Saviors of Chemorus
Lord Governor Rogal Phlintte, in an ostentatious gold and red velvet chair, sits staring at the eight remaining documents on his desk. Just under two months ago, a perfectly neat pile of almost two hundred candidate profiles lay upon the dark, polished wood surface. Now the eight that remain, are scattered in a seemingly unorganized fashion.
His fingertips dance on the edges of his drinking glass, as he contemplates this turn of events, musing over the eight individuals who beat out the rest and would be receiving the final stages of transformation.
His tired eyes dart over the information again and again, soaking it all in. He whispers to himself,
“Ptolemy… medic core… underhandedness… cartels… 26… brilliant….sociopathic tendencies…. winged skull….monster.”
Phlintte takes a deep breath, leans back with his glass in hand looking toward the vaulted, painted ceiling above him. Before rising to his feet, he takes a final sip of his liquor, setting down the glass, the ice tapping against the sides.
Leaving the documents open on his desk, he walks away from them without a second thought. As he walks through the large room toward the massive set of doors, the echoes of his footsteps echo loudly off the walls.
The five of you sit in a bright white room. There are no windows, but a sealed door to either side of you and cameras in the high corners. Nothing is bound, not your hands, or your feet. You can move freely, but all of you are exhausted and sore beyond words.
Several weeks ago, the same thing happened to each of you. Whether you were by yourself or with your military groups, you were each taken aside by a group of men you had never met before. They had no insignia upon their person that could be recognized, but they showed you insane looking documents with the Lord Governor’s seal. They said you had been selected, and did not need to say that you had no choice in the matter.
Since then you have gone through all manner of physical and psychiatric evaluations, tests, and experiments. You have been pushed to your limits countless times. You have gathered only bits of information such as the words ‘savior project’ and that you will be changed, your past lost and forgotten. Some of the examiners have suggested forgetting your past here and now, others have suggested thinking on it as much as possible because it will be gone soon and to use it to help you get through these trials. Not knowing the end means to these tests have made them all the more difficult for you to complete. The only other thing you know is your number, and the fact that at least a hundred others had been in this place at the start of it all.
Your numbers… each of you have it on the chest and shoulders of your white clothes. Jackson Ayers with 051. Ptolemy Kraas with 128. Nicholas Jozwik with 272. Alaric Tiranus with 013. And finally, Eisen Strab Von kerg with 111.
You sit on blank metal benches. There are three others here with you. One of them is asleep, hunched over with his shoulder pressed into the wall. The other two sit furthest from the group, and seem to have some kind of connection with each other. One of them has bright red hair, and is similar in design to Ptolemy, except for his face which seems to hold something much more serious. The other has no hair on his head whatsoever, not even eyebrows. His eyes are a deep, disconcerting yellow.
This is the first time you have been in a room with eachother. You have all been told you are ready for the final stages of the project. For all you know, this may be the last time you get to talk to someone.
(For those of you newer to rpthreads, feel free to describe any of the events I mention above. I think creating the scene of the men coming to you and telling you of your selection would be a good one, for example. Other than that, it is of course up to you whether or not your character decides to speak to anyone. Remember, you may PM each other as usual if you want to hash out a dialogue or anything.)
You can never be prepared for the unexpected