaten down for such trivial things, few felt such a rule need be codified. Rising now, a girl moved forward without care. Every last inch of the small container was known to her, the position of every bed roll, she knew the source of every human sound. She knew the familiar scamper of rats feet as they made themselves scarce. Moving as though with purpose, she rested a hand on a shoulder, or an arm. Mother, Father, Sister, Brother. Though these titles remained only in her head. They were no longer their titles, they were no longer a family. They were mere co-habitants, they may as well be strangers to one another.

    With an outstretched hand, a door was opened and light flooded the small chamber, catching and glimmering against the moisture that was slowly descending along the walls. Into the dull light of a common space emerged the young woman who had so tenderly reached out in that darkness. She was slender, too thin, really. She owed that to the general lack of food in the Undarum, and what she could give away she would. The tattered dressing gown, hanging off her shoulders, revealing hauntingly pale flesh. Brilliant blonde hair resting on those same shoulders, the green orbs that were her eyes darting about, adjusting to the light, catching sight of the doors on the opposite side, that when opened birthed the residents of the other dwelling units. There were no words, there were no smiles. There was nothing but the milling about of bodies. Bodies which would come to rest at the rows of long tables, the remaining few, the girl included gathering basic supplies for the morning "meal" if one could call it that.

    Another melody came from the radio, this time heralding the working hours. It was the most unforgiving of the day. It was a notice that came at random intervals, designed to cause peak discomfort among the lowest of castes. Most days, it left only minutes for the consumption of their nutritional supplements. She cast her eyes upon her parents, her former parents, whatever they had become to her in the years of their hellish imprisonment, they didn't look back at her. She would collect her uniform, and don it with the utmost of care. Pale hands running along the shape of her own body, feeling every last scar, wincing as her fingertips came into contact with the freshest of bruises, still a delightfully deep shade of plum. There were no mirrors, for it mattered not what the Publicas looked like, for they were largely meant to go unseen. The uniform consisted of grey slacks, a grey undershirt and sweater, as the winter months were upon them, it wouldn't do well to have them dying in the streets from the cold. They wore shoes that had been worn day in and out held only together perhaps by the will of the fabric. An amusing thought. Cold fingers did her hair up into a regulation bun, one of precious few sanctioned hair styles for women of her position.

    Once dressed the panic began, the Publicas streamed out of their dwellings into the narrow streets of the Mare. Dilapidated buildings all around them, streets filled to the brim with filth, the stench even worse out in the open air, which was surprising, to most who found themselves here for one reason or another. Each body grabbing their assigned grey coat as they made their way out, from here the march to the train platforms began. There was a singular train in the morning for all, regardless of when your work actually began. If one missed the train, the punishment would be severe and swift. With her head peered down to the ground she moved with the mass, not exactly in a rush, she knew she would make it. The commuter rail car itself was new. They piled in to each of the cars, forming four lines where they each stood, hands stretched upward, to hold onto a metal loop for stability. They were not to speak, not to move, simply balance themselves as they were hurdled down the tracks toward their destination. Stop Number 9, this was reserved for the use of the Publicas, it connected to a web of abandoned tunnels which in turn connected to the streets above. Right above their heads walked the Civitas and the Perfectas, without a care in the world or a wandering thought to way lay beneath their feet.

    It wasn't long then, a short walk for her to the home of her masters, the Perfectas family who she served beck and call. Entering the large home through alley ways and side doors. The woman found herself seated now, in something of a dark, makeshift mud room where she could hang her coat. Her designation emblazoned in the top right corner of the sweater for all to see "MJRN-870" or just "870" as she was less affectionately known. Sitting on a wooden bench she would have to place coverings over her threadbare shoes, mustn't dirty the floor. She sat in silence, not daring much else as footsteps came, she recognized the gait all too well. The Perfectas would not see her, would not speak to her to issue her commands, instead the Civitas who ran their house did. He was an unkind man, and with his entry she rose to attention, looking down at the floor, she waited then.

    "You'll be needed late today, 870. Clean up after the party." The voice was not particularly cruel, nor was it particularly kind, and in that moment the young woman slipped, allowing a simple, sarcastic "great..." to escape her lips, and in that instant she realized what she had done. The strike to her side was quick, heavy, and knocked the air from her lungs, casting her down as if smote by God to her knees where she struggled to regain composure. She could hear the tip of the cane come to rest against the floor. Of course the old bastard had to carry a cane, while looking down she could feel her eyes roll, thankfully unseen. "Great indeed, 870. Let's go. Much to be done today." She rose to her feet and followed in silence.
    Last edited by Hannelorian; 09-02-2021 at 03:20 PM. Reason: Adding more/practice
    Thanks to Hayabusa/Ryoku for the set.

  2. #2
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    That is...really good. Intimidatingly so. Gives me a lot of cues to follow on, though. I'll try to work on my sheet when I'm feeling coherent, and I'll post and edit as it comes together, but it might take a few days to get it done. Just....expect a sedate pace is all.

    I'm thinking the primary sheet just being a heavily-redacted inmate file, and then a collection of letters written by the man himself. Don't take anything from my PM as canon quite yet, just the broad strokes.


    Spoiler: Favorite Quotes(Changed Monthly) 



    Damonique and Natora, Joshua and Jessica, over a million words strong and the story goes on and on and on.....

  3. #3
    The Grey Lady
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    Please don't be intimidated. That is exactly the opposite of anything I may have been hoping for. I am not looking for perfection not now, not ever, really. Not from you, nor from myself. Come at this being as you, as you can. Character sheets aren't the whole story, things will grow and change and evolve as the story progresses. We just need enough to get started. That said, take the time you need, but please do not add any extra pressure on my account. Let's just have fun with it.
    Thanks to Hayabusa/Ryoku for the set.

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