Eschatologist

Marches of Man: the Black Shields. [ALWAYS OPEN]

I am hyped for the post, Partisan. I need my fix of Laurence baaaaad, and I wrote him into a corner of 'getting drunk with new friends'.

The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

Xenonia, are you going to make a character [/edit your old one] in the next day or so? If you are, I'll wait for your character to go up before posting next, but if not, I'll just go when Henwen posts, and work you in down the line when you have a character all set to go.

Also, Henwen, get your ass in gear. I need my fix of ACE DETECTIVE

Tverios: The Conquest

The Pitch

Claes’s face brightened immediately, chagrin blooming in her for a moment before being swept away by anticipation. She hadn’t meant to look impatient, and was sure her new Emperor was not pleased with her impertinent disposition, but after a long and arduous ride [and subsequent boat journey, by far the worst leg], full of pressing decisions and matters requiring her attention, not doing anything was proving difficult. The tall tales from her fellow advisor were helping alleviate her impetuous mood, but only slightly.

She stood at attention when he entered, her chair screeching back on the floor as she saluted ramrod stiff. She listened to the briefing with rapt attention, not betraying any of the trepidation that was building inside of her. She suppressed a grimace at the mention of the boat ride; it was inevitable, and at least now the horses would be slightly less skittish, but it did not meant that she dreaded it any less. What finally broke the calm and respectful edifice was the announcement of her task. She had to take a city. More than that, she had to take the capital of a world power, likely heavily defended even after a sally, with no time or resources for a proper siege. She knew that her soldiers would not like it, at the very least. Cavalrymen rarely were employed in sieges, and while she understood the reason for the assignment she doubted the men [and few women] who would do the actual fighting and dying were not looking forwards to giving up their mounts and lances in favor of daggers and ladders.

The enthusiasm of the God-Emperor was surprising. It was not unwelcome, certainly: a more sanguine commander had always sat well with Claes, but she was surprised such an ancient and storied figure would have such excitement for anything. She did at least appreciate his mind for his own strategy: she figured the feinting force would not be able to carry its own supplies, and was excited and amazed at the prospect of a retreating action supplied by water.

She had readied herself to speak, and was about to politely voice her opinions, when she was cut off by her new subordinate. She was not particularly bothered, more than willing to have her questions wait. The woman raised valid concerns, and she was happy to have a charge who was not afraid to ask for clarification from a commanding officer. She’d seen the type in Tolos who would drown their army crossing a river without rafts, all to follow orders.

What did bother her was the arm suddenly draped around her, as though she were in a tavern rather than a strategy meeting. She felt a familiar burning in her chest, and managed to stop the muscles in her face from their instinctive tightening. She beat back the anger, saved the rebuke for later. She managed to smile slightly, though she did not return either the clasp or the thumbs-up gesture. Feeling her moment to interject, she jumped on the opportunity, eager to ask a thousand questions and suggest a thousand alternatives.

"The Winds can handle vanguard operations easily enough, my Lord. However, I have questions about the operation.” Catching herself before she gave offense, remembering just in time that this was her liege-lord, not just an employer “In detail, not in general, of course. To put it bluntly, the Winds are not siege troops, my Lord, and I fear that your army’s supply method will hinder your ability to avoid conflict. If I may propose an alternative deployment...”

She cleared her throat, extricating herself from the unwarranted grip of her fellow advisor, bending over the ornate map and gesturing about it to illustrate her point as clearly as possible. “I suggest dividing the Winds into several parts. The outriders will stop news of our arrival, as you said, but I would recommend two more divisions, made up of mounted archers that would be poorly used in a siege. A third of the company would stay with the assault detachment, sacrificing remounts and matching pace with the lancers. One third would follow the pursuing army south, again sacrificing remounts that would not be needed to keep up with the slower moving Prophetic force. They would be tasked with cutting supplies and harrying outriders, ideally slowing the enemy force significantly and reducing morale perhaps disastrously. The final third, gaining remounts from both groups, would dash towards Tolos cutting off reinforcement and loot surrounding villages, denying supplies, extra militia recruits, and perhaps drawing additional forces from our objective. These forces would still ideally be able to support the assault, but would be able to bring their entire capability to bear against any forces they encounter in the field. I see minimal risk in the plan, and it should not only make the capture easier, but put the pursuing army in a position to be destroyed once news of the capture reaches them, as opposed to letting them scatter and regroup. Two such victories in close succession would also have a significant effect on opposing morale, hopefully drawing more supporters to our side.”

She let the feigned smile return, now with genuine satisfaction, as she stood straight once again. She had realized long ago that this was where she belonged, and she relished the anticipatory excitement that could be enjoyed before the travails of campaign truly set in. Her smile dimmed slightly after her brief pause, as she began listing possible drawbacks to the plan.

“Unfortunately, such a plan would mean that horses would die on the interdiction sprint, leaving the Winds slowed until replacements can be provided. This should not be a problem, since after the siege I presume we will hold the city and await reinforcement, but it is something to be considered. There will be public opinion issues when the interdictors loot farms and villages, but the Winds are disciplined enough to keep their looting in a strictly military capacity. Rape and pillage will not be allowed, and the food can be reimbursed later, which may in the end net positively for our public image. Also, and this is highly unlikely, if a beachhead defense is prepared ahead of time, the Winds will be much less able to break through with a third of their mounted archers deploying further south, and those archers will be effectively defenseless against concerted beach defense. These possible beach defeats are, however, dependent on enemies learning of the plans and the specific deployments ahead of time, which can be prevented by dramatically increasing guard against departing ships which may be carrying spies bearing knowledge of such matters.”

She waited for rebuke or criticism, hoping that her new God-Emperor was not the type to invest one’s ego in making all executive decisions. She thought her arguments were sound and her plan an improvement on the general strategy. She had to admit, however, that having a major role in two triumphant engagements in the first week of the war was appealing, though she tried not to let such desires cloud her judgement.

Tverios: The Conquest

I could see that. The Grey Wind lack good siege troops, and Myranda would be an excellent leader for a [hopefully-not] forlorn hope, something a cavalry regiment sorely needs.

EDIT: With permission, I'll request your addition to the Company in my IC, seeing as I am going to raise concerns with Mr. God-King anyways

The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

Sure. The neath is not entirely unknown to the surface, you could easily hear about the neathbow up there and head on down. I like the (I assume irrigo-caused)
Memory loss, maybe you saw some up there during your studies.

The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

As rad as it is that you evidently know the lore, not only is the sheet a little on the short side, the idea is that characters are from the surface, and are just visiting the Neath for the first time. Would that be an acceptable set up for you?

The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

Yeah man. Whip up a character and there'll be no problem working you in. We're just getting to the real plot now anyways.

The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

Post edited, sorry about that. BTW, I write things making assumptions, which help me push the plot along more quickly. Please do not feel particularly obligated to follow my assumptions. If you character does something radically different, just go ahead and do that. I have no problem editing things and shifting focus with the whims of the characters.

The Sunken City: A Journey through Fallen London

With Miles

The three rotund gentlemen look up with universal annoyance, though after a brief whispered consultation motion to an empty edge of the table, to which a chair could be pulled up to. The center man, his colorful clothes up close evidently stained with spots of paint and moisture, his facial hair matching his clothing, poor quality material worn to its absolute best, is the first to speak in an audible register, disgust mingling with surprise in his voice.

"We play cat and spire; a neathy game of skilled luck; perhaps watch one game"

Another of the gentlemen speaks, this one sitting to the left of his companion and equipped with an uncharacteristically high voice, breaking slightly as though he were a pubescent lad as opposed to a middle aged bar-goer. "We card for money; an echo needed to play; do you have such funds?"

You notice they speak in a familiar scheme, and if you can remember your more esoteric scholastic learning you will place it as a haiku, some Japanese nonesense that has evidently found its way down into London. Provided you show your funds, they allow you to sit down and hand you a stack of multi-colored chips.

The game is immediately obvious after one watch. Hold 'em Poker, though with odd suits and more aggressive betting. Bats, Squids, Dragons and Flukes, though all with the same 13 card layout. They deal you in, and the game plays smoothly and without much conversation [though what little there is still is presented in rather poor haiku], the gentlemen, no longer united in their disgust of you, show themselves to not be particularly fond of present company. The bets are aggressive, the play retaliatory, and the gloating full of scorn and satisfied malice.

Their play, however, is not superb. Certainly, they might be fair card players, but with an observant eye and a mind for basic probability they are not difficult to overcome. You play their vendettas and coax them into rash behavior, and capitalize when lady luck decides to grace you [which is more often then you are used to]. Already on the path to defeat, the downfall of the three gentlemen is speeded when they start to sample a viscous yellow fluid, consumed on tiny spoons more suited to a laboratory than a public house. The liquid evidently starts to effect their mental sate, and not four hands after the gentlemen are in its dimming grasp nearly all the money sits in front of you, in several denominations the Peddler mentioned and several he did not. A few more hands and they are cleared out, their angry gazes softened by their intoxication and listlessness.

Emerging from the focus of play, you notice the music has stopped and the volume of the place has decreased considerably. Most of the regulars, and the suited gentlemen, have evidently left, and with their exit and the passing time the Mandrake is occupied by only a few customers, though these dregs the very lowest in manner and evident wealth, most slumped or asleep, no doubt in the hands of the same or similar intoxicants to your former card-mates. You do not see the Pianist anywhere, though before this realization cannot morph into any action or worry, the Taverner speaks to you clearly.

"Ah, you're done! She wanted me to tell you when you were done, to meet her in the private room. Down the hall, third door on the right." He gestures, and returns to his duties, humming a song you recognize from earlier in the evening. If you choose to walk down the hall, the door is the only one with the light glowing from the bottom, and it opens with a faint creak.

The Pianist sits in a paneled room, filled to bursting with red. Red carpet, red patterned paneling, a brown table with a red cloth atop, with three red chairs, one of which is occupied with the beautiful woman in a navy blue dress, only adding to her eye-catching charm. She wears dark glasses and black high-heeled shoes. The room smells like coffee and cardamon and faintly of jalapenos. She does not rise, but her attention turns to you and she speaks, her voice like ringing bells.

"Ah, welcome Mr. Hardy. I take it the game went well? Please, have a seat."

With Spencer
The barman is happy to answer your question, and much more happy when he sees money, evidently more than happy to accept surface currency. With a smile he tells you what he knows.

“It’s the heart of Veilgarden, one of the worst places in the city. It’s no Flit or Spite, but it’s still full of low types and disreputable characters, poets and prostitutes more than cutthroats and turnkeys. It’s where the aspirant artistic masses go, and heaves with the sort, a tangled fight between the talentless many cursed with high aspirations. Every once in a while some good sort comes out of it, like this Pianist, or the Snapping Composer, but they’re the exception, not the rule. It’s not too far from here, out past Mahogany hall and near the House of Chimes”

He draws a map on a piece of paper, clearly listing directions in untidy handwriting. “If you’re going there, ignore what anyone says, don’t sleep with anything that spends more than a day in there, and whatever you do, do nothing with honey – it’s an awful substance, and it is a one way ticket to the Royal Beth if you’re unlucky. That’s most of what you need to know; the Taverner’s a good sort, he’ll do you right. Obviously, sir, this matter is entirely confidential. Oh, and you may want some spending money, though I wouldn’t let on you have it to any of the patrons”

He peels several pounds worth of notes off the stack, and hands deposits it in the cash box, handing you coins which claim to add up to seventy echo-pence. “Echoes are decimals down here, not like your surface coin, one hundred of them make an Echo. Good luck, and all that.” He turns away, evidently excited to be done with whatever business is so profitable.

If you indeed go to the Mandrake, the way is much less crowded than it was when you entered the eatery. Clocks read 2pm, past the lunch rush and before reputable businesses close. The empty streets are easy to navigate, and you reach the Mandrake by a direct route in good time. The place is nearly empty, those few who inhabit it are dressed in gaudy attire that was no doubt fine once, but has seen much better days. It is colorful and offensively different, even the few people still in the tavern clashing like vomitus cymbals. The Taverner is dressed much more soberly, and looks with interest at you, then down to a sheet of paper, then back to you with a smile on his face, his voice piercing the nearly-silent room.

“Ah, she’s waiting for you in the back: third door on your left down this hall.” If you choose to walk down the hall, the door is the only one with the light glowing from the bottom, and it opens with a faint creak.
An incredibly beautiful woman who you presume to be the Debonair Pianist, sits in a paneled room, filled to bursting with red. Red carpet, red patterned paneling, a brown table with a red cloth atop, with three red chairs, one of which is occupied with the beautiful woman in a navy blue dress, only adding to her eye-catching charm. She wears dark glasses and black high-heeled shoes. The room smells like coffee and cardamon and faintly of jalapenos. Another chair is occupied by a poor looking man, starved and gaunt and plebian, but you find it difficult to pay much attention to him given the other occupant.

The Pianist speaks, her voice like the springtime winds. “Ah, just in time, Mr. Cole. I had hoped you would arrive, what I have to say applies to both of you. Please, take a seat. Mr. Miles Hardy, meet Mr. Spencer Cole.”

She waits patiently for you to be seated, not speaking or making any move until you are ready.

Valor High ( Still accepting applications )

The mention of that dreaded subject, 'Home Economics', almost brought a frown to her face, though she stopped the muscles from tightening before too late. She had always found the subject distasteful to the extreme, tedious and boring and offensive to her field of study, not to mention supremely pretentious branding itself as 'economics'. She was glad she was not teaching it, glad the headmaster could see reason.

"I don't teach home economics anymore, thankfully. Surprisingly, it was always one of the more loved classes, probably because of the very languid tedium that made me loathe it. It does outline the difference between myself and my pupils when they grow bored with Mises and Mammon yet they are excited to learn the operation of a gas stove. Nevertheless I find it rewarding, as I'm sure you do. The few who show true interest more than make up for the economically-torpid generality."

She searched for a cup of coffee which she remembered, to her chagrin, that she had forgotten to make. It was a luxury, not necessary or even useful to her body, but a treat she enjoyed immensely. She felt sorry for those damned that had to live the majority of their lives without such brilliant material imports.

"Though, speaking of that cancerous subject, I had the pleasure to meet Ms. Beecher in person a few years ago. A truly inspired woman, and a dab hand at croquet. We keep in contact after all these years, though our correspondence is somewhat slowed by her general indisposition."