Little Bill

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 (𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛)

@Inkarnate @ethanjory @SunsetWanderer

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 (𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛)

WIP

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 (𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛)

WIP

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 (𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛)

<sub>Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin

But met in infantry,
And staring face to face,
I swiped at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.

I stabbed him dead because
Because he was my foe,
Just so, my foe of course he was,
That's clear enough, although

He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like, just as I
Was out of work, had sold his traps
No other reason why.

Yes, quaint and curious war is
You cut a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.</sub>

---

Before Gorgen Magnar sailed his army to the continent a thousand years ago, Magnaria was called "Kokuchembasha" by the short, cave-dwelling natives that called it home. It meant "Dirt Which is Precious" in their harsh tongue, which he would only discover as an old man after entirely subjugating their precious dirt and appointing scholars to translating their stone tablets and cave-paintings. Since Magnaria has been Magnaria, even for the hundred-odd years when the imperial line had nary a throne or castle to put it in, the people of Magnaria have followed the line of Gorgen. First Gorgen Magnar, then Arvall Gorgen, then Arvall's son Kentam Gorgen, and then Kentam's son Otho Gorgen, and so on for a thousand years.

Wars have been fought between the countries of Magnaria, but the line of the House of Gorgen has never been so much as questioned successfully. The imperial army has always dwarfed the combined forces of other countries. The Gorgen Dynasty has produced unfailingly wise and benevolent emperors, or at least emperors wise enough to appoint wiser councilmen. The times Magnaria has seen invaders, it was always an Emperor Gorgen who lead the fleet of ships to the defense of his lands, and within each of the historical tomes, it is clear to see that the Gorgens have been responsible for nearly every major technological achievement. The unquestionable rulership of House Gorgen has been the backbone of Magnaria since its inception and until today, the first day of our story.

At first, the Gods showed their displeasure with a deep subterranean rumbling. The Earth shifted, tearing apart houses and roads as if the foundation they stood on had been replaced by water. For a terrible few minutes, the very ground was torn in twain, collapsing mountains, villages, and most notably, the imperial castle. Every last Gorgen, from Emperor Taggart to his farthest cousin, soon found themselves crushed beneath the tremendous walls and towers that had kept them safe for sixty generations of sons.

Chaos has stricken the quiet continent like a plague. In some lands, chaos is is seen in the temples overflowing with panicked devout seeking answers. In others, it is seen in the blue-faced, swaying remains of lords and their families, ripped from their bedchambers and hung in the street by peasantry assured that law and order have left Magnaria. Now, chaos has forced kings to send reinforcements to ransacked storehouses, their swords to quell rebellions, or align troops against those who doubt their right to rule. But only days have passed since the fall of the imperial castle, and an unease malingers in the air. For the first time, Magnaria has no Emperor. The soldiers of the imperial army cannot report to their commander, because their commanders are all gone, along with their storehouses of armor and weaponry. In a few moments, all that the imperial line worked to accomplish was swallowed up by the dirt. Now, all that remains are five kings following a system of laws set up to give fealty to an emperor that is not there. In chaos, laws can only be followed for so long.

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Rules

1. Be entertaining
_{I don't need soliloquies describing a scene's atmosphere, but I believe that all posts -- even those only meant to further the plot or inform players of a PC's actions -- should be entertaining to read. If your scene is just two people talking in a closed room over wine, do some worldbuilding with where the wine is from, and whether or not that's a good thing. Give your characters proclivities and predispositions only revealed by their history/thoughts that affect their decisions, and pepper otherwise perfect, boring sequences of events with mistakes, ugliness, and human error. An exposition scene with two PC's can be a lot more memorable when in the midst of their discussing every country, they stumble on their words and make a joke. You get the idea.}

2. Be cool
_{I'm not gonna pretend that I'm some celebrated author worthy of respect and unquestioned deference, but I am the guy ostensibly "running" the roleplay you're participating in on a hobby writing site. I don't act like being the GM makes me worthy of your unquestioned respect (it does not) but we're all human, so let's remember to treat each other with respect. I figured it was important to include a rule like this to cite if we start bickering. Anyway, while I say what goes, I'm willing to budge for compelling arguments that fit in with my idea of the world I've set up.}

3. Be here
_{I'm not an ugly girlfriend, so I don't need all of your attention all the time. I do need to know you're still here and participating, since roleplaying is a group hobby that comes to a screeching halt if one member drops off the face of the Earth. If you've got life going on, you're on vacation, you're in the hospital, you just don't feel like writing, those are all fine reasons, just let us know as frequently as possible, in the OOC or Discord. Pop in for some banter. Put some text over a meme in MSpaint. Write some banner houses. Just, whatever you do, don't disappear for days. There's not that many of us.}

Sheet

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N A T I O N N A M E

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General Info

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◤ _{O V E R V I E W} ◢

text

◤ _{R U L I N G H O U S E} ◢

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◤ _{E T H N I C P E O P L E S} ◢

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◤ _{C U L T U R E} ◢

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◤ _{R E L I G I O N} ◢

For the purpose of Pseudo-Abrahamic similarities in holy sites, themes, and religious disagreements, everyone worships (in some way) the moon, the sun, or a combination thereof.

◤ _{E C O N O M Y} ◢

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◤ _{M I L I T A R Y} ◢

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Ruling House

sigil image here

◤ _{H E A D O F H O U S E} ◢

Name and titles

◤ _{M E M B E R S} ◢

List 'em

◤ _{W O R D S} ◢

"Motto Here"
_{Explanation if needed}

◤ _{S E A T} ◢

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◤ _{H E I R L O O M} ◢

Name
_{Flavor text if needed}

◤ _{T H E M E S} ◢

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◤ _{H I S T O R Y} ◢

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◤ _{S U B J E C T S} ◢

List 'em. Most powerful vassal is to be played by other players unless it's not filled by IC launch.

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Sticks

::: Head East to find rainwater/turtles

Sticks

::: Rain Dance

Sticks

::: Create turtle

CHOOSE YOUR FIGHTER

>YOU HAVE CHOSEN MOON BOY.

CHOOSE YOUR FIGHTER

>LUMPY, ITCHY JOE, OR MOON BOY.
>YOU MUST CHOOSE.

𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄

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"Aloysius Poole, step forward."

Poole stood at the end of a line in the A.L.C Space Station, sticking out in the chrome-plated terminal like a sore thumb. All around him were faces that seemed typical of the terminal he had often passed through. Tourists with their children, businessmen on their phones, and backpackers with overstuffed suitcases, though there were no other towering bodybuilders with golden crucifix necklaces and body armor. It seemed strange that he had always seen the same types of people in space stations, though he didn't pause to think on that -- Stationworkers closely watched orange and red felons for any strange behavior, and not stepping forward when told was one of them. Poole made his way into a bodyscanner, which whirred for a moment before emitting the all-too-familiar F minor of Red Felon detection.

"Do you have any drugs or weapons on you?"

Poole shook his head. He had placed his wrist-bow in checked luggage, which was a perfectly legal way to bring it to the ALC. The ISSP liked to bully felons, but it didn't like to harass them, and giving him any flack for it could've given Poole a hypothetical case. Harassment was a crime after all, unlike a spring-loaded self-defense weapon on a baggage ship. This day and age, men half as conspicuous as Poole carried concealed plasma pistols that could open a hole in a ship's hull, which was more of a concern to the police than Poole's wrist-bow, which practically went "Pew" when he fired it. Sometimes Poole missed real guns.

"Step into the next room, please."

Despite the hushed whispers of agents who had come to investigate the red felon detection alarm, this was day-to-day for Poole. This was the life of a felon. This was, as Poole knew, the butt room. The door shut silently behind him. There was an armed guard at either end of the room, each dressed as if they were about to fight a war that was taking place in the middle of a riot. At the center of the room was the familiar ISSP agent -- not an officer, but an agent -- and an innocuous plastic table, with black fold-out legs and a mottled grey plastic body. This was, as Poole knew, the table he was meant to lean onto while the agent checked his anal cavity for drugs. It seemed upsetting the first few times, perhaps, though this was far from the first few times.

"Hey there Poole. You been a good boy lately? Keeping your nose clean?"

Poole had a deep dislike for the ALC ISSP agent, moreso than the Martian ISSP agent, or even the Jupiterian ISSP agent. This was not an unfounded hatred, by any means, but a list of three reasons Poole had weighed and measured years ago. The ALC agent wore sunglasses, which had always struck Poole as something only fakes do, especially the very specific sort of skinny cops with goatees and light-up toothpicks like him. Of course, he always had one of those light-up toothpicks Poole hated, but he always had the expensive kind with a swirl pattern instead of a simple up-and-down LED. That being said, his appearance and demeanor were only one of Poole's reasons for disliking him. The second was that despite the clear and present difference of size and age, he had a habit of calling Poole "boy" whenever he could. This was always something Poole came to expect of chip-shouldered Napoleonic lawmen, especially the ones he remembered from the bust. There was a similar feature in the men who would try to fight him in prison to make a name for themselves, though then again, that practice fell out of favor after the second.

Poole nodded, dropping trow and placing two hands on the table in front of him. He winced for a moment, trying to think of the most insulting thing he could say to an ISSP agent in a locked room he would have to see for the rest of his life.

"Clean nose, pure heart, big bowl of fiber every morning. You know me."

"I certainly do. I notice your file says that you recently went to Mars. See any friends from the old neighborhood?"

"Nope. Wouldn't want to talk to 'em if I did."

"I'm sure we wouldn't."

The third reason Poole had for hating him was that he enjoyed little barbs like that. Of all the ISSP agents he had to deal with before entering a planet, this was the only one who liked to joke about Poole's status as a rat. The Martian agent was some straight-laced Japanese fellow who treated him with a level of respect, whereas the Jupiterian was an older, out of shape Brit who always treated him with a cold indifference. The Venusian and Titanean ones had changed too often for him to remember, but they had mostly been indifferent as well. Poole would find no such indifference in the American.

"How long do you think you'll be staying on the A.L.C, Mr. Poole?"

"Can't say for sure. As long as it takes to find this criminal."

Poole hated having conversations with people searching his ass for drugs, though fortunately, it seemed the agent was finished with his job. Poole raised his pants once again while the agent threw a rubber glove into a bin beneath the table.

"Right. Good luck with the bounty, buddy-boy. I don't think you'll have any problems bringing another criminal to justice."

Poole knew what he meant by that. The line between him and that criminal, and the criminals he had brought in, and the criminals he had ratted on, was invisibly thin to the agent. Maybe that was the agent's way of letting Poole know what he thought of him. Maybe, Poole was just a deeply paranoid man. Fuck you, buddy-boy. That was what Poole wanted to say, at least, though he knew the big man didn't appreciate the most loyal of his flock tarnishing his image. Instead, he went with what he always said.

"Thanks for the check-up. Get home safe."

He even gave the agent a warm pat on the shoulder, subconsciously hoping to remind the man he could crush his clavicle in an instant. There was something unnerving for the agent to be reminded of his home, and the family safe therein, by someone with a record as deeply gruesome as Aloysius P. Poole, moreso while the felon presumed to invade his space with a playful pat on the shoulder. In a way, Poole knew that. Poole also knew that construing his well-wishes as a threat could constitute harassment, and harassment was still a crime.

---

The ALC was one of Poole's least favorite planets. His least favorite was Titan, but none of the crew but him had been there, so there were few instances that required thinking about it. The ALC, on the other hand, wasn't exactly unknown to the crew. They had a favorite bar on the planet, a favorite restaurant, a favorite skyway, and a favorite zoo. Poole was far from all of them. He was still on the part of the planet that stunk -- which to Poole, was almost all of it -- and the part of planet on the opposite end of the sun, still illuminated by neon lights every which way. Furthermore, it was raining, which Poole felt was inexcusably ridiculous. If they could control their atmosphere, why did they still have rain? Why didn't they just give their farmers state of the art sprinklers? Probably something about the rain cycle Poole didn't know about, to be fair.

He took the communicator from his pocket, and rang the Magnitude to let them know of his arrival. Ten rings and no pickup. They must've been busy boarding in Nevada by now. Poole plunked the device in his pocket and left the boarding station, entering the rainy, smelly streets of the ALC. He took his communicator from his pocket once more as the rain hit his head, checking his bounty one last time.

Hector Jorge "Peyaso" Lopez - Wanted for 2 counts of murder on Mars, 3 counts of murder on Venus
43, Approx. 150 lbs, Black hair, brown eyes

Poole nodded to himself, tucking the communicator in his pocket for a final time, marching out into the rain. His first stop would be Little Mexico.