Anitar
Well-known member
Seven faction-based units have designer's notes, but no official cards of any kind.
Seven flashes of inspiration have enlightened me as to what they might be able to do.
Seven cards... seems like a perfectly doable amount.
So, this is what I've got. Feedback is welcome, particularly pertaining to the point values... I haven't exactly put them through rigorous testing so far.
From the Clockwork Combine: Air Marshal Zed Nesbitt, daredevil, sharpshooter, and master of rapid (re)deployment. He can also ram you with his dirigible, and make Tuck Harrigan playable without the use of bears.
From the Dryan Lifeborne Order: Ewashia, Mistress of Tides, tentacle-riddled magus who uses water for offense and defense alike, and can extend that boost to her familiar.
Onshu the Welkineye, much-anticipated funky little friend whose magic eyes open up some strange and varied new tactical options.
Girushia, Grove Keeper, strikingly resilient thorn in your side who makes would-be assailants choose between slowing to a crawl or getting skewered.
And Vrono the Brambletoth, incarnation of pain and anguish sinking its sharp brambles into opponents and itself alike to pierce through the thickest of armors.
From the Nemesis War Brood, the Oathbound Phalanx and Oathbound Legionnaires, shock troops rapidly switching between formations whenever the situation demands in order to deliver either a series of scattered strikes or a single focused one.
Alternative project names: "Seven Stars Falling","Fill in the Blanks", "It Is Broke, So I'll Fix It!"
====================================
EDIT - Dec 3 - ...And here's a second batch! We didn't get as much info about the stretch goal Heroes, but a fair bit of what we've seen in SotM still carries over.
Evil Raelin: The Spear of Gerda, as ever, is enchanted to keep Raelin's allies safe. Of course, it has become a twisted, wicked thing just like its wielder; rather than bolstering defenses or blocking attacks, it now burns away at the vigor of those who dare to stand in her path.
Shiori: Years of training, years of war, and a worthy cause have refined Shiori's skills to a sublime level, combining the fine techniques of the ninja with the ambient magical energies of Valhalla to perform feats beyond the realm of any Earth-bound human.
Q11: A bleeding-edge new model, summoned by Vydar before his construction was complete and filled in with repaired material from fallen Soulborgs. This veritable one-man arsenal deals death with more weapons than anyone else can hope to wield, only to inexplicably rush forward and push a fellow combatant out of the way of incoming attacks-- even his own.
Sonlen: When you hear of "dragon veins", what do you think of? Paths of mystical energies coursing through the world? Stones said to transform or eject whatever ails you? [ame="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vein"]Or merely the lifeblood of a literal dragon[/ame]? Whatever the case, this dragon's spellwork has come to weaponize them, bringing and forestalling death in equal measure while Sonlen-- as ever, unchanged by the years-- takes command.
Sgt. Drake Alexander: HEROES NEVER DIE!
====================================
Edit - Dec 19 - Seems I couldn't help myself. Have some more.
Jarkol the ice troll raises his hammer high as he charges into the thick of battle at the behest of his Dryan master. Revna's crawling hordes break before his might, each bug unfortunate enough to come within an arm's length being quickly reduced to a puddle. And yet amidst the chaos, one winged witch calmly saunters toward Jarkol, without an ounce of fear.
Just before he can crush her, however, the witch vanishes in a flash of white light. Suddenly, Jarkol's body spins around and drives his hammer through the ranks of his allies. He fights against this strange influence, striking down one more enemy before he's forced to deal a decisive blow to his own master.
The Dryan forces quickly break and flee, leaving Jarkol behind in a haze of fear and confusion until the witch reappears before his eyes.
"Oh, you poor fool," she croons. "No more friends, no more guidance, nobody you can trust to take you back. Allow me to solve your little... predicament."
As the witch vanishes once again, Jarkol finds his legs driving him inexorably forward, into a deep, deep ravine.
...
The witch, Misaerx, surveys the scene of the bloodbath she's created. The troll's bones made for a wonderful host while they lasted. Perhaps she doesn't have to be done with them just yet, she muses, adding more and more new pieces to her macabre ensemble.
Battered. Beaten. Broken. That's all Qhyrion was after the accident that nearly tore her wings off entirely, or so everyone claimed. With neither flight nor magic of her own, she was branded a pariah and coldly cast aside.
But Vydar knew better. He saw in Qhyrion something that his other subjects lacked, something of value, and personally gave her shelter. She couldn't figure out why; her eye for detail was so focused that it was good for little more than nitpicking, her aptitude for melee combat was useless against her airborne peers; and her quick wit seemed to never quite be quick enough.
Everything started making more sense when the war began, when troops were summoned from other worlds, when Vydar's court was filled with marvels of technology. Qhyrion took it upon herself to learn how the machines of Earth and Alpha Prime worked—through careful observation, in lieu of an official rank that would let her interrogate those in the know. Battle after battle, she watched the symphony of steel and electricity impose itself upon the world, and salvaged whatever scrap was left behind when the armies moved on.
Today, she stands a proud warrior of Anund. Clad in ablative armor of her own design, equipped with an electromagnetic force inductor installed in her spear, and most importantly of all, bearing a pair of devices unlike any she's seen elsewhere—bestowing much-needed structure and strength to her damaged wings. She's reclaimed all that she's lost and more, through her own merit and determination.
At long last, Qhyrion takes to the sky once again!
A paragon among heroes, the champion of champions, Xiamara has safeguarded the people of her native Haukeland since well before the onset of the war. Constantly updating her arsenal throughout the years, taking up new and powerful equipment forged by the mighty Volarak as befits the situation, she now bears the Periapt of Negation. With one swing of its attached chain, the Periapt locks itself onto the neck of the enemy, silencing whatever array of diverse abilities they may have brought to bear in battle. Only a command word spoken by Xiamara will unlock the chain, recalling it to her hand to be used again and again on new foes.
Watch. Wait. Reposition. Listen. Hide! Feel. Move closer. Draw your weapon. Wait. Wait... And strike! The rhythm of the hunt is a thing of beauty, one which Glinerva of the Moon Tribe plays like a true virtuoso. With the Mask of Quillivon, she spurs her allies onward into the perfect position, ready to pounce on the most unsuspecting of enemies. Glinerva herself joins them in their battle as well, armed for melee and ranged combat alike with a crescent-tipped polearm unknown to all but her own people.
Volarak's most advanced creation yet calls upon the power of a singularity—a black hole. Space warps until every direction leads straight toward the center of the disturbance, where Mielki, the Guardian of the East, holds her ground. Enemy shots clatter against her enchanted armor to little avail, no matter where they were aimed. So long as Mielki still has the strength to stand defiant against the relentless onslaught, she'll never let her allies come to any harm.
A tribesman trembles in the deep forest, all alone, in the dead of night. He reloads his gun, swiveling about to find where the enemy may have been hidden, only to be floored by a blow from behind. Collapsing to the ground, he looks up to see the face of a wild stag, bones piercing through its skin as its eyes drip rivulets of blood. The gruesome beast lowers its antlers and charges...
A water elemental is stranded. The desert sun is sweltering hot, and its beloved marshlands are nowhere to be seen. There's no shelter to take, no path to safety. Even the sands reject its attempt to sink into them. Its body starts to bubble, as it can do nothing but stand around and boil alive...
An elementar erodes away under the unrelenting sands of time...
A quasatch is trapped in a forest fire...
A dwarf is stuck in a cave-in. The mines collapsed all around him, and he barely has enough room to breathe, let alone move... But he refuses to be afraid. If this is his day to meet his maker, then so be it, but his spirit will not be so easily broken!
The illusory nightmare shatters around him. Corpses of friend and foe alike scatter the landscape, their faces locked in silent screams. Still standing before him is the accursed Kilkorax, looking over all the dead and dying and drinking deeply of their suffering.
"Still one left?" she asks, more curious than anything. "Trivial." Drawing all of the residual fear in the area into the tip of her spear, she drives it straight through the dwarf's heart. He perishes before he hits the ground, leaving Kilkorax all alone to bask in her vile handiwork.
Loviatäk is weary.
The attack came at the break of dawn, and hasn't let up since. Humans upon humans, marching in lockstep formation under yellow-and-purple banners, are squaring off with all the kyrie Minions her meager estate could muster—and she's the one expected to take command, to give orders that can somehow be heard over the din of battle.
"Come to us, o heroes," she mutters, reciting from her family's oath. "Come, and die."
But this is a battle of attrition that her forces can't hope to win. Humans are dying, sure, but nowhere near fast enough. Even if her Minions are as relentless as they're supposed to be, they'll succumb to exhaustion before the dust settles.
Loviatäk descends from her rooftop vantage point to join up with her forces. She holds her gleaming axe aloft as she calls upon its magic. "From steel and strength, to ash and blood... Dye these fields a single red. This is no battlefield... only a slaughterhouse."
Her half-hearted incantation gets the job done, and the Minions surge with a new vigor, throwing caution to the wind as they claim lives with brutal efficiency—heedless to the loss of their own lives in exchange. The humans, too, grow strong and reckless; and both sides are dying off quickly. Too quickly.
Loviatäk sighs, cursing her misfortune. As her forces dwindle, she's forced into the front lines herself. She wasn't prepared for this. She feels a stabbing pain, and lashes out toward its source, splitting a human soldier in two.
Just as her life seems to be forfeit, she hears a lion's roar resounding from over the hill. She's held out for long enough, and reinforcements have arrived. This time, she's going to live to die another day.
Loviatäk sighs, cursing her misfortune.
Seven flashes of inspiration have enlightened me as to what they might be able to do.
Seven cards... seems like a perfectly doable amount.
So, this is what I've got. Feedback is welcome, particularly pertaining to the point values... I haven't exactly put them through rigorous testing so far.
From the Clockwork Combine: Air Marshal Zed Nesbitt, daredevil, sharpshooter, and master of rapid (re)deployment. He can also ram you with his dirigible, and make Tuck Harrigan playable without the use of bears.
From the Dryan Lifeborne Order: Ewashia, Mistress of Tides, tentacle-riddled magus who uses water for offense and defense alike, and can extend that boost to her familiar.
Onshu the Welkineye, much-anticipated funky little friend whose magic eyes open up some strange and varied new tactical options.
Girushia, Grove Keeper, strikingly resilient thorn in your side who makes would-be assailants choose between slowing to a crawl or getting skewered.
And Vrono the Brambletoth, incarnation of pain and anguish sinking its sharp brambles into opponents and itself alike to pierce through the thickest of armors.
From the Nemesis War Brood, the Oathbound Phalanx and Oathbound Legionnaires, shock troops rapidly switching between formations whenever the situation demands in order to deliver either a series of scattered strikes or a single focused one.
Alternative project names: "Seven Stars Falling","Fill in the Blanks", "It Is Broke, So I'll Fix It!"
====================================
EDIT - Dec 3 - ...And here's a second batch! We didn't get as much info about the stretch goal Heroes, but a fair bit of what we've seen in SotM still carries over.
Evil Raelin: The Spear of Gerda, as ever, is enchanted to keep Raelin's allies safe. Of course, it has become a twisted, wicked thing just like its wielder; rather than bolstering defenses or blocking attacks, it now burns away at the vigor of those who dare to stand in her path.
Shiori: Years of training, years of war, and a worthy cause have refined Shiori's skills to a sublime level, combining the fine techniques of the ninja with the ambient magical energies of Valhalla to perform feats beyond the realm of any Earth-bound human.
Q11: A bleeding-edge new model, summoned by Vydar before his construction was complete and filled in with repaired material from fallen Soulborgs. This veritable one-man arsenal deals death with more weapons than anyone else can hope to wield, only to inexplicably rush forward and push a fellow combatant out of the way of incoming attacks-- even his own.
Sonlen: When you hear of "dragon veins", what do you think of? Paths of mystical energies coursing through the world? Stones said to transform or eject whatever ails you? [ame="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vein"]Or merely the lifeblood of a literal dragon[/ame]? Whatever the case, this dragon's spellwork has come to weaponize them, bringing and forestalling death in equal measure while Sonlen-- as ever, unchanged by the years-- takes command.
Sgt. Drake Alexander: HEROES NEVER DIE!
====================================
Edit - Dec 19 - Seems I couldn't help myself. Have some more.
Jarkol the ice troll raises his hammer high as he charges into the thick of battle at the behest of his Dryan master. Revna's crawling hordes break before his might, each bug unfortunate enough to come within an arm's length being quickly reduced to a puddle. And yet amidst the chaos, one winged witch calmly saunters toward Jarkol, without an ounce of fear.
Just before he can crush her, however, the witch vanishes in a flash of white light. Suddenly, Jarkol's body spins around and drives his hammer through the ranks of his allies. He fights against this strange influence, striking down one more enemy before he's forced to deal a decisive blow to his own master.
The Dryan forces quickly break and flee, leaving Jarkol behind in a haze of fear and confusion until the witch reappears before his eyes.
"Oh, you poor fool," she croons. "No more friends, no more guidance, nobody you can trust to take you back. Allow me to solve your little... predicament."
As the witch vanishes once again, Jarkol finds his legs driving him inexorably forward, into a deep, deep ravine.
...
The witch, Misaerx, surveys the scene of the bloodbath she's created. The troll's bones made for a wonderful host while they lasted. Perhaps she doesn't have to be done with them just yet, she muses, adding more and more new pieces to her macabre ensemble.
Battered. Beaten. Broken. That's all Qhyrion was after the accident that nearly tore her wings off entirely, or so everyone claimed. With neither flight nor magic of her own, she was branded a pariah and coldly cast aside.
But Vydar knew better. He saw in Qhyrion something that his other subjects lacked, something of value, and personally gave her shelter. She couldn't figure out why; her eye for detail was so focused that it was good for little more than nitpicking, her aptitude for melee combat was useless against her airborne peers; and her quick wit seemed to never quite be quick enough.
Everything started making more sense when the war began, when troops were summoned from other worlds, when Vydar's court was filled with marvels of technology. Qhyrion took it upon herself to learn how the machines of Earth and Alpha Prime worked—through careful observation, in lieu of an official rank that would let her interrogate those in the know. Battle after battle, she watched the symphony of steel and electricity impose itself upon the world, and salvaged whatever scrap was left behind when the armies moved on.
Today, she stands a proud warrior of Anund. Clad in ablative armor of her own design, equipped with an electromagnetic force inductor installed in her spear, and most importantly of all, bearing a pair of devices unlike any she's seen elsewhere—bestowing much-needed structure and strength to her damaged wings. She's reclaimed all that she's lost and more, through her own merit and determination.
At long last, Qhyrion takes to the sky once again!
A paragon among heroes, the champion of champions, Xiamara has safeguarded the people of her native Haukeland since well before the onset of the war. Constantly updating her arsenal throughout the years, taking up new and powerful equipment forged by the mighty Volarak as befits the situation, she now bears the Periapt of Negation. With one swing of its attached chain, the Periapt locks itself onto the neck of the enemy, silencing whatever array of diverse abilities they may have brought to bear in battle. Only a command word spoken by Xiamara will unlock the chain, recalling it to her hand to be used again and again on new foes.
Watch. Wait. Reposition. Listen. Hide! Feel. Move closer. Draw your weapon. Wait. Wait... And strike! The rhythm of the hunt is a thing of beauty, one which Glinerva of the Moon Tribe plays like a true virtuoso. With the Mask of Quillivon, she spurs her allies onward into the perfect position, ready to pounce on the most unsuspecting of enemies. Glinerva herself joins them in their battle as well, armed for melee and ranged combat alike with a crescent-tipped polearm unknown to all but her own people.
Volarak's most advanced creation yet calls upon the power of a singularity—a black hole. Space warps until every direction leads straight toward the center of the disturbance, where Mielki, the Guardian of the East, holds her ground. Enemy shots clatter against her enchanted armor to little avail, no matter where they were aimed. So long as Mielki still has the strength to stand defiant against the relentless onslaught, she'll never let her allies come to any harm.
A tribesman trembles in the deep forest, all alone, in the dead of night. He reloads his gun, swiveling about to find where the enemy may have been hidden, only to be floored by a blow from behind. Collapsing to the ground, he looks up to see the face of a wild stag, bones piercing through its skin as its eyes drip rivulets of blood. The gruesome beast lowers its antlers and charges...
A water elemental is stranded. The desert sun is sweltering hot, and its beloved marshlands are nowhere to be seen. There's no shelter to take, no path to safety. Even the sands reject its attempt to sink into them. Its body starts to bubble, as it can do nothing but stand around and boil alive...
An elementar erodes away under the unrelenting sands of time...
A quasatch is trapped in a forest fire...
A dwarf is stuck in a cave-in. The mines collapsed all around him, and he barely has enough room to breathe, let alone move... But he refuses to be afraid. If this is his day to meet his maker, then so be it, but his spirit will not be so easily broken!
The illusory nightmare shatters around him. Corpses of friend and foe alike scatter the landscape, their faces locked in silent screams. Still standing before him is the accursed Kilkorax, looking over all the dead and dying and drinking deeply of their suffering.
"Still one left?" she asks, more curious than anything. "Trivial." Drawing all of the residual fear in the area into the tip of her spear, she drives it straight through the dwarf's heart. He perishes before he hits the ground, leaving Kilkorax all alone to bask in her vile handiwork.
Loviatäk is weary.
The attack came at the break of dawn, and hasn't let up since. Humans upon humans, marching in lockstep formation under yellow-and-purple banners, are squaring off with all the kyrie Minions her meager estate could muster—and she's the one expected to take command, to give orders that can somehow be heard over the din of battle.
"Come to us, o heroes," she mutters, reciting from her family's oath. "Come, and die."
But this is a battle of attrition that her forces can't hope to win. Humans are dying, sure, but nowhere near fast enough. Even if her Minions are as relentless as they're supposed to be, they'll succumb to exhaustion before the dust settles.
Loviatäk descends from her rooftop vantage point to join up with her forces. She holds her gleaming axe aloft as she calls upon its magic. "From steel and strength, to ash and blood... Dye these fields a single red. This is no battlefield... only a slaughterhouse."
Her half-hearted incantation gets the job done, and the Minions surge with a new vigor, throwing caution to the wind as they claim lives with brutal efficiency—heedless to the loss of their own lives in exchange. The humans, too, grow strong and reckless; and both sides are dying off quickly. Too quickly.
Loviatäk sighs, cursing her misfortune. As her forces dwindle, she's forced into the front lines herself. She wasn't prepared for this. She feels a stabbing pain, and lashes out toward its source, splitting a human soldier in two.
Just as her life seems to be forfeit, she hears a lion's roar resounding from over the hill. She's held out for long enough, and reinforcements have arrived. This time, she's going to live to die another day.
Loviatäk sighs, cursing her misfortune.
Last edited:
I haven't played any video games in many years. But the best of the early ones were often based on the knowledge of real multicultural myths and beliefs. Seems like they still are.
YIKES!!!
