The Futuristic and Fantastic

Het jaar is 2123.

Klimaatopwarming, kernoorlogen, en het stijgen van de zeespiegel hebben het aanschijn van de wereld drastig veranderd. Ook Gent ontsprong de dans niet. Maar een Gentenaar blijft niet bij de pakken zitten. Ook niet als het water aan de lippen staat.

Grenzend aan de Noordzee, omringd door het vijandige Groot-Antwerpen en de radioactieve Brusselse Hellekrater was leeft deze fiere stadsstaat verder als het nieuwe Venetië. Drijvende bakfietsen, veerboten en deel-stelten, ophaalbruggen en stijgers verbinden de verschillende buurten en eilanden met elkaar.

Maar niet iedereen trekt aan hetzelfde zeil.

Terwijl de rijken zich spiegelen aan het roemruchte Middeleeuwse verleden van de stad en dit trots tentoonspreiden in hun klederdracht en woonsten, schrapen de allerarmen een bestaan bijeen met wat er te vinden valt in de waterzooi, door eb en vloed aangespoeld modderig sediment, hun kleren en huizen een lappendeken van afval en inventief hergebruikte materialen.

En intussen werken de Acadimedici in de ivoren toren naarstig verder, ongebonden experimenterend op wezens en planten van de zee…

Dit is FUTURE9000. Welkom thuis.

The year is M42.077.

Two decades ago, the Xenos came to Neomunda. After a brief but bloody conflict, the T’au and their Xenos auxiliaries conquered the planet and subjugated the survivors. Neomunda is now known as Nyo’munda, the ‘Enveloped world’.

As part of a grand resettlement strategy, the population was relocated to a linked sprawl of rapidly modernizing hive cities. There they find themselves at the mercy of opportunistic crime syndicates, profiteering trade cartels and the collaborationist planetary government.

Readily available pharmaceuticals, cheap entertainment and an oppressive surveillance system ensure compliance to the Greater Good, the Tau’Va.

Meanwhile, in the Zone of Exclusion, refugees and resistance fighters eke out a precarious existence amongst desolate and overgrown ruins, clinging to their old Imperial ways. Declared non-citizens, they are subject to extermination and experimentation by Xenos, human collaborators and their mechanical creations alike.

Welcome to NYO’MUNDA. Where do you stand?

No God’s Land

No God’s Land was a collaborative setting written with other creators during the pandemic. The lifting of lockdown restrictions meant the lore book was never finished. It did inspire a lot of creations however, which can be enjoyed under the #nogodsland40k tag on Instagram.

Harken me well, young one.

Since time immemorial, our world knew unchanging balance and order. Hardworking peasants, pious priests and chivalrous knights toiled according to their station, faithfully paying their tithes. Until one fateful day saw the opening of the  Great Trench in the Sky, swallowing the celestial castle from which our King-of-Kings had ruled for countless generations.

Cut off from the Heavenly Empire and with our hierarchy beheaded, the feudal pyramid began to topple like a house of cards. Noble families turned on one another and the Church split into countless cults. Industrious artisans tinkered with forbidden technologies and desperate farmers turned to pagan worship.

War erupted, upending the old order and heralding a time of cultural upheaval and destructive technological progress.

That was centuries  ago. The landscape has been forever scarred. Trenches crisscross the countryside, muddy fields now plowed by artillery and fertilized by the rotting cadavers of a million martyrs. Chymical mysts and corrosive magyck seep into the crater-stricken ground, twisting woodland creatures and us unfortunate souls left to wander this godforsaken land.

Insular city-states cling to what’s left of their entrenched domain, endlessly fighting to feed their war industries with the few resources and arable lands that remain. All in the name of their own rulers, ideologies and saints.  

But we are not the only ones exiled to this godforsaken land. Heretics and deserters cut out fiefdoms of their own, whilst ravenous corpse-eaters lurk in the mining tunnels below. And mind your step, lest ye wake the undead and find yourself caught in their razor wire snare.

The blowing of the whistle heralds my tale must stop.

Fix your bayonet.

It’s time to go over the top.