Legacy of the Horizon – Comprehensive System Summary

I. Galactic Preface — The Year 2374

The Milky Way in 2374 is not a backdrop; it is an organism—arteries of trade and rumor, nerves of diplomacy and war, and a long, imperfect memory that will not let go. At its luminous center rises The Singularity, an ecumenopolis where embassies crowd spires and councils argue the price of peace. From here, edicts ripple outward on comm‑beams and courier sails; from here, histories are curated and contested.

Across the lanes, ships do not merely travel—they translate. The Warp‑Sling Network, first mastered by the Maësúú, stitches distant systems into a single navigable fabric. Passage is instantaneous but never free: capacity, inspections, and fees can bottleneck entire sectors, and the gates themselves keep ledgers of favors and fines. It is miracle and bureaucracy at once—the circulatory system of a civilization.

Beyond the glow of The Singularity, other engines of gravity and will reshape the map. In the galactic core, the Velkaan tend Halo Stations—cathedral‑scale orbitals at singularities and other extreme‑gravity wells—refining dark matter into energy policy that moves fleets and heats cities. A Halo’s quotas and outages are not abstractions; they reroute convoys, shutter factories, and tilt negotiations across multiple systems.

Not every polity chooses consensus. From Nexulis Prime, the Varkått Empire advances with the geometry of inevitability: a void‑faith caste state whose Void Drives disdain shared roads and the laws that govern them. When those banners break horizon, diplomats become mathematicians—calculating costs in ships, in worlds, in shame.

Civilizations do not meet like strangers in a hall; they collide like weather. The An‑Tuarï bring precision and the binding Six Verities into negotiation; the Seklex weigh perfection against profit and call it art; Cee‑Var telepaths count consensus as a resource; Humans test the edge between mortality and continuity, some returning by lawful transfer to finish what they began. Each species arrives with a different answer to the same question: What is worth surviving for?

The galaxy’s physics have social analogues. Power is conserved—shifted from fleet to ledger to treaty. Momentum accumulates—one choice enabling the next. Entropy intrudes—alliances decay without work. Sling tariffs tighten a trade route; a Halo quota changes the winter on a frontier moon; a refugee convoy redistributes allegiance across three sectors. And in the wake of every campaign, the frightened and the brave carry home what they saw—some call that lingering shock the Lost Stars. Maps record borders; people record consequences.

This is the promise of Legacy of the Horizon: no act is discrete. A duel argued by An‑Tuarï logic on Kasïïn might echo years later in a Seklex contract on Valin; a Maësúú archivist’s decision aboard The Monument can tilt whether a Halo opens its ports; a single Varkått rite performed under a black sky can change how a region pronounces the word mercy. The rules that govern bodies and ships—stamina spent, trajectories plotted, morale tested—govern civilizations too. The galaxy, vast as it is, keeps receipts.

You begin here, under crowded stars, in a year where routes are short and grudges are long. Choose a flag or refuse them all. Tend a Halo, raid a convoy, arbitrate a border, chart a blind corridor between broken suns. The Singularity will hear of it. The Slings will adapt to it. The factions will remember it. In this era, every decision changes the shape of tomorrow—because in this galaxy, memory is infrastructure.

The horizon is not a line; it is a ledger. The galaxy remembers.

II. The Living Galaxy

The galaxy of 2374 is an ecosystem—routes, markets, and governments interlocked by infrastructure that remembers who paid, who promised, and who bled. At the center stands The Singularity, an ecumenopolis where councils, guilds, and emissaries negotiate the price of order under a sky of traffic lanes and legal codes. It is the clearinghouse of treaties and the stage where species measure their futures against one another; here, history is not only archived—it is curated.

Movement defines civilization. The Warp‑Sling Network, first mastered by the Maësúú, collapses interstellar distance into navigable corridors—instantaneous, regulated, and monetized. Passage is fast but never frictionless: capacity limits, inspections, and usage fees can bottleneck entire sectors, and the gatekeepers’ ledgers shape who reaches prosperity and who stalls in orbit. When a Sling flags a “non‑critical issue,” a crew might fix it for goodwill; when it declares priority, fleets re‑order around its decision. Travel is logistics, diplomacy, and fortune in a single mechanic.

Energy underwrites power. In the core, the Velkaan maintain Halo Stations—cathedral‑scale orbitals at extreme‑gravity wells—refining dark matter into the energy that powers cities and fleets. A Halo’s quotas and outages aren’t abstractions; they reroute convoys, shutter factories, and tilt negotiations across multiple systems. Halo Station Epsilon is typical: part refinery, part research nexus, and always a political lever.

Regions carry identity as much as geography.

• Nexulis Prime projects the weight of the Varkått Empire—void‑faith, iron caste, and a doctrine that treats annihilation as policy. Their Void Drives bypass common roads and common law, forcing everyone else to plan for uninvited arrival.
• Valin is the workshop of the Seklex, where perfection and profit are the same sentence, and contracts can be as binding as faith.
• Kasïïn, arboreal home of the An‑Tuarï, spans skybridges and orbital harmony; even its architecture models their code of honor and restraint.
• The Monument, the Maësúú dreadnought, is both city and archive—steward of routes and memory.
• The Convergence anchors the Velkaan sphere—precision, diplomacy, and infrastructure braided together.

Economy is a map of constraints. Sling tariffs throttle or accelerate trade; Halo output reprices fuel and policy; and on frontier worlds the gray markets fill every vacuum. In Varkått‑scarred space, the drifting capital of Gravethane Prime hosts The Drift Market, a bazaar of salvaged gravity tech and contraband where a single purchase can violate three jurisdictions and solve one desperate problem.

Cause and effect are continuous. The Galactic Council holds together competing ideals—An‑Tuarï honor, Cee‑Var consensus, Seklex perfection, Maësúú stewardship, Azzek resilience, Human ambition, Velkaan calculus—yet cohesion shifts with every famine, convoy raid, and vote of censure. Hostilities with the Varkått don’t merely redraw borders; they reprice commodities, redirect migration, and destabilize alliances two regions away. Inter‑faction dynamics are the weather system of the setting, and the forecast can change between sessions.

For the Galaxy Master, motion is the craft. Prepare frameworks, not scripts: sketch a sector’s resources, a faction’s motives, and the likely consequences of interference. When players reroute a Sling, undercut a Halo quota, or disgrace a dignitary on The Singularity, propagate the shock—prices, patrols, publicity. Close scenes with immediate outcomes, then note the long‑term ripples you’ll surface later. The world is lawful, not rigid; improvisation lives inside boundaries that make sense.

This is what “living” means in Legacy of the Horizon: infrastructure that reacts, species whose ethics cost something, and a political economy that refuses to let choices evaporate. From here, the great powers step onto the stage—not as monoliths, but as machines of belief and necessity.

III. The Major Powers

The political map of 2374 balances around two gravitational poles: a cooperative bloc that calls itself the Galactic Council, and an empire that rejects the premise of coalition—the Varkått. Between them move independent civilizations and specialist cultures whose craft, logistics, and geography can swing a war without firing a shot. This isn’t a static cold war; it’s a live equilibrium, recalculated whenever a convoy is taxed, a Halo quota shifts, or a treaty fractures.

The Galactic Council (the cooperative powers)

The Council is a continuously renegotiated pact among seven cornerstone civilizations—An‑Tuarï, Cee‑Var, Seklex, Maësúú, Azzek, Velkaan, and Humans—convening on The Singularity to trade short‑term advantage for long‑term stability… when they can manage it. Their different moral grammars collide as often as fleets do, which is the point: politics is a mechanics layer.

• An‑Tuarï. Principled arbiters bound by the Six Verities; they favor mediation and precision, maintain alignment with Cee‑Var and Maësúú, distrust unconstrained automation, and hold a defining animosity toward the Varkått. Their discipline on the field reflects their restraint at the table.
• Cee‑Var. Consensus‑driven telepaths; superb diplomats and logistical harmonizers whose deliberative pace frustrates factions that prize decisive action. Their governance instincts rhyme with An‑Tuarï restraint and Maësúú stewardship.
• Seklex. Perfection as policy; commerce as statecraft. They respect Azzek excellence in zero‑G industry but compete fiercely with Humans over routes, patents, and prestige—an ideological art duel measured in trade volume.
• Maësúú. Navigators of routes and memory—custodians of the Warp‑Sling Network and keepers aboard The Monument—often arbitrating where logistics and history intersect.
• Azzek. Suit‑bound survivors whose modular technology and zero‑G mastery underpin Council infrastructure and deep‑space repair. They make “hostile environment” read like “home field.”
• Velkaan. Halo‑station administrators whose dark‑matter economy turns energy policy into grand strategy; their default posture is precision and stabilization—until pushed.
• Humans. Adaptable, expansionist, and structurally hard to remove from history. Consciousness‑transfer statutes let leaders and legends return, inspiring allies and unsettling rivals.

The Council’s strength is also its weakness: seven futures—honor, consensus, perfection, preservation, survival, precision, ambition—pull at every vote and mobilization. For play, treat these inter‑faction dynamics as levers, not lore. One An‑Tuarï mediation can close a front; one Seklex tariff can open one.

The Varkått Empire (the opposition)

Where the Council bargains, the Varkått declare. Their creed fuses conquest with cosmology: a void‑worshipping caste society (the Krelthar code) that fields singularity‑era weaponry and travels on Void Drives that ignore shared roads—and the laws that govern them. Against the Varkått, you negotiate with inevitability; annihilation is a policy instrument.

Varkått power multiplies through the peoples it subjugates or bends:

• Doma‑Kal: four‑armed warrior clans conscripted as shock troops—honor surviving inside conscription.
• Tromari: amphibious engineers of Loremia, pressed into naval service even as resistance movements flash bioluminescent codes beneath the waves.

On ruined frontiers, Varkått occupation re‑prices commodities, reroutes migration, and corrupts customs law, with ripples felt two regions away.

Independents and non‑aligned powers

Between the poles stand specialist civilizations that convert expertise into leverage:

• Zendari shipwrights, whose fleets make craftsmanship into diplomacy.
• Mycorii hive‑minds, weaponizing entire biomes when provoked.
• Triplasi Septen, custodians of the Invictus Fleet and masters of bastion defense.
• Eleskaar, engineers persevering through civil fracture.
• Aronski, avian scouts and cultural liaisons across uncharted corridors.

Some neutrals are more than footnotes: the Udonla of Filtron—cryo‑artisans and diplomats with auroral cities—anchor a corridor of peace and scholarship. Their councils can host resolutions the Council cannot; their intervention can turn a border into a boundary.

Instruments of leverage

In 2374, power is exercised as often with infrastructure as with fleets. A Halo Station adjusts quotas and fuel prices spike along three lanes; a Warp‑Sling reprioritizes, and an entire planet’s harvest misses market. Council factions lobby for capacity and exemptions; Varkått commanders try to route around—or destroy—the valve. This apparatus is not set dressing; it’s the board you play on.

Patterns of tension (for the Galaxy Master)

Sketch each power by goal → fear → leverage, then collide two and let a third complicate the truce.

• An‑Tuarï: preserve honor → fear corrosion of principle → leverage mediation and elite maneuver.
• Seklex: perfect the work → fear waste and counterfeit → leverage contracts and supply chains.
• Varkått: expand or ossify → fear stagnation → leverage ritualized terror and unshared FTL.

Resolve the scene, then propagate economic and cultural consequences down the line.

Design note for play: “Major power” doesn’t mean monolith; it means enough memory to matter. Alliances in LoTH are promises made in public and kept—or broken—at the speed of infrastructure. Between Council calculus and Varkått doctrine, every independent world must decide what it will trade for tomorrow and what it will refuse even to survive.

IV. The Playable Species

Eight civilizations anchor play in Legacy of the Horizon. Each is a playable philosophy—biology, culture, and mechanics braided into a distinct approach to risk, power, and meaning.

An‑Tuarï — The Six Verities in Motion

Six‑limbed tacticians from Kasïïn, the An‑Tuarï measure victory by precision and restraint. Their cities climb living canopies and extend into orbit on Skybridges, a literal architecture of connection. They employ advanced technology under a cultural brake: AI is a tool, not a replacement for communal judgment. Mechanical identity: quick‑start specialists with superior initiative and fine motor control. Traits emphasize Momentum and stealth/piloting competence; Tentacle Dexterity allows multi‑weapon use without the usual dual‑wield penalties—offset by reduced raw endurance. Play them for tactical superiority without brute force.

Azzek — Suit‑Bound Engineers of the Void

Eyeless survivors encased in adaptive power suits, the Azzek turned catastrophe into craft. In zero‑G docks and asteroid foundries they are second to none, and their modular rigs support millions of viable loadout permutations, from EVA salvage to assault boarding. Mechanical identity: zero‑G dominance, engineering primacy, and hard‑swing gear customization. Expect advantages in hostile environments, rapid refit capability mid‑campaign, and social leverage wherever infrastructure matters.

Cee‑Var — The Symphony of Unity

Telepathic collectivists with a communal digital democracy, the Cee‑Var turn consensus into logistics and diplomacy into infrastructure. They helped found The Singularity, believing that shared thought can scale civilization without erasing selfhood. Mechanical identity: teamwork engines—group synergy, psychic communication, and control options that disorient opponents or amplify allies, especially in diplomacy where motives are half the battle.

Humans — Law of Adaptation

Ambitious, itinerant, and structurally hard to remove from history. A symbiotic cranial implant gives many humans native AI‑interface capability (“AI Speak”), and their societies have legalized consciousness transfer to cloned bodies—continuity by statute and scaffold. The price: a trade of reflex for breadth. Mechanical identity: generalists with continuity mechanics. Humans take –2 Initiative but gain post‑mortem transfer: on death, roll against Max Grit and Life Support to determine if consciousness reboots in a prepared clone; jammers, implant damage, or destroyed remains can hard‑fail the transfer. Improvisation, jury‑rigging, and narrative persistence are their hallmark.

Maësúú — Archives That Travel

Nomadic sages aboard The Monument, the Maësúú mapped chaos into corridors and bequeathed the galaxy the Warp‑Sling Network. Their culture welds conservation to exploration; they remember so that others can move. Mechanical identity: navigational supremacy and lore leverage—advantages in route discovery, Sling protocol, and information economies, plus narrative authority in disputes where memory matters as much as might.

Seklex — Perfection as Policy

Six‑armed artisans of Valin treat industry like liturgy. Contracts are scripture; craftsmanship is citizenship. They rival Humans in technology and outmatch most civilizations in quality control and brand power. Mechanical identity: economic leverage and prestige crafting. Seklex characters tilt campaigns with supply chains, bespoke gear, and market‑level pressure—turning trade disputes and counterfeit wars into set pieces as consequential as any siege.

Varkått — Doctrine of the Void

A militarized, void‑worshipping caste state whose Krelthar code fuses theology with campaign doctrine. They field singularity‑era armaments and travel on Void Drives that ignore common roads—and common law. Mechanical identity: shock and inevitability—builds that favor overmatch, morale pressure, and operational tempo to seize initiative, break lines, and convert fear into compliance. They are the storm everyone prepares for.

Velkaan — Calculus at the Core

Immortal synthetic intelligences who tend Halo Stations and the dark‑matter economy, the Velkaan convert extreme gravity into policy. Their preference is precision; their patience is famous; their immunity to madness is unsettling. Mechanical identity: trauma‑proof strategists with resource control—probability‑driven choices, energy logistics, and diplomatic leverage that starts at the refinery and ends in the council chamber.

Minor & Non‑Playable Species (Lore‑Relevant)

Short glimpses that enrich campaigns and factional texture:

• Tromari — Amphibious artists/engineers of Loremia; bioluminescent communication doubles as resistance cipher under Varkått occupation. Hooks abound in underwater cities and cultural smuggling.
• Doma‑Kal — Four‑armed warrior clans pressed into Varkått vanguard roles; honor surviving inside conscription.
• Zendari — Nomadic shipwright artisans; fleets as diplomacy, craftsmanship as foreign policy.
• Mycorii — Planet‑bound hive‑minds who weaponize ecosystems; pacifists until provoked, then devastating.
• Triplasi Septen — Enlightened defense civilization; custodians of the Invictus Fleet and masters of bastion strategy.
• Udonla — Cryo‑artisans of Filtron; diplomats whose cities gleam beneath auroras, anchoring a corridor of peace and scholarship.
• Aronski — Avian scouts and cultural liaisons; agile pathfinders across uncharted corridors.
• Eleskaar — Engineers trapped within a triple conflict; ritual “Soul Shards” preserve the dead through civil fracture.

Using this in play

Choose a species first for its worldview, then for its numbers. The An‑Tuarï reward choreography; the Azzek reward preparation; the Cee‑Var reward unity; Humans reward persistence; the Maësúú reward route wisdom; the Seklex reward supply‑chain mastery; the Varkått reward decisive pressure; the Velkaan reward long‑range calculus. From here, descend from civilizations to systems—the rules that make memory tangible.

V. Systems & Mechanics

Legacy of the Horizon runs on a rules engine where physics, psychology, and logistics all leave fingerprints. The numbers aren’t window dressing; they’re how the galaxy remembers what happened.

Resolution & Difficulty

Core resolution is skill‑die vs. Difficulty Rating (DR). Roll the die that matches your current Skill or Attribute (e.g., Skill 6 → d6) and meet or beat the GM’s DR. Difficulty bands range from Trivial (DR 3) up to Insurmountable (DR 15+), scaling cleanly from social feints to hull repairs so risk stays legible at the table. Some moments test raw composure or survival instead of finesse—e.g., Morale = Tenacity + Initiative vs. DR (baseline 7, scaled by what the character just lived through).

Action Economy & Stamina

Turns are paced by four tiers—Passive, Half, Basic, Complex—and bounded by Stamina, the universal throttle on overextension. A quick glance is usually Passive; a reload is often Half; a straightforward shot or task tends to be Basic; piloting a tricky approach or cracking encrypted systems leans Complex. Environments press on this budget: for example, underwater adds +1 Stamina per round, while zero‑G forces careful planning for propulsion and recoil.

Movement in Zero‑G

Zero‑G uses simple vector math: a Half‑action push or thruster burst yields ~16 ft of drift; a Basic movement yields ~33 ft. Recoil can nudge your vector; if orientation and references collapse, the GM bumps DRs. Untrained zero‑G imposes –4 unless physiology cancels it (Azzek excel here).

Attributes, Skills & Advancement

Characters are built from Primary Attributes—Momentum, Tenacity, Intelligence, Vigor—and Passive stats—Grit, Stamina, Initiative, Life Support. Skills split into Primaries (Weapons, Knowledge, Social, Discipline) and a broad lattice of Secondaries (navigation, hacking, survival, zero‑G ops, etc.), letting specializations emerge naturally. Advancement is point‑driven: raise an Attribute for (desired level × 10), a Skill for (desired level × 5). New skills require in‑world justification, time/resources, and an Intensity surge.

Damage, Shields & Grit

Attacks are clean: beat Armor Rating → damage = overflow + weapon die. Shields ablate first, then Grit takes the remainder; at Grit 0, you hit mortality logic (species/legacy can still intervene). Damage types—Wound, Stun, Explosive—interact differently with defenses, and some environments (vacuum, radiation) bypass the usual layers. Armor is gated: Medium requires Momentum 4 & Tenacity 6; Heavy requires Momentum 6 & Tenacity 8. If you can’t carry it, you shouldn’t be in it.

Morale, Trauma & The Lost Stars

Violence and the void aren’t just hit points. On exposure to atrocity, near‑death, or over‑threshold stress, call for Morale (Tenacity + Initiative vs. DR 7 baseline). On a fail, roll d30 on the Psychological Impact table—shaking hands, frozen terror, creeping fatigue, and other states that persist across encounters. Repetition deepens consequences; recovery takes time, aid, ritual, or species‑specific practice.

Underwater uses the same logic: most actions take –2 and +1 Stamina/round; at Stamina 0 you drown, taking Wound = Vigor each round until you breathe—or hit Grit 0. Environments aren’t set dressing; they are rule modules.

Intensity — The Surge That Matters

Intensity is the table’s currency for cinematic will. Earn it for decisive play or outstanding roleplay; spend it to add +10 to a roll (max +30), once per session, with up to three stored. Modest numerically, thunderous narratively—the punctuation mark when the story demands it.

Legacy & Continuity (Prestige)

Campaigns mutate. Prestige captures that mutation as a meta‑track: finishing arcs and great deeds bank advantages that help future characters after death or retirement (XP breaks, rare options, softer restarts). Humans add a specific layer: on death, make a consciousness‑transfer roll keyed to Max Grit and Life Support; on success you reboot in a prepared clone within human space. Jammers, implant damage, or body obliteration can hard‑lock this. The system is permissive, not consequence‑free.

Social, Technical & Special Encounters

Social scenes use Intelligence or Tenacity + Social‑domain skills, with the same DR ladder as combat. Opposed checks, staged negotiations, and “pressure clocks” turn debate into encounter. Technical sequences follow the same clarity: stabilizing a reactor or clearing a Sling fault is a readable series of rolls with felt failure states.

Vehicle & Spacecraft Combat (Rules that Matter)

Personal combat abstractions scale up cleanly. At Half‑Speed you retain broad actions; at Full‑Speed you’re constrained to raw piloting/survival choices. Vehicle→character damage is doubled. Ships track a Power Rating that feeds reactors, shields, and systems; when shields soak, they consume power, forcing hard tradeoffs on the next beat.

Gear, Craft & Constraints

Weapons differ not just by dice but by critical profiles and battlefield roles (suppressive fire, dual‑target penalties, burst/auto tradeoffs). Reloads are Half actions; grapples are opposed checks. High‑tier equipment is locked behind faction standing, prestige, or culture so that politics and fieldwork remain meaningful paths to power.

Worked Micro‑Examples (tight and table‑ready)

• Composure in the Fire. A shuttle tears apart at a Sling gate. Each character rolls Tenacity + Initiative vs. DR 7; failures roll d30 on Impact and carry the state into the next scene.
• Zero‑G Push & Drift. The engineer Half‑actions ~16 ft toward a hatch; next turn a ~33 ft drift. Firing a kinetic weapon mid‑drift nudges their vector, raising the docking DR one step.
• Armor Gatekeeping. Momentum 5 / Tenacity 7 qualifies for Medium but not Heavy—advancement goals become concrete.
• Power as Tactics. Corvette duel: the pilot stays Half‑Speed to keep action breadth while systems diverts Power to shields; a crit forces a drain and the next volley bleeds Grit.

Everything you roll—composure, thrust, law, leverage—feeds the fiction. The table tracks not just what you did, but what it cost, and that cost becomes plot. From this machinery, the Galaxy Master composes consequence.

VI. The Galaxy Master

You are not a referee; you are custodian of consequence. Keep the galaxy lawful—not predictable—and let player choices propagate through routes, markets, reputations, and rumor until the setting reacts. Build frameworks, not scripts; improvise inside constraints so the world still makes sense when it surprises you.

Your instruments are motives, maps, and memory. Start a sector by sketching three items for each relevant faction: goal, fear, leverage. When players act, pull the lever that fits and advance the clock. Example: an An‑Tuarï prefect values honor (goal), fears corruption (fear), and wields mediation + elite maneuver (leverage). A Seklex magistrate values perfection, fears counterfeit, and wields contracts, supply chains, and brand power. Collide two levers; let a third complicate the truce. Then write down the price paid so the world remembers next session.

Frameworks, not scripts. Prep situations—stakes, actors, likely outcomes—rather than fixed scenes. Use the improv pillars from the guide: establish foundations, say “yes, and…,” keep flexible NPC roles, and anchor surprises in known lore. If a player proposes a clever hack or detour, expand the scene and add a complication that flows from faction motives or environmental risk.

Species traits are story tools. Lean into cultural and physiological signatures at the table: An‑Tuarï precision in tense diplomacy; Seklex obsession with provenance; Velkaan statistical calm; Human improvisation when the plan dies. Make the difference mechanical (e.g., Azzek cut time off zero‑G procedures; Tromari transform underwater scenes). Reward players who play to strengths and confront weaknesses.

Encounter pacing is phased. Most set pieces breathe in three beats: Establish the threat → Complicate the field → Force a decision. Do this outside combat, too. A trade summit can escalate from polite sparring to counterfeit revelations to a midnight raid on a forger’s dock; a Sling transit can progress from routine queue to diagnostic glitch to emergency fix‑or‑flee as the gate reprioritizes.

Scale difficulty with intent, not punishment. Tailor opposition to party size and spread, mix objectives, and keep the field evolving. Small crews thrive on surgical strikes and stealth; larger tables deserve swarms, bosses, and parallel objectives with countdowns. When the scene ends, summarize immediate and long‑term consequences so players feel the ripples they created.

Use infrastructure as a lever. The Warp‑Sling Network and Halo Stations are pressure points you can turn with a single ruling. A Sling reprioritizes traffic and a harvest misses market; a Halo quota tightens and fuel prices jump across lanes; an “innocent” inspection delays a diplomat long enough for a rival to arrive first. These are not background systems—they are the board state.

Make morale and memory visible. When horror lands, call for Morale (Tenacity + Initiative), apply Psychological Impact results, and let penalties—or stoic victories—reshape the next social scene. Treat trauma as persistent, not punitive; allow rest, ritual, or species‑specific practices to repair it over time.

NPCs are vectors, not furniture. Give each notable a goal, flaw, secret. Let roles shift under pressure: ally → rival → spoiler. When the party drifts, drop an NPC who cares about the current stakes to re‑aim the plot; when they surge, escalate a complication that exists because they succeeded.

Milestones should change what scenes you can even run. Titles, access, faction favor, and gear unlocks aren’t just rewards; they’re permissions to tell different stories. Seklex certification opens counterfeit arcs; Cee‑Var trust can pivot a standoff to psychic parley. Celebrate with narrative flourish and mechanical teeth.

Worked template: The Counterfeit Veil

Foundation: A Seklex magistrate reports a surge in imitation components threatening a Halo supplier’s certification. Phase 1 — Establish: Etiquette hearing on The Singularity (Social‑domain checks vs DR 7–9; evidence arrays modify DRs). Phase 2 — Complicate: Evidence points to a Varkått‑aligned broker laundering parts through a Sling checkpoint (logistics puzzle + timed inspection). Phase 3 — Decision: Raid a warehouse or expose the broker at a council vote—each choice makes different allies and enemies. Immediate effect: Prices on a key route stabilize or spike. Long‑term: Two ministries remember your faces; a Velkaan quartermaster adjusts your access.

The Codex is your truth table. When in doubt, rule toward continuity. The Codex binds timelines, tech levels, and cultural boundaries so improvisations stay canonical. Read the timelines, mine species profiles for motives, and cite it in play when a “what would they do?” dispute arises. You aren’t closing possibilities—you’re choosing plausible ones.

In practice, mastery looks like this: every scene ends with a quick ledger of outcomes; every session begins with what the galaxy did while you were away—a Sling memo, a Halo price, a rumor, a vote. Over time, your notes become a local sub‑codex, and the sector stops feeling like a stage. It feels like a place that will go on without the players—therefore a place worth saving, shaping, or stealing.

VII. The Codex of Lore

The Codex is not flavor text; it’s the galaxy’s operating manual—history, technology, cultures, and laws braided into a single reference that keeps every improvisation canonical. In play, it functions as your truth table: when events go sideways, consult the Codex to choose the plausible consequence rather than the convenient one. The official guidance is blunt: the Codex is essential reading for mastery, binding timelines, tech levels, and cultural boundaries so your rulings land with weight.

What the Codex Contains

Historical context. It charts the long arc to 2374—from first flights to failed empires—so you can place new crises on an existing spine. That includes the First Contact Wars, the rise of ecumenopolises, and the construction of major infrastructures like The Singularity.

Technological milestones. It catalogs the breakthroughs that make the setting work: the Warp‑Sling Network (interstellar corridors engineered and standardized by the Maësúú), Halo Stations (Velkaan dark‑matter refineries/orbitals), and the legal‑technical framework for consciousness transfer in human space. These milestones aren’t just lore—they’re levers for missions, diplomacy, and scarcity.

Cultural intricacies. Species aren’t lists of bonuses; they’re philosophies encoded as customs. The Codex preserves the An‑Tuarï Six Verities, the Seklex religion of craftsmanship, the Cee‑Var consensus ethic, the Velkaan calculus of precision, and the Varkått void‑faith that weaponizes annihilation doctrine.

Key Epochs & Anchors (Selection)

Use these dates as narrative anchors—time stamps you can gesture to when a council elder quotes precedent or a historian on The Monument opens a vault.

• 3042 BC — Emergence of the Cee‑Var. Early telepathic expansion; a society built around communal governance and the ethics of unity.
• 2907 BC — Zendari Contact. Exchange with master shipwrights refines starcraft design philosophies still visible in modern yards.
• 2656 BC — Seklex to the stars. Valin’s perfectionists formalize trade‑tech as cultural identity.
• 2623 BC — Cee‑Var/Seklex first contact. Rivalry‑as‑collaboration becomes a repeating pattern in Council economics.
• 2392 BC — Maësúú achieve spaceflight. The seed of the Warp‑Sling era.
• 626 BC — Lysanthria destroyed. Maësúú transition to nomadism aboard The Monument; memory and route‑craft merge.
• 741 AD — An‑Vasakold unites the An‑Tuarï. The “Age of the Comet” inaugurates honor‑law as statecraft.
• 2374 AD — The Age of The Singularity. An ecumenopolis becomes the clearinghouse of law, myth, and logistics.

These aren’t trivia—they’re jurisprudence. When you adjudicate a dispute, invoke a date; when you craft a mystery, hide a document that predates a war by five years; when a faction claims legitimacy, force them to cite which treaty year grants it.

How to Use the Codex at the Table

Before session. Skim the relevant era and region; pull three truths (one historical, one technological, one cultural) that could plausibly enter play. Example for a Seklex/Velkaan arc: “counterfeit crisis on Valin,” “Halo Station Epsilon quota shock,” “An‑Tuarï mediation doctrine.” Those become your facts of the world—players can move them, not ignore them.

During play. When a scene pivots, quote the Codex in‑world: a clerk cites a Sling statute; a Maësúú archivist references a route‑closure year; a Varkått priest recites a Krelthar clause. This keeps improvisation feeling authored. If plausibility is questioned (“Would a Halo open its ports to a privateer convoy?”), open the relevant entry and choose the answer that preserves continuity—even if it’s harder for the party.

After session. Update your personal ledger: the Codex is canonical; your ledger is local canon. Note which truths the players bent—Sling priority under duress, a Halo exception on a humanitarian technicality, an An‑Tuarï duel resolved with precedent X—and propagate those consequences into the next prep cycle.

Species Profiles as Play Prompts

Pair the timeline with species sheets for motives‑in‑motion:

• An‑Tuarï. Invoke the Six Verities to justify dueling protocols, mediation styles, and cautious use of AI—your rulings will feel consistent scene to scene.
• Humans. Apply the consciousness‑transfer clause exactly as written (dice keyed to Max Grit and Life Support; failure via jammers/implant damage/body loss). When it works, treat the social cost—reputation, inheritance, legal disputes—as part of the fiction.
• Velkaan & Maësúú. Use Halo quotas and Sling protocols to externalize their philosophies: precision and stewardship as mechanics, not metaphors.

Why It Matters

Games that forget are light; LoTH is heavy by design. The Codex gives you a shared memory so victories feel earned, losses feel recorded, and compromises echo. It prevents genre drift, keeps faction behavior legible (a Seklex magistrate will not casually accept shoddy provenance), and preserves the specific gravity of places like The Singularity and The Convergence.

Practical GM Patterns

Timeline Hooks. Start sessions with a Codex note (e.g., “Year 2374, Week 18: Halo Station Epsilon trims quotas by 3%”) and let the table chase or ignore it—either choice has ripples.

Doctrine Tests. When a player attempts a culturally fraught move (e.g., forging Seklex certificates), escalate with the appropriate ritual, audit, or duel procedure from species profiles and Council dynamics.

Precedent as Reward. Beyond credits and gear, grant citations: named precedents or exemptions the party can quote later to soften DRs with specific institutions.

Treat the Codex like a star chart with laws: it doesn’t tell you where to go; it tells you what must be true wherever you arrive. The result is a galaxy that doesn’t evaporate between sessions. It accumulates. It argues. It remembers.

IX. Timeline & Oral History

The Codex gives you the rules of continuity; this timeline shows how the galaxy earned them. Scroll the entries or jump by era to surface major beats, then layer in the oral history recording for pacing guidance and tone. Pairing both lets you brief players quickly while keeping long-form prep grounded in canon.

Use the embedded audio to set the stage before a session, or let your table listen together while the timeline stays in view. Each event in the list links back to Codex anchors, so you can click straight into deeper lore without losing your place.

VIII. Exploration & Discovery

Exploration in Legacy of the Horizon is a stack of decisions under pressure—routes, atmospheres, organisms, laws—each with mechanics attached. Curiosity isn’t just a mood; it’s a logistics plan with hazard pay.

Routes that react. Interstellar travel is not a hand‑wave; the Warp‑Sling Network is instantaneous and constrained. Capacity limits, inspections, and usage fees turn “go” into gameplay. Gates can flag “non‑critical issues,” trigger priority overrides, or inject dynamic events that force on‑the‑fly problem‑solving mid‑transit. A single reprioritization can push a convoy into a different market week and reprice a planet’s harvest.

Cores that decide policy. At the galactic center, Halo Stations orbit extreme‑gravity wells and bleed dark matter into fuel, research, and politics. Halo Station Epsilon is a typical nexus—refinery, observatory, and lever. When quotas shift or outages hit, entire lanes reroute; when Anomalous Zones flare near the singularity, explorers become test pilots and priests in the same hour.

Worlds that fight back. Some planets are active puzzles. In Varkått‑scarred space, Caelir is held together by a dying miracle: the Cradle Engine. Its equator‑wide Maw of Caelir twists matter with rotating graviton beams; cities like Gravethane Prime drift in anti‑gravity loops; the Mirrorwell flips physics on a timer; orbit‑denial Graviton Lances make normal landings suicidal unless you infiltrate the Heart Node and override the network. Every feature is a rules hook—movement, line of sight, timing, even what “down” means.

Environments that cost you.

• Zero‑G: movement requires deliberate pushes; recoil alters vectors; complex actions can span rounds; untrained operators take –4. Navigation and gunnery DRs rise when orientation and references collapse.
• Underwater: most actions incur –2; rounds cost +1 Stamina; at Stamina 0 you drown (take Wound = Vigor each round) until air or rescue. Amphibious species (e.g., the Tromari) invert the advantage curve here.
• Radiation / Gravity Fields: in places like Netharis (neutron‑star research), expeditions rely on subterranean habitats, hazard protocols, and staged tests around emissions windows—scientific timing as encounter design.

Discoveries with teeth. Curiosity pays in more than loot. Ancient tech can alter Sling protocols or grant legal exceptions; cultural finds shift reputation and unlock faction‑locked gear; solving an infrastructural crisis can earn Prestige, which echoes into future campaigns. A Halo exception granted for humanitarian aid is something you can cite later in a council chamber.

Field Procedures for the Galaxy Master

Establish a local rule‑set. Before play, jot the three facts that define the area: a route constraint (Sling capacity or inspection rule), an energy constraint (Halo quota or outage risk), and a native constraint (environmental hazard or law). These become the encounter’s gravity wells. When players improvise, let physics and precedent do the talking.

Stage your reveals. Exploration clears in passes: Sensing (scan, lore, locals) → Approach (navigation under constraint) → Contact (environment, law, or culture pushes back) → Extraction (leave with a consequence attached). This cadence works for fungus forests, Halo catwalks, and orbital scrapyards equally well.

Let species matter. Azzek engineers cut time off zero‑G procedures. An‑Tuarï read terrain like scripture and will spend Stamina for positional advantage. Tromari transform underwater scenes from attrition to choreography. Velkaan or Maësúú NPCs change what “protocol” even means. Use the sheets; make the difference mechanical.

Sample Expeditions

1) Epsilon: The Lensing Choir Premise: Core observatories detect harmonic distortions near the singularity; Halo Station Epsilon requests a sanity check before authorizing a risky extraction burn. Beats:

• Sensing: Science team triangulates the anomaly; a rival petition argues to close lanes (Social vs. Knowledge tests).
• Approach: Gravity shear turns a routine burn into a three‑phase check (Pilot/Engineering under rising DR).
• Contact: The “choir” is a debris swarm ringing like glass—salvageable components with unpredictable drift.
• Extraction: Decide: risk a second pass for rare cores (Power/Shield management) or cut losses and keep lanes open.

Outcome: quotas adjusted, prices shift on two routes, researchers owe you a favor.

2) Loremia: The Luminaeel Rescue Premise: Tromari resistance asks the crew to protect bioluminescent Luminaeel from Varkått poachers harvesting organs for weapons. Beats:

• Sensing: Decode light‑language signals to locate pods (Social/Knowledge).
• Approach: Navigate deep‑sea trenches; apply underwater penalties and Stamina taxation.
• Contact: Poachers deploy submersibles; stealth vs. sonar and kelp canopy.
• Extraction: Escort the pod to a reef sanctuary; choose public exposure (diplomacy fallout) or a quiet war (long‑term sabotage arc).

Rewards: Tromari trust, rare biotech materials, and an ally who changes how ocean planets play thereafter.

3) Caelir: The Mirrorwell Run Premise: A Caelir enclave offers partial Cradle Engine codes if you retrieve a data core from the Mirrorwell, where gravity inverts on a timer. Beats:

• Sensing: Plot the inversion cadence and map safe windows.
• Approach: Time a jump across rotating platforms—missed timing triggers forced movement and equipment drops.
• Contact: Graviton eddies scramble sensors; ranged combat goes unreliable; melee and grapples excel.
• Extraction: Stabilize a local zone (earn fragile goodwill) or weaponize a collapse to destroy a Varkått cache (permanent enmity, strategic gain).

Long game: Heart Node access reshapes all future landings on the world.

Exploration in LoTH is the art of letting places express their physics, their laws, and their people. You don’t just cross a map; you negotiate with it. The reward isn’t only what you carry out—it’s the way the sector must speak your name tomorrow.

IX. Combat & Survival

Combat in Legacy of the Horizon isn’t a minigame glued to the story—it’s the physics of cost. Every motion burns Stamina, every attack resolves against real defenses, and outcomes linger as trauma, reputation, and resource loss. The rules make those costs legible at the table so tactics feel like choices, not guesses.

The Core Loop: Hit → Overflow → Consequence

Attacks resolve cleanly: roll to beat Armor Rating; damage = overflow + weapon die. Shields ablate first; leftover damage hits Grit. If Grit reaches 0, you’re on the edge of death and species/legacy mechanics decide whether the line ends or mutates into something new. Damage types (Wound, Stun, Explosive) matter because not all defenses blunt the same way. Cover reduces how much enemy hits exceed your AR—but narrows angles and movement; grapples and similar contests are opposed checks.

Action Economy & Fire Discipline

Time in a fight is a ration. Actions fall into Passive / Half / Basic / Complex tiers, gated by Stamina and terrain. Reloads are typically Half; committing to a risky maneuver or specialist task is often Complex. Fire‑mode posture creates a micro‑economy every turn:

• Burst fire: –1 to hit.
• Full‑auto: –2 and chews ammo.
• Dual‑targeting: –2 to each shot.
• Suppressive fire: steals options from enemies but drains your own reserves.

Environments That Fight Back

LoTH makes location into a combatant. Zero‑G. Movement is vector math: a Half‑action push/boost yields ~16 ft of drift; a Full/Whole push yields ~33 ft. Firing kinetic weapons nudges your vector; when orientation/reference frames collapse, DRs rise. Untrained zero‑G imposes –4 unless physiology cancels it (Azzek excel here). Underwater. Most actions take –2 and +1 Stamina/round. At Stamina 0, drowning begins: take Wound = Vigor each round until you breathe or hit Grit 0. Tromari flip the advantage curve in this theater. Hard Sites. Gravity anomalies, radiation windows, or rotating hazards (e.g., the Mirrorwell on Caelir) bend line‑of‑sight, timing, and even what “down” means; misjudge the cadence and you waste actions—or end a round somewhere you didn’t plan to be.

Morale, Trauma & The Lost Stars

Violence leaves fingerprints you can’t erase between scenes. When characters witness atrocity, nearly die, or push beyond safe thresholds, call for Morale = Tenacity + Initiative vs. DR 7 (scale for severity). On failure, roll d30 on Psychological Impact: shaking hands, frozen terror, creeping fatigue—states that persist across encounters. Repetition deepens consequences; recovery needs time, aid, ritual, or species‑specific practice. This is how fear becomes part of the map.

Death, Continuity & What Survives

At Grit 0, the line wavers. Humans may attempt consciousness transfer: roll using Max Grit and Life Support; on success, wake in a prepared clone within human space. Jammers, implant damage, or body obliteration can hard‑lock the option. On failure, the character ends—unless Prestige buys a different door for your next scion. Other species resolve mortality in‑theme (e.g., Velkaan synthetic recovery), and Prestige sits above all, banking inter‑campaign advantages from completed arcs and great deeds.

Intensity — Your Once‑Per‑Session Thunderbolt

Earn for decisive play or role‑driven risk; spend for +10 to a crucial roll (max +30), once per session, with up to three banked. Modest numerically, massive narratively—the punctuation mark when the fiction needs emphasis.

Micro‑Tactics: How a Turn Breathes

1) Cover & Burst. A Seklex riflewoman in medium cover fires a burst at an onrushing Doma‑Kal: roll 11 vs AR 7 → overflow 4 → add weapon d6; Shields soak first, then Grit. Next round, that same cover narrows angle; the second target is out of lane unless she spends Stamina to reposition, delaying a planned Complex hack.

2) Zero‑G Boarding. An Azzek engineer Half‑actions ~16 ft toward a hatch, then fires mid‑drift; recoil bumps their vector and raises the Pilot DR for a teammate trying to match. The squad shifts to suppression over sprinting: fewer hits, more control, less tumble risk. Return fire forces Morale; one failure means trembling hands (–2 to Momentum actions) next exchange.

3) Drowning Clock. In an abyssal trench, a Tromari ally signals danger; the Human diver hits Stamina 0 and begins drowning (Wound = Vigor/round). The An‑Tuarï grapples and drags—accepting exposure to buy air—while the Cee‑Var steadies the team’s morale. The enemy is the medium.

GM Patterns That Keep Fights Honest

• Phase the encounter: Establish → Complicate → Force a decision (terrain shift, reinforcements, timed objectives). Finish with a ledger of immediate and likely long‑term consequences.
• Scale by intent: smaller parties get surgical threats; larger tables get swarms, bosses, and parallel objectives with countdowns.
• Make infrastructure a combatant: Sling priority, Halo quotas, and local law can be as dangerous as a plasma lance—use them mid‑fight to raise stakes without just adding more enemies.

In LoTH, victory isn’t just who’s standing. It’s what it cost, who saw, and how the sector responds tomorrow. The next page of the ledger belongs to starships and the machinery of civilization—where power, logistics, and doctrine become the battlefield itself.

X. Starships & Galactic Engineering

Ships in Legacy of the Horizon aren’t vehicles; they’re philosophies that move. They convert energy into policy, logistics into leverage, and a captain’s appetite for risk into the shape of a sector.

Fuel, power, policy. At the core, Velkaan‑tended Halo Stations orbit gravity wells to harvest dark matter—refinery, research, and regulation fused into orbital fact. Halo Station Epsilon exemplifies the model: it supplies energy, anchors science, and exerts pressure on lanes when quotas tighten or outages ripple outward. When a Halo constrains flow, prices jump and convoys reroute; when it opens, fleets sprint. Energy is a treaty with math.

Roads vs. roads you refuse. Most civilizations ride the Warp‑Sling Network—instantaneous, regulated corridors with usage fees, capacity limits, and dynamic events that turn “go” into gameplay. Ship transits are fast but never frictionless: inspections, priority flags, and queue discipline can make or break an operation. Others, like the Varkått, reject shared roads, fielding Void‑Drive doctrine that routes around common law and common tolls and forces commanders to plan for unannounced arrival.

Industrial backbone. Star‑faring states live or die on repair and resupply. The Hephaestus System is a hub for manufacturing and fleet maintenance—yards, processors, and industrial worlds that keep hulls flying and modules in spec. Control the yards, control the war’s tempo.

Orbital denial & hard sites. Not every sky welcomes guests. In Varkått‑scarred space, planetary defense networks like Graviton Lances swat at descent with ground‑based gravity beams; a conventional landing becomes a puzzle of stealth insertions, crash vectors, or sabotage runs against a Heart Node. Space superiority includes “can you land without dying.”

Spacecraft Operations (Rules that Matter)

Power & shields. Ships track a Power Rating that feeds reactors, shields, and systems. When shields absorb hits they consume power, forcing hard choices about where current flows: survive the volley now, or keep thrust for the escape burn.

Movement cadence. Throttle logic is clean: at Half‑Speed you retain broad action options; at Full‑Speed you narrow them to raw piloting or survival. Starship turns mirror personal combat—legible, consequence‑heavy. Vehicle‑to‑character damage is doubled, so being hull‑side without cover is a mistake you make once.

Sling travel as encounter. Warp‑Sling transit is instantaneous but not drama‑free: fees scale with distance, capacity caps matter, and dynamic events can turn a commute into timed engineering or a diplomatic standoff at a checkpoint. Treat the gate like a character with mood swings and a ledger.

Training & theaters. Some systems literally bake doctrine into orbit: gas‑giant moons like Kelys host zero‑G training grounds and research facilities, producing crews who treat vacuum like weather and boarding like choreography.

Factional Design Philosophies (In Play)

Velkaan. Precision logistics; Halo quotas and gravity research turn energy policy into strategy. Expect immaculate timing, probability‑driven targeting, and “open the port, close the war” plays.

Varkått. Siegecraft and orbital denial as religion; Void‑Drive raids, planet‑fall interdiction, and ritualized terror convert sky control into submission.

Seklex. Fortress‑commerce. With manufacturing hubs and brand‑level quality control, they project power through certification, provenance, and the threat of shutting rivals out of repairs.

Maësúú. Route‑craft and archival authority; Sling‑protocol mastery reshapes who arrives when, which wins more battles than broadside ever will.

GM Procedures: How to Run the Sky

Define the three pressures. For any starship arc, write one constraint each for route (Sling capacity/fees/inspection), power (Halo quota/outage), and site (defense grid/weather/terrain). Encounters emerge by forcing players to solve two while the third goes loud.

Scale like a fleet officer. Small crews deserve surgical insertions, stealth docks, and engineering puzzles; larger tables want multi‑objective set‑pieces (boarding under fire and keeping a power budget alive) with Half‑Speed vs. Full‑Speed tradeoffs in every phase.

Make maintenance a story. Hephaestus‑system yards turn downtime into stakes—parts shortages, counterfeit scandals, and queue politics. A “successful repair” isn’t just a roll; it’s who you cut in line, and which ministry noticed.

Worked Micro‑Scenes

1) “Quota Burn at Epsilon.” A convoy arrives at Halo Station Epsilon as quotas tighten. Choices: secure priority through fees/favors, barter limited observatory time, or wait and watch prices spike across two routes. Either way, the next engagement’s power budget is tighter.

2) “Sling Audit.” A Warp‑Sling throws a “non‑critical issue” mid‑transit: Engineering checks to stabilize, Social checks to avoid a crippling fine, or accept a delayed exit that lets a rival arrive first. The fix costs energy; the delay costs reputation.

3) “Descent Through Lances.” To reach Gravethane Prime, the crew must pass the Graviton Lances. Options: crash‑vector insertion (high risk, low exposure), stealth orbit and Heart‑Node hack (skill‑heavy), or decoy and sprint (Full‑Speed with minimal actions). Land—or get swatted from the sky.

Space in LoTH is not empty. It is engineered, priced, defended, and remembered. Your ship is a thesis about how to move through that reality—proved or disproved every time the throttle opens and the ledger updates.

XI. Factional Politics & Diplomacy

Politics in Legacy of the Horizon is a contact sport played with tariffs, precedents, and face. It isn’t a cut‑scene between battles; it’s a rules‑driven arena where reputations and routes are the terrain. Encounters use the same clarity as combat: checks vs. DR, evolving phases, and consequences that migrate through the setting like weather.

The Diplomatic Engine (how it resolves)

Social encounters are adjudicated with Intelligence or Tenacity + Social‑domain skills, using the standard DR ladder (3 → 15+). Use opposed checks for negotiations, contested claims, and brinkmanship. Because the system is unified, you can run a treaty debate with the same legibility you’d run a boarding action—players see the odds, choose posture, and accept the cost. Structure scenes like any major encounter: Establish → Complicate → Force a Decision, then summarize immediate and long‑term consequences so the world reacts beyond the room.

The board you’re playing on

Infrastructure is political leverage. A Warp‑Sling priority flag changes who arrives first to make their case; Halo Station quotas spike or drop energy prices sector‑wide; a checkpoint inspection or fee can tilt a vote by delaying one delegation and accelerating another. Use these levers live in the scene—“the gate just reprioritized traffic”—and let the negotiation absorb the shock.

Where it happens matters. On The Singularity, treaties and certifications are currency; rulings echo across multiple councils. In the Velkaan core around Halo Station Epsilon, energy policy is argument—quotas and access become debate topics with measurable fallout. In Varkått‑scarred sectors, planetary defense networks and occupation law make “diplomacy” almost indistinguishable from logistics and smuggling.

Species as diplomatic postures

• An‑Tuarï. Arbitrate with the Six Verities at their back; reward precision, restraint, and formal duels of precedent. Lean into mediation bonuses and disciplined positioning.
• Seklex. Treat provenance and quality as sacred; show the certification chain or expect an audit that becomes the encounter. Leverage = supply, brand, and the threat of closing a yard.
• Velkaan. Negotiate like engineers: probability first, sentiment last. Offer clean math (risk, yield, stability) and you’ll find a door; bring theater and you’ll find a wall. Halo control makes policy literal.
• Humans. Bargain with adaptability and continuity; a statesperson who returned by lawful consciousness transfer carries both clout and controversy. Expect improvisational advantage paired with an Initiative tradeoff.

Reputation, loyalty, and what it buys

Progress isn’t just gear or credits; it’s access. Milestones can grant faction loyalty, titles, resources, and special missions—social advancement as unlocks. Mark these changes publicly in fiction: a chorus of Cee‑Var endorsements, a Seklex seal of provenance, or a Halo priority token issued on thin ice. These permissions change what scenes you can even run next.

Encounter templates (political)

• Diplomatic Standoff. Phase‑structured debate where position, posture, and proof matter; failure spills into logistics, not just bruised egos.
• Counterfeit Tribunal. A Seklex magistrate demands proof that parts aren’t forged; players juggle chain‑of‑custody rolls, witness cross‑checks, and a timed Sling inspection. Win, and a yard opens; lose, and a region goes dark for your hull class.
• Energy Accord. At Halo Station Epsilon, factions bargain over Halo quotas after an anomaly; science time, emergency privileges, and priority egress are traded like gems. The price you pay today becomes the clause you invoke next month.

Worked scenario: Proof of Origin

Premise: A Seklex consortium accuses a rival of seeding counterfeit actuator cores into Hephaestus yards, threatening to revoke certifications mid‑campaign. Establish: Opening arguments on The Singularity (Social vs. DR 7–9; evidence arrays modify DRs). Complicate: A Warp‑Sling flags a non‑critical event; the rival’s witness is delayed while a Varkått‑aligned broker arrives early. Table choice: stabilize the gate (Engineering vs. DR 10) or ride the delay and keep pressure in‑chamber. Decision: Expose the broker (invite retaliation, secure Seklex favor) or cut a narrow deal (gain a yard slot now, lose moral high ground later). Resolution ledger:

• Immediate: certification upheld or suspended; prices shift on one route.
• Long‑term: Seklex magistracy notes your names; a Halo quartermaster grants or denies a fuel exception at Epsilon next session.

GM procedures (keep it lawful)

State the law. Quote Codex language in‑world (Sling statutes, Halo quotas, Seklex provenance clauses). Plausibility beats convenience—and players rise to the clarity. Make infrastructure a participant. Mid‑scene reprioritizations and quota pings aren’t distractions—they’re the point. Pay outcomes forward. At session end, announce who owes whom, which gates remember, and where prices or patrols changed—then write it down so it exists next time.

In LoTH, diplomacy is engineering with faces attached. You move numbers, laws, and timetables until a door opens—or a rival chooses different leverage. Either way, the ledger updates, and the galaxy adjusts its aim.

XII. Closing Passage — The Galaxy Remembers

The year 2374 is not an endpoint; it’s a point of view. The galaxy’s roads are woven from law and engineering—the Warp‑Sling Network threading worlds together in a single breath, the Halo Stations breathing power into fleets, cities, and arguments. Every gate choice, every quota, every inspection is a sentence added to the same long book.

Civilizations don’t simply coexist; they interact like physics. The An‑Tuarï measure themselves against the Six Verities and call it victory when restraint holds. Humans bargain with continuity, returning by statute to finish what they began. The Velkaan move with the patience of orbits; the Varkått with the certainty of falling stones. The map is a ledger of motives, and the ledger is never balanced for long.

At the center, The Singularity convenes the disputes of an age—ambassadors under a sky of traffic lanes—while beyond the glow, Halos at singularities and other extreme‑gravity wells count the pulses of gravity and call it policy. Between them lies the work: rescuing a convoy that missed its window, arbitrating a certification that might close a yard, daring a descent through defenses that make “down” a negotiable term. The setting does not ask whether your choice was dramatic; it asks whether it was consequential, and then ensures that consequence travels.

The rules keep the promise. Stamina makes energy visible. Morale and trauma convert terror into a mechanic with a memory. Prestige lets the echo of a life carry forward so that a future pilot can inherit the weight of a prior vow. You aren’t playing scenes—you’re changing a state that persists when the table is quiet.

For the Galaxy Master, mastery is consistency with grace: adjudicate toward plausibility, propagate outcomes along routes and markets, and announce what changed while the players were away. For the crew, mastery is focus: know what you’re willing to spend, because the galaxy itemizes.

This is the compact of Legacy of the Horizon: no act is discrete, no victory unpriced, no defeat without inheritance. The roads remember the ships that passed; the stations remember the hands that bargained; the councils remember the names spoken when the vote was called. And when the stars go dim at session’s end, the ledger stays open.

The galaxy won’t wait—and it won’t forget.