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Forgotten Worlds

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Forgotten Worlds

Il-Kavallieri ta 'Rhaetia

Leader:
Grand Master Ġużè Muscat Azzopardi

Culture:
The Il-Kavallieri ta 'Rhaetia lie to the far west and is covered in dense rain forest supported by a rich abundance of resources that allows even the poorest to live comfortably, the similarities stop there. Festivales are common among the Island communities, all in honour of the Great Phoenix, a monstrous bird of fire, or the Delfini, a great dolphin.

Poised at the Western tip of the mainland, in a region where the warm southern currents collide with the cold northern ones to create three growing seasons that make for a rich kaleidoscope of colours and traditions as the sun warms the region. Winters here are mild in temperature and roughly three to four months long during which Rhaetians rarely see sunlight as it rains almost incessantly. The winter is also known for its heavy storms that batter the jagged coastline.

Meat is rare in Rhaetia and the locals specialize in ocean going dishes, there are few places in the world you can find such a wide and delicious variety of shellfish. Wine is popular here, grown in the rich volcanic soil that can be found all across the island.

Rhaetians' speaks one main language. The Knight-Mage and Navigator Classes are the main source of contact with the outside world as Rhaetian vessels set sail for distant lands in search of riches and adventure.

In their distant past, when the great Empire who once ruled them collapsed, The Islands suffered conquest by a race of Elves who subsequently left their mark in ship building, architecture, language, and genetics as many in Rhaetia are taller and fairer than their neighbours.

Rhaetian peoples are not ones for conquest, or even the pursuit of wealth, but rather of knowledge and freedom. They are famous for vast libraries, excellent universities, going where few others have dared to go before, and for championing the cause of the weak and helpless.

To get to those distant lands the Rhaetian's relied heavily on their Elven ancestors and their now closely guarded shipwright techniques to build the fastest vessels on the ocean. These ships, beautiful to the eye appear to skim across the ocean rather than through it. These vessels are not large however and rely on speed and the skills of their Knight-Mages and Navigators to escape danger and cross unknown stretches of ocean.

Religion:
Rhaetians worship the Delfini and the Dolphin, two mammals long associated to being the only creatures of the great oceans not out to destroy their ships. Navigators study the two species until they are able to communicate with them, via telepathy, and count on them for guidance in long journeys, knowledge of excellent fishing grounds, and warnings of oncoming storms.

The Knight-Mages worship the Phoenix as a sign of power and rebirth.

Attitude to magic:
Where the Flowering Republic has leaned toward technology, the Rhaetians could not survive without magic. It is used to protect their ships, their homes, and their islands from all comers, either through its direct use by Mages, or through powerful runes.

Places:

Il-Belt ta 'Rhaetia

Rhaetia, known locally as Il-Belt, or The City, in the common tongue, had been built around a magnificent natural harbour, called the Grand Harbour, that faces Northeast and is bounded to the north by Stallett Point and further sheltered by an isolated breakwater, and is then bounded to the south by Xabla Point. The Northwest shore is formed by the Sciberras peninsula, which is largely covered by Il-Belt and its suburb Floriana.

That peninsula divides Grand Harbour from a second parallel natural harbour, Salvaġġ Harbour. The main waterway of Grand Harbour continues inland for nearly a kilometre. The south eastern shore of the harbour is formed by a number of inlets and headlands, Three Cities: Cospicua, Kalkara, and Senglea, have been slowly absorbed by Il-Belt to encompass the whole harbour.

The Grand Harbour lies at the centre of gently rising ground and has Il-Belt grown up all around the twin harbours and up the slopes so that the whole bowl is effectively one large fortress protected by massive landward walls and three huge sea gates.

The Great Library and several of the finest Universities are here, as is the Grand Archive, a massive building made of obsidian that houses hundreds of thousands of powerful artifacts recovered in distant lands.

Brief History:
Rhaetia, like the Flowering Republic, was born of the collapse of an ancient Empire. As the Empire decayed and began to fracture, Rhaetia and it's surrounding islands were subject to invasion by a Race of Elves from across the Western Sea who ruled the islands for some 400 years, their culture, language, and magical abilities becoming an integral part of the populace. For hundreds of years the Elven ships came and went to the West until quite suddenly they stopped, and nothing was heard from the distant homeland again. Even today Rhaetian ships sail in search of their distant land of origin but have been unable to locate it. The search goes on.

Those Elves who remained in Rhaetia still hold positions of power but wisely gave up much to the local population in order to preserve their lives. Rhaetians, now more half-elf than true human anymore, showed an infinity for the sea and began to forge an unmatched exploration fleet, guided by the teachings of their sea faring Elven ancestors.

That love of the sea brought with it the knowledge of ship building and Rhaetia has became well known for its excellent fast warships, smaller than many traditional human navies, but swifter and far more dangerous. The ever present threat from their south and the Flowering Republic has kept the Rhaetians ever aware of their weakness in population to wage war should any enemy manage to defeat runes and navy.

Secure in their distant stronghold, Rhaetian's began to seek out the injustices of the world and put them to sword. A unique class was born among them, the Knight-Mages, or Paladins, who roam the world at large singularly, or with armies, searching for monsters to slay.

Military:
There are two distinct classes in Rhaetia, the Navigators, who command individual ships, and the Knight-Mages, who protect the home islands and wage war across the sea. Navigators are Mages in their own right but their skills are directly linked to the sea and the use of ships. Knight-Mages, land based, are the force that gives pause to any would be invaders.

Location:
Rhaetia lies at the Western tip of the mainland on the small island jutting into the ocean.

Post Catalogue:

Forgotten Worlds

Prinċipalità ta 'Maltempati

Prinċipalità ta 'Maltempati

Leader:
Prince Ġużè Muscat Azzopardi

Culture:
The Prinċipalità ta 'Maltempati rests to the north of the Flowering Republic and the two are similar in many ways. The Prinċipalità shares the same eternal summer and rich abundance of resources that allows even the poorest among them to live comfortably. Festivales are common among the Island communities, though those differ even between the individual islands which have their own local deities. The never ending cycle of warm weather and four growing seasons makes for a rich kaleidoscope of colours and traditions.

Meat is rare in the Prinċipalità and the locals specialize in ocean going dishes, there are few places in the world you can find such a wide and delicious variety of shellfish. Wine is popular here, grown in the rich volcanic soil that can be found all across the islands.

The Prinċipalità speaks one main language, thought various dialects are found between islands. Merchants are the main source of contact with the outside world as the Prinċipalità's merchant fleet sails the oceans in search of new markets to tap. At some time in the past the Islands suffered conquest by a race of Elves who subsequently left their mark in ship building, architecture, language, and genetics as many in the Prinċipalità are taller and fairer than their neighbours.

Through the existence of their fleet they have dominated much of the worlds trade and their ships are a common sight the world over. The Prinċipalità has gone to great lengths to maintain its neutrality and avoid involving itself in military action against anyone, unless their trade interests are threatened.

Banking and education are major institutions within the Prinċipalità and one in particular, Tħabbar u Joqtlu, has huge coffers that it invests the world over. The Prinċipalità's golden trident, is often referred to as the Golden Cavalry of 'Maltempati, and wages most the Prinċipalità's wars.

Religion:
The Prinċipalità maintains various local deities between individual islands and has no centralized religious centre or leader. All are tolerated as long as they are peaceful and promote harmony within the Prinċipalità.

Attitude to magic:
Where the Flowering Republic has leaned toward technology, the Prinċipalità has maintained a strong control on magic and its various uses thanks to their Elvish history.

Brief History:
The Prinċipalità, like the Flowering Republic, was born of the collapse of an ancient Empire. As the Empire decayed and began to fracture the Prinċipalità and it's surrounding islands were subject to invasion by a Race of Elves from across the seas who ruled the islands for some 400 years, their culture, language, and magical abilities becoming an integral part of the populace. For hundreds of years the Elven ships came and went to the West until, quite suddenly they stopped, and nothing was heard from the distant homeland again.

Those Elves who remained in the Prinċipalità still hold positions of power but wisely gave up much to the local population in order to preserve their lives. The local population, now more half-elf than true human anymore, showed an infinity for the sea and began to forge a wide spanning trading empire, guided by the teachings of their sea faring Elven ancestors.

That love of the sea brought with it the knowledge of naval warfare and the Prinċipalità became well known for its excellent fast warships, smaller than many traditional human navies, but swifter and far more dangerous. The ever present threat from their south and the Flowering Republic has kept the Prinċipalità ever aware of its weakness in population and bodies to wage war should any enemy manage to defeat their navy.

Military:
The Prince himself collects taxes from all the islands, and so provides the Navy that protects the Islands from outsiders. Beyond the existence of the Navy and its attached Marines, the Prinċipalità has no standing army. Any number of powerful Wizards and Mages can be found within the Islands who make up the only real combat power that could resist a landing.

Location:
Island chain north of the Sorenio Republiqa duo Azula Coatl

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Of Rebels and Assassins - Part I

Porto, Spain - August 02, 1960

Juan Carlos, King of Spain, sat in the left hand side of the swiftly moving staff car, a miserable shell of a man who smiled fraudulently at the waving crowds as he passed by. Beside him, cold and untouchable as she had been since the day they married, sat his Queen, her own smile broad and happy as she waved to the enthusiastic crowd. It was their first trip outside Madrid as a married couple and she had chosen Porto.

"They are due for some happiness after all the horror they have seen." She had declared hotly when he tried to protest. Porto had been, after all, the epicentre of Portuguese resistance.

That resistance had been brutally crushed by Spanish troops. Any man who carried a weapon in the streets of Portugal out of uniform was shot on sight. Those who resisted were arrested and their families with them, all of them vanishing the back of black vans, now known locally as "The Crows". Anyone who was dragged screaming into the vehicles were never seen again and slowly the resistance had begun to wane as people came to fear the Spanish more than they hated them.

The hatred lingered of course and that was why the Queen had chosen Porto for their visit. Her own popularity with the Portuguese people had not diminished with her marriage to the Juan, in fact many seemed to feel she had been forced in to it. Others even suggested that she was protecting the Portuguese population as many of the harshest measures taken by the Spanish, like an early curfew, shooting anyone on sight who failed to move out of the way of their convoys, all ended when she became Queen. Even the Spanish people themselves had been horrified by the shootings and now enthusiastically supported their new Queen.

"They already love you..." Juan had grumbled and then shrunk away as she turned on him with a snarl.

"Well if you were half a man you might have put a stop to the reprisals!" She had screamed the words at him in their bedroom, a bedroom that was increasingly like a battleground.

"I don't control the army!" He had retorted, his own temper rising, it was unfair that she even suggest he had anything to do with the actions of Spains troops.

"You could have appealed to Delgado, I did, and look how it stopped. You're just a coward!" She had turned way before he could respond and he knew, deep down, that she was right. He was terrified of Delgado, and, truth be told, he held his new wife in the same regard.

And so they found themselves driving through the main thoroughfare of Porto in an open topped staff car with heavily armed Cazadores in front and behind, ever watchful of the crowd. It seemed that most people were in a forgiving mood despite what had happened in the city, or it was at least an excuse to cut loose as more than half of those present seemed quite intoxicated and they pushed and shoved, trying to reach out and touch the car as it passed.

The square was huge, large enough to fit several thousand people, fringed on all sides by small cafes and shops that had only recently reopened for business. Children sat on their parents shoulders to wave at the Royalty and a few people tossed flowers in front of the vehicle as they went. It was a far cry from back to normal but at least the city no longer felt as though it was cowering.

As they approached the centre of the square, coming abreast of a massive fountain that bore some Portuguese saint on it, Juan glanced to his right just in time to see three men shove their way to the front of the crowd. They glared at the vehicle, making it clear that they bore its occupants no love. Nor were they alone, while many waved and called greetings, others cursed and swore, it was a strange mix. To Juan's amazement, two of the men he was staring at drew submachine guns, the third a revolver, from beneath their coats, and he barely had time to duck down before they opened fire on the car.

As the first bullets hammered into the Royal car, another engine roared from deeper in the square and screams sounded as a van tore through the crowd and slammed into the leading Cazadore vehicle, hitting it so hard that it toppled over onto its side, pinning a Cazadore beneath it. The mans screams were audible even above the gunfire

Bullets shattered the windscreen, the side mirrors, and tore away the drivers hat even as he swore and clapped a hand to his neck as blood sprang from a bullet strike. Panic spread through the crowd and they began to stampede, pushing and shoving to get away from the shooting. Some fell as the attackers bullets missed and tore into the crowd. Then more shooting as the Cazadores engaged the attackers in a hail of gunfire that cut the three gunmen down. The attackers vehicle meanwhile had come to a halt, its engine smashed, and three men leapt from it, drawing more weapons as they ran toward the Royal couple.

Juan could only stare about in terror at the chaos unfolding around him. Next to him, her eyes wide and her face white, Mariana crouched beneath the edge of the armoured door panel. She was in the safest place of all, the attackers were not close enough to the vehicle to be able to direct their shots down at her, but more than a few had narrowly missed the King.

As the three new attackers advanced, one was tackled by a Cazadore who had emerged from the wrecked police vehicle, blood streaming down his face. A second died as a burst of machine gun fire from the rear vehicle cut him nearly in half. The third managed to evade the gunfire however, and leapt up onto the hood of the staff car, which had slowed, aiming his revolver at Juan even as his other hand gripped the broken frame of the windshield.

Hatred gleamed from dark eyes as they stared down the barrel of the revolver as the King locked eyes with his assassin. The man couldn't have been a day older than Juan, perhaps twenty, perhaps younger. His lips were peeled back from his teeth in a snarl, his eyes were impossibly wide, and behind the hatred Juan could see his own fear as if looking in to a mirror. The man blinked once, seemed to hesitate, and then pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

A thin white finger pulled desperately on the trigger again and Juan felt himself flinch even as he heard the click of the hammer slamming home. He had expected a bullet, but no pain shot through him. The driver, hand still gripping his neck, stomped on the brake peddle just as the gunman gave a scream of dismay and aimed the revolver again. The abrupt stop sent the gunman toppling over onto the roadway in front of the vehicle and before he could stand the driver shifted into gear and slammed the heavy car over top of him. The sound of bones breaking lost beneath the screams of hundreds of onlookers.

An instant later the car was surrounded by Cazadores as they exchanged rounds with two other attackers who appeared to have arrived late to the party. One died, the other falling with a bullet in his spine before the Cazadores seized him and dragged him toward their vehicle. All of the gunmen appeared to be young and they were no soldiers, their gunfire was poorly aimed and they shot indiscriminately into the crowd or at the police who protected the King and Queen.

The square emptied quickly and the screaming slowly died away. It seemed almost silent save for the moans of the man pinned beneath the heavy staff car. The Royal Couple were miraculously unharmed but their driver, his frantic motions having possibly saved their lives, could not save his own, and died in the blood soaked drivers seat before help could reach him. The Cazadore who had been pinned when his car was hit died as well, along with two others who had been hit while shielding the Royal couple with their bodies.

Around them the square was dotted with the bodies of fallen civilians, hit in the exchange of gunfire. Some cried for help, others simply stared in muted horror at their wounds. The distant sound of sirens heralded the approach of ambulances and reinforcements as those police in the motorcade formed a perimeter around the Royal couple.

Juan has pissed himself and he glanced up to see Mariana staring at him in disgust. She was shaken but unharmed and, before he could speak, she pushed open the door of the car and stepped onto the blood soaked street. A Cazadore protested but she waved away his words as she knelt next to one of his wounded comrades and spoke quietly to the man, taking his hand in hers and shaking it.

She moved among the Cazadores, wounded or not, thanking them, even as they closed their protective screen around her. Juan, still crouched in the bottom of his bullet riddled car, watched how the policemen smiled at her and bowed low when she thanked them. He knew it should be him out there, being a leader, showing his subjects how he appreciated him, but all he could do was slowly sink into a sitting position and begin to cry.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Town of Ibiza, Balearic Islands, Spain - August 1960

Night was beginning to fall across Ibiza and the gas lights in the town centre flared to life one by one, their soft yellow glow falling across the wide arches and tapered white columns that ran around the edge of the square, enclosing it on three sides. Small balconies on the second floor began to fill with day labourers as they returned home to push open the wooden doors, allowing a flood of cool evening air rolling in off the ocean to push away the days heat. A small fountain burbled happily at the centre of the square, filling the whole space with its gentle sound.

For Diego Marcilla it was the end of a long week working the waterfront where the ocean liners came and went, their swarms of passengers like a very tide themselves as they engulfed the town during the day before draining away at night. His feet were sore from standing all day and his brain hurt from speaking English for so long. It was not his native tongue and it was always a chore for hours a day.

He passed a Policia Municipal car, the two officers assigned to it reclining in small metal chairs outside a little cafe, half finished pints of beer in front of them, hats casually slung into the spare seats. It was a far cry from the images he had seen from Madrid of the heavily armed police and soldiers on every corner. He waved at the two and both smiled back, one raising his glass in a small toast. Nothing really changed on Ibiza.

"Diego!" The voice that hailed him was the sweetest sound he had ever heard, and the only thing that brought him this far from his home every Friday. The girl who hailed him was seated at a small two person table beneath the spreading branches of a large almond tree. She was short, perhaps no more than five foot, three inches, her black hair pulled back into a ponytail, chocolate brown eyes almost as bright as her pearl white smile.

"Hola, Isabel!" He responded with a smile of his own. The two had been seeing each other for near on a month now and he could not remember being so happy. Diego had been born on Ibiza and never left the Island. Isabel on the other hand hailed from Valencia, which might as well have been the United States for how far it was in Diego's imagination.

"How was work?" She asked, standing as he approached. They exchanged a quick greeting, a kiss on either cheek, before sitting again. Diego couldn't help but notice how Isabel smelled like a rose. She looked like one, beautiful and delicate.

"It was fine, thank you." He sat back in his chair, holding up one finger as he made eye contact with a watchful bar tender. "There was a British ship in the harbour today and they were demanding, as always." She was staring intently at him as she always did when he spoke and he realized just how she made him feel as though no one else mattered when they were together.

"You smell lovely, by the way." He said the words and instantly regretted them, for they sounded lame in his own ears. She didn't seem to mind however and offered him her dazzling smile.

"Thank you! Mamma brought me back some perfume from Valencia." Isabel's mother managed the only bank on the Island. Her family were Jews and, like anyone of the non-Catholic faith, were tolerated as long as they paid an extra tax. Anyone who wasn't Muslim that is.

The waiter arrived with Diego's beer and he took a long drink. Isabel sipped on the wine she already had, glancing around happily at the square as it slowly began to fill with other workers coming home to begin their weekend. This portion of the town was home to mostly young and single professionals. The old king had encouraged men and women alike to seek education and improve themselves, it seemed the new Viceroy had no desire to reverse that decision and so a young woman like Isabel could live alone and work anywhere in Spain, something the older men of the Kingdom still struggled with.

"Are you still thinking of returning to the mainland?" Diego asked finally. Isabel had talked of returning to Valencia and he did not want to lose her, nor had ever considered going with her. "Soon, I mean." He added hastily when she smiled shyly at him.

"Maybe..." She said teasingly. The two were as serious as you could be without actually having sex. She was open to the idea, and he knew she had before, but he was a strict Catholic and knew that God would never forgive him. On more than one occasion she had pushed him on the subject and he almost given in, there was no doubt she was beautiful and he would be lucky to find a wife like her. Once she had stripped slowly in front of him and touched herself until he had to hurry from the room before his will broke completely.

The two policemen, their drinks finished, were half sitting, half leaning, on the hood of their car watching the ever growing crowd in the square. One of them caught Diego's eye and raised a mischievous eyebrow at him. Everyone knew everyone else's business in such a small town and the policemen could hardly have failed to notice the budding romance. Diego felt himself flush red and looked away quickly, very glad that the fading light hid the colour change from Isabel.

"Do you have to decide soon?" He asked earnestly. Isabel had talked of attending the University in Valencia, or maybe even Madrid, and Diego knew that she had to apply soon or she might lose her chance. If she did, she would leave, and he did not know what he would do without her.

Isabel nodded. "Mhm. Mamma says I should decide in the next week or so." She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear as a stiff breeze began to blow in from the ocean, the first breath cool against the heat still rising from the tiles. "It is a big step of course."

Diego could tell she was holding something back but he didn't pry, he never pried. He knew that she would eventually tell him what was on her mind, if she wanted to. He was acutely aware of her small breasts pressing against her white shirt now, the cool air making her nipples stand out against the cloth.

"I even thought of becoming a Police Officer." She said slowly and he felt his jaw drop, nipples forgotten.

"You? A policeman, why?!" He asked, speaking louder than he had intended but she didn't seem to notice.

"I don't know really, but I like helping people, and let's be honest, they don't seem to work very hard sometimes." She gestured to where the two officers were now flirting with a pair of young women freshly arrived from their day of selling horseback tours into the Island interior.

Diego opened his mouth to protest, then shut it quickly as he actually thought about what she had said. Isabel was certainly far more adventurous than he was, and given the opportunities he was certain she would go far in whatever field she chose. She was watching him carefully out of the corner of her eye and he knew he should something.

"I think you will be amazing, no matter what you do." Even as he said the words he knew that he would one day lose her, and he was sad for that. She read his face and reached across the table, one hand gently taking his and holding it until he finally looked up at her.

"Thank you Diego. That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me." She swallowed and he realized that she was just as nervous about this conversation now as he was. "Perhaps you would consider coming with me?"

His initial reaction was to say no, refuse her at once, but he restrained himself. He loved Ibiza, the Island, the town, the people, his family, all of them, but he had never known anything else. For nineteen years he had lived in splendid isolation, insulated from the wider world beyond. He had seen the newspapers, listened to the radio, and wondered what Madrid would be like. Would it be huge? Was Delgado as scary as people said he was? Was there actually a library the size of Ibiza? Maybe he could fly a plane, see the King and Queen in person, people said they were beautiful. In that moment he felt something stir inside him, a surge of excitement and even hope at the idea of going with her.

He squeezed the small hand that was holding his and smiled. "Perhaps I will."

---

Viction

Viction

Age: 24

Sex: Male

Occupation: Murmillo Gladiator (One of Romes most celebrated Arena champions)

Appearance: Viction is arguably one of the most handsome men to set foot in the arena. The son of a Pictish Chieftan from beyond Hadrians wall, he is a veteran of numerous Gladiatorial combats, and only one brush with Roman Legions in Britain. The man was not born a killer; but he is certainly one of those who you would say was born with the "warrior spirit". Standing at nearly six feet, four inches and weighing in at a staggering 230 pounds, he is a huge man by all accounts. Broad in the shoulders and light on his feet, he has earned the many scars that crisscross his body, and his growing fame.

Personality: Like many Gladiators, he tends to distance himself from those who have never shared the dangers he has. He is efficient in his work, a strict observer of Arena rules, and quick to praise an adversary who he has defeated. He is often very serious but once you can crack the iron shell you will find a man who loves animals, wants to be rid of Rome, and wants nothing more than to return to the rain soaked hills of Britain.

Equipment:
Gladius: Roman sword.
Scutum: Rectangular shield made of vertically connected wooden boards with a small bronze boss which protects shield's handle.
Balteus: Leather belt with metal decorations and supplements.
Manica: Segmented or scaled arm guard made of leather or some metal alloys.
Cassis Crista: A large helmet with plume crest or horsehair.
Ocrea: Shin guard/protectors made of gold, silver or other metals.
Fasciae: Thick soft padding on legs.

Skills: Combat veteran, calm under pressure, excellent swordsman, ruthless, speaks Latin and Pictish well.

Flaws: Treats most problems as something to be hit with a hammer, is unable to conceal his hatred of Romans, and has no formal education of any kind.

Backstory: Viction's family hails from the Caledonii Tribe, part of the peoples known as the Picts, living to the North of Hadrians wall in the Roman province of Britain. His father was a blacksmith, sheep farmer, and part time warrior while his mother looked after Viction and his thirteen siblings.

His life was unremarkable enough as a youth though he was well noted by friends and strangers alike for his sheer size which was highly unusual in the area. Working in his father forge helped him build tremendous muscle mass and made him a frightful individual to encounter.

Like many young men of his tribe, he delighted in the skirmishes between various villages and showed great skill in cattle and sheep rustling. On most occasions all had to do was burst from the woods roaring like an animal and his terrified opponents would flee, leaving their livestock for plunder.

When he was fifteen he, along with his father, four brothers, and several dozen other men from his village, launched a raid on a tribe allied with the Romans posted along Hadrians wall. The raid was a success and much plunder was taken, Viction and his family returning home loaded with goods and stories.

The Romans, unsurprisingly, did not take the raid lightly and retaliated that same night. Viction was among those to drunk on their victory, and captured wine, to fight back as the rest of their tribe fled into the hills. Viction was sold into slavery, along with two sisters who he has not seen since.

Because of his height and strength, Viction was bought by a Ludi Gladiatorium in Londoninium where he underwent brutal training that turned him from a fun loving boy and in to a skilled fighter. Viction's skills grew and he won combat after combat until his owner decided to take him to Rome.

Now in Rome, he is considered an up and coming champion as he look toward his fortieth individual combat. His huge size and handsome features have helped his celebrity status and he is quickly becoming a favourite in the Arena. Huge sums have been won and lost on his battles. His own wealth and prestige grow with his victories.

Rumours now fly that the Emperor himself is taking an interest in Viction and the young man, for he is still young, hopes to win the wooden Gladius and so return home.

---

Servius Faenius Vetranio

Servius Faenius Vetranio

Age:
41

Sex:
Male

Military Rank:
Primus Pilus of the 13th Legion

Appearance:
Servius is arguably one of the most terrifying men serving in the 13th Legion. He is a military veteran of numerous campaigns across the Empire. The man is a born killer; one of those who you would say was born with the "warrior spirit". Standing nearly six feet and weighing in at a staggering 230 pounds, he is a huge man by all accounts. Broad in the shoulders and light on his feet, he has earned the many scars that crisscross his body, and the retirement that a return home promises him.

Personality:
Like many men of the Legion he tends to distance himself from those who have never shared the dangers he has. He is efficient in his work, quick to criticize someones poor work, and then provide them the tools and knowledge to fix their shortcomings. He is often very serious but once you can crack the iron shell you will find a man who loves animals, wants to go home and joined the Legion to serve the Empire.

Equipment:
Sword, shield, pilum, entrenching tool, etc.

Skills:
Combat veteran, calm under pressure, skilled leader, excellent swordsman, ruthless, speaks Latin well, a smattering of other languages partially.

Flaws:
Treats most problems as something to be hit with a hammer, doesn't do politics at all, believes everyone has Romes best interest at heart.

Backstory:
Servius is the son of a whore and has no idea who she is, or was. He grew up on the streets of Corduba, in the Roman Province of Hispania. The first ten years of his life were spent begging, fighting, and surviving on the streets of the provincial capital until the gods saw fit to see him into the Legion. He eventually made his way into the 13th Legion at the age of fifteen.

For the next 25 years he fought his way across the Empire, serving in every major campaign, rising in rank as his skills increased. During the Quadi Rebellion he distinguished himself in taking on command of his unit after the Optio was killed. He salvaged what would have otherwise been a debacle and secured the potential weakness in the line. In true Roman fashion he was rewarded for his hard work with more work, and a promotion.

He showed a natural affinity for leading soldiers and as the Empire continued to expand he earned promotions and accolades from his superiors until, at twenty years of service, he became the Legions Primus Pilus, or ranking foot solider.

Most recently he was riding between garrison posts when he and his escort were attacked by a superior number of Germanic raiders. Never one to shy from a fight, Servius led his outnumbered men in a charge against the Germans and engaged their leader in single combat. Despite being older by near on twenty years, who slew the barbarian with savage ease that so shocked the rest of the raiders they were butchered with ease.

Now the Legion is bound for home and Servius is looking to retire to find a place to call his own.

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Dakhla, Spanish Western Sahara

Suggested listening

04:00 hours, Late July

She was nervous as she and partner took their places and waited for the soft flow of music to begin. It began with a soft touch of piano and drums a short moment later as they took a step forward and bowed. They circled each other, eyes locked. As the beat increased he stepped forward sharply and placed his hand on her back, her hand on his shoulder, and their free hands finally met. Together, they danced to the music, their feet flashing to the beat. As the song progressed she began to relax and allowed a small smile to form on her lips. Her partner was perfect. He wore wore a white spotless shirt, which matched her dress. His eyes, brown as melted chocolate, were deep and irresistible. One thing was for sure, she was enjoying her evening.

He turned elegantly, his body in tune with the quick music. Yet, there was a sort of harshness to him, like he was someone who shouldn’t be underestimated. She didn’t quite care at the moment. Was it because of the lemon cello? The romance associated with the tango? The beautiful African night? The warmth between them grew more powerful by the second. Her heartbeat was growing steadily along with it. The dance was perfect; everything from their breathing to how their feet moved in sync. If, by the end of this dance her breath had been taken away, she would know the exact reason why.

He guided her across the dance floor as if they were in a dream. He kept his eyes on her, yet still, he knew exactly where to take her. Every moment, every angle seemed to be planned in advanced. Nothing felt forced; she felt as if she was floating.

“Señor,” I whispered, “everyone is looking at us.”

He squeezed her hand slightly and smiled. “Really,” he chuckled softly, “I hadn't notice.”

She did not want him to say more. Her heart, her whole being was swept up in the magic of the moment. That was when she decided to let ago. Let her worries, her self-awareness, and her emotions go. Right here, right then, she was living. Nothing else seemed to matter anymore; she allowed him to take her anywhere he pleased on that dance floor. He went right, she went right. He sped up, she sped up. They became one with the song, with the dance, and with each other. He spun her with little effort, her fingers dancing with his as he turned her before pulling her close and quite suddenly dipping her so that his hot breath was on her chest and they came to a halt. Applause filled their ears. She couldn’t help but smile at him. It had been perfect.

They stayed that way for a brief moment and she inhaled his scent, the smell of the desert air, a hint of ocean brine, the starch of his uniform. Then he stood, bringing her with him so that she was pressed against his chest and she could feel his heart pounding like hers, a rhythm only the two of them could feel. She kept her fingers intwined in his as she swept one hand behind her back and guided him toward the nearby patio. Other couples were taking the dance floor now, few showing the same skill her partner had.

The night air felt remarkably cool on her face as the long white curtains dropped closed behind them, hiding them from the view of those inside. He must have felt her shiver for in an instant his coat was over her shoulders and he was behind her, his arms wrapping her in the warmth of his own body.

Below them the narrow streets of Dakhla teemed with throngs of people on foot and bicycle. Light spilled from dozens of windows and music from as many doorways as the tango clubs did a roaring business. She pressed her hips back against him and felt the bulge of his cock through his pants. He bent, kissing her neck gently so that she reached back to caress the back of his head with her hand.

In the distance she could see the white caps marking the beach where the ocean crashed into the white dunes of the Sahara Desert. The roar of the ocean mixed with the rumble of the crowds below and at that moment, in the arms of a Spanish soldier, she had never felt more alive.

"Perhaps we can take a walk?" He asked, his breath hot in her ear and she rewarded him with a open smile, her lips slightly apart. His English was accented and she felt her heart skip a beat at the tone. This was a true Spanish accent, nothing like that of her parents house keeper back in California. In answer, she drew his lips to hers.

* * * * *

07:00 hours

Morning came far to soon but he was gone before the sun rose above the Eastern sea of sand dunes. They had never shared their names, but that was why people came to Dakhla, to be whoever they wanted. Here, on the edge of the African continent, it didn't matter who you were or what your background was, you could be anyone, anything.

She had showered quickly and dressed in a two piece bathing suit called a bikini, the latest in a series of risqué fashions that had begun in Dakhla and spread across Spain, and in some cases the world. Wrapping a loose cloth sarong around herself she had made her way down to the hostel common-room for breakfast. A number of other bleary eyed guests were in attendance and one, a tall stunning blonde from Sweden, waved her over to a table by the window.

"Good morning, Brittany!" The blonde exclaimed as she sank down in the empty chair.

"Morning, Magda." She privately thought it was an ugly name for a woman who looked as if she was from the Amazon legends. "Are you hitting the waves today?"

The blonde headed nodded eagerly and one long leg crossed over the other. "Da, I vas vaiting for you." Magda wore a similar sarong, though it was a deep blue that matched her shrewd eyes as she studied her companion. Brittany pretended not to notice as she poured a strong Ethiopian Negus coffee popular in these parts

"That's very nice of you." Brittany said non-chelantly.

"Mhm..." Magda eyed her carefully, the blue eyes sparkling. "Did you have a good evening wis your soldier?"

Brittany tried not to look to guilty, but, then it occurred her, it didn't matter. She had come from California to Dakhla to do whatever she wanted and there was no need to feel shame about it.

"I did!" She said with a small smile. "He was very... Vigorous."

"I heard." Laughed Magda without any malice. "I am jealous. I vas not so lucky." She shrugged. "But perhaps I have better luck this evening." She toasted Brittany with her coffee cup and the two drank in silence for a moment.

Outside the sound of the ocean was unabated as it rumbled against the sand. The scream of seagulls was clear and it was evident that they were a minority in being up early. They had come here to surf, and that was what they would do.

Ten minutes later they were running across the long beach, surfboards tucked under their arms, the wood warm against their ribs, bare feet churning up the sand to leave lines of footprints behind them. The sun was slowly cresting the dunes to the East and bathing the beach in rays that were already hot despite the early morning. No one else could be seen on the long sandy stretch as they began to splash into the waves.

The water here was shallow, stretching out for several hundred yards without gaining more than five feet in depth, it was an ideal surf zone. Brittany gave a loud laugh as she drove her surfboard forward and dove on top of it. Life was good.

ROME: In Flammas Imperii (dead)

Always love me some Rome intrigue and such!

Precipice of War - The Big Leagues of NRP (Only generous tippers need apply)

Madrid, Spain

Juan could feel his heart hammering in his chest as he escorted Mariana down the long marble hallway toward the Royal Chambers that had been set aside by Delgado in the greatest Spanish palace of them all. Cazadores, dressed in traditional yellow uniforms with red pleated sleeves, silver breastplates, and Morion helmets lined the long hallway, halberds at dutifully ceremonial angles, pistols mounted on their thighs.

The portraits of ancestors stared down at him as they went and lanterns flickered in the breeze that always seem to curl through the palace, the electric lights had been turned off for effect this evening. His court shoes were loud on the marble, offset slightly by the tap of Mariana's high heels beneath her dress.

She was next to him, leaning on his arm, her white teeth flashing beneath long black hair and deep brown eyes as she smiled up at him. Her dress, which fit her as if it had been sewn onto her body, left little to the imagination and he was already mentally undressing her as they passed between the twin line of statuesque Cazadores. Juan was happy, even seeing Delgado at the wedding had not ruined his mood. The Dictator had not arrived until after the ceremony and well into the evenings course of events. His arrival had been to minimal fanfare and he had simply wished the newlywed his congratulations and then vanished again.

The smell of Mariana's perfume was intoxicating and he leaned in to take a deep breath even as she laughed and pretended to slap him as he did so. He could have sworn one of the Cazadores cracked the barest smile as she did. He pulled her closer to him, hand encircling her thin waist, possessing her as his. He could think of no prettier bride worthy of his station.

The doors at the end of the hall were pulled open by a final set of Cazadores. The room beyond was the ante-chamber of the Royal Apartment. It was a huge space and Juan could see the servants standing in a neat line as they waited for their masters. The room would be perfect, of that he had no doubt. He had done little himself, that was beneath the King after all. This night he was going to dominate Mariana as Spain had dominated Portugal. Already he planned to tie her arms above her head and fuck her like she had never been fucked before. It was possible that she was a virgin from what he had heard, and that only excited him more.

As they swept into the apartment the servants bowed in unison, turned, and filed out of the door which closed behind them with a heavy hollow boom as the sound echoed down the long hallway they had just walked. Juan stepped forward to pick up a bottle of wine from the table that overflowed with gifts from their guests. Mariana on the other hand had made for the bedroom and he mentally kicked himself as he quickly put down the wine and hurried after her.

She turned at the door and he reached for her, intending to take her into his arms. Instead pain exploded between his legs as she kneed him viciously in the groin. He gasped for air, clutching at her and then collapsed with a thud to the floor as she stepped back. His hands went instinctively to cup his balls as he curled into the fetal position, staring at her in confusion. In return he only saw disgust and naked disdain.

"Do not touch me, pig! You will not share my bed. Sleep on the couch!" She hissed the words at him as she slammed the bedroom door in his face.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sao Paolo, Brasil

Isabel cracked her door slowly with the key she had taken, allowing it fall open without stepping into the door way herself. No sound came from within the room. She waited for what seemed like an eternity, though was likely less than thirty seconds, until she was certain she could detect no movement from inside.

When she did finally enter the room it was on her belly as she slid over the doorframe like a snake, eyes sweeping the deep darkness of the room. A line of light showed under her door where it led into the hallway and it cast just enough for her to be sure that no strange boots waited for her. She lay still once again, watching the light but nothing moved across it.

Slowly she stood, made her way across the room and to the door. She pressed an eye to the peephole and scanned the hallway. She white walled space was empty save for a porter who was collecting dished from outside the door of the room across the hall. He paid her room no attention as he walked away.

Satisfied for the moment that she wasn't under direct observation she snapped on the small lamp perched on the desk near the door. Her room looked much as she had left it. Her travel dress was still draped over the chair, her shoes beneath it. Her bag was on the bed as she had left it and it took her a second to realize that it had been resealed, she purposely left it open. She opened it slowly. All of her things were still neatly folded but certainly not in the order in which she had put them in when she had been packing inside her room on the Graf Zepplin. There was no doubt about it now, someone knew who she was, though maybe not why she had come.

The sound of a foot scuffing outside the room made her step quickly to the door again and press her eye to the peephole. It was brief but she caught the shape of a man moving off quickly down the hall toward the far door. She hurried back to her suitcase, pulled out a new dress, some comfortable shoes, snapped off the light, and repeated her earlier drop from the balcony into the brush. She changed quickly in the shadows, carefully using her "work mans" shoes to dig in the garden big enough to bury her clothes.

Dressed in her new outfit she stepped out onto the sidewalk and began to walk toward the hotel entrance. The man she had seen earlier in the car looked up startled as she went by and she pretended not to notice him. She climbed the stairs to the hotel lobby and loudly greeted the porter as she stepped inside. Glancing to her left she saw the man who had been in the lobby earlier pretending to tie his shoe outside her room. The look of confusion on his face as she appeared in the entranceway was nothing short of fantastic as he glanced her, then at the door, before standing and walking toward her. She gave him a friendly nod, which he returned, and stepped up to the front desk.

The woman behind the desk, different from the gentleman who had checked her, in smiled warmly.

"Evening ma'am. Are you a guest?"

Isabel nodded as she placed her hat on the counter and leaned forward so she was standing on her tip toes. This had the desired effect of distracting her watchers with her calves as her dress rode up higher than usual.

"I am." She said loudly. Then dropped her voice to a whisper. "Please pretend to give me my room key." She raised her voice again. "Room 21." The key had been beneath her hat and fell onto the other side of the desk with a quiet jingle.

"As yes, here you are." The front desk staffer covered her confusion quickly when she saw that the key had been dropped with a twenty Peseta note. She plucked the keys up, pocketed the note with a practiced hand, and passed them across to Isabel with a smile.

"Thank you. I don't suppose you'd be kind enough to have someone come around to my room and pick up my laundry do you?"

"I will see to it myself ma'am."

"Thank you!" She smiled cheerily and began to walk down the hallway.

She had barely slipped into her room and slipped off her shoes again when a knock sounded. She opened the door to find the front desk agent standing before her, a worried look on her face but she spoke slightly louder than one might expect.

"I thought I'd grab it now, miss."

"Thank you, come in." Isabel stepped back to allow the agent into her room. The woman immediately leaned forward and whispered frantically, worry plain on her face.

"That man in the lobby was asking about you. I didn't tell him anything so he became angry and said he was going to get the Police!"

Isabel felt her heart skip a beat. "Okay, thank you." She passed the woman another fifty peseta note. "Take this, and this." She quickly handed over the travel dress from the day. "I won't be coming back for it, so keep it if you like."

She shooed the woman out of the room, with another thank you, and moved quickly to her suitcase. She neatly slit the inner lining, pulled out several hundred peseta's and slid them into her bra along with a passport of a different name. Her hand bag she filled with a change of underwear, a small Polaroid camera, and her actual passport, which she would keep until she was forced to get rid of it. She regretted leaving the suitcase, she was terribly fond of it, but she could buy another.

In two quick steps she was out the balcony door again, over the edge, and was already beyond the lights of the hotel when the first of the police cars flashed past. She couldn't leave Brasil yet, there was a mystery to solve.