Little Bill — Roleplayer Guild

Welcome to The Redwatch, a story about mice with swords, the things that try to kill them, and how they refuse to die. It is essentially Redwall played by the rules of A Song of Ice and Fire, bolstering the world with cozy settings and loving descriptions of food and festivals, while still delving into the details of vicious animals killing mice while even more vicious politicking does essentially the same thing. The setting of The Redwatch is what you might call “low fantasy.” There is no magic, few if any traditional fantasy elements, and the world operates according to well-understood natural laws. The exception, of course, is that there are sapient mice, and they've established what amounts to a medieval society in the middle of a forest known as The Kingdoms of Gnaw.

The mice of Gnaw have created a quasi-military force -- the titular Redwatch -- to elevate themselves from their place at the bottom of the food chain and overcome the forces of nature. The Watch exists in an ambiguous social area somewhere between knights, Tolkien-esque rangers, and FEMA agents. They are thankless heroes who exist outside of mouse society to better serve it. When something has gone seriously wrong in the kingdoms and time is of the essence, members of the Watch are dispatched to put it right -- even at the cost of their lives. 

Despite their technology and fledgling civilization, they're still mice: when you're three inches tall, a  snake is a creeping horror out of Lovecraft, hawks are terrifying dragon-like predators, a swollen stream is a deadly impassable torrent, and a good storm can annihilate farms and wreak havoc on your communities. One of the core features of a world of mice is the sense of scale this should impart. You are playing small creatures in a huge and hostile world, but highly motivated ones. With swords.

The founding of Gnaw is one of the world's oldest mysteries, contested by sages, historians, and scholars throughout its domain, from Glendale's foggy ports to the furthest hillside keeps of Westercroft. Its earliest days are lost to history, as most mice do not think to ask of them. To the average mouse, Gnaw simply always has been, and that is all of an answer there need be. Regional monarchies insist their personal ancestral line raised the first castles, the pious preach that the kingdoms were made green and plentiful for mousekind by the Forest Spirit, and according to the accounts of rats and weasels, the Gnawer's Kingdom was once the Gnasher's Kingdom and was theirs by right. There are many accounts of Gnaw's founding by many different groups, with each of which coincidentally believe it to be theirs. The most well-read of the mice, such as those at the Sage's Lodge of Fogmount or Council of the Glen, all unanimously agree that the early vestiges of what would become the Kingdoms of Gnaw started as a far-scattered collection of burrows, gradually coming together to form hidden-away villages. This, of course, was in the Time before Times, when great black giants walked the lands and scattered stars in the sky, and flying snakes supposedly lived in castles in the clouds. Some say that the Time before Times has always existed, as a myth old mice tell their grandchildren to keep them by the fireside and out of the snow, and that the oldest tales of lore are simply myths. Some would argue that they were all literal, and that colossal mice truly did scatter the stars, spill the seas, and plant the stones in the beginning.

In the beginning, the true beginning, in the time long ago, mice were not yet mice. They were known as "Gnawers" by the creatures of the forest. Mice were prey. They were solitary creatures at the mercy of the elements and the seasons, holding meager territory only so long as something larger and less friendly didn't happen along, and could gather only enough food that it would not make them targets of other hungrier mice. They were timorous and jealous, shivering through rainy nights instead of giving away their location to the world with campfires, crafting slipshod escape tunnels to keep themselves safe instead of homes. Eventually, a group of mice came to the realization that their instinctive drives to flee from danger, steal their neighbor's food, and ensure their self-preservation at all costs would not allow their species, as a whole, to progress. Banding together, they carved out a hidden, defensible settlement into the face of a crimson rock wall and began bringing in mice who heard of their success, building a subterranean city within the red stone. Surrounded by impenetrable walls, garrisoned by a volunteer militia, and supplied by underground streams and deep granaries, the small mining settlement slowly grew into the most well-built fortress city of its time. They called it Redfort.

Over time, the mice of Redfort discovered that they were not the only mice to scratch out a civilization. Other communities had sprung up throughout the forests. Some called their collective lands "The Kingdom of Gnawers", while others preferred "The Kingdoms of Gnaw". Some simply assume "Gnaw" was the name of the lands because it was where Gnawers lived and left it at that. The villages and fortresses within the kingdom were smaller and less defensible than Redfort, but fiercely independent; They would never willingly incorporate into Redfort or abandon the expansive, if disconnected and weak kingdoms they had built. By their nature, mice are both clannish and skittish, which has been their biggest obstacle as a peoples -- Few speak up to build coalitions when their natures are telling them to hoard their resources, travel short and infrequent journeys, and live life with their head kept low. Accordingly, while Redfort grew into the stone, lesser strongholds were dispatched one by one. To some, this meant withering away after a year of famine, or entire populations scattering after war befell their town. To others, it was as simple as a particularly lucky snake finding a village and devouring the men, women, and children in a night. Eventually, only three major fortresses remained -- Redfort of Redfield, The Tall Tower of Westercroft, and Shellhold of Glendale. Within the scarlet halls of Redfort, this sparked a debate as to whether to leave the outsiders to their fates or bring them under Redfort's control by force for their own good. Eventually, they settled on using the strength of the city's militia to protect the kingdoms of Gnaw.

This militia blazed trails, patrolled the roads, delivered mail and supplies, fought off predators, and handled the backbone of creating the early infrastructure of Gnaw. They built stone outposts in every kingdom, which slowly became surrounded by mice eager to live near the strongholds of the militia without having to risk their lives by joining. Gradually, these keeps became castles, and the number of mice living near them became entire villages. However, more important than the villages they founded or the snakes they had butchered was the Spoorwall. the Redfort militia was responsible for its creation -- an invisible border around the kingdoms made of strong pheromones, repoured and reapplied every five years -- which has successfully kept snakes, wolves, foxes, and badgers from reentering the kingdoms ever since. Over time, mice far from the borders began to forget that foxes and wolves were not created by storytellers, or that mice had ever lived in anything but the warm, safe cottages their families had held for generations. Gnaw had become a thriving land, able to concern itself with frivolous matters such as the lineage of its rulers and upholding societal traditions instead of the apocalyptic threats they had once faced. Over time, the local militia of Redfort, which had built Gnaw from the ground up became The Redwatch -- a politically neutral group dedicated to continuing the work of Redfort's first militia; Protecting the denizens of Gnaw, keeping peace and order, and watching over mousekind.

Named for the prevalence of dried leaves through its perpetually autumnal weather, Redfield's safety, wealth, and abundance of farmland has made it the most populous of the three kingdoms. As a result, its mice are typically the happiest, who may focus their attention on festivals, courting, and pursuing hobbies in addition to their lifelong trades. For this reason, Redfield is known for its many gardens, countryside markets, and cultured history. Its capital is Redfort, an ancient subterranean city which houses the Redwatch, a military order devoted to the protection of Gnaw. Redfield and the Redwatch are both ruled by a monarch chosen by their predecessor, as opposed to the traditional succession by lineage used by lords, barons, and other lower rulers. As a result, mice in other kingdoms, particularly during times of political tension, are less grateful for the presence of the Redwatch than those in Redfield.

Westercroft, named for being the westernmost kingdom, is both the largest and least populous of the Kingdoms of Gnaw. Cold and dry all year round, Westercroft is known for its many mountain ranges, and the progressively furrier, sturdier, and less mouselike their denizens become as you move west. They are a hearty people known for their hardworking, humorless natures, as well as their practice of sparrow husbandry. Their westernmost border is the only part of Gnaw not contained within the Spoorwall, known as "The Valley of Bones". Because they hold the line between Gnaw and snarling behemoths unaware of it, Redwatch's valley stronghold houses some of the watch's strongest warriors. Westercroft's capital is the Tall Tower, a hilltop keep that allows their king an all-encompassing view of his kingdom.

Glendale, also simply known as The Glen, is a kingdom situated in the southeast, where it is warmer and wetter as the year goes on. The mice of the Glen are svelte and oily, typically viewed as a crude and unking people for having grown up in the swamps, or simply farther between, less informed, and less educated than the mice of their neighboring kingdoms. The Glen is ruled by a group of ten elders called The Council of The Glen, which are elected by virtue of their intellect. They rule from Shellhold, a short, squat castle built on the back of a gigantic tortoise, which doubles as a moving capital. The mice of the Glen are typically fishermice, toadherds, or reed farmers. Because much of their soil is too muddy to build castles, they typically live in villages built into the many trees of Glendale.

I will protect Gnaw and its denizens with my life.
I will uphold the honored duties of the mice whose steps I walk in.
I will destroy the enemies of Gnaw, and defend her allies.
I will follow the order of the Redwatch into the very jaws of death.

Above all, I will watch.

The Redwatch is the largest order within Gnaw, whose duties are described with their oath -- to protect, uphold, destroy, follow, and most importantly, to watch. It is overseen by a monarch who doubles as governor of the Redfort and ruler of Redfield. As the head of the only serious military force in Gnaw, Redfield's ruler -- currently Queen Gothlun -- something like the Secretary of Defense for the loose confederation of mouse city-states. By treaty, the Watch is the final authority in the wilderness between cities, and more like an order of patrolling knights within Redfield, but they have no more authority in Westercroft and Glendale than any other mouse, a fact they routinely ignore. The kingdoms are also supposed to help The Redfort supply the Watch, which has grown larger than any one city can support, though they aren't obligated.

The duties of the Watch mostly consist of traveling the wilderness while maintaining trails, keeping the roads safe, delivering mail, scouting for natural dangers like predators or dangerous weather and less natural dangers like incursions from rats. Since the Redwatch is ostensibly neutral, watchmice are also expected to act as mediators in disputes between kingdoms, villages and sometimes between individual mice. Finally, the Watch maintains the Spoorwall, a miracle of mouse science which keeps most large predators like wolves and foxes out of Gnaw.

The final tenet of their oath, to watch, is a major theme within the Redwatch and the story. Watchers are meant to watch. This usually correlates to scouting missions, in that mice who do not closely observe their surroundings and situations they enter can easily be killed. Additionally, the Watchers cannot act in many situations, such as the mediation of disputes in kingdoms where they do not hold authority. They are resigned to non-interventionist policies in Westercroft and The Glen. Finally, the need for Watchers to watch is reflected in their thankless protection of Gnaw. They do not protect Gnaw within its societies, but on their edges, watching over the kingdoms.

Do mice wear clothes?
Mice wear clothes depending on their needs, particularly the needs of their occupation. Bakers, butchers, and blacksmiths all wear aprons to keep their trade's respective gunk off of their fur. Kings wear crowns to let people know they're king. Farming mice wear long-brimmed hats to keep their ears from being burnt by the sun. You get the idea. Aside from their compulsory red armband, members of the watch buy and wear armor depending on their needs. Most don't because it's heavy. The closest thing mice have to a concept of nakedness is being hairless.

Can other animals talk?
Yes, but they do not speak the same language and have varying degrees of sentience. Shrews, voles, hedgehogs, and moles can generally speak the Mouse tongue, while some even temporarily live within the Gnawer's Kingdom as merchants, ambassadors, or translators. Rats, weasels, and squirrels generally do not speak the mouse tongue, and are culturally analogous to either vikings or mongolians in that they are feared for their raids as they are unaffected by the Spoorwall.

What do the mice eat?
Medieval food, but pescatarian variants. They're big into pasties, pies, potatoes, berries, vegetables, that sort of thing. They brew ales, ferment wine, and get cheese from pasteurized milkweed sap. Don't question it. Some mice eat meat, but it's viewed similarly to if you saw a dude chowing down on some bugs, because the only meat mice hunt or farm is bugs. Glendale has frogs and lizards, but they're kind of chewy.

How advanced is mice civilization? How about other civilizations?
Gnawers (Mice, voles, moles, hedgehogs, and shrews) are essentially medieval. They have metal because they mine, fabric made on looms, and cottages and castles instead of burrows. The poorest mice are serfs, the richest are kings, and so on. Aside from the existence of class divisions, there are vague social divisions -- Black mice are superstitiously seen as unlucky, red or white mice are seen as attractive, while the common brown and grey mice make up the bulk of the population. Predators (Wolves, foxes, wolverines, badgers, etc.) are wild animals, whereas Gnashers (Weasels, Rats, Squirrels) are bronze-age savages who typically use stolen mouse tools.

Is the Redwatch good or bad?
I like to focus on social questions in RPs, and this RPs question is "Do we need the Redwatch?" which I'm sure civilians all across the kingdoms ask too. The Redwatch is a fundamental part of Gnaw's early history, which definitely has -- or at least started with -- noble intentions, but consider the following; Kingdoms have rulers, laws, and are self-governing. The Redwatch, while technically being a politically neutral group, is strongly tied to the government of one kingdom, while maintaining outposts in other kingdoms. Additionally, the Redwatch has full clearance to act as judge, jury, and executioner while on missions, and is frequently used by the monarch of Redfield for political means. Are we members of a noble guild of rangers, or the soldiers of a kingdom occupying foreign lands? Ultimately, I'm not here to answer those questions, I just want to ask them. I'd like you, and the story you help write, answer that question in your own way.

What the fuck is the Spoorwall? How do you repour a border? What?
In short -- The mice developed a cologne that smells like an impossibly large, scary predator. Everything with a predator drive (larger critters) is deeply afraid of the smell and avoids the borders of the kingdoms at all times. The mice basically repaint it on the ground and on trees along their kingdom's border every five years. It gives mice anxiety to even smell, and is definitely toxic to drink.

Humans?
No.

This half of the character sheet will serve as an application so I can see if I want to write with you for months on end. It sounds harsher than it is. Anyway, you know how to write an application, so have at it. No pictures because it's unlikely we'll find matching styles. Also, feel free to play with the formatting, but don't add too much.

[center][color=Textcolorhere]"This is where your "Belief" goes. Beliefs need to be clear, powerful statements with a potential for conflict. “The Watch is good” is a bad belief, but “The mice of Gnaw must know that the Watch is good and must be supported” is pretty hot. Beliefs tell the other players (And me, the GM) what you're interested in and want to explore in the game. Someone who writes the belief “A Watcher thinks with their head and acts with their heart” wants situations in which they can be clever and compassionate, and possibly ones in which cleverness and compassion are set at odds with one another.[/color][/center]

Name: Mice names are either Anglo-Saxon, such as Archibald, Cecil, or Patton, or derived from nature, such as Rowan, Jasper, or Dawn. Instead of surnames, Mice generally go with "Of Hometownhere", unless there is something immediately outstanding about them (Physical deformities, infamous deeds, important ancestry, etc.) Feel free to go with locations already mentioned or create a new one, just try to follow the naming conventions I'm using.

Rank: Your rank within the Redwatch. The first rank is [i]Greenband[/i], which are recruits who wouldn't be trusted to tie their own boots if mice wore boots. They wear green armbands and generally only go on missions to act as squires for Watchers, cleaning armor, carrying weapons, and cooking meals. The second rank is [i]Watcher[/i], which make up the vast majority of the Redwatch. They vary in skill, but are all competent warriors. The third rank is [i]Watchguard[/i], a rank given to mice who wield a level of authority over members of the Redwatch. They typically lead parties. The fourth is [i]Watch Captain[/i], of which there are only a few dozen. They get the most important missions, and you are not one.

Appearance: Go apeshit, man.

Personality: You've written a CS before.

"Did they tell you how big the bunker is?" Chris inquired to the intercom in his hand, idly staring out the window of his porthole. In the blackness of space, he could see his balding, overweight reflection, though his gaze was transfixed on the looming atmosphere of Ember. He looked away for a moment, grabbing the highball glass from the cup-holder of his chair. He figured Hartford wanted him to feel special by putting him in a Dionysiad-Class dropship -- a ship used as a status symbol rather like one of Earth's early "Rolls Royce" automobiles -- a very Hartford final farewell before embarking on such a mission, though the separation between himself and the pilot immediately made him feel more lonely than luxurious. He was about to spend years of his life on an empty, alien planet, and somehow, in the back of his mind, he had assumed somewhere down the line Hartford would give him a partner, a fellow prospector, a lonely spinster to help him populate the planet, something. Someone.
He began to pity himself for the loneliness he lived in, and was now imprisoned in, before quickly being interrupted by the pilot's southern drawl.

"Big enough for two, if you count the robot as a two." The pilot chuckled through a speaker alongside the dropship's starboard wall, nestled between the coffee maker and the mini fridge. Chris rolled his eyes, having all but forgotten about the android in the dropship's storage compartment. Hartford had only told him the model, which he had eagerly researched before his final flight to Ember. It was not a robot buddy, by any means, but a glorified home security system with the conversational capability of a two year old. Hartford did not mean to send him with a partner, perhaps because that meant to doubly invest in their mission with GeluCo, though it was not beyond their kindness to give him something more to keep the giant molerats at bay than a pistol.

"I actually knew one of the guys who helped build the bunker waaay back when, before the war." The speaker mentioned once more, the pilot perhaps having sensed the loneliness in Chris's voice. "He said it was a pretty secure place to hunker down, with enough dried food in the pantry to last a lifetime. Said he left a few Jugs mags in the rafters too, that son of a gun." The pilot chuckled once more, with a timbre that seemed warmly amused even through the metallic whine of the intercom. It did little to console Chris, who had staved off the realization of his impending loneliness until the last minute, when the dropship was literally making its way to the sunny savanna bunker he had been promised. 

"Thanks for the heads-up." Chris responded, bringing the intercom to his mouth. "I'm gonna get some shut-eye."

"Good idea, catch some Z's. Interplanetary jetlag's no joke, and the upcoming turbulence might make you puke. Lotsa people puke through the storms if you wake up, though. No shame in that. First aid kit's in the can if'n you need some Tums."

Chris gave the intercom a nod, as if it could sense his appreciation. He stood from the decidedly "Wall-Street Looking" leather chair provided within the Dyionisian and took a few steps to the bed -- An equally over-the-top water bed. He slumped into the bed, careening with the motion of the mattress, trying to block the existential loneliness he was about to face from his mind. Surprisingly, after a few minutes of shielding his eyes from the light on the undulating mattress, he was successful, and drifted off to sleep within the hour, before any of the tumultuous storms his pilot had mentioned.

It was a far cry from the wake-up call he had expected. He had only woken when gravity lifted him off of the mattress and slammed him into the back of his cabin's wall with a deafening, grinding, scream of a sound unlike anything Chris Murphy had ever heard. The blaring red lights at the small monitor at the front of his cabin were all he could focus on -- everything else, from the coffee machine to the mini fridge, to the torn water bed's spraying mattress, flew around the cabin like a snow globe. The ship lurched forward, flipping Chris flatly onto his face with a concussive force not unlike the spine-breaking half of a mousetrap. Chris's last waking memory, after the flashing red letters, was his blood on the carpeted floor of the Dionysian.

When he awoke, he was no longer bleeding, though his chin and his shirt were covered in a crusted layer of blood. His head hadn't ached like this since his days as a high school runningback. For a moment, his concussion-induced haze caused him to question if he was still a runningback. Had he dropped the ball before making a touchdown? More than anything, Chris needed to know if he had made it to the end zone, and so he rolled to his side, looking idly around for the football. His hand pressed itself into the carpet, which glittered in the blinking red emergency lights with broken glass, which Chris did not seem to notice. His other hand blindly pawed through the grass for the ball. Why was this grass so thick? Who threw all this garbage on the field? Chris fell to his opposite side, rolling onto his back and reaching a glass-splintered hand toward the sparking, crackling, fluorescent sun, for one of his teammates to lift him up. Something was wrong.

Chris wasn't playing football. Chris was on a spaceship, and something had gone wrong. Something about a robot, or throwing up, or...

Whatever it was, Chris did not have time to remember before passing out once more.

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