Dinh AaronMk

Colonial

Oh divine Providence, the fate of the winds that drive time and place in the name of the One and Only. He who shed his physical form to give rise to the world. Oh divine Providence, who washes over us in all times to direct our souls to purity and to keep us on the path to The One. Oh divine Providence, the soul of the breathing world hewn from His bones and bowls. May the Man, the Woman, and The Child; divine faces who exists in three; made to be one. Watch over us travelers. Grant our ruler wisdom and mercy. And may he be forgiven for what injustice he has done. Oh divine Providence, I do not know this land. I do not know its water. I do not understand how children of His blood could be led so far astray. I seek His patience to weather them and their land. I seek your wisdom so I may know it. I seek your strength so I may guide my sword against my enemies and correct His creation, if you Lord are so willing. Oh divine Providence, I beseech your judging qualities. I ask that word of our king be delivered to on high so that he may be judged, so that I may forgive him. For his wrong doings to be corrected. So that I may return home. So that I may return home to the kingdoms of Tirna and Sorset. So I may smell the flowering bushes of Baed Caray. So I may snack on the honey of sweet Foren in its west. So I may see the gullies and the orchards and the sugar sands of Tannover Shea's southern vistas. I seek to see the greatest city to ever stand with my own eyes once again, and call it my own and my home: Doulein Town. May its silver walls be my refuge against the irredeemable, and so I may leave this cursed place. Oh divine Providence, why do I feel I will never return? Why is it I weep so? Oh divine Providence, our servant to the divine lord, our knights to man and of earth. Oh Cal Ethahn, our Highest One what is the will of your spirit? Here I am now, a humble servant to your will. Upon the clay of a land foreign to me, but named for my home. I feel betrayed, and I feel defeated. New Tirna is not the home for me. Yet my will to fight has be surpassed. I have to survive. Another winter has passed, and hardly word from the remains of my family back home. I curse my king. Yet I can not do a thing. -------------------------------------- The familiar sun rises over a strange new land. For a remote few below its gaze, the sun is the only thing familiar to them. It – like the sun and stars – are the very same they would gaze upon and bask in its glow in the old country. But this is not the old country. It is far from it. The land is unfamiliar, if even alien to them. Its wondrous beauties and terrifying depths span for miles outside the walls they have erected around their settlement, adventuring only so far out to fulfill the needs of their settlement and till the soil for this year's crops. They look inland in apprehension and silent fear of what might be beyond those hills. And they look to the sea, hoping that some day a ship bearing their flag will return to take them home, and not lump upon them a new wave of settlers or merely trade out supplies. For these debtors, lucky criminals, and determined enemies of the old state they are alone. A first breed of a new adventurous people for their nation; whether or not they like it. A whole new hero or villain, colonists. The settlement of Uponhill is a new experiment in exploration. Not one driven by the mercantilism of the old world or simply military conquests against familiar – if barbarian – foes. But a simple push into the unknown. And one not fueled – if initially – by the prospects of expanding the nation's wealth. No, this is a test by the despot of the United Kingdoms of Tirna-Sorset to deal with his potential enemies, debtors, and certain criminals. To those with broken social bonds and of questionable virtue. To put them out of sight and out of mind and secure for them a land so unknown and harsh that all thoughts of usurpation are defeated by not only the distance, but by the driving will to survive. And then in time these peoples will sire a whole new generation to occupy this land and expand the Empire. And we here now are those colonists. Or the locals who must deal with them.

A brief history of Uponhill

Hider

Upponhill is a small village-size settlement, spread out roughly across ten square miles of swampy ground on the river Miller's Creek. Its citizenry are made up of the banished and exiles of their home, filling in a wide spread of the old country's social strata, ideology, race, and even religion. In some fashion these people were deemed at odds with the government of Tirna-Sorset and needed to be dealt with. As a case and an experiment, the despot of Tirna-Sorset ordered the found and suspected enemies of his rule to be sailed across the great sea Aelaminus to establish a colonial outpost in his name. In time this town would become a center to deal with the threatening members of his land. A whole new colony, and a whole new prison. A prison of no guards, of the infinite prospect of freedom. But the harsh realities of exile and being forgotten. A penal colony. It's been a year since the establishment of Upponhill. One so bad they were sure they would have perished if not for the assistance of some natives who fell sympathetic to the foreigners' plight, not having hardly enough resources to survive. So they helped them, to whatever effect this will have on them is a question yet to be answered. There are of course additional colonies on this coast. Some foreign, built by powers from the homeland. But none so near to Upponhill to be of any direct and immediate importance. For the colonists here, they are a distant dream to trade distantly with. Or for the impatient and jumpy: a target to raid. Old habits die hard.

A history of Tirna-Sorset

Hider

The United Kingdoms of Tirna-Sorset were not always a unified kingdom, instead being two separate kingdoms separated by five miles of ocean water. Tirna, the ancient and rugged kingdom of warriors and of ancient druidic ritual was at times in conflict with the much more passive and diverse kingdom of Sorset, which had been built up by generations of migration and invasion that changed its face and make up. As with all kingdoms, they had fought each other. Or their rulers sought avenues of peace through marriage with each other. Four-hundred years ago the faith of Ethahn – Ethahnism - arrived to their kingdoms' doorsteps. A concept long developed out in the east, the cult of the god Ethahn promoted a sense of unity. It talked about powerful themes of temperance, modesty, and fidelity to one's self, your partner, and your liege-lord. It introduced a refined and broad set of social rules. It was a shake up. The next several decades to a century saw the rough inclusion of the God Who Sacrificed Himself To Make Creation into both their societies. Ethahnism as it met local pagan mysticism did change and evolve. Ethahn adopted the ancient title of Cal – or lord – and several other titles: Highest One, Lord, etc. In addition it absorbed the concept of the mid-level spirits of local Paganism, the so-called Providences, often nameless spirits who conduct the divine will of heaven and “Fill creation's bones with spirit”. Ethahnism's introduction and mutation on the western shores of the Old World facilitated an evolution in politics between the two nations. The concepts of fidelity burned in the noble houses. There was a stronger sense of union between the two and a series of jointly signed declarations and the gradual absorption of one house into the other merged the two kingdoms into the entity of Tirna-Sorset. The United Kingdoms continued to revise and strengthen their bond to the point that in many aspects the kingly titles of either state had become one, and effectively began preserving the multitude of ethnic and tribal groups in both states as Ethahnism proliferated society and numerous ideological interpretations of its teachings – The Coda – blossomed. Thirty-five years ago Tirna-Sorset involved itself in a war against the kingdom of Antoinne in a dispute of inheritance concerning the small principality of Bruge. The king of Tirna-Sorset at the time – Brandon Aeloy – declared that his son and heir Ilroy was the legitimate heir to the death of the prince of Bruge. The Kingdom of Antoinne, fearing growing Tirna-Sorsetian hegemony and having their own legitimate claimant to the throne of Bruge like-wise declared their contender the heir. All the while the principality passed to the first cousin of the former prince, catching themselves in the middle of the two armies. Bruge resisted the conflicting interests of both nations but was eventually defeated by both within the year, forcing the ruling family to flee the country and acquire assistance of the neighboring kingdom of Loran-Nailes in order to reclaim the new prince's lost territorial claims, being married to the king's daughter. What followed was an immense twenty-year war between three powers. Though Antoinne amassed a larger alliance, Tirna-Sorset was able to outmaneuver and divide their Seven Nation Army at the battle of Rouge. However at the conflict, under the blare of cannon and musket fire the fates wouldn't be kind to their victory and decided that to have it a sacrifice would need to be made. And so King Brandon Aeloy stepped out onto the field to lead his cavalry against the enemy. And though his armor was heavy and his sword true, when he and his men fell upon the enemy lines a shot from his own cannons struck him directly and pulped the king against the enemy's musketeers. Though painful, the battle was one. One final engagement was had at the River Tirus. Though fought mournfully it was commanded by the former King Brandon's top commander Aenda Kelendea of Tull. The victory shattered Antoinne and Loran in a bloody victory and they conceded peace. Signing a peace with Ilroy recognizing his claims to Bruge. There was considerable celebration, but also mourning for the fallen king. Across the diverse kingdom people came out to honor their fallen king, recognizing this victory as his more than his son or even Aenda's. It was also a victory that would not last longer than a month. Known to be a fond drinker, Ilroy was a dangerous man to his self. So it came as a disaster, if not one secretly whispered that it would happen, that he would do something incredibly dangerous. It came on one warm spring night as he roamed the towers of his family's palace with a bottle clenched in his fist. By the next morning he had disappeared, and was later discovered the day after dead on the palace roof, having fell from the window and breaking his neck in the fall. His body was recovered, and a funeral held. According to the recognized laws of inheritance Bruges left Tirna-Sorsetian control, and Ilroy's five year old son Micheal inherited the throne. Too young to rule on his own a regent was swiftly appointed, the victorious commander Aenda was named Regent, ruling in Micheal's stead. And over time, Aenda began to take more control. Using Micheal's name he wrote the youth out of power slowly, granting himself more privileges to spite the dynasty he served and was forgotten to. He courted the young king's widowed mother Joan and eventually married her. And then finally in unfortunate circumstance the young king was found dead in the countryside, presumably having fallen off a cliff after dropping his walking stick; having been known to have a club foot. Aenda was quick to seize power, initiating a civil war with the nobility. But with the army at his side he was quick and merciless against them, squashing and destroying the noble houses that resisted them. For those that remained he captured and imprisoned, declaring enemies of the state. To the artists and poets that responded with criticism for his cruelty they were detained or executed. And for those who still had outstanding war debts he seized their property and threw them in shackles. Prisons swelled, and he continued his ironfisted reign. He garnered support from militant ultra-conservatives amid the church of Ethahn and with them at his side he found the power to dispense with the faiths of minorities, shutting them away or discouraging their practice. He continued to isolate many groups considered a threat to his power, his claim, and the nation's stability. He became ruthless. Titling himself as despot and an emperor more than a king. And finally, just five years prior it was suggested he go abroad to the new lands discovered by the Libirians across the great sea. His colonists would be those he shut away. This would be his first show of mercy and the restoration of grace for the nation. Those that could not contribute would be sent away to do just that. And those that questioned his rule would be put far from their ability to resist. They would be autonomous, this was true. But they would not find paradise.

_________

Hider

And now the RP. To keep myself from drowning the RP and stifling what I feel would be player determination for many aspects of this RP I will stop there and go onto the RP. So what will be Colonial? If not keyed in already, it is one where we will assume the role of a colonist at the end of their first winter in Upponhill. As a whole, we will be charged with developing this colony and expanding it and to conquer the wilderness. As a unit we will be in command of the colony. Its growth, its personalities, its politics, and perhaps even military ambitions with its colonial militia. The previous winter has been harsh and reminding. Now separated by many miles of ocean travel from their comfortable coffee houses or warm family farms they crawl out of their homes reminded at just how cruel nature can be. And with so much unknown out there, it is sure they'll find much more cruelty. The colonists come from a diverse background. Many are debtors or simple criminals sentenced to be thrown from their homes to across the sea. Yet many more are former nobles or their families forced to leave their homes with as much as they can carry on their backs. Some are considered heretics by the church at home and sent west where their heretical fires might be stifled out by the harsh unforgiving landscape of the unknown continent. And the rest are in general a representation of every person who might pose a threat to Aenda; liberal and conservative alike. While writing, it is good to know this RP is on set in a 17th/18th century equivalent.

Local Map

The regions illustrated here are involved directly in the RP. Of course as said earlier there are colonies further abroad belonging to foreign powers, but they are not in this area and are not a focus of who a writer may claim identity to.

Go through the Alphabet before someone posts a My Little Pony Picture

Your Political Ideology

Reminder you're all silly.

Anarcholiberalconservative-democraticmonarchistfascistsocialist-marxistcommunisttumblritepolster-traditionalathenian-FrancorepublicanImperialism with a touch of trade-unionistmoralist-secularist trimmings. With maybe some Judeoislamsoarastrianism and Kurdish leanings.

@Dinh AaronMk

#GetReel

Superbowl!

Are we having fun yet?

Go through the Alphabet before someone posts a My Little Pony Picture

Newbie willing to learn!

I should check back in on /tg/. Is the dragon hoard thread still alive? I'll probably find something else there anyways, so it doesn't matter...

Dead World: Rise of Nations

And given the size of the territory are claiming I highly doubt this can actually be fully manned on the triple-zero score. Even the Rocky Mountain "Hegemony" or whatever holds enough population centers inside of it to have a population of a couple ten thousand. Sure, all they got are tiny towns and one large Indian reservation, but they shouldn't have triple zeroes. They'd still have tremendously low population density, but they wouldn't be able to do anything. Under the proposed numbers you will be restricting many of us to just play around in our borders. Assuming we take up conventional social structures or even the social structure of medieval Western Europe we'd hardly have enough population to actually act outside of our borders in any significant way. So you're asking many to do effectively nothing for hundreds of pages, or proposing we somehow conquer settlements with equal population, in which case the likely disorganized fighting and the elements will probably lead to little population growth. And on Windsor itself, Jec's Canada-ville could easily have twenty-thousand people based out of the ruins of Windsor, Ottawa. Which'd make it easily about the size of medieval London or 13th century Rome in terms of approximate population.

Dead World: Rise of Nations

I still don't get where everyone's getting at with the hundred-thousand being too much fear. As pointed out by Keyguy a lot of these populations are barely sustainable for some small towns. And with the amount of territory everyone's claiming then the population density is not just low, it's extinction level. Even a 90% population drop over any state will still leave more than a hundred thousand around within the claimed territory.

Dead World: Rise of Nations

Um, KillAllKebab, you can't have that large of a population. Maximum for the American theater is 100,000. You bring it over that, not to mention having significantly more people than anyone else.

@Durandal

The entirety of a population isn't all military dedicated. 100,000 isn't all that large given he's claiming all of Lousiana with a modern population of 4 million. By all standards, a tenth of the population can safely be in the military under certain conditions, providing they're not warrior nomads or trying to build a modern industrial lifestyle with very non-industrial means. As well, a tenth of that would safely be only what they'd be able to deploy in offensive operations without jeopardizing home.

@Dinh AaronMk

I know, but Dual stipulated that there can be no more than 100,000 people in population for the American theater. Not one nation, but all nations totaled.

@Durandal

What Aaron is trying to say is that 100,000 is unrealistically low anyways. The population of New Kiev is a third of that of my hometown, which is small anyways, and New Kiev is ALL OF SOUTH CAROLINA. A single military base could supply the entirety of North America with weapons if the population is 100,000. The only nations in the world with a population at all comparable to that of our nations are tiny island nations (mainly UK territories), the Vatican, and Sealand. Examples of nations with a comparable population to that of the entirety of North America in this RP are the illustrious and famous nations of the "Independent and Sovereign Republic of Kiribati" and the "Federated States of Micronesia". Then we have to take into account the many, many people actively organizing doomsday shelters already. Imagine what it would be like after asteroids show up! Everyone would be going crazy, buying rooms in bunkers that are already being set up for commercial sale.

@Keyguyperson

With a population of a few thousand anyways you're not really running a nation anymore. You're running a small town. So it becomes pointless in the grand scheme unless you want to play City Builder. Presuming this even could have killed 90% of any state's population from infection or violence after the fact we'd all still be looking at populations in the few hundred ten thousands. There may be larger drops in more densly populated regions since this sort of density would lend into making infection easier. But for the Carolinas and Lousiana it'd be laughable to dive well below Dakota-tier population.

Dead World: Rise of Nations

Badlands, North Dakota The rugged horns of the Earth below thrust itself up in a broken landscape of gray rock and thick scraggly bushes. A landscape dominated my miles of twisting and labyrinthine gullies and valleys scarred the landscape for miles. The sharp crowns of the jagged hillsides spanning into the clear blue sky, and marching off into the distance where the details of the lost maze faded into the blue. Patches of green dotted the hills, hardy pines and other rugged plants that scored the hillsides and narrow plateaus and adding more of nature's definition to geology's uprooting. In the distance a eagle cackled, its call echoing across the landscape, flowing through the broken hills, forging a river with the wind. This was the land of poets. And far on from the past it was not hard to see the blurring between the now and the then. The windswept and rain washed rocks and gravel creek beds still sung of an era dominated by bandits and outlaws, seeking refuge from the law. Of hunters and natives. And not now in this time the remnants of a proud race, seeking survival in the midst of a landscape burned by alien plague. In the days people romance about, they talked of knights of wore at their hips six shooters of burning chrome. Who did battle with sheriff, savages, and outlaw alike. This was their kingdom this land. Where the crack of gunfire was indistinguishable from the blare of gunfire. People said in the days in the young days of the end gunfire once exploded in the badlands, the cracks of machine guns and rifles cutting down the hoards of the undead monsters of each other in a standoffish attempt to preserve the failing dignity of one another. And true, in the rocks as one traveled the casings and shrapnel left behind from those times could still be found glistening among the rocks. These days are past, but hardly romanticized. The terror of survival too greatly clouding the memory to make them anything more than ghost stories told to children, or the reminiscing of the men who had lived through it by which to measure the size of each other's penises. In some ways, it was these rocky wastelands that gave unto the world the first blood of the first Lazarites, the men who rose from the grave of the aftermath to conduct and foster the revival of mankind from the brink of Hell. As Jesus once had with Lazarus, so will mankind. On a rocky precipice a young man sat. Behind him his horse stood tethered to scraggly and twisted Chokecherry tree. The bark bearing gashes of the skirmishes that were so widespread here before he was alive. The smooth bark blasted opened and healed over in its hard scar tissue. Snorting impatiently the mid-size almond mare piked through the bushes that grew about its base, pulling apart the branches. Less from hunger, and more out of boredom. With a distasteful knicker the horse kicked against the ground and rocked its head against the reigns, rattling the tree above her in her disinterest. “Well hold on Missy, it shan't take 'em long!” the young man sneered, turning back to the tethered mare, “I know as well as you that they're taking long. But we gotta keep a eye out. You hear?” The horse gave him a long blank glare, before shaking its hair. Her long black mane whipping about her neck. “Ya keep thinkin' that and we're just going to get more bored.” the man laughed, dipping down into the can of cold beans he held with a bent and twisted spoon. His chapped and thin lips smacked around the maroon brown slop as he slurped and chewed the preserved foodstuff. He turned back from his mount and looked out across the badlands. At his side lay the carbine rifle of his trade, and a long hatchet rested slung across his back. He remembered building the hatchet himself, carving the wood from a branch of oak under the oversight of his companions. Long as he was tall, the tool was made for use on horseback. The head had been forged and reforged nearly seven times, each time becoming more and more a head-taker's blade than it had before. It was broad, hardly narrow; its blade flattening and angling inwards down the handle, and not curving gently. The youth himself was not as reworked as the axe itself. With only seventeen winters under his belt he had yet to grow a bear of a full man. His chin and face were narrow, from whence hung a long crooked nose. The wind blew through long chestnut brown hair, and his muddy brown eyes looked outwards into the expansive wasteland. He knew not where his companions had gone, just that they asked him to stay behind. “Missy, how long you say it been since we came across anyone else?” the young man said, turning to his horse. The mare looked up at him, her ears turning atop her head. “God, had to have been seven months now.” he said, “Shit, had to be 'bout twenty miles south o' Dickinson. Or whatever those ruins are. Can't stop thinkin' about the one chick in that band there. “Now I don't know how much a horse can appreciate such fine details. But lord, did she have some nice tits. I wouldn't have mind rolling with her in the grass if we weren't on the move.” Missy gave a disinterested snort, and went back to stuffing her snout into the bushes, further pulling them apart. “I get hard thinking about it. I'm hoping we get somewhere and stay for a bit so I can work off some o' this here frustration.” Missy didn't reply. “I'm sure you feel the same way when your season comes and a fat hot stallion. I bet you ache. And I'm aching that way. But I doubt I'm going to be any sort of trouble more troublesome than you and your urges.” The man snorted laughter and he looked back out into the twisting badlands. Lifting another spoonful of dripping, sloppy beans up to his mouth. With a dive the cool slop of the canned food fell on his tongue and he went back to chewing. The wind gusted through his wild hair and he looked back up to the jagged stones of the wilderness. As the afternoon waned he spotted figures in the distance, riding on horseback through the narrow gullies. Their distant form shrouded in heavy black coats as they galloped through the wasteland. Five individuals in all. “Looks like they're back.” the man grunted, pushing himself up onto his feet. On the wind he heard the soft thudding of hooves across the rocks, the regular galloping of the horses. As they wound closer the details of the riders became clear. The wide-brim hats shielding their faces. The long poles strapped to their backs, loaded up with heads. The glint of the sun off of their gas masks. Ladened across the back of their mounts large bags lay behind their saddles. They made a regular pace, winding through the serpentine ravines till they came to the base of the rock the young man stood on. Finding purchase on gravel inclines they came up. A group of five, worn, weathered men. “Welcome back.” the young man hailed the riders, “Now do you mind explaining why I couldn't come along?” he demanded. “Ravines too narrow. Don't need anyone awkward following us through.” hissed a giant of a man on a jet black mare of his own. His long hide duster fell from his shoulders like a cape of some ancient royal. His gas mask made him alien as much as the heads of the infected speared on the post behind him made him a demon. “I don't need your shit Hoss, you can come straight.” the young man demanded, provoking laughter from the rest. “It doesn't matter anymore, Alabama. It's done.” crooned another, reaching up and pulling off his mask, “Shit's there where I thought it was. Even did some house cleaning.” “Well that's all good. But why can't I go?” Alabama demanded, looking at the demasked rider, “Or is this some sort of secret?” “We can't tell you. Ravines are too narrow. And your mouth is too fat.” the black rider, Hoss teased, biting Alabama deep as he circled around the side, “Besides, I'm sure you would have pissed your pants the moment they jumped up from above. Ain't that right, Elliot?” The demasked rider nodded. He wasn't nearly as large as Hoss was, even with his coat. But he was a man large in his wisdom. His graying salted beard and weary grandfatherly blue eyes gave him an air much like a sage from some fairly land, “Afraid he's right. You've dealt with the Come Back Kids when you could see them a mile off. But ain't no ground you'll falter and break us when we're in the Badlands. “You're still young to us, Alabama. Always will be for a long time. And you're still a homeless bastard child. You may think you're old enough, but for fucks sake you need a concept of safety. Which you still haven't got. You're going to have to give up and just recognize we don't want you stupid and to know when you're no longer not. “And you'll get to see the hidey-hole when you're full fledged.” “So if we're done complaining can we head back to Bismarck before these heads really start to rot?” Hoss protested impatiently, fighting to peel off his mask, “Fuckers are clean by now, but that doesn't mean they'll still not decay.” “You're right.” Elliot nodded, “Alabama, get your horse. We're going into town.” "And you better have not eaten all our beans." sneered Hoss, pulling the mask off of the great globe that was his head. He looked down on Alabama, his scarred skin sagging off of heavy cheekbones. "Don't worry." Alabama spat, walking to Missy, "We still got plenty."