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The developers of WildStar give detailed information on player housing

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The developers of WildStar give detailed information on player housing, new level 40 zones, gameplay styles, and more

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I need more fleeties excited to play this with me later this year when it launches... so watch the trailer and get ready to blast off for Nexus!!

I'm definitely playing a Reman first. I want my life narrated by Obisek.

Brandon said it best in chat tonight:

:

Rei'nhaihhon or Imperial Stonewall gets my vote. In Romulan of course.

But now that I re-read it, that interpretation doesn't make any sense.

I guess we'll know everything in a couple of months.

You know, we had been assuming that KDF will be finished, since it says you can start at Level 1. but I'm thinking this may only be true if you're a Romulan/Reman playing in the KDF at Level 1.

I like Rai'nheihonn (sp?) myself.

I kind of favor Tal Stonewall but I could live with Tal Dera!

Nor do I expect it to have such an impact.

But it is interesting in terms of how the Church and the Papacy may handle future challenges. This new pope is by no means an ally, and reviews from gay catholics on this pope is decidedly mixed, but the simple fact that this particular pope is not rabidly anti-gay like Ratzinger or his predecessor is a signal that, at least for practical reasons, this bunch of old, hidebound men realize that they have a few problems they need to address.

By any sane measure you would think that a Cardinal that advocated gay civil unions to his own bishops (for whatever reason) would not have stood a chance in hell of being elected. But here we are at that point in history.

Will Francis advocate for same-sex marriage? No. His advocacy of civil unions was to counter President Cristina Fernandez's strong advocacy for same-sex marriage (his bishops outvoted him by a wide margin, btw).

Will he advocate for the ordination of women? Unlikely.

Will he address the artificiality of the prohibition of priests marrying and having families (Mostly to address the chronic shortage of parish priests)?: Perhaps.

Did I think we would actually be debating these matters realistically post papal election? No. I expected another theological hard liner, not a pastoral priest.

Will it change my personal conduct among my friends and loved ones? No.

It only impacts my scholarly interest, which is compartmented away from my personal life.

~JC

Chapter XI: Chaotic Patterns

The lighting on the terrace was provided only by a row of traditional Klingon braziers that hung from the arches above. As Semil stepped out onto the terrace, he noticed the bright lights and towers of the First City, miniaturized by distance on the horizon. Out here in the city's hinterlands, the dense, expansive jungles of Qo'nos reached up the hillside slope. In the glow of moonlight and faint flicker of the firelight, he could see vines and creepers snaking and twisting their way up to the terrace railing and the arches above.

It was an impressive sight, though Semil could not help but think that any attempt at escape would be within a few dozen kilometers of the densest population of Klingons in the galaxy. It would have given him pause, if he had actually felt any such compulsion to race out into the Klingon night.

There were reports from undercover agents on the Klingon homeworld he had read through, while on assignment in the Alpha Quadrant. Holorecordings from Founders and various other embedded operatives, telling of the deservedly fearsome reputation of the vicious wildlife that continued to stalk the jungles of even modern Qo'nos.

The details of those reports were the furthest thing from his mind. The dossiers and briefings mentioned nothing of the heady, fetid smell - damp and overripe, that plunged through the nighttime darkness, lingering in the nostrils well after he exhaled.

He could feel an electric vibration - an aura that seemed to emanate from the silver-tinted rustle of the jungle canopy, as a cool breeze filtered through the leaves. It was the wavelength of life on the planet he felt. The dense undergrowth up to the treetops, teeming with biota, softly chirping and sqawking with alien fauna.

He turned back to the terrace, still sensing himself alone. It was curiously overdecorated, per the usually brutalist Klingon standards. Tapestries and throws and objets d'art from alien worlds he didn't recognize, but were surely not Klingon. There was a baroque sensibility to the collection of mismatched furnishings - perhaps numerous untold stories behind each he may never know. Semil thought it strange, though perfectly symmetric with the muted cacophony of wildlife he could feel from the jungles below.

Lost in thought, even his Vorta hearing failed to notice the stealthy approach of the Klingon into the room behind him. "I trust your journey here was not uncomfortable." The voice was raspy and strained, as Semil turned to face it.

An elderly - nay, decrepit Klingon male sat in a wheeled chair. Not one of the modern technological marvels preferred by the bleeding-heart Federation types, but a rustic - if not rusted, antiquated wheelchair. The man had numerous tubes running from the corners of his mouth, his nose - every conceivable orifice that was visible. And a few more that were not entirely conceivable.

"The General, I presume." Semil bowed his head graciously, relying on decades' worth of borrowed memories of ambassadorial work.

"That is an old title, for an even older Klingon." The elderly Klingon chuckled to himself with no small exertion. "K'vot chooses to pretend certain things remain true, even if they are not."

Semil looked up from his bow, visibly confused. "Then...?"

"My name is unimportant." The old man dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "But you -- you, my boy, are what we are here to discuss." He made an effort to gesture towards Semil, a bony, gnarled finger making a sign more like a sickle than a point.

Gestured closer by the old man, Semil could more carefully appraise his host, taking a few steps closer. The Klingon was deeply and heavily scarred. A few scars ran across his face and brow, possibly explaining the one milky white cataracted eye. He did not wear the pompously bombastic uniform of the Klingon Defense Force, only a humble tunic covered by an ill-fitting bulky sweater of sorts. An assortment of crumbs and stains mottled every piece of clothing the Klingon wore. A throw, not unlike the others strewn about the room, covered what Semil assumed to be the Klingon's useless legs.

"I sense your curiosity. How is it an old warrior such as myself has not performed the Hegh'bat?" The old man raised a wavering eyebrow, one that threatened to totter over and fall at any second. "The wise warrior accepts that some of our most important battles are not fought with guns, or blades, or ships even."

Sensing an indisputable opportunity for tact, Semil smiled hollowly.

"No matter. Again, these are not the questions I imagine you have."

"Why am I here?"

"Directness. A Klingon quality, most certainly. And not one reputed for your people, I'm afraid."

Semil almost began to interrupt, when the Klingon continued on, denying him the opportunity. "Why are any of us here? What purpose is life, and our niche in it? These kinds of metaphysics are hardly questions you pose alone."

Another failed chance to interject passed by, as the Klingon coughed noisily into his tubes. "But you -- you once had an answer to that question, did you not?"

It was an obvious and clearly rhetorical question to Semil. "Of course. I live..." The words stuck in Semil's throat, just beneath the limn of his consciousness. "...I live to serve." Finishing the sentence was more of a struggle than Semil anticipated.

"But who? Who do you serve?" The Klingon again jabbed in Semil's direction with a gnarled finger. "Who do you serve?" Upon repetition, the old man drew the words out, slowly and deliberately. It triggered a vague, distant memory in Semil.

"Tell me, do you know how the Founders engineered servitude in the Vorta? In you?"

Of course, Semil knew. Even though cloning operations and biomimetics was never his specialty - Vorta were responsible for operating the massive cloning foundries that churned out Jem'Hadar, entire battalions at a time. Vorta cloned each other, and even themselves sometimes. With each new generation, an exacting process of quality control assured the stability of Vorta lines. There was even a robust library of modular traits available for some degree of customization - a telekinesis package here, a little enhanced nephrotoxic resistance there. The details were not his forte - that was for other Vorta.

In spite of all this, Semil knew the old Klingon would probably continue on to tell him anyway.

"We discovered some years ago that the Vorta have an engineered olfactory receptor. Your sense of smell. Can you guess what we found?"

Again with the rhetoric.

"This engineered receptor in Vorta is responsive to a pheromone, faintly produced in infinitesimal quantities by one, and only one known species in the whole galaxy."

"The Founders."

"And this olfactory receptor is hardwired into the midbrain of every Vorta. Directly connected to the parts of the Vorta brain that control learning and the most basic and primordial forms of imprinting. Obedience. Submission. Reverence, even."

Semil was beginning to realize that this line of didact had taken a turn.

"And what if I were to tell you that we found a way to alter this engineered receptor?"

Semil choked. He welled up with emotions that he had no name for, had never experienced. Feelings well beyond the scope of his capacity to even imagine.

"Now then." The Klingon began wheeling himself haphazardly in the direction of the door. "The hour is late, and I imagine you must be exhausted from your travel."

Semil's knees buckled slightly, seating him on a wooden settee carved with intricate, chaotic patterns. An out of place relic, undoubtedly from some conquered, forgotten race.

"You might find some food in the pantry, if you're hungry. Some of it might not even be very alive anymore, if that's your taste." The old Klingon dismissively chuckled to himself as he vanished into the darkened interior of the compound.

Alone, Semil drew one of the throws over his shoulder, as he stared out over the stillness of the jungle night, towards the vaporous glow of the city lights.

I can't see this new pope having any impact whatsoever on my conduct, my life, the people around me, the people around the people around me...

Because all of that crew live the 20th century. I don't quite think the catholic church, or most others, for that matter, have nearly caught up.

I just don't see much relevance or impact for anything they do.

I do agree that it should be in Romulan I usedRihansu/Romulan Dictionary for my translation of the Stone {(jorreh -stone (material or surface) nhaih (D)pebble, stone, rock (n)} and wall (honn)

I do like Tal Stonewall don,t get me wrong. D'era is an actual Romulan word. Just my opinion.

Hi ya we've been also talking about this in the Romulan emabassy. We're getting lots of cool names you should join us.

Rei'nhaihhon (Ren-Hi-Hoan) or Imperial Stonewall
Tal jorreh'honn (Tal john-ray-hone)Tal Stonewall
Tal nhaih'honn (Tal Hi-Hoan) Tal Stonewall

My vote is "Tal D'era"


http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/The_Way_of_D%27era

As an ex-codemasters player I am still on the EU servers on Snowbourne so will remain kinless forever :(

Chapter X: An Appointment

Semil awoke, bolting upright in the unfamiliar bunk. He immediately took notice of the smooth, ashen skin on his exposed shoulders. Someone had clearly bathed him after going over him with a dermal regenerator. He swiveled his left shoulder in place; full range of motion, if not a vague, faint soreness. Someone had taken care of that, too.

He looked around the small, darkened room, recognizing nothing. As he stood, the hum of the deckplates gave notice he was clearly on some kind of ship. The high, tinny whine of the subharmonics that only his Vorta ears could pick up indicated it was a smaller vessel, at that. A Bird-of-Prey, perhaps?

There was a mirror over a wash basin, which he stepped towards. The vanity light activated itself, glaring harshly. His pupils contracted painfully, before accomodating - when he could see he had been given a change of clothes, and a haircut. He wore some sort of armored collar, and a sleeveless tunic over fitted leather pants. His hair had been neatly combed to the side.

He turned towards the door. Surely, it must be locked, he thought. As he stepped towards it - it opened, unbidden. Strange.

Stepping out into the corridor, it became clear he was on a Klingon ship. He recognized the dull brown and orange palette from the intelligence files. How all that reading had seemed limetimes ago -- if only that weren't so literal.

He turned his head both ways, no sign of life or activity in either. His ears could tell one direction was the source of the hum, probably towards the engines. He started down the corridor in the opposite - which had to have been towards the bridge.

More blast doors opened for him. It was clear to Semil that he was not a focus of security on whatever ship this was. Though cautious, he had to admit that he had not felt the adrenaline surge, the white-hot clarity of his recent escape attempt. If they were returning him to imprisonment, they were doing a piss-poor job of it. Some other agenda must be afoot.

One last, heavier set of blast doors gave passage, and he recognized the cramped, utilitarian bridge, which he stepped onto.

The Klingons at their duty stations gave him no notice, paid him no heed. From the command chair barked an order, which Semil could understand despite being in Klingon. "Drop the cloak. Signal command for a landing approach."

"Good. You've awoken." K'vot addressed him from the command chair without swiveling around.

Beyond him, on the viewscreen, the crescent of a backlit emerald green orb grew in size. "You're bringing me to Qo'nos. What for?"

"Very good." K'vot smiled to himself that the Vorta's mental faculties were undiminished. "You have an appointment. We mustn't be late." A punctual Klingon - this must be important. "Perhaps you're hungry? You've been asleep for some days. The mess hall has been ordered to stock rippleberries and kava nuts. I trust you can find your way there."

Semil's ears perked slightly at the mention of familiar comforts. "I don't suppose you're inclined to inform me as to what appointment you speak of? Or what I'm doing here at all? Or...?"

K'vot interrupted the Vorta with a raised hand. "All your questions will be answered in due time. Sooner than you suspect, perhaps." The Klingon turned to Semil to address him. "For now, eat. Rest. You're going to need to be your best for the General."

In addition to playing STO, I have been playing LOTRO for several years now on the Silverlode server, but if you are looking for someone to run with in LOTRO let me know.