Alora DeVeau

Congratulations everyone!!!

Heartbreaking and yet hopeful at the same time. Beautiful!

Congratulations, everyone! We're grateful for all y'all do for this game and community!

Congratulations to all the winners, and here's to many more years at SB118!

Congratulations everyone, well done!

Welcome to the fold!

Congratulations everyone! Whoowhoo!

((Promenade, Miranda VII, Early 2378)) What had drawn Nestira Aristren to the Trinity Sector and surrounding areas was the fact that it had remained relatively untouched by the devastation of the Dominion War, which made it the preferred location for anyone trying to get away from haunting memories and remaining obligations. And while the Klingons and Federation were focussed on rebuilding, there were several smaller and larger groups that benefited immensely from the lack of regulation that opened up creative ways to trade and seek entertainment. The Rodulan found observing these customs a worthwhile passtime, but despite having been on Miranda VII for several months, never partook in either, and with each passing day, she grew more desolate. She was lonely. She wanted to interact with the different species that called the spacedock their home or came here for business, but had quickly learned that blending in was far more difficult than it seemed. She couldn’t quite understand why that was, she only knew that it… was. There was a Trojan class I spacedock closeby - Starbase 118 - that Nestira considered visiting, hoping for the officers to be a little more accepting. But not now. For now, Nestira was content to simply observe and try to figure out what to do next. Tucked away in a quiet corner of a not-so-quiet establishment she kept her eyes fixed on the beverage in front of her, and on blocking out the vibrant minds of the people who had come here to relax, celebrate, or simply grab something to eat. Anethra was on Miranda VII for one reason. To seek out new pieces of art. One didn't open a gallery with nothing to show in it. The war had not been kind to her trade, and in fact many people had been hoarding various pieces of art, secured away in vaults all over the quadrant. War was not good for business. But the war was over. And the Ferengi had another saying; Peace was good for business. Anethra certainly hoped that was the case. For now though she was hungry, and hunger overrode pretty much every other desire. So the Rekarian had made her way to a mostly full eatery on the Promenade. It was noisy and there wasn't much seating, so when she found an empty seat at an otherwise occupied booth she decided to simply ask to sit. Anethra: Is this seat taken? The Rodulan looked up in something that was supposed to convey surprise, but in reality looked like her staring the woman down, wondering what species that one might be. Vulcan? But Vulcans all had the same haircut, and this one did not conform. Interesting. Anethra stared back at the dark-eyed woman in front of her, waiting for an answer. She couldn't say she was enjoying the gaze she was under, but again, hunger overrode most things, so she waited still. Nestira, who had fixed her gaze on the woman, returned her attention to the mug in front of her. Or rather, she sensed her discomfort and decided to alleviate it by simply looking away. As she responded, her tone was flat and unanimated. Aristren: This seat is empty. Silence spread between the two women, and Nestira realized a split second too late that she should probably say something more. The telepathic undercurrent of her statement relayed interest and an invitation to join her, but of course the Vulcan-eque female was unable to perceive it. Perhaps, Nestira considered, she should ask a question in return to show interest. She just wasn’t sure what. Anethra in the meanwhile glossed over the fact that it wasn't a yes or a no. She shrugged, choosing to sit anyway. If the woman hadn't wanted her there, she would have just said so. Once a waiter had provided food and drink, she turned her attention to the Rodulan woman on the other side of the table. Anethra: So what brings you to Miranda VII? Aristren: Visiting. ::there was a long and somewhat awkward pause as Nestira convinced herself to ask a question of her own, and then had to think about what to ask the stranger:: Is there something wrong about being here? While the woman considered her response, Anethra took a bite of her food, savoring it. Anethra: Nothing wrong, just don't normally see a Rodulan so far from home. It makes such an encounter unique… Rodulans were indeed rare - many did not want to leave Basul Rodul. Which in turn meant that many other species weren’t even aware they existed, which explained why Nestira struggled to blend in. Aristren: I decided to travel. ::pause, then a sudden raising of her eyebrows as she finally thought of a question to ask in return:: Do you travel? Anethra: I do. :: She chewed for a moment, then continued after swallowing. :: Quite often in fact. This was going well. A lot better than most of Nestira’s other encounters. She was pleased, deciding to take a leap of faith and trust the woman with her name. Aristren: You can call me Nestira. Anethra: I am Anethra. Anethra observed the beautiful woman in front of her. A curious sight on a station full of curious sights. Aristren: What do you do here? Anethra: I travel for many things, to see new places. Meet new people. For business and pleasure. :: She paused. :: Currently, I do so for business. Aristren: What kind of business is it you do? Now that she had started to ask questions, she was getting the hang of it, and she quickly realized that asking them was not considered intrusive. At least not in this setting. It seemed Anethra enjoyed talking about herself. Anethra: I am an art dealer. Looking for pieces to go into a gallery I intend to open one day soon. The Rodulan’s face seemed to light up at that - or at least she no longer motionlessly stared at the other woman. Aristren: My mother is an artist. Her paintings have been shown in galleries for a long time, and I am very proud of her. My sister was like her, I am more like my father, but perhaps in the future I can learn to create something so expressive. ::pause:: But she paints differently now, my mother. And my sister does not at all. The words came quickly and with an inflection that seemed …. off. But it was the most she had spoken for quite some time, which was reason enough to forgive the overload on personal information and context that had not been requested. Anethra: A shame… I've found most of the pieces that have come out of Basal Rodul to be incredibly beautiful. Nestira could sense that there was something more to the statement, but after a few minor telepathic incidents, she had grown increasingly careful and almost distrustful of her senses. And so she decided on another question instead. Aristren: You like our art? Anethra nodded, taking a sip of her drink. Anethra: I especially like the basotile sculptures that I've had the pleasure of viewing. The Rodulan nodded. Basotile was an integral part of her culture, and the sculptures crafted from it were deeply personal items that were said to contain part of one's soul. Amongst their own kind, those pieces were gifted to each other, and returned when a relationship changed or a bond broke apart. Many possessed personal pieces of basotile, and Nestira was not an exception. Aristren: I have one. You can look at it if you want. But I am not an artist. Anethra’s eyes widened slightly. She nodded enthusiastically. Anethra: I would very much like to see it, yes. For a moment, Nestira was hesitant. She did not usually showcase something so personal to a stranger, but in many ways she was starved for social contact, and Anethra seemed.. nice. Anethra: Shall we go somewhere a bit more private? Aristren: We can go to my quarters. The quarters I… rented. Anethra: Sounds good. ((Nestira’s so-called ‘quarters’, Miranda VII, Early 2378)) Calling Nestira’s home ‘quarters’ was perhaps a little too generous. She had rented a small room in a larger apartment, and that room fit not much more than a bed and a desk. There were a few possessions strewn about, but it quickly became clear that she did not, in fact, own much. Anethra: Its very…. cozy. Anethra hadn't expected much. The Cardassian designed space station did not provide much in the way of amenities. Even her own quarters were not much. Aristren: I am … not sure I will stay long. It's very complicated. Living here. Here, on Miranda VII. Here, away from home. Anethra: How so? Aristren: I am not yet sure how things work. Anethra: Ah, I understand. :: She nodded. :: I found it similarly hard when I first started out… That was interesting to Nestira. Her own species valued and understood progression and development - but also had several centuries to do so. Other species had a much shorter lifespan and her assumption was that they were simply born with a skillset that lasted them for the entirety of their existence. Aristren: When was that? Anethra: Many decades ago by now… it took time to figure out the best ways to blend in… and just what I could get away with. Another aspect that was interesting to the Rodulan. She enjoyed being apart from the group, but she did notice how detrimental it was to finding a footing in this new environment. Blending in seemed like an appealing skill to have. Aristren: You look and seem just like anyone else here. Which was her way of affirming that Anethra was, in fact, blending in. Anethra: As I grew older… I stopped caring so much… Nestira was unsure how to reply to that, and simply opted not to reply. Instead, she made her way to the desk, where her travel-crate was sitting. Opening it, its contents were revealed, and they were …. not much - largely clothes. Clothes which seemed to cushion the sculpture settled in the middle. While light-reflecting glass was popular on Basul-Rodul, the variety of basoltile that Nestira had chosen for herself was ivory in color and its sharp edges had something tribal, almost feral about them. Anethra’s eyes widened slightly taking in all the various facets of the ivory coloured sculpture. It was unique, though pretty much every Basotile she had seen was, but most of the ones she had seen were much more flowing in contrast to the one in front of her now, with its sharp edges and comparatively muted ivory colour. Anethra: Wonderful. Simply wonderful. :: She looked to Nestira. :: How long did it take you to create? Aristren: It takes a very long time to make something like it. I practise a few hours every day. Because she did not have anything else to do. She hadn’t made any friends here, and she spent far more time alone in this room than she cared to admit. Anethra nodded slightly. Anethra: You said you weren't an artist, but you sell yourself short. Aristren: I disagree. She gestured to the sculpture. Anethra: I know many who would desire such a thing, simply for its unique beauty. Curious, but understandable. Aristren: I have found people desire a lot of things. And she had no intention of gifting her basotile sculpture to someone else. Because that was what she assumed was meant. Anethra knew the significance basotile held to Rodulans. She nodded slightly. Anethra: That is true… have you ever considered selling it, however? The Rodulan frowned deeply and pressed her lips into a thin line - an expression she had seen on others, and was now trying for herself . Sell it? That seemed like an utterly alien concept to her. Aristren: I did not know someone would want to buy it. Anethra: As you just pointed out, people desire a lot of things. Most will pay to acquire what they desire. That gave her pause. She had hoped to find some kind of work to do, but with her current adjustment issues, that was… difficult. And eventually she would run out of funds and have to return home, much earlier than she was planning to. Anethra: If you plan on travelling for long, having latinum to spend will be an unfortunate necessity. Aristren: Do you know people who would want to buy it? Anethra nodded again, considering for a moment just who might make the right buyer. Anethra: Yes, I think I know just the right buyer for such a sculpture. A collector who can appreciate its elegance and beauty. She nodded. She had seen those people who visited Miranda VII to conduct business, and who showcased their wealth with intricate jewellery and costly looking dresses and robes. Part of her had liked what she saw. Aristren: And can you show me to appear like them? You said you learned, I want to learn too. But I don’t want it to take me a long time. That hadn't been an expected request. Yet it was intriguing. Anethra smiled faintly. Anethra: I can't say how successful I’ll be, but I can try to teach you how to blend in more. Aristren: Good. Anethra: But first– She looked back to the sculpture, then to Nestira. Anethra: You are certain of this? If it is sold, it may not be easy to reacquire, and certainly not for a small sum. After all, one didn't get repeat business by taking advantage of people, and Anethra tried never to do that. Aristren: I am… very uncertain ::she admitted:: Can I think about it first? Anethra: Of course. I will be here for a while yet. There is no rush. Nestira gave a nod. She did not truly want to part with something so precious to her, but the alternative was having to return home because she had failed to blend in and explore the galaxy. And that would turn her promise to Elidi into a lie. The loss of a piece of basoltile was a small price for keeping a promise. END SCENE Lt. Nestira Aristren Strategic Operations Officer Starbase 118 Ops J239809TA4 and PNPC Anethra Wandering Art Dealer as simmed by Lt. Commander Solaris McLaren Director of Intelligence Starbase 118 Ops C239210SM0

This amused me.

Congratulations! Welcome to the fleet!

I had NO idea....LOL

This world NEEDS a goat simulator game now!

@Jalana, that's your cue.

Oo, that's not good coming from an Engineer who can dismantle you!

From the narration of Sill-con: This made me giggle.

That pretty much sums up most missions. 😄

Congratulations and welcome! Glad to have you!

((Private Quarters, Schtroumpf Residence, Vulcan)) The nice thing about being retired, Schtroumpf thought, is that there was no paperwork. Not that he resented important, if trivial, work, when necessary. But after decades of guiding his people through the minutiae of bureaucratic maneuverings that (eventually) resulted in the rebuilding of their society, it was nice to just… do nothing. And he could actually relax these days. He had left the Grand Papastaship in good hands—a former aide who had come into her own during the Great Pulsar Crisis. She was his own hand-picked successor (he had always had a special ability to pick good talent and good help was hard to find), but she had really blossomed in the years that marked the Great Reconstruction and, later, Federation membership. But as much as he loved his people, the former Grand Papasta felt that he had, well, outgrown them. A weird new religion had taken grip of the population and while Seccna Gpft was a decent enough individual (may they rest in peace) many of their zealotous acolytes were… less so. And they seemed to have an unhealthy obsession with cookware. Furthermore, the Gelf were not, by in-large, interested in exploring the grand beyond of space. Perhaps these younger generations, relatively speaking, were a little weary of it after the space-borne disaster of yesteryear. But Schtroumpf had felt the call. The call of the stars had been spurred by his first encounter with the aliens and then, later, by the process of joining the Federation. After his Papastaship he had joined the diplomatic corps for a spell and traveled to many distant planets, but even that was part of a former career now. In his retirement, he had taken up residence on Vulcan. He didn’t tell many people this, but he still held out hope that he would again meet the captain of that vessel who had first come to save his people. He stopped actively looking decades ago, after his loud inquiries into Starfleet records had earned him a visit from agents of a new group called “the Department of Temporal Investigation.” He gave up actively looking, but still discreetly, made inquiries here and there to friends. Which was how he got his latest tip. Parappa was still (or again) at the embassy on Earth and had just sent him a most intriguing communique. It was almost too good of a lead to be true. But at last there was a Comodore V’Airu that fit the profile of that woman he had met over a century ago (Earth time). Daring to hope again, he drafted a subspace message: To Commodore V’Airu of the Starship ‘Oumuamua, greetings. I am Schtroumpf, formerly Grand Papasta of Gelf. I have searched in vain for the first Vulcan captain whose crew were so instrumental in my people’s salvation, but have been disappointed for many years. The second Vulcan captain of the same ship was of no help in this matter. But if, through some accident of time or twist of fate you are she, I would very much like to convey my lasting gratitude again to you and your first officer Greaves for your role in giving us hope when there was little of it to be found. Because of your example, I pushed my people to join with the Federation. And while Gelf has not made as much of a contribution as I might have wished, I am proud that we are upstanding members of the galactic community. You may be interested to know that Gelf served as a place of refuge during the Dominion War While I doubt we saved as many lives as Starfleet did during the Great Pulsar Crisis, I am grateful that we were able to, in some small part, pay back the contribution and grace that was once so richly extended to us. I hope our people may yet again, prove as instrumental in saving others as we were saved. If possible, I would like to meet you again, in person. If you are who I think you may be, we have much to catch up on. I am retired now and have the luxury of time and space and would be happy to meet you in any location. I have retained my chef and would love to share again some mushroom tea and crumpets. Regards, Schtroumpf of Gelf With eager expectations, Schtroumpf programmed the address his former aide had found for him and hit “send.” [End Scene] -- Schtroumpf Former Grand Papasta of Gelf Vulcan O239910AP4

((Shared Quarters, Deck 8, USS-’Oumuamua)) Herrick had finished pasting the poster against the top of his bunk. Since he had the bottom bunk, it would only be visible to him… unless someone decided to snoop inside it. His first couple days had been jam-packed. He took off his shirt and looked over his back in the mirror. Tracing the back of his spine was a dark red scar, which he assumed would turn white over time. He knew, without a doubt, that he would never forget his first day on the ‘Oumuamua for better or for worse. Turning the mirror off, he bent over and eased into his cot. Movements were getting easier but there were moments where he could tell his body still wanted him to take it easy. The awards ceremony was going to start shortly, but he had enough time to record a promised message. Herrick: Computer, begin recorded message to my sister and also store a copy as a personal log. Hey, Em. Hope you understand the delay, it wasn’t to build suspense. To say that my commissioned career is off to a great start would probably be the opposite theme to this letter. To give you a peek into how things are going, I may have accidentally put the waste reclamation services out of commission for the good part of a day on the lower half of the ship. I heard the turbolift queues were getting a bit out of hand as folks needed to… go. But aside from blowing up a conduit, landing in Sickbay, and a momento for my efforts, I will say the crew here is super approachable. The Commodore is more approachable than her title suggests, the engineering crew is light and easygoing, and my health is in good hands with the med team. The doctor suggested I speak with the local counsellor about my claustrophobia… At first, I tried to not-so-directly reject the idea. But, it’s been gnawing at me. When I used to get in compact spaces, that memory would come back in an instant. You know, the one where you think it’s going to end, the deck lights flashing in the window as the turbolift free falls and you’re not sure if it's going to stop in time or slam into the final deck. But now, when I close my eyes, all I see is that green plasma fire from the explosion I got caught in during maintenance in a Jefferies tube. So… if I decide to see her, I’ll let you know how it goes. I’ll try to keep my next letter brighter, but we always promised to be open with each other. I need to head out to this ceremony they're doing down on Earth, it will be good to mingle with the crew in a location where I have… limited opportunity to create an explosion. Lots of love sis, and may the gods be gracious with your path. They've had some humor on mine. Herrick: End message and send. With that, Josh pulled his dress uniform out. At that moment, he realized he wasn’t quite sure where his old uniform was. Not that he wanted the singed fabric, which likely had pieces of him still attached to it. He made a mental note to get a new duty uniform when he came back up and proceeded to get ready for the exciting event that awaited. --- Ensign Josh Herrick Engineering Officer USS ‘Oumuamua O240005JH3 he/him/his (player/character)

Congrats and welcome! Glad to have y'all!

((Kapitol City, Sannin VII)) There was a distinctly relaxed feel in Kapitol City once the news of the destruction of Terra Prime reached the city’s wary ears. Almost celebratory – almost. But Sannin VII was a bit too jaded to celebrate the defeat of another petty tyrant at the hands of Starfleet. At least openly. That wasn’t to say that mugs were not lifted to Terra Prime’s demise and the opening back up of the tradeways. That was good news for everyone on the planet and it was worth a drink at least. Nacien Rixx, too, was pleased. The drama of the Trinity Sector had played out, with a few highlights along the way. Not in the least was the crossed paths with the time travelers, which was perhaps the catalyst for many things. The brush with the chaotic tachyon energy opened his mind for a moment to the vast realm of possibilities. Futures that could be, would be and would never be. It made him think about the future once again, instead of wallowing in the ennui of a too-long life lived in exile from his people. A life that started to see the people around him like ants in a farm that he could shape and mold for his entertainment. Which was lonely. He had long since disassociated from any meaningful relationships and taken the backseat role of a puppet master. Never really backing one side or the other, merely moving pieces to see how things played out. Sure, with each move someone was hurt. That was the way of things. When something gained, something else lost. But with a future one started to think of personal paths. And a personal path required some sort of connection to others beyond the role of the chess master. It was a terrifying thought. To become connected to someone or something again. But, as in all the things he did – it was go big or go home. And on StarBase 118, he connected, briefly, to the minds of thousands of people. A distraction. A momentary hold. And then he released them and there was chaos. And he rode the wave. It was the most invigorating thing he could remember doing in the past fifty years. All those minds. All those fragile little possibilities and fears and delusions of grandeur. He had expected them to be dull and laughable, and yet they were so full of fire and brightness. And for the first time he realized that these tiny little transient things were not a tiny low pinprick of light that quietly burns out of sight and mind, but instead tiny little transient bonfires, each flaring with hopes and dreams before getting snuffed out by the march of time. It was mere coincidence that me met another exile of his own species soon afterwards. But it reinforced the decision to consider if he had a path for the future, and if so what that path was. And now he craved that presence. He wasn’t ready for a connection yet. But he enjoyed the presence of someone else like him. And so he had left a suggestion, buried in their conversations to come back. He hoped she had unraveled it consciously or unconsciously. And then there she was. He could sense her as she landed and drifted his way towards her. Rixx: ~Well, as the small folks say, fancy meeting you here.~ There was a quick of humor to the thoughts. Familiar thoughts and a familiar presence, even though his appearance had changed from a rugged, muscular human freighter pilot into something that felt more natural for him. A slender man with dark hair, clean shaven, unassuming. Rixx: I wonder, did you come here for a meeting? That sounded like a typical greeting on Sannin VII. Aristren: I will leave that open for your interpretation. Interpretations were vast and varied. There was a heaviness to her thoughts. Clearly what happened on Miranda VII was dangerous. Nacien Rixx had, for a long time, not given much thought to danger. Because he hadn’t given any thought to the future. He had an exceedingly long life, doomed to spend it all cut off from his homeworld and everything he desired. So each new day was just another mark in the endless slog of time. But now that he was starting to think about the future, the concept of danger became more tangible. Rixx: That is always a dangerous prospect. Never let someone else define your actions for you. His dark eyes twinkled a little. Aristren: Perhaps these are my investigative skills. Perhaps it is fate. I am certain it is not the former, so it must be the latter. Fate. A concept Rixx had put very little stock into in the last few hundred years. He believed that his own hand could control worlds – and if applied right it could. But that was a rather selfish point of view that did not take in any sort of wider scope. There were always things that happened outside of one’s machinations or control. Rixx: Perhaps it is a bit of both. Aristren: ? He looked around the busy square – he was sure she could sense the relaxation of the general population. The almost but not quite celebratory nature of the day, the genial feelings resting under the placid pink sky. Rixx: It is hot, you look parched. Perhaps you will join me for a beverage? Or perhaps to go somewhere quieter. With fewer eyes. Aristren: ? Rixx: I do know a place. He started through the crowds, past the embassy district and into the commercial center that was adjacent to the embassies. It was filled with nice, quiet establishments that catered to diplomats and business people. Places where private conversations were the norm. Arsitren: ? Rixx: One of the perks of an independent trade town is that everyone wants to do business in a quiet secluded place. And the businesses want to cater to that, because latinum makes the world turn. Aristren: ? He gestured to a side street and filled in the details telepathically. There was a place that catered to sweets and teas, a place that catered to fine cocktails, a place that catered to bracing breakfast beverages and savory cakes, and a place that was eclectic and just catered to people who wanted an interesting place to be left alone. All of them had private conversation spaces. Rixx: Take your pick. Aristren: ? ~*~ tags/tbc ~*~ pNPC Nacien Alasafor Rixx Rodulan Puppeteer Unaligned

From the narration of Trovek Arys: Because nothing says romance like murder.

From the narration of Ishreth Dal: Which one is worse?

This gave me a chuckle.

Welcome! Glad to have you!