Dinh AaronMk — Roleplayer Guild

Twenty years ago

	His head was splitting all over. From ear to ear, from brow to the nape of the neck. His head was enveloped in a sharp splitting pain. His vision was blurred, his hearing a mess of dull ringing. He rolled in the splintered wood and tried to look up, but all he could see was a mess of white light. He tried to stand up, but a sudden feeling of nausea racked his gut and he keeled over and vomited. He could feel a thin warm line running down his face. Coughing he could feel sharp points prod his lungs and his gut. Shit, how many ribs were broken?

	He brushed the side of his hand along the side of his face and the dark leather of his gloves came back red. He felt his heart flutter faster. The red blur of his hand coming in clearer as his vision returned from its stunned absence. The sounds of battle sharpened in his ears, no longer watery and low as if a drummer heard through a wall. The words were faint, but he could hear the shouting. Loud reports sprang out and the air was thick with the smell of niter and sulfur.

	The sight of blood on his brown and gold trimmed glove gave him a start as it came into clarity with the rest of his environs. His hear more than fluttered, he went chill. Panicking he reached up and tore off his helmet. It clattered to the ground and rolled away, a dent in the side of the rising gun, just below the long horse-hair plum at its crown. Quickly he began to feel his face, searching every inch from chin to ear and through the scalp. He found the wound, numb at first but it burned to life as his fingers touched it. He felt his scalp move around it as he brushed it, on the left-side, above the ear. It didn't feel bad, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

	“Oh captain, my captain!” a sailor above him shouted down into the hull of the galley. The cry made the man spin around and he began searching. He was alive. He was alive! He felt relieved for it. And there in the side, above the waterline was the ballista bolt, as thick as a tree trapped between a framing beam, the hull, and doubtlessly caught on the brass plating on the other side. Water trickled in under the point, the shimmering glass slapping in with every turn of the ship or pounding of the wave. The bolt he was so sure would kill him as he saw it come in had not killed him.

	“I live!” the captain shouted, his voice slurred from shock. His mouth still felt lost as it chewed over the words he tried to speak, “I'm on my way back up!”

	He staggered to his feet. His boots slipping on the wet floor boards as more water came in and began mixing with blood. His cape dragged behind him and threatened to snag in the broken boards, so he took it up in his hands and wrapped the crimson fabric in his palm as he ran, the other hand reaching out for supporting beams as the galleon rocked under feet. Over the shouts of battle and shot the cries of the wounded were barely audible in the screaming tumult of the fight.

	He ascended the steps gingerly and was greated by a pair of armored men who placed their hands on his gold and bronze trimmed and etched cuirass, the sign of the boar over his breast. It huffed and snarled over a mountain peak.

	“My lord, you should not be without a helmet.” said one of the soldiers as he reached down and pulled the helmet off of the body of a dead soldier, his eye had been pierced by a bolt. With the dead man's helmet firmly on the captain's head he was brought out onto the mid-deck under the shadow of the triangular sails. Across from them, separated from the ship by only a few yards was the pirate vessel they were attacking. It's bridge had caught fire, and embers were sparking into the rigging which were beginning to singe and char with the beginning light of a full fire. But men were still fighting, and behind towering shields the sailors on deck wound and fired crossbows across the divide. In places along the deck, men with the new firesticks leaned out with the metal rods positioned under their arms or on their shoulders. The loud smokey report cracked the open day with a thunderous roar and filled the air with smoke and flame.

	Yet still, despite their dire straights the pirates aboard the other ship were not eager to stop yet. But what choice did they have in the end. If caught, all men would be summarily hanged. Damn any of them, low or high born. Leaning on the shoulder - for he had not yet gotten over his disorientation - of another the captain rose his voice and a hand he ordered, “The ship is burning, make a round to ram it. Bring it down once and for all and bleed them with sword and shot!”

	“Bring her around to ram!” someone repeated back to the helmsman, sheltered in his canopy of wood and tall shields.

	“Your honor, but the galley is struck. Do we have the oars!” billowed another.

	“Damn a care for the oarsmen, we have enough. But we should damn more these other men. Row, damn it!”

	“As you wish.” the response came over the din as the ship began to shift. Turning first to peel away from the crippled pirate ship as the sails began to catch fire and burn, throwing up a might black smoke. The sounds of firing died away as arrows and bolts began to come short. The streaking blur of the enemy's ballista bolt screamed overhead, the only weapon that might hit them in their maneuvers. But it shot through the masts and splashed down somewhere behind them.

	The long galleon turned, the ocean waves splashing against it as its long pointed nose came to face the pirate vessel. Flames curling all around it as it burned. A second shot was fired from it, the bolt skipped across the wooden planks of the hull, splinters were tossed into the air but the bolt itself splashed weakly into the water. On a course direct into the pirate ship the galleon went. The oarsmen pounding the waves as she went. “Hold fast, brace!” the captain bellowed. Men dropped to the ground, others embraced the mast and others still held whatever they had on hand.

	With a hop over a wave, the brass ram at the bow of the ship slammed back into the turning water and struck the pirate ship head on along the bow. There was a thunderous crash as thick timbers shattered completely as the two vessels collided, and the one moved through. The oars of his ship broke, and their cracking was like thunder in charged air, in that period before a storm. The pirate ship rocked to the side, throwing its men to the side and the other spun off from the force, drifting off to the side as the pirates took in water through the bow. Fully engulfed in flames the ship sunk. The captain's ship loitered nearby, gently waiting atop the waves as she watched her nemesis go down. Men jumped to the surf, other clung to boards.

	Neutralized and without challenge the victorious galleon combed the water where the pirate ship had been. Its crew, with shot and bolt leaned over the rails and one by one picked off the drifting pirates.

	“My lord Rodriego, are we due for home now?” asked a sailor, his face tired and armor bent.

	Rodriego Moreango Pedro duo Monragonea turned. His hair was beginning to gray. Lines drawn under his eyes. His beard was growing out. Clutching the railing of his ship as he swayed back and forth on his two feet and turned to his companion and nodded. They were due home.

Sorenio Republiqa duo Azula Coatl

Porto Saolo Grosso

	The Serene Hall was packed full like a market fair. But it was silent, deathly so; like a funeral. From the high windows the warm light spilled in and illuminated the impressive chambers from the polished, mirror quality marble floors to the vaulted ceiling and its fantastical frescoes on government. Every inch of the chamber was covered in some form of fresco, showcasing business in the docks, farmers on the field, vineyards and plantations, ships at sea, and ancient well dressed men. Some of the figures in the field, on the docks were nude or dressed little, their dark sun-kissed skin illuminated both by the rays of the sun beaming through the windows to cast shadows from their relief forms and from an artistic sun looming somewhere overhead as a bronze medallion in an azure and lapis sky. The very rays of the day's sun itself was painted a multitude of spectral colors from the stained glass windows, depicting no pattern but instead a montage of every piece of colored glass as could possibly be collected. Chandeliers of gold-trimmed iron hung from the ceiling, each baring over a hundred candles.

	At the head of the room stood a stage of dark mahogany and reddish oak, stained and finished in a heavy lacquer. All around it sat the members of the Serene Council, or those who could attend. Their heavy red robes fell from their shoulders and came down to the floor where the fabric fell in thick rolls and obscured the chairs. Their white gloved hands rested folded in their laps and their heads were crowned with white pointed hats, matching the white collars that rose under their impressive capes. At the head, seated in the highest chair behind the podium desk sat the high judge, his head adorned by a blue cowl and robes black. He leaned forward to look down on the defendant standing before them, his hands in shackles. But despite his prisoner appearance he stood with an air of nobility, his clothes were still fine; from the plum of his shoulders to the tassels hanging from the embroidered edge of his long crimson coat. He stood with one leg out and the other bent before him as if in mid stride and a dour look starred back up at the judge.

	Alongside the judge, Rodreigo Moreango Pedro duo Montagonea. His expression dour and severe from behind deep set dark green eyes. His smooth caramel skinned had roughened in the years and shallow wrinkles had become deep and scouling. A great white beard fell down across his gold embroidered chest as he clutched in one hand a silver adorned cane he tapped impatiently against the wood of the judge's podium.

	“As the conditions brought before this court have concluded,” the judge said in a loud voice to the chamber, “and the defendant has no further statement to give to the court. Then it is my power, in discussing this crime with the honorable Duego that the charges against Raphielo Ameilio Peruscoti are upheld, and that he be sentenced to death.” the judge finished his reading of the law by ringing a bell. At once the court room erupted into chaos as from one flank a company of men arose jeering loudly and throwing expletives and curses.

	“High judge!” an old man with broad shoulders boomed, jumping the boundary between spectators and court, “I demand a retrial! What fairness is there to law when the defendant serves as a member of the court itself! This entire trial was tainted by interested parties among its delegates!”

	“Pedro Peruscoti, if you deign to get in the way of my son's justice than I too will see you hanged with your boy!” Duego Reogreigo boomed, rising to his feet. He clutched the edge of his seat as dizziness overtook him, “What is done is done, and the case is settled. Your son has put honorable blood on his hands and sullied himself. He is to be hanged!”

	“Damn the rope, he is my boy!” Pedro Peruscoti pleaded. Turning from the Duego to the judge, “I demand a retrial. One where the Duego does not sit on this serene bench! The course of law should not be tainted by his interest in this case!”

	The judge standing looked down on him with a hawkish glare and sighed. “We have discussed the matter at length. We on the council are perfectly aware of the circumstances surrounding the case and we determined there is no interest that might get in the way of a case of murder. Murder, even in the case of a serene family afflicts all our hearts so that it was determined there was no such thing as an interested party. How many people might we need to subject to the inquiries to find the one not the least affected by the death of Fimelo Alleiro? We would turn the entire realm on its head, and not find a single soul unaffected by his passing.”

	“That is a lie and you know it.” Pedro protested, “A full six-tenths of the council is filled by the Montagonea and you tell me that there would be no chance a sufficient supplement to Rodreigo could not be found?”

	The judge bowed his head, “Yes.”

	“Then this is a travesty on my honor!” Pedro decried. Turning to Rodreigo he boomed, “And upon you, I wish a thousand blackened suns on your family. I condemn you as a tyrant, a bastard, and a thief of all power and honor. My son will be either freed or avenged.”

	As emphasis Pedro clutched the arm of his son and made to pull him away but was stopped by guards who had approached from the edge. Their lowered pike made the message clear, that the prisoner was not to be interfered with. Releasing his son, Pedro spat on the floor and walked out.

	As the court emptied, the council sighed and rose from their seats. Pedro was taken away, and hobbling down from his seat Rodreigo climbed down with the help of his cane. The judge near at hand. “Do you think he means it?” the judge asked Rodreigo as they descended.

	“Hardly, Pedro is a dramatic man but he is also stupid and slow. His son will hang for his crimes before he manages to do anything. And as a person he does not have the power to do much. He will cry and moan, and that is all.” said Rodreigo, giving his passing prognosis.

	They walked in silence the rest of the way out. Through the cavernous halls of the Republic's central organ they went. Passing vista sized windows, gazing out over the hill top on which the hall was perched. Through the glass could be seen the entire scope of  Porto Saolo Grosso, two of its five citadels, the harbor beyond with hundreds or thousands of ships cutting its pure sapphire blue waters. The red tiled roofs of the houses all along the winding streets, each home painted a different color. Gardens growing outside the windows, vines and ivy clambering up the walls, each one blooming with bright fluorescent flowers. Brightly colored birds flocked around, and outside the window on the sill a dozen blue and green parrots sat perched watching the city beyond as the two old men did.

	“What will you be doing later today, your honor?” said the judge as they stepped outside. The air was sweet with the smell of flowers and heavy with humidity. Nearby was a bakery, its oven baking away with bread and sweat treats, adding to the sensory experience. Somewhere more distant a man on a pipe played a song as people laughed and talked, their voices carrying along the cobbled streets.

	“For now, I will go home and nap.” the Duego said, stepping aside to a carriage. A man with a crossbow sat perched on top and the driver was not far from the sword. The carriage itself, ornamented like a seashell was pulled by a team of white horses, “After, I suppose I will need to write letters.” he added.

	“I will be hosting a party at some date soon. I was seeing if you would be available to attend. It would be an honor if you could. My wife with the other women of the house will be holding a salon separate from ours if yours would like to come.” the judge invited.

	“I will need to consider it.” Rodreigo answered him, “Send me the invitations when you have things settled, and I will see what I can do.”

	“Thank you, your honor.” the judge said bowing. The Duego returned the gesture and boarded his carriage.

	The horses hooves clapped against the uneven stone of the streets, the carriage rocked as they drove through. Rodreigo, cane in hand looked out at the city passing by. The rocking woke his disorientation, though over the years he had come to grow used to it. He reached up and touched the spot where he had wounded his head so many years ago. There was not much left to see of it now, not with his growing over it. But he did not find it hard to imagine there there remained a scar that lingered.

	People stepped aside as the cart went on by. Passing cafes and wine shops, banks and stores, guild hall manufacturies and blacksmiths too. Through the streets and into plazas and squares adorned with their monuments and statues and the eighteen tower-strong Cathedral to the Sun, its white washed walls shining in the mid-day light, high atop the towers the multitude of bells shone in the light as flocks of pigeons circled about. Nearby was the hospital, its many wards stacked floor by floor and its street floor opening into a courtyard, its pale blue walls edges and decorated by beams of orange and red.

	Outside the city the mansions and palaces of the elite families stood scattered in the middle of farm fields and vineyards and plantations. Well outside of it to be distant of the noise and the chaos, but close enough for either house or city to be in site of one another. Leaving the city the pavement ended and the cart landed on paths of sandy dirt and sparse gravel passing by hedges and farmer's shacks, white painted fences and tower live oaks and stands of palm and cedar.

	On a rise into the hills the entire sight of the city could be seen between the richly green trees. Behind its red walls the city of  Porto Saolo Grosso stretched out to sea and embraced the water's edge like a gently curved loaf of bread. Butting up against it, opposite of wide sandy ditches ran the farms and the shanty communities of the men too poor to afford the city itself. The intermingling of shanty and farm threatened and promised to build almost a new district of the capital itself. But all this passed away as the trees thickened into romantic forests of oak, and rose shrub, and bamboo.

“In this sacred grove there grew a certain tree round which at any time of the day, and probably far into the night, a grim figure might be seen to prowl. In his hand he carried a drawn sword, and he kept peering warily about him as if at every instant he expected to be set upon by an enemy. He was a priest and a murderer; and the man for whom he looked was sooner or later to murder him and hold the priesthood in his stead. Such was the rule of the sanctuary.”
The Golden Bough, Chapter 1, James Fraser

	Empires rise and Empires fall. Men with ambition march onto the field, and fall to the dust. Time marches onward. Water falls languidly on the gray stone, droplets mingling with flecks in the granite. The great high mountains scratch the Earth. Their breasts dressed in a green cloth. The deep woods creak and groan. All around, time marches on. People come to be forgotten, languages drop away. Fact becomes legend and monsters stir in the dark maw of the cavern.

	But from the ruins rise again, unstoppable life. Man, dwarf, and other creature; all social animal, all political. Gather now, raise up a standard, and plant it in the Earth. Turn the soil and bury the dead. Plant the corn and fell the tree. Create great thunder from the clouds for the Gods have given you much, but demand much from you to do it. Let coin change hand and the knight raise the sword.

	From pauper to king, the cycle of the world will move ahead. But is this new? No, hardly not. For who can speak for the old tribes? The ancient kings? None speak but ruins for them. How many more will be left to bare witness to our fables?

	So I adopted this RolePlay from Kipsateking since he had to cut out for real-life reasons. So what is this RP? Well it's a fantasy Nation RP, set in an alliterative time comparable to the middle ages, 12th to mid-late 15th century. Or earlier even if you're insane like that. Intermixed across the region are kingdoms and polities of dwarves, elves, orcs, humans, and any other race or species. There is magic, which flows through the land and the life-force of every person. While all are capable, study and practice is required however to harness the skill; and with cost all the same.

	That said, given there's magic in this world I should present to you the Law of Magic:
All men have an innate magic. Thy pool of magic is in proportion to thine Will of Life. To use thine magic is to use thine Will. The sapping of the Will, is a sapping of thine's luster of life and a given turn to melancholia and of death.
Aspixos of Catha

Map:

One thing you might notice on this map are the dotted lines. That is because I am tracking and noting language groups in this RP. What is a language group? A language group or family is a collection of languages that share a common spoken ancestor. Think French and Spanish to Latin, or English, German, and Swedish to Old German. The purposes of this is to theme like nations within a geographical region and the marked areas indicate current regions of shared spoken heritage; these are either the remains of ancient Empire or the range of ancient tribes.

I am at present concerned with characterizing the languages of current nations, if anyone would like to figure that out so I can draw more lines. This does not necessarily make anything a Lingua Franca or universal “common tongue”, that is a whole other issue. When it doubt, I would like it if you could talk to anyone within the region or next to where you want to set up to determine anything like shared title names when applying.

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Dinh AaronMk Member

my beloved (french coded)

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