Post by Annasiel on Aug 24, 2015 19:34:34 GMT
Name: Sirin
Species: Pismire
Gender: Asexual
Rank: Civilian
Occupation: Battlefield Surgeon
Age: 30 years by Earth’s standards, 4 years by Modus’s.
Weight: 413lbs
Height: 6’3”
Statistics
Intelligence - Superior
Dexterity - Above Average
Strength - Above Average
Constitution - Below Average
Charisma - Inferior
Wisdom - Inferior
Anatomy
The main trunk of a Pismire itself is an amorphous, androgynous, sluglike blob. This, arguably, is the actual alien, while all else is merely accoutrement. The body is coated in a follicular viscous membrane, through which modified serous glands keep the being relatively moisturized. Arid environments tend to dry up this outer tunic, causing extreme discomfort for the Pismire. Exposure to fire or water retentive molecules for extended periods of time may even cause death by dehydration. Underneath this outer membrane lies a less flexible layer of epithelium. This is how the Pismire communicate; vibrating this middle membrane is able to mimic the sound of human speech. Finally, there is an interior membrane, again viscous, to protect the visceral organs of the creature.
Pismire senses are a different matter than humans. Their eyes are attuned to a higher frequency, viewing the world through a spectrum of infrared light. They are extremely sensitive to touch and sound, and can be easily disabled by pain. Smell is nonexistent to these beings, as is taste.
The Pismire interior varies from being to being. The entire species is highly engineered, formed at birth to fulfill a certain role in society. As such, certain glands and organs might be present in one member of the species, but not in the other. Sirin, in particular, possesses a unique gland that ties into its immune and cardiovascular systems. Hijacking the cell’s normal ribosomal functioning, Sirin can create and adapt proteins to solve intended purposes. This includes, but is not limited to, painkillers, antibiotics, antidotes, poisons, and other functions. Many of these processes are made use of through special secretory enzymes. Another special gland resides near its digestive tract. This organ is used to form the fibers fed through its stitching apparatus.
Pismire physiology makes hydration a must, while eating is placed on a lesser tier. On average, Sirin needs to drink 1 to 2 gallons of fluid a day to stay healthy, while it only needs to ingest around 1,000 calories. Excessive use of Sirin's synthetic glands will inevitably increase the need for caloric intake, but on average, without food, Sirin will die within a couple of months. Without water, Sirin will die within a day or two. This makes finding fluids the top priority for Pismire survival. Oxygen is also important, though the species’ method of taking it in is different than our own. The Pismire literally breathe with their skin, absorbing oxygen from the air and enriching the pulmonary nodes in the outer membrane. This blood is then pumped back to the heart for redistribution.
Perhaps the prime achievement of Pismire society is the mechanical chassis underneath. This machine gives a weak and vulnerable species their strength. Tying directly into the nervous system, the chassis has six legs that can bend at multiple joints. The motion of these legs is almost insectoid, perhaps giving these creatures their name. Various trade tools and equipment are attached to the legs, aiding the creatures in their pursuits. A list of Sirin's is included below. Every Pismire is given a chassis at birth, and the structure has become essential to life in their society.
Attachments
Graspers - At the end of each leg, Sirin has a tiny claw. These are necessary for traction, fine motor control, and anything else requiring opposable clenching. They have the ability to close, rotate, and open, with enough strength to break a bone.
Stitching Apparatus - Present on Sirin’s right superior leg, this is an adaption to the grasper of that appendage. Using a biologically synthesized thread, Sirin can sew shut gashes and lesions with high speed and accuracy.
Hypodermic Syringe - This attachment, on Sirin’s left superior leg, ties directly into its cardiovascular system. Using this, enzymes and other proteins manufactured inside its gelatinous main body can be injected into other beings.
Circular Saw - Sirin sports this tool on its right thoracic leg. While its purpose is mainly medical, for the intent of performing vivisections and collecting samples, it has the power to cut through most metals and stones.
Combat Ability
When Sirin was born, combat readiness was the last thing its engineers had in mind. The Pismire society has its warriors and soldiers, and is a decent force on the battlefield. Sirin, however, is not one of these warriors. Its greatest boon in an actual fight would be its speed and its medical knowledge. Preferably, the battle would be ended with a quick and painless injection to the base of the enemy's skull. If this is ineffective, however, Sirin is ready to resort to whatever matters to protect innocent life. The terms of the Hippocratic oath, though they go by a different name, seem almost a universal constant among those of the medical field. Sirin was trained from a young age to help those in need, regardless of creed or allegiance, albeit with much bickering.
Biography
A wind blew in from the airy east, rattling the old airwalks in the industrial district. Two Pismire walked along the narrow paths, their legs clanking against the rusty metal. Some great event was on the horizon. In the distance, massive towers dressed in fins and pipes stood, releasing steam into the gusty air. At the top of each stood a tiny vessel, adorned with four jets. Rocket boosters, and their ships, ready to launch.
“The colonization is ahead of schedule,” rumbled one of the beings, “we will catch the Chanticleer by surprise.”
The other Pismire merely glanced up at the starry sky, the red planet of Chantus a distant orb. Two twin globes, trapped in an eternal dance. A shame the dance had to lead to such violence. Both races, the Pismire and the Chanticleer, had become crude and militant in their ways. It was true the latter were the more ruthless, and thusly held the upper hand, yet both had their thirst for blood. It didn’t have to be this way. The first being took his comrade’s silence for boredom.
“A new batch of warriors were hatched in the marsh, today,” it said, changing the subject to something more colloquial.
“Hmmm,” the other replied, “to what avail?”
“Damn it, Sirin. I understand your views on the war, but this pessimism is getting on my nerves. We can win this. I know it.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t work in the medical ward. How can you know how the battle is turning, blasting away at rock? You haven’t seen all the dead, the dying, their families…” Sirin almost choked at the end. This whole situation had been dragging it down for the past year, and its frustration was reaching a climax. Too many had died. This desperate initiative, this scrambled flight to the nearest habitable worlds just to keep the race alive... was appalling. Sirin despised the dishonest path, which this most definitely seemed. They might as well die trying to fix the mess they had made. And yet, here Sirin was, fleeing with the rest of them. It sighed, the whole of his medial membrane buzzing softly.
“I think the only thing we have left is to hope. To hope this war somehow dies before the Chanticleer find us. To hope we don’t spread this conflict across the entire galaxy,” Sirin said solemnly to his miner compatriot. The friend gave an incredulous cackle.
“Just get in the ship, you pessimistic nitwit,” it said after laughing, tapping Sirin’s left superior leg with its own. The surgeon accepted the sign of respect, though they knew it had been done in jest. Still Sirin had known Dolka for most of their life, and knew they meant well. They were friends, after all. With a few last words, Sirin climbed the steps that lined one of the massive towers. The life it knew was soon to change.
---
Sirin awoke in a nutrient bath to a blaring siren. It climbed from the basin, still groggy from the suspended animation, and stared blankly at the other confused, tired Pismire. Something was going wrong. Though it knew little of spacecraft, suspended animation was to last the entire voyage. Therefore, it was not too farfetched to assume catastrophic failure, failure the computers and software couldn’t correct, was the culprit.
“What’s happening…?” it mumbled, a dull ache throbbing under its skin.
“Engine failure. The luxon emitter might be malfunctioning, hopefully not the tachyon main drive. Both are bad,” the resident technician replied. Hory, was its name.
“How bad?”
“You know ions? Radiation? Imagine that blasting all over the ship.”
Sirin shuddered. The Chanticleer had dirty weapons, and the surgeon had treated radiation burns before. They were not a pretty sight. It scurried to a porthole, trying to see the engines, but they were hidden by the body of the ship. Hory was scanning over the logs, looking grim.
“It appears we are almost at our destination.”
“Why’s that an issue?” Sirin replied.
“The engines were bad for the past few weeks. We haven’t been decelerating. We’re still at near FTL.”
“Can you stop it?” one of the others asked with a stern expression. Hory’s claspers flew over the controls with the speed and precision of an expert, yet the grim face never laxed.
“I asked, can you stop it?” the Pismire repeated. Sirin recognized them now. Forlis, the mission quartermaster.
“I don’t know. The atmosphere is rapidly approaching. We’re going to…”
With a earthshaking thump, the ship blasted through the exosphere and into the thermosphere. Hory was thrown into the controls with a crack, and the other creatures flew around the room uncontrollably. A high pitched whine rattled the hull, as titanium and aluminum were worn away by friction.
To the watchers in Etirath below, a shooting star flew down from the heavens. Some may have thought it a queer phenomena, others as the falling Wormwood. To all the crew, it might as well have been a doomsday sign. The tiny vessel impacted the ground at Mach 3. Trees were uprooted, dirt filled the air, and a sonic blast tore through the forest. The ship had landed.
Species: Pismire
Gender: Asexual
Rank: Civilian
Occupation: Battlefield Surgeon
Age: 30 years by Earth’s standards, 4 years by Modus’s.
Weight: 413lbs
Height: 6’3”
Statistics
Intelligence - Superior
Dexterity - Above Average
Strength - Above Average
Constitution - Below Average
Charisma - Inferior
Wisdom - Inferior
Anatomy
The main trunk of a Pismire itself is an amorphous, androgynous, sluglike blob. This, arguably, is the actual alien, while all else is merely accoutrement. The body is coated in a follicular viscous membrane, through which modified serous glands keep the being relatively moisturized. Arid environments tend to dry up this outer tunic, causing extreme discomfort for the Pismire. Exposure to fire or water retentive molecules for extended periods of time may even cause death by dehydration. Underneath this outer membrane lies a less flexible layer of epithelium. This is how the Pismire communicate; vibrating this middle membrane is able to mimic the sound of human speech. Finally, there is an interior membrane, again viscous, to protect the visceral organs of the creature.
Pismire senses are a different matter than humans. Their eyes are attuned to a higher frequency, viewing the world through a spectrum of infrared light. They are extremely sensitive to touch and sound, and can be easily disabled by pain. Smell is nonexistent to these beings, as is taste.
The Pismire interior varies from being to being. The entire species is highly engineered, formed at birth to fulfill a certain role in society. As such, certain glands and organs might be present in one member of the species, but not in the other. Sirin, in particular, possesses a unique gland that ties into its immune and cardiovascular systems. Hijacking the cell’s normal ribosomal functioning, Sirin can create and adapt proteins to solve intended purposes. This includes, but is not limited to, painkillers, antibiotics, antidotes, poisons, and other functions. Many of these processes are made use of through special secretory enzymes. Another special gland resides near its digestive tract. This organ is used to form the fibers fed through its stitching apparatus.
Pismire physiology makes hydration a must, while eating is placed on a lesser tier. On average, Sirin needs to drink 1 to 2 gallons of fluid a day to stay healthy, while it only needs to ingest around 1,000 calories. Excessive use of Sirin's synthetic glands will inevitably increase the need for caloric intake, but on average, without food, Sirin will die within a couple of months. Without water, Sirin will die within a day or two. This makes finding fluids the top priority for Pismire survival. Oxygen is also important, though the species’ method of taking it in is different than our own. The Pismire literally breathe with their skin, absorbing oxygen from the air and enriching the pulmonary nodes in the outer membrane. This blood is then pumped back to the heart for redistribution.
Perhaps the prime achievement of Pismire society is the mechanical chassis underneath. This machine gives a weak and vulnerable species their strength. Tying directly into the nervous system, the chassis has six legs that can bend at multiple joints. The motion of these legs is almost insectoid, perhaps giving these creatures their name. Various trade tools and equipment are attached to the legs, aiding the creatures in their pursuits. A list of Sirin's is included below. Every Pismire is given a chassis at birth, and the structure has become essential to life in their society.
Attachments
Graspers - At the end of each leg, Sirin has a tiny claw. These are necessary for traction, fine motor control, and anything else requiring opposable clenching. They have the ability to close, rotate, and open, with enough strength to break a bone.
Stitching Apparatus - Present on Sirin’s right superior leg, this is an adaption to the grasper of that appendage. Using a biologically synthesized thread, Sirin can sew shut gashes and lesions with high speed and accuracy.
Hypodermic Syringe - This attachment, on Sirin’s left superior leg, ties directly into its cardiovascular system. Using this, enzymes and other proteins manufactured inside its gelatinous main body can be injected into other beings.
Circular Saw - Sirin sports this tool on its right thoracic leg. While its purpose is mainly medical, for the intent of performing vivisections and collecting samples, it has the power to cut through most metals and stones.
Combat Ability
When Sirin was born, combat readiness was the last thing its engineers had in mind. The Pismire society has its warriors and soldiers, and is a decent force on the battlefield. Sirin, however, is not one of these warriors. Its greatest boon in an actual fight would be its speed and its medical knowledge. Preferably, the battle would be ended with a quick and painless injection to the base of the enemy's skull. If this is ineffective, however, Sirin is ready to resort to whatever matters to protect innocent life. The terms of the Hippocratic oath, though they go by a different name, seem almost a universal constant among those of the medical field. Sirin was trained from a young age to help those in need, regardless of creed or allegiance, albeit with much bickering.
Biography
A wind blew in from the airy east, rattling the old airwalks in the industrial district. Two Pismire walked along the narrow paths, their legs clanking against the rusty metal. Some great event was on the horizon. In the distance, massive towers dressed in fins and pipes stood, releasing steam into the gusty air. At the top of each stood a tiny vessel, adorned with four jets. Rocket boosters, and their ships, ready to launch.
“The colonization is ahead of schedule,” rumbled one of the beings, “we will catch the Chanticleer by surprise.”
The other Pismire merely glanced up at the starry sky, the red planet of Chantus a distant orb. Two twin globes, trapped in an eternal dance. A shame the dance had to lead to such violence. Both races, the Pismire and the Chanticleer, had become crude and militant in their ways. It was true the latter were the more ruthless, and thusly held the upper hand, yet both had their thirst for blood. It didn’t have to be this way. The first being took his comrade’s silence for boredom.
“A new batch of warriors were hatched in the marsh, today,” it said, changing the subject to something more colloquial.
“Hmmm,” the other replied, “to what avail?”
“Damn it, Sirin. I understand your views on the war, but this pessimism is getting on my nerves. We can win this. I know it.”
“No, you don’t. You don’t work in the medical ward. How can you know how the battle is turning, blasting away at rock? You haven’t seen all the dead, the dying, their families…” Sirin almost choked at the end. This whole situation had been dragging it down for the past year, and its frustration was reaching a climax. Too many had died. This desperate initiative, this scrambled flight to the nearest habitable worlds just to keep the race alive... was appalling. Sirin despised the dishonest path, which this most definitely seemed. They might as well die trying to fix the mess they had made. And yet, here Sirin was, fleeing with the rest of them. It sighed, the whole of his medial membrane buzzing softly.
“I think the only thing we have left is to hope. To hope this war somehow dies before the Chanticleer find us. To hope we don’t spread this conflict across the entire galaxy,” Sirin said solemnly to his miner compatriot. The friend gave an incredulous cackle.
“Just get in the ship, you pessimistic nitwit,” it said after laughing, tapping Sirin’s left superior leg with its own. The surgeon accepted the sign of respect, though they knew it had been done in jest. Still Sirin had known Dolka for most of their life, and knew they meant well. They were friends, after all. With a few last words, Sirin climbed the steps that lined one of the massive towers. The life it knew was soon to change.
---
Sirin awoke in a nutrient bath to a blaring siren. It climbed from the basin, still groggy from the suspended animation, and stared blankly at the other confused, tired Pismire. Something was going wrong. Though it knew little of spacecraft, suspended animation was to last the entire voyage. Therefore, it was not too farfetched to assume catastrophic failure, failure the computers and software couldn’t correct, was the culprit.
“What’s happening…?” it mumbled, a dull ache throbbing under its skin.
“Engine failure. The luxon emitter might be malfunctioning, hopefully not the tachyon main drive. Both are bad,” the resident technician replied. Hory, was its name.
“How bad?”
“You know ions? Radiation? Imagine that blasting all over the ship.”
Sirin shuddered. The Chanticleer had dirty weapons, and the surgeon had treated radiation burns before. They were not a pretty sight. It scurried to a porthole, trying to see the engines, but they were hidden by the body of the ship. Hory was scanning over the logs, looking grim.
“It appears we are almost at our destination.”
“Why’s that an issue?” Sirin replied.
“The engines were bad for the past few weeks. We haven’t been decelerating. We’re still at near FTL.”
“Can you stop it?” one of the others asked with a stern expression. Hory’s claspers flew over the controls with the speed and precision of an expert, yet the grim face never laxed.
“I asked, can you stop it?” the Pismire repeated. Sirin recognized them now. Forlis, the mission quartermaster.
“I don’t know. The atmosphere is rapidly approaching. We’re going to…”
With a earthshaking thump, the ship blasted through the exosphere and into the thermosphere. Hory was thrown into the controls with a crack, and the other creatures flew around the room uncontrollably. A high pitched whine rattled the hull, as titanium and aluminum were worn away by friction.
To the watchers in Etirath below, a shooting star flew down from the heavens. Some may have thought it a queer phenomena, others as the falling Wormwood. To all the crew, it might as well have been a doomsday sign. The tiny vessel impacted the ground at Mach 3. Trees were uprooted, dirt filled the air, and a sonic blast tore through the forest. The ship had landed.