SyrianHamster Member
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- SyrianHamster 12 yrs ago
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11 yrs ago
The fishes aint biting like they used to.
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I'm still interested.
Yeah I believe that's all standard procedure. As for combat resolution, I've always been fortunate enough to play with people who accept realistic outcomes given the situation. The few stalemates I have observed were settled by the GM.
Anywho, is this allowing custom races, or are the usual suspects in place?
Anywho, is this allowing custom races, or are the usual suspects in place?
Interested.
I like the open world premise, sort of a Red Dead Redemption enviroment from the looks of it, which was a game I happened to love (and bought my Xbox 360 especially for, back in the golden days!)
So, there a revolution going on across the border? U.S army showing up to annex itself some tribal nay sayers? Good folk doing bad things to survive in a harsh and unforgiving land?
I like the open world premise, sort of a Red Dead Redemption enviroment from the looks of it, which was a game I happened to love (and bought my Xbox 360 especially for, back in the golden days!)
So, there a revolution going on across the border? U.S army showing up to annex itself some tribal nay sayers? Good folk doing bad things to survive in a harsh and unforgiving land?
In
Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Yeah sorry about the pace and lack of direction, this is my first time in 'advanced role play' so I purposely left plenty of space for character development before everything kicked off. Maybe I should've blitzkrieged it, but hey 'ho.
Independence is the designated mustering point of the Federation army, and you've got troops heading there to assemble into a single combat unit. We've got the biggest contribution from Fartown, numbering 4,000, a half-arsed force from Anthastiln numbering 2,000, a crack force of 400 from Outpost 29 and a few hundred of the Independence militia. So in total, let's say we've got around 6,800-7,000 troops gathering in what is a relatively small town (population around 1,000).
There will be fields of tents outside the town bounds to accommodate the influx of fighting men and women, probably divided into separate camps for each Federation town's militia.
The Federation's army, despite its size, is ill-equipped to fight the ten thousand or so Wildmen who are about to descend on Rockhelm. The Wildmen are seasoned warriors, living a brutal life of rape and pillage. Up until now they've been warring with themselves, and Rockhelm has coped with those tribes who have attacked, but with every one of their fearsome warriors united under a single command, the town stands no chance without help. Each Wildman, whether male or female, is a dangerous adversary and not prone to retreating despite the odds against them. Octavian's brief mention of one was there to underline their deadliness.
The militias will vary in quality, with Anthastiln's being composed mostly of bully boys and henchmen of the River Admiral, Independence a bunch of farm hands and blacksmiths, Fartown's will be more mercenary based with some veterans in its ranks and then we have the well disciplined and highly organized soldiers of Outpost 29.
Cavalry forces exist within all militias, but Fartown's contribution far outweighs them. However, Fartown's army, much like Anthastiln's and Independence's, is highly unreliable. Too much of a battering will send them running unless the respective Generals can instill a sense of hope and chance of victory in them.
So to summarize:
Muster point looks like a simple thatched, medieval style town surrounded by fields of tents that have been clumped into groups. There will be plenty of chaos amongst the militias, as panic and anxiety take their toll on the citizen-soldiery. The soldiers of Outpost 29, will as expected, be calm and busy preparing for the coming battle.
The Federation armies have not arrived yet, however the townspeople will be busy making preparations for their arrival. I plan to have the forces united in the next couple of posts, and then it's off to war and all that shiz.
Independence is the designated mustering point of the Federation army, and you've got troops heading there to assemble into a single combat unit. We've got the biggest contribution from Fartown, numbering 4,000, a half-arsed force from Anthastiln numbering 2,000, a crack force of 400 from Outpost 29 and a few hundred of the Independence militia. So in total, let's say we've got around 6,800-7,000 troops gathering in what is a relatively small town (population around 1,000).
There will be fields of tents outside the town bounds to accommodate the influx of fighting men and women, probably divided into separate camps for each Federation town's militia.
The Federation's army, despite its size, is ill-equipped to fight the ten thousand or so Wildmen who are about to descend on Rockhelm. The Wildmen are seasoned warriors, living a brutal life of rape and pillage. Up until now they've been warring with themselves, and Rockhelm has coped with those tribes who have attacked, but with every one of their fearsome warriors united under a single command, the town stands no chance without help. Each Wildman, whether male or female, is a dangerous adversary and not prone to retreating despite the odds against them. Octavian's brief mention of one was there to underline their deadliness.
The militias will vary in quality, with Anthastiln's being composed mostly of bully boys and henchmen of the River Admiral, Independence a bunch of farm hands and blacksmiths, Fartown's will be more mercenary based with some veterans in its ranks and then we have the well disciplined and highly organized soldiers of Outpost 29.
Cavalry forces exist within all militias, but Fartown's contribution far outweighs them. However, Fartown's army, much like Anthastiln's and Independence's, is highly unreliable. Too much of a battering will send them running unless the respective Generals can instill a sense of hope and chance of victory in them.
So to summarize:
Muster point looks like a simple thatched, medieval style town surrounded by fields of tents that have been clumped into groups. There will be plenty of chaos amongst the militias, as panic and anxiety take their toll on the citizen-soldiery. The soldiers of Outpost 29, will as expected, be calm and busy preparing for the coming battle.
The Federation armies have not arrived yet, however the townspeople will be busy making preparations for their arrival. I plan to have the forces united in the next couple of posts, and then it's off to war and all that shiz.
In
Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
“Gentlemen,” thundered the Chamber Speaker, “The vote stands at 91 to 72, Fartown is thusly committed to war against the Western Wildmen with the objective of ensuring Rockhelm’ survival, and of removing the military threat they pose to the Federation.”
Half the chamber rose to their feet, and cheered in great merriment. The other half looked on, shaking their heads and whisphering disapproval. The latest Crisis had split the Fartown Merchant Council, and it took three votes and many hours of deliberation before a majority was finally reached.
“If you please,” shouted the Chamber Speaker over the commotion, “be seated, so that we may elect the leader of our armies.”
The cheers and merriment ended at once, and within seconds the chamber was back to its subdued, boring state. This was an important issue; the man who commanded Fartown’s legions was the greatest honour any citizen of the trading city could ever hope to aspire to. With the title Consul, a man went from a petty leather merchant to the most powerful man in the known world. Riches, glory and fame would be theirs.
This was no usual campaign however, and much was at stake. Many were divided between voting for those who had paid them to do so, and for someone who could actually lead an army and had experience. Fartown had fought many battles on the fringes of civilisation, but few wars, and not on this scale. The whole Federation was to be tested at Rockhelm, and it would rise and fall by the outcome.
There were two names on everyone’s lips, and those two names represented very different ideals.
Minister Octavian Gatus was a wine merchant by trade, but a proven battlefield commander. It was he who led the 5th Legion to victory against the remnants of the Old Kingdom at the battle of Herin, and it was he who reformed Fartown’s widely differing militia into a more uniform fighting force. He commanded the respect of the famed Jake Irons, with whom he had stood side by side at the Great Siege of Tears during the Southern War. At the sound age of thirty-nine, he had done much, achieved much and was promised much.
Minister Helshar Basra was an arms trader, with two thousand armed men at his call day and night, but he was no commander. He had taken the 2nd and 3rd Legions westwards, with the aim of conquering the foreign trade hub of Trapbourg, but was utterly crushed by what many observers described as a numerically and materially inferior opponent. Three thousand good Fartown men had died in that campaign, and though Trapbourg sued for a biased peace on the belief that the Merchant Council would dispatch more Legions, it was always seen as stinging defeat for the Federation. However, with all this said, he was a very wealthy man with seven wives and innumerable mistresses. His weapons from Anthastiln had garnered him many friends, and his inexhaustible Federation Dollar reserves had bought him many more. He had bribed over half the council to vote for him that day.
The Chamber Speaker, an old and haggard man with a hunched back, pulled open a scroll and cleared his throat.
“The names most voted to lead the Legions were Minister Octavian Gatus of the Feathermore District, and Minister Helshar Basra of the Misty Isle District,” he said.
There were many cheers for Helshar, but few for Octavian. Both men were present in the chamber, and both had cast their votes. Even from their appearance, in their simple stately gowns of white cotton, it was evident they were very different people.
Octavian was tall, handsome with a shock of black hair and wide shoulders. He looked everything a prince of the old world. He stood rigid, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber. Helshar was short, extremely fat, and balding and had a face that resembled a rotten potato. He swayed with the consumption of fine wines, and smiled at the coming blessing he was to receive.
“Both ministers shall now stake their claim, before voting commences,” finished the Chamber Speaker, reclining in his austere wooden arm chair and waving an arm at Helshar.
Helshar was up at once, and he rushed to the centre of the chamber so that all eyes were on him.
“My Sirs,” he started, “my good Gentlemen, my fellow citizens of Fartown. It would be with great honour that I lead our mighty army eastwards, and claim for ourselves some new land with which to cultivate our future wealth!”
The room responded in a thunderous applause.
“I know there are some reservations about my military judgement, but worry not, for I shall bring with me the sound council of a dozen 29 advisors. With my eye for a good decision, and their analysis of situations, Fartown’s Legions will press onwards, unmatched and unstoppable. I will claim the East for Fartown, for the Federation!”
More applause followed, and several Council members stood to clap their approval. A few remained seated, not trusting in his ability to heed wise advice from anyone, even if they were advisors from the Outpost. Helshar returned to his place amongst the benches, shaking hands as he went and smiling like a child who was about to be awarded first place in a running race.
The Chamber Speaker, himself nodding approval towards Helshar, then waved Octavian forwards.
Octavian was a quiet man, but he was well known. The whole room fell silent as he made his way to the chamber centre, and eyes fell upon him. Everyone stood to win for voting for Helshar in the short term, but everyone may well stand to lose if the arms trader blundered like he did at Trapbourg. Money was a fine bribe when the consequences were small, or were dwarfed by the gain, but this was a real war – 10,000 Wildmen surging into the Federation’s borders was not the same as storming a desolate town of a few hundred.
Not to mention that Fartown, whose army once boasted 10,000 strong itself, had never recovered from the Trapbourg disaster. Other battles and skirmishes had chipped away at it too, and every victory was always through force of numbers than through discipline or tactics. Except at Herin, of course. To lose the battle at Rockhelm would leave Fartown virtually defenceless, and there would be few men left to carry the Federation banner into a second confrontation.
“I killed a Wildman once,” said Octavian in a cold and sober tone, “I fired my pistol between her breasts, and she fell backwards with a broken body.”
The room was nonplussed. Some Councilers looked around in boredom, but others looked on waiting for the punch line.
“She had sliced her way through my forward line, through my second line and through my third line. Two of my personal guard lay dead at her feet by the time she came to me. An axe clenched in each hand, and a body of solid rock, she had broken my army before my eyes, or so it seemed. I shot her, though I hate making war on womenfolk, and she died there. In all, fifteen of my men had died in her wake. I am lucky, that her friends were two hundred strong, and that we were three thousand strong, or it is unlikely Fartown would be here today,” he continued.
The room was silent now. No murmurs. Just focus.
“Now ten thousand of her are surging towards Rockhelm. The soldiers there are strong, as strong as the Wildmen and very proud. They will hold their palisade for maybe a week, but they have not the numbers, and wooden walls are easy prey to fire. If we fail to break the Wildmen there, before the walls of the town, with the united arms of the Federation at our backs, then we will all be consigned to death or slavery. This I promise you, this, I can guarantee. What can Helshar guarantee you?
Money in your pockets, so that tonight you may fuck your way through a whore house and into the tavern beyond. Hopes in your minds, so that you may fuck and drink your way through the next few days. Doom, in that he will fail to deliver, being as stubborn and as arrogant as he is, and I assure you, there will be no more fucking or drinking from that point on. For any of you. Well, not at your leisure anyway.”
This drew seething rasps from some of the chamber, and Helshar himself started calling obscenities and threats at Octavian.
“Vote with Fartown’s future in mind, not your own. Wealth can only achieve so much. If you want a suitable man at the head of our Legions, then send me, and I will do what needs to be done, so that you all can carry on living in your high rises, with your beautiful women, fine foods and drink.”
The chamber became a riot, as Councillors exchanged insults with each other. Many had switched to Octavian, spurred on by brutal depiction of the situation. Helshar declared death for any who went back on their bribe. The Chamber Speaker weighed in, but could not quiet them. In the chaos, Octavian marched from the chamber centre, and fighting off as many grabbing hands as he could, exited Fartown’s parliament building.
He would be Consul, and an hour from now, he would be leading the world’s greatest power to war against a very worthy adversary. Four thousand troops were already assembling, a thousand of them cavalry, and he would not wait for official word of his victory – Hell, even if he didn’t get the position of Consul, the militias called his name, not Helshar’s.
Half the chamber rose to their feet, and cheered in great merriment. The other half looked on, shaking their heads and whisphering disapproval. The latest Crisis had split the Fartown Merchant Council, and it took three votes and many hours of deliberation before a majority was finally reached.
“If you please,” shouted the Chamber Speaker over the commotion, “be seated, so that we may elect the leader of our armies.”
The cheers and merriment ended at once, and within seconds the chamber was back to its subdued, boring state. This was an important issue; the man who commanded Fartown’s legions was the greatest honour any citizen of the trading city could ever hope to aspire to. With the title Consul, a man went from a petty leather merchant to the most powerful man in the known world. Riches, glory and fame would be theirs.
This was no usual campaign however, and much was at stake. Many were divided between voting for those who had paid them to do so, and for someone who could actually lead an army and had experience. Fartown had fought many battles on the fringes of civilisation, but few wars, and not on this scale. The whole Federation was to be tested at Rockhelm, and it would rise and fall by the outcome.
There were two names on everyone’s lips, and those two names represented very different ideals.
Minister Octavian Gatus was a wine merchant by trade, but a proven battlefield commander. It was he who led the 5th Legion to victory against the remnants of the Old Kingdom at the battle of Herin, and it was he who reformed Fartown’s widely differing militia into a more uniform fighting force. He commanded the respect of the famed Jake Irons, with whom he had stood side by side at the Great Siege of Tears during the Southern War. At the sound age of thirty-nine, he had done much, achieved much and was promised much.
Minister Helshar Basra was an arms trader, with two thousand armed men at his call day and night, but he was no commander. He had taken the 2nd and 3rd Legions westwards, with the aim of conquering the foreign trade hub of Trapbourg, but was utterly crushed by what many observers described as a numerically and materially inferior opponent. Three thousand good Fartown men had died in that campaign, and though Trapbourg sued for a biased peace on the belief that the Merchant Council would dispatch more Legions, it was always seen as stinging defeat for the Federation. However, with all this said, he was a very wealthy man with seven wives and innumerable mistresses. His weapons from Anthastiln had garnered him many friends, and his inexhaustible Federation Dollar reserves had bought him many more. He had bribed over half the council to vote for him that day.
The Chamber Speaker, an old and haggard man with a hunched back, pulled open a scroll and cleared his throat.
“The names most voted to lead the Legions were Minister Octavian Gatus of the Feathermore District, and Minister Helshar Basra of the Misty Isle District,” he said.
There were many cheers for Helshar, but few for Octavian. Both men were present in the chamber, and both had cast their votes. Even from their appearance, in their simple stately gowns of white cotton, it was evident they were very different people.
Octavian was tall, handsome with a shock of black hair and wide shoulders. He looked everything a prince of the old world. He stood rigid, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber. Helshar was short, extremely fat, and balding and had a face that resembled a rotten potato. He swayed with the consumption of fine wines, and smiled at the coming blessing he was to receive.
“Both ministers shall now stake their claim, before voting commences,” finished the Chamber Speaker, reclining in his austere wooden arm chair and waving an arm at Helshar.
Helshar was up at once, and he rushed to the centre of the chamber so that all eyes were on him.
“My Sirs,” he started, “my good Gentlemen, my fellow citizens of Fartown. It would be with great honour that I lead our mighty army eastwards, and claim for ourselves some new land with which to cultivate our future wealth!”
The room responded in a thunderous applause.
“I know there are some reservations about my military judgement, but worry not, for I shall bring with me the sound council of a dozen 29 advisors. With my eye for a good decision, and their analysis of situations, Fartown’s Legions will press onwards, unmatched and unstoppable. I will claim the East for Fartown, for the Federation!”
More applause followed, and several Council members stood to clap their approval. A few remained seated, not trusting in his ability to heed wise advice from anyone, even if they were advisors from the Outpost. Helshar returned to his place amongst the benches, shaking hands as he went and smiling like a child who was about to be awarded first place in a running race.
The Chamber Speaker, himself nodding approval towards Helshar, then waved Octavian forwards.
Octavian was a quiet man, but he was well known. The whole room fell silent as he made his way to the chamber centre, and eyes fell upon him. Everyone stood to win for voting for Helshar in the short term, but everyone may well stand to lose if the arms trader blundered like he did at Trapbourg. Money was a fine bribe when the consequences were small, or were dwarfed by the gain, but this was a real war – 10,000 Wildmen surging into the Federation’s borders was not the same as storming a desolate town of a few hundred.
Not to mention that Fartown, whose army once boasted 10,000 strong itself, had never recovered from the Trapbourg disaster. Other battles and skirmishes had chipped away at it too, and every victory was always through force of numbers than through discipline or tactics. Except at Herin, of course. To lose the battle at Rockhelm would leave Fartown virtually defenceless, and there would be few men left to carry the Federation banner into a second confrontation.
“I killed a Wildman once,” said Octavian in a cold and sober tone, “I fired my pistol between her breasts, and she fell backwards with a broken body.”
The room was nonplussed. Some Councilers looked around in boredom, but others looked on waiting for the punch line.
“She had sliced her way through my forward line, through my second line and through my third line. Two of my personal guard lay dead at her feet by the time she came to me. An axe clenched in each hand, and a body of solid rock, she had broken my army before my eyes, or so it seemed. I shot her, though I hate making war on womenfolk, and she died there. In all, fifteen of my men had died in her wake. I am lucky, that her friends were two hundred strong, and that we were three thousand strong, or it is unlikely Fartown would be here today,” he continued.
The room was silent now. No murmurs. Just focus.
“Now ten thousand of her are surging towards Rockhelm. The soldiers there are strong, as strong as the Wildmen and very proud. They will hold their palisade for maybe a week, but they have not the numbers, and wooden walls are easy prey to fire. If we fail to break the Wildmen there, before the walls of the town, with the united arms of the Federation at our backs, then we will all be consigned to death or slavery. This I promise you, this, I can guarantee. What can Helshar guarantee you?
Money in your pockets, so that tonight you may fuck your way through a whore house and into the tavern beyond. Hopes in your minds, so that you may fuck and drink your way through the next few days. Doom, in that he will fail to deliver, being as stubborn and as arrogant as he is, and I assure you, there will be no more fucking or drinking from that point on. For any of you. Well, not at your leisure anyway.”
This drew seething rasps from some of the chamber, and Helshar himself started calling obscenities and threats at Octavian.
“Vote with Fartown’s future in mind, not your own. Wealth can only achieve so much. If you want a suitable man at the head of our Legions, then send me, and I will do what needs to be done, so that you all can carry on living in your high rises, with your beautiful women, fine foods and drink.”
The chamber became a riot, as Councillors exchanged insults with each other. Many had switched to Octavian, spurred on by brutal depiction of the situation. Helshar declared death for any who went back on their bribe. The Chamber Speaker weighed in, but could not quiet them. In the chaos, Octavian marched from the chamber centre, and fighting off as many grabbing hands as he could, exited Fartown’s parliament building.
He would be Consul, and an hour from now, he would be leading the world’s greatest power to war against a very worthy adversary. Four thousand troops were already assembling, a thousand of them cavalry, and he would not wait for official word of his victory – Hell, even if he didn’t get the position of Consul, the militias called his name, not Helshar’s.
In
Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Take as long as you need, no body seems to be in any particular rush.
I'll post Fartown's response to the crisis, and the conclusion of Father Mason's intervention either tonight or tomorrow.
I'll post Fartown's response to the crisis, and the conclusion of Father Mason's intervention either tonight or tomorrow.
In
Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Blue Dog said
Kinda like Pinkie Pie :)
Can't say I've ever had the pleasure of watching. I have a manly reputation to uphold after all! (with the exception of hamsters) Speaking of which, the bath needs resealing, and I don't think my gf is going to embrace her hard fought equality any time soon, so I better go fetch Mr. Silicone. I'll be absent for most the day, catch y'all later.
In
Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
Blue Dog said
I can't wait Eve. :) ( this might be weird, but I've got to say it( I am a little weird after all :) , but you're adorable bunny .
Seconded. I just imagine her as bouncing off walls 24/7, in the fun how-much-red-bull-have-you-drunk way.
Nice post by the way.
In
Those that Remain - Post-Apocalyptic Earth Invaded (Community Revived)
→
12 yrs ago
Forum: Advanced Roleplay
"Milord, if we don't send men, that cunt down in 29 will have us thrown out of the Federation. You know this is what he wants," said Mr. Hepworth, in a voice full of gravel.
"I know that, don't you think I know that?" replied the River Admiral, rubbing the side of his head with a his leather-clad hands.
"Then why all the obsession over that shitty little town?"
"Because, that 'shitty little town' is worth gold to us. Just think, with their forges and experts, we could double production. We'd be the jewel of the Federation, and those fat fucking merchants could go suck the end of a blunderbuss!" snapped the River Admiral.
Mr. Hepworth remained silent after this. One could only push the Admiral so far, before he was on receiving end of a lead ball. Sipping from the gentle rim of his brandy glass, the aging engineer sat back in his leather chair and gave the floor to one of his competitors.
"Mr. River Admiral, Sir, If I may..." stepped in Doctor Fringe Raven.
The Doctor was a heavy set fellow, with a large greying beard tuned to a sharp point, and a clean shaven head. He was Anthastiln's chief gun powder specialist, and also the richest of the 'Democratic Council of the People's Anthastiln'.
"Yes, yes, speak your mind my good Doctor," replied the Admiral; his shaky hands pouring another goblet of wine.
"Send half the militia, tell that testosterone fuelled idiot from 29 that we're having trouble with a tribe from the Northern Wastes. When the army leaves, send the other half to annex the town. Simple as that!" the Doctor said, triumphantly.
Carlos grinned at the Doctor and held his gaze for several uncomfortable seconds. Then his eyes darted to Mr. Hepworth, and he nodded. Mr. Hepworth understood.
Before the good Doctor could react, his skull was enveloped in a rush of smoke, and the room was consumed in an echoing thunder. Mr. Hepworth's smoking pistol presented itself on the large rounded oak table. The Council members shrieked and gasped as the body of the town's richest man slumped forwards, missing everything north of the mouth. Blood splatters covered the Harbour Master Biggins, who was shocked into silence. Only a few quickly remembered rule number one of survival in Anthastiln's ruling circle: Don't condescend, not to the Admiral, not in front of his peers.
"Idiots, you're all idiots," cursed Carlos. Some of the Doctor's blood had flecked his face, and he clicked his fingers at his attendants. Within a fraction of a second, several young boys were busy rubbing him down with damp rags.
"Where are the guards? Someone just fired a shot in my War Room, and my fuck damned security detail doesn't give a shit. I want them dead, I want them deader than dead!" he crowed.
Mr. Hepworth slowly nodded. The Admiral banned the soldiers from his War Room last week, because he feared that one of them might find it a perfect opportunity to kill him and his fellow overlords. He must have forgotten.
"The Doctor had a point, milord, we could hold back some troops. Independence would be defenceless without its militia. 29 won’t be around to dig them out of their grave, either," said Mr. Hepworth.
"Agreed. All in favour?"
The Council members fired their hands into the air. If the Admiral asked if you was in favour, you best leave your constructive thought process at the door.
"Dispatch two thousand to the muster point. Send someone who will keep things discreet. If we are victorious at that shit infested Rockhelm, I want them to delay the Federation army until we've got the town locked up. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, milord," finished Mr. Hepworth, downing the last of his brandy.
Anthastiln was a sorrowful place, full of sadness, loss and helplessness. Grand Master Mason hated coming here; despite his dedication to his Lord Christ Jesus, he could do nothing but hold contempt with the man in charge here. The River Admiral was a violent man, he had killed, butchered and raped his way to the very top. His word was absolute, and his so called democratic council, a requirement for Federation membership, was a blood-soaked joke. If Fartown cared more for compassion than it did for gold, the River Admiral would be without his power. Sanctions would strip him of his wealth, his soldiers would revolt, and he would be executed and replaced by -- another murderous fool, who thought being charge was everything.
Grand Master Mason sighed, and drew a cross in the air. Before him stood the River Admiral's Palace, it was an ugly building, made of black stone and elegant spires. Grand Master Mason allowed himself a brief fantasy, in which he imagined The Evil One's lair looking not too different from the monstrosity. He would need to repent for thinking such thoughts, but he would do that later, for now he had a poor nun to rescue. He was too late to prevent most of the damage, this he knew, but what was left, he would try to save.
A soldier, with an iron plate strewn across his chest, and a six-foot long rifle gripped in both hands barred his passage.
"I am Grand Master Mason, of the Tears of Regret Sanctuary. I request access to his Grace's premises, if I may," spoke the Grand Master, with a tone so gentle.
"Sorry Father, I know who you are, but I am told your 'kind' are not welcome without prior notice," replied the soldier.
"Then I shall walk past you, and Christ Jesus will choose whose resolve is stronger," shot back the Grand Master, his voice now colder than iron.
The priest, father, Grand Master, Holy Father, Light of Light, whatever people chose to call him, marched forwards. He was wearing the thick black of the priesthood, and his face was shaven - along with his scalp. These last details were a requirement of all nuns and monks within the sanctuary's service. He was no ordinary monk however; he was God's chosen.
The soldier lashed out with the butt of his rifle, and caught the priest across the face. Mason fell to his knees, blood dropping from his broken mouth. Immediately he regained himself and carried on walking towards the entrance. This time the soldier stood back, unsure of what action to take. He lived to serve his master, but to shoot the Grand Master of Tears would be a sin he would not outrun - either in the realm of the living, or the dead.
Mason's face burned with pain, and he was sure that it was not only his teeth that were broken. He muttered a prayer for the soldier, so that he may not be flayed alive for allowing him access. Entering the large domed lobby of the Palace, he was immediately set upon by several Royal Guards. There were four less of them, than on his last visit, he noticed.
“I have business here, leave me be or shoot me, the choice is yours,” roared the Grand Master. His patience was wearing thin.
The fierce hands that had grabbed him relaxed, and the Royal Guards stood back. One so revered across the Federation had a certain amount of power and immunity, even in Anthastiln, it seemed.
“Where is Sister Mary?” asked the Grand Master, his voice gentle and soft once more.
“The Admiral’s quarters, Light of Light, but forgive me – you may not go there,” replied one of the Royal Guards.
“Then arrest me, or shoot me, or whatever you feel is right. Christ Jesus guides me today, not fear of your master’s insanity,” said Mason.
And with that, the Holiest Man in the known world made for the Admiral’s quarters. He knew the way, it was not the first time he had intervened to save a nun from the monster’s clutches, and by Christ Jesus’ blood, he knew it would not be the last. Such was life, in this depressing purgatory.
"I know that, don't you think I know that?" replied the River Admiral, rubbing the side of his head with a his leather-clad hands.
"Then why all the obsession over that shitty little town?"
"Because, that 'shitty little town' is worth gold to us. Just think, with their forges and experts, we could double production. We'd be the jewel of the Federation, and those fat fucking merchants could go suck the end of a blunderbuss!" snapped the River Admiral.
Mr. Hepworth remained silent after this. One could only push the Admiral so far, before he was on receiving end of a lead ball. Sipping from the gentle rim of his brandy glass, the aging engineer sat back in his leather chair and gave the floor to one of his competitors.
"Mr. River Admiral, Sir, If I may..." stepped in Doctor Fringe Raven.
The Doctor was a heavy set fellow, with a large greying beard tuned to a sharp point, and a clean shaven head. He was Anthastiln's chief gun powder specialist, and also the richest of the 'Democratic Council of the People's Anthastiln'.
"Yes, yes, speak your mind my good Doctor," replied the Admiral; his shaky hands pouring another goblet of wine.
"Send half the militia, tell that testosterone fuelled idiot from 29 that we're having trouble with a tribe from the Northern Wastes. When the army leaves, send the other half to annex the town. Simple as that!" the Doctor said, triumphantly.
Carlos grinned at the Doctor and held his gaze for several uncomfortable seconds. Then his eyes darted to Mr. Hepworth, and he nodded. Mr. Hepworth understood.
Before the good Doctor could react, his skull was enveloped in a rush of smoke, and the room was consumed in an echoing thunder. Mr. Hepworth's smoking pistol presented itself on the large rounded oak table. The Council members shrieked and gasped as the body of the town's richest man slumped forwards, missing everything north of the mouth. Blood splatters covered the Harbour Master Biggins, who was shocked into silence. Only a few quickly remembered rule number one of survival in Anthastiln's ruling circle: Don't condescend, not to the Admiral, not in front of his peers.
"Idiots, you're all idiots," cursed Carlos. Some of the Doctor's blood had flecked his face, and he clicked his fingers at his attendants. Within a fraction of a second, several young boys were busy rubbing him down with damp rags.
"Where are the guards? Someone just fired a shot in my War Room, and my fuck damned security detail doesn't give a shit. I want them dead, I want them deader than dead!" he crowed.
Mr. Hepworth slowly nodded. The Admiral banned the soldiers from his War Room last week, because he feared that one of them might find it a perfect opportunity to kill him and his fellow overlords. He must have forgotten.
"The Doctor had a point, milord, we could hold back some troops. Independence would be defenceless without its militia. 29 won’t be around to dig them out of their grave, either," said Mr. Hepworth.
"Agreed. All in favour?"
The Council members fired their hands into the air. If the Admiral asked if you was in favour, you best leave your constructive thought process at the door.
"Dispatch two thousand to the muster point. Send someone who will keep things discreet. If we are victorious at that shit infested Rockhelm, I want them to delay the Federation army until we've got the town locked up. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, milord," finished Mr. Hepworth, downing the last of his brandy.
Anthastiln was a sorrowful place, full of sadness, loss and helplessness. Grand Master Mason hated coming here; despite his dedication to his Lord Christ Jesus, he could do nothing but hold contempt with the man in charge here. The River Admiral was a violent man, he had killed, butchered and raped his way to the very top. His word was absolute, and his so called democratic council, a requirement for Federation membership, was a blood-soaked joke. If Fartown cared more for compassion than it did for gold, the River Admiral would be without his power. Sanctions would strip him of his wealth, his soldiers would revolt, and he would be executed and replaced by -- another murderous fool, who thought being charge was everything.
Grand Master Mason sighed, and drew a cross in the air. Before him stood the River Admiral's Palace, it was an ugly building, made of black stone and elegant spires. Grand Master Mason allowed himself a brief fantasy, in which he imagined The Evil One's lair looking not too different from the monstrosity. He would need to repent for thinking such thoughts, but he would do that later, for now he had a poor nun to rescue. He was too late to prevent most of the damage, this he knew, but what was left, he would try to save.
A soldier, with an iron plate strewn across his chest, and a six-foot long rifle gripped in both hands barred his passage.
"I am Grand Master Mason, of the Tears of Regret Sanctuary. I request access to his Grace's premises, if I may," spoke the Grand Master, with a tone so gentle.
"Sorry Father, I know who you are, but I am told your 'kind' are not welcome without prior notice," replied the soldier.
"Then I shall walk past you, and Christ Jesus will choose whose resolve is stronger," shot back the Grand Master, his voice now colder than iron.
The priest, father, Grand Master, Holy Father, Light of Light, whatever people chose to call him, marched forwards. He was wearing the thick black of the priesthood, and his face was shaven - along with his scalp. These last details were a requirement of all nuns and monks within the sanctuary's service. He was no ordinary monk however; he was God's chosen.
The soldier lashed out with the butt of his rifle, and caught the priest across the face. Mason fell to his knees, blood dropping from his broken mouth. Immediately he regained himself and carried on walking towards the entrance. This time the soldier stood back, unsure of what action to take. He lived to serve his master, but to shoot the Grand Master of Tears would be a sin he would not outrun - either in the realm of the living, or the dead.
Mason's face burned with pain, and he was sure that it was not only his teeth that were broken. He muttered a prayer for the soldier, so that he may not be flayed alive for allowing him access. Entering the large domed lobby of the Palace, he was immediately set upon by several Royal Guards. There were four less of them, than on his last visit, he noticed.
“I have business here, leave me be or shoot me, the choice is yours,” roared the Grand Master. His patience was wearing thin.
The fierce hands that had grabbed him relaxed, and the Royal Guards stood back. One so revered across the Federation had a certain amount of power and immunity, even in Anthastiln, it seemed.
“Where is Sister Mary?” asked the Grand Master, his voice gentle and soft once more.
“The Admiral’s quarters, Light of Light, but forgive me – you may not go there,” replied one of the Royal Guards.
“Then arrest me, or shoot me, or whatever you feel is right. Christ Jesus guides me today, not fear of your master’s insanity,” said Mason.
And with that, the Holiest Man in the known world made for the Admiral’s quarters. He knew the way, it was not the first time he had intervened to save a nun from the monster’s clutches, and by Christ Jesus’ blood, he knew it would not be the last. Such was life, in this depressing purgatory.
Sounds good to me.
To any folks that need to gather the background info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Stalingrad Sums it up pretty well without getting into too much detail.
To any folks that need to gather the background info: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Stalingrad Sums it up pretty well without getting into too much detail.
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