← Lore
Orbital life is tough. The absence of endless plasma, oxygen and water vapor to siphon from the atmosphere combined with the harshness of space leads to cramped habitats, low lifespans and bitter dispositions. The royal logistics fleets come bearing plasma and other supplies, sure, but it’s always too little and too infrequent. Even with all of this in mind, the Orbitals have endured, and even prospered to a limited degree.
Mining the belt, handling the constant buildup of lung and machine rending dust as well as the general fragility of space stations has made the people inhabiting the ring into a steely-eyed and competent society. Their stations now house a proper culture, hardship being the catalyst to a shared identity as it has been numerous times through human history.
It did not take long for contemptuous attitudes to arise, taking the comparatively safe and sound cloudmen to be incompetent buffoons. The sentiments soon became mutual, and soon enough most contact was reduced to just the bare minimum of trade that both sides needed to survive. Compliance to the crown is, these days, just lip service to not force the regent’s hand into a painful, costly and catastrophic war.
That being said, this could not go on forever. Neo-alchymie, the miraculous new technology being pioneered down in the clouds, threatens to reduce the kingdom’s reliance on orbital imports, paving the way to a choke-out. Many asteroid miners, fearing this is to come, abandoned their already uncomfortable life in orbit in favor of living within the gas giant.
There were, however, those who didn’t wish to go quietly into the good night. The spark to this tinderbox was the excommunication of a knightly order. Fleeing Saturn to the safety of the belts, warrior looked upon miner and saw each other as kin. The plans were finalised instantly: Vlastislav must fall, replaced by a more competent, more worthy and more fitting replacement. One that will make the cloudmen remember who toils in the dark so they may live their comfortable lives.
A candidate was soon found. King Bohumil, sovereign of the ring belts, now all but explicitly rules over the Orbitals. The Syndicate, his clandestine armed forces, poke and prod the kingdom just enough so it doesn’t boil over. Even with all of this newfound, temporary success, Bohumil knows the writing is on the wall. His siphon-craft work tirelessly to steal as much gas for his strategic reserves and his scientists fight valiantly to maintain a technological parity, but soon the hand will be forced and an apocalyptic war will soon decide the fate of Saturn.