Tlaloc

[IC] A Song of Ice and Fire: A Gilded Throne

Interested!

Kingdomfall: Last Stand

roleplayerguild.com/topics/195993-kin…

@Tlaloc@Theyra@I Own Cows@Nallore@EtherealThorn & the rest of you nerds (you know who you are *cough* micki, lemons and shoe *cough*).

@Kuro

I will wait and see the lay of the land; will consider applying. Thanks for the tag.

Kingdomfall: Last Stand

Any ideas of group size and character limits? Potentially interested if on the smaller end.

ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅵ

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Roelo loosened his grip on his luggage and paused outside of the door. From within, he could hear the faint rustle of fabric, the soft clunk of metal; sounds that indicated his bunkmate had already begun the process of unpacking. At a standstill, his eyes settled on the brass placard screwed into the wood before him. His name was there, just as expected — paired beneath the curlicue sprawl of another name he wasn’t sure how to pronounce.

Muruvvetoglu — a name, he recalled, that was of mid-eastern dynastic importance: though he wasn’t sure to what effect. It was a name that belonged to the Sultanate: a land beclothed in tülbend and kaftan, and clad in enameled zırh, saber abrandished. The mother language of the Sultanate, though deft and urbane upon the tongue of a native, was rendered cumbersome and disfigured by foreigners, and so such an un-Loðyrian name as Muruvvetoglu was not so easily indexed by Roelo. Nonetheless, he imagined, young Asli must be of some relative importance to find himself accepted into the prestigious Ansbourg Imperial Command Academy. He wondered about what kind of circumstances had led his bunkmate down the path to Ansbourg — perhaps he was a ward to a Laachtalian noble, issued to the Empire in diplomatic exchange, or a dignitary of the Sultan sent to tender relations with the Diet. These were questions that danced upon his mind, but he would not hazard to be so bold in burdening his new acquaintance with. Any kind of curiosity that Roelo had with the people he met was well-contained: he would be subtle in his questioning. He knew what it was like to be scrutinised by the curious; to be prodded and interrogated. He was keen not to brandish such behaviour upon others. And so, for a moment or three, Roelo did take pause at the door, to consider and prepare for this pivotal moot, for as soon as he entered, he would need to obscure his fascinations and play the part of a reasonable, inoffensive roommate. He wondered if his new acquaintance would allow him the same courtesies. While, to the best of Roelo’s knowledge, the Sultanate’s noblesse were hospitable enough — for he had heard tales of their hostmanship; generously bestowing food, drink, tobacco, and various other kindnesses to foreign dignitaries who visited their demesne — he wagered they would likely be less star-stricken than a Laachtalian in the presence of a de Barbroeck. This he was thankful for, for what ulterior motive might an outlander have to curry Roelo’s favour? While a few paranoid answers to this very question glanced his mind, he sought to banish them. If he could not, at least, find repose in his own quarters, he would surely lose his wits over the coming three years.

He opened the door.

There, fairly still, was Roelo’s roommate: for now, finished with his unpacking. He seemed entranced – eyes closed, spine straightened – before being roused from his reverie by Roelo’s arrival. Roelo saw the prayerbeads that drooped from Asli’s knuckles.

In Laachtalia, such theistic practices were considered esoteric to most – and even fearsomely preternatural to those of a superstitious disposition. Roelo sympathised that deity worship could, and likely would, be looked upon with waryness, at least among commonfolk. While most had grown skeptical to such histories, it was said that laymagic – or ‘folk magic’ – was once as commonly employed in Laachtalia as a cobbler’s awl, or a smith’s hammer. Thus, gnostic religion was, to some, a frowned upon practice: for it might be conflated with witchcraft. To any educated man or woman, this thinking would be absurd; Roelo knew prayerbeads were not an instrument of occultism, but totems of faith no different to the sacred grieving trees scattered most commonly throughout the northern counties of Laachtalia. Thankfully, while great swathes of the Empire lacked such tact in regard to foreign customs, Asli was unlikely to encounter such brazen ignorances within the academy. Generally, among gentry, it was considered both uncouth and foolish to speak ill of unfamiliar culture, and Roelo was certain that the lion’s share of Ansbourg’s new arrivals would adhere to this principle. After all, to the Muruvvetoglu, the Laachtalian manner of reverence was sure to be a strange one. It was most common in these lands to look upon heroic ancestors with the same kind of veneration that foreigners reserved for their saints and awliya. Roelo, for one, felt no such fidelity – perhaps, in part, due to his distaste for his own father, who, no doubt, in centuries to come, would be hallowed for his many triumphs.

“Would it be disrespectful if I kept my boots on?,” was the cleverest greeting he could offer in reference to the supplicant; a greeting he emphasised most casually. He regretted such a dry comment as soon as it left his lips.

“It is of little matter to me,” the supplicant replied, tilting back his head in Roelo’s direction. “Your name is on the board outside as well.”

“Still seems only right to offer you it first-hand,” said the de Barbroeck, taking a moment to regard his new lodgemate before retrieving his luggage from behind the door. “Roelo.”

“The sentiment is indeed appreciated,” replied Muruvvetoglu, swiftly returning his prayerbeads to the black bag on the table. “Yet, it would be a farce to treat a dorm with the reverence of a temple.” He extended a hand to Roelo. “Asli.”

Roelo did not enjoy introductions, but as a Duke’s son, he’d made thousands. He quickly, confidently received the handshake with politesse. He listened attentively to Asli’s voice as he spoke; an accent was there, but it did not seem particularly thick. He spoke the imperial tongue very well. Though he had promised himself not to prod or pester his new roommate, his curiosity was piqued. He was tired indeed from the politics of Laachtalia; but horizons afar were of great interest to him. He imagined the life of a lordling in the Sultanate to be a languid one – of poetry and wine, of long afternoons in silken parlours, of sweet incense and perfume, of cardamom tea and hookah molasses. He imagined the domed buildings, cut from sandstone and marble, and the fragrant, sun-drenched bazaars, far more desiccated than even such a searing Laachtalian day as this. These were fantasies that he envied; though fantasies, not truisms, to be sure. These were musings drawn from the euphemised second-hand tales of sailors and travelers who made passage through in Loðyria; tales that Roelo would pay great attention to. Throughout his mid-teens he had made quite a habit of vanishing into the of annals of île Monding, far from the encroaching eyes of his father, to hear tales of distant lands in taverns and taphouses from the commonfolk. He knew they were embellished, but nonetheless did they inspire a craving for adventure in his heart. Alas, unlike the sea-beaten, bronze-tanned raconteurs of île Monding, Roelo was not born to be a sailor or tradesman. Perhaps, however, he could still see the world and its marvels in service of the Empire. While his mind trotted the globe, his body shifted luggage in through the doorway, pushing it towards the bunk. Decidedly, he would organise it later, after the day’s classes had ended. It was far too hot to fumble with it all now.

“Have you travelled far?,” he asked neutrally, knocking back the clasps on one of his bags, searching for clothing suitable for the classroom.

“I have. The Osterlind countryside isn’t the most connected of regions.”

“Been to the heartlands before?,” Roelo returned, carrying his new trappings with him behind the folding screen in the corner of the room, and beginning the process of changing out of his ceremonial garb.

“This is all new,” said the voice of Asli from the other side of the screen. “Once – when I was very young – yet since then I have rarely crossed the borders into a city like this.”

Roelo wrinkled his nose. He’d hoped to glean more about his roommate’s origin without overtly asking. “I recognise your family name, I think,” he pivoted. “Didn’t peg the Sultanate for producing imperial officers”

“You do, huh?,” Asli replied with mild intrigue. “But anyway, there is much in the way of movement in this realm in the countryside, with a foreign-held title of little worth. Nowadays at least. Regardless, the sword has always been my calling. And it is for my mother’s land I will wield it.”

Interesting; Roelo had never met a foreigner so willing to shed blood for Laachtalia, never mind a would-be janissary. “Perhaps some day soon you’ll test it against mine.” He emerged a few moments later, garbed in the class dress; gauntlets tucked into epaulets. For now, he had exhausted this topic – lest he risk the possibility of uningratiating himself. “What do you make of our tutor?”

“I shall await the day,” Asli said, turning his head to the emerging Roelo. “As for the tutor? I cannot say I am very impressed. His temper is certainly nothing to sing praises about. I have seen men much older, and much weaker, hold more jovial expressions than I have seen from him so far.”

“I suppose we will soon find out, but I share your concerns,” Roelo nodded. Briskly, he took a seat at his desk and unlatched a smaller bag bundled with his luggage. Soon, the clocktower bell would chime for three quarters of an hour, instructing students to begin their exodus to class – not enough time to venture to the mess hall. He’d settle for his own dry rations.

“Glad to hear,” Asli said, before returning his attention to his own unpacking. He seemed a steady, mild-mannered young man. Inoffensive. Roelo was content: at least, for now.

Delicately, Roelo prepared his meager feast. From a bundle of wax cloth came cured sausage coins; from a small glass jar, fermented radish. With them, he paired small, black bread biscuits — dense, bite-sized, and laced with anise— chewing thoughtfully as he glanced out the window. He nearly offered his new companion a serving of the snack, but quickly bit his tongue; recalling the cultural differences in meat and its various preparations. He thanked his conscience for evading a faux pas, and allowed his mind to drift to his next introduction: that of his teacher.

Before long, the bell beckoned, and with it, the first moot with the darling Herr Schöst.

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Halo: Edge of Midnight

Permission to give this Interest Check my Interest?

Female looking for male or female partner. 18+

Me sliding into Marilyn Monroe' PO box

Ayo shawty you wanna get some drinks bbgirl?

ᛢ 𝕳𝖔𝖓𝖔𝖗𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖉, 𝔬𝔯, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔇𝔲𝔱𝔶 ᛢ

ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅴ

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The woman led Class E out through the arcade beyond a heavy pair of doors, out into the open air. As the midday heat glanced Roelo's skin, he realised how much of a repose the building's shade had given him, and drew up a hand to shield his eyes. Around the corner from this side-exit, he could just about see the main gates of the ceremonial hall, now open, with a handful of the older and more meandering guests still making their exit, but the majority of attendants long-gone. The music from the quadrangle had long fallen still, though Roelo couldn’t put a finger on exactly when it had ceased.

“My name is Frau Wiezlern,” the matron said, angling her head to regard the shoaling classmates behind her. “I am a house matron, and it is my responsibility to monitor the care and discipline of first-year students. Though you will, over the coming three years, become very familiar with the campus, I will provide a concise orientation to the principal buildings and their functions.”

She gestured first to the building behind the class; from which they had exited.

“This building, affixed to Die Zeremonium, is Zierseldt Hall. It has many faculty offices; one of which is my own, the third door on the left of the main entrance — you will find my name engraved upon the door. Should you need to address any issues that you are experiencing, whether academic or personal, you are free to visit me there, and I will do what I can do find a reasonable solution. The other faculty, mind you, may not be so welcoming, should you arrive at their office door uninvited. Otherwise, the Zierseldt is also home to our studentenkorps facilities, which you will all learn more about in the coming days.”

Wiezlern then pointed yonder to what appeared to be one of the older structures on-campus, nestled against the outer wall and crowned by a sturdy, round watchtower. She began walking oncemore, approaching the building in what would be the first adjustment in a clockwise tour of campus.

“This is Härlenger Hall: the only building within the academy that is strictly out of bounds for students. I ensure you that the faculty have our fair share of headaches within working hours to deal with, so kindly do not encroach upon our quarters. However, you are free to admire its masonry from afar. It is said that —”

It was quickly apparent that Wiezlern was not equipped with the virtue of brevity. She had a tendency to over-explain, which became all-the-more clear with each stop on her concise orientation — about the many amenities of Das Panoptikum, and how she felt about them, or the storied history of Die Zeremonium and its mighty clocktower. Little did this interest Roelo. He would not eagerly frolick through the halls in his spare time, sampling the academy’s many extracurricular pastimes, nor drinking in its architectural ambience. He was here to succeed, and was willing to be egregiously stubborn and spiteful to push himself to do so. There would be no distractions, as he had already decided. And thus again, did he find himself screaming into the void of his own mind: about what he would do here, how he would prove them all wrong, and poor Wiezlerns’ words fell deaf on him. She continued her tour past Die Kantine and the Bistrot Bélandre; the latter of which served labskaus, of which’s qualities she proselytized in great detail.

Beyond the cantine and bistro was Der Sportplatz — the largest outdoor area within the academy's walls, where parade drills and other such activities took place. Along the near-side of the field were several small sandpits that were used as arenas for duelists. Beside one, a small crowd had gathered — notably including the students and teachers of Classes C and D, along with a host of older students.

“Come, students,” ordered Wiezlern. “I believe our third-years are conducting a demonstration.”

Indeed, as Class E grew closer to the dueling ring, it was evident that mensur was in process. Two girls; third-years, were engaged in single combat, a professor standing to their side as an officiant, and a nurse crouched at the ready should viscera be drawn. Both duelists were positioned most excellently in fechterstellung: feet shoulder-width, sword arm cocked at the shoulder in a high guard, the blade angled diagonally back, like a whip coiled before its strike; the other arm kept still to the back. Each young cadet wore light-cloth armor on the arm, torso, and throat, as well as iron spectacles that guarded their eyes and nose; for there would be no enucleation nor rhinectomy at this academy — wounds elsewhere upon the body, however, were almost guaranteed. In fact, one of the girls, red-haired and fleet-footed, wore a particularly severe scar that traced the left side of her face horizontally like a second jawline. The wound was almost perfectly parallel to the line of her chin, aside from a flick of etched flesh at the end of the line that darted towards her cheek. Sand and gravel crunched beneath her bootheals, and those of her opponent’s, as they adjusted in rhythm with their blades’ movement. Roelo squinted into the sunlight. The red-haired girl was turned slightly in profile, her neck pale and glistening where her linen collar ended. She moved effortlessly — measured, taut, refined by discipline. Her cinnamon hair was pinned back into a tight braid. He noted how the scar did not burden her beauty — it made her seem fierce, and far more beautiful than the powdered-cheeked maidens of île Monding. The girl opposite her, brunette and broad of shoulder, carried herself like a battering ram. She too wore scars; though fewer, and fainter in nature.

Their blades snapped together — a flash of lightning; a crack across heated glass. Again — again — again. Minimal was the footwork, subtle were the lunges, for if either participant left the sand-drawn perimeter, either by stumble or retreat, it would be considered a shameful abdication. What movement there was was calculated and perfect.

It was almost difficult to see when it ended. The contact had been glancing, and, at first, as the professor stepped forward to end the fight, the brunette looked over in frustrated protest, as if to argue that she hadn’t been struck. Within a moment, however, crimson had drawn from her cheek, and she withdrew any pretense of protest — by which point the red-head had already returned her sword to its scabbard.

"Blut!,” cried the professor, raising his hand, and thus marking the end of the fight.

There was no bow. No “well fought”; no proffered hand. A brief, austere applause trickled through the crowd. Some of the first-years clapped with more enthusiasm before noting the restraint of their elders, and quickly amended their own standards. This was the way of mensur — while it felt in many ways like a sport, it was not one. It was a tradition, and one without a victor or a loser. While it was clear to see who the triumphant of this particular mêlée was, both had participated in a lesson, at least in the eyes of the pedagogues, and each had found ‘victory’ of their own in their learnings. The nurse did not move towards the wounded, but gladly attended her when she approached. It was likely the caregivers of the academy had seen far worse resulting wounds, and were content to allow duelists a moments reprieve before rushing to their aid: especially when only afflicted with superficial flesh wounds.

The other combatant, the unbloodied, tore off her eye-guard and wiped back the sweat from her brow. She reached at the bindings of her hair, and her braid came undone like a snare released. Strands of red hair, darkened by sweat at the roots, slipped loose in spirals and fanned out across her shoulders. Some clung to the collar of her dueling vest. Others trailed over the curve of her throat and down the pale slope where her collarbone peeked between the folds of linen. The sun caught the copper of it, as if igniting the dying embers of a fire. Roelo watched her glide back into the crowd. Despite her success, despite the pressure of being placed upon a pedestal in front of the first-years, she seemed unmoved: as if her heart had remained at resting pace all the while. Roelo could not say the same for himself, but tore his eyes away.

“Very good, very good, but enough of a delay,” called Wiezlern. “On to the barracks.”

And so Class E migrated beyond Der Sportplatz, beneath the arch of the Gatehouse, and up to the terraced buildings that would, for the next three years, be their home. There again did Wiezlern stop, and once more did she liberally orate about the various dos and don'ts of this particular locale.

“Boys will keep to their bunks, and girls to theirs.”

“I should not even have to say this, but do not hang your linens from your bunk like a fieldhand. We have drying lines — use them.”

“Do not leave boots in the corridor. I will throw them out of the window.”

Roelo found his mind flâner back to the red-haired girl. He hoped he might see her again, or perhaps afford himself the courage to ask her name; though, he realised, it was likely a foolish endeavour. After-all, as a third-year, she would be twenty-one, a far cry from his boyish eighteen.

As Wiezlern drawled on, a boy shuffled beside Roelo and cleared his throat.

“Hail,” the lad said lowly, so to not be heard by Wiezlern: offering out his hand to shake. “Lutz von Ecklingen.”

Roelo, though unenthused with the idea of whatever interaction was about to be enforced on him, accepted the handshake.

"You’re a de Barbroeck, right? Like the Duke of Orange?,” Lutz continued, a trace of excitement showing on his lips. “Must be a bit dull here by comparison."

Roelo bit his tongue. This was not an interaction he had any desire to indulge, but it was bound to come sooner or later. He had considered how he might navigate such an inquest previously. He could lie — claim to be the son of a peripheral second-cousin; but it was more than likely that he’d be quickly caught in the falsity. While indeed he was Tælman’s shame; a black sheep who was seldom paraded and celebrated by his kin: he was not quite shunned to the degree in which he was totally anonymous. Should there be any other Loðyrians among his stream, it was imaginable that they’d have heard of the name Roelo de Barbroeck — if not for his standing alone, then for his controversies. He was the son who'd infamously, and ignobly, assaulted a household guard. The one who'd gotten blind-drunk during Reevingtide and embarrassed himself, driven to sickness aside the plinth of a war monument after altercating with sailors at the local taphouse. The one whose noble father had ordered his own son's name stricken from the ledgers of port stewardship, and whose brother now made diplomatic rounds alone, without the troubled second son in tow. While his face might not be known across Loðyria, his name was. And perhaps even this busybody — the prying Lutz — might already be privy to these tales. Sometimes, thought Roelo, a querier will ask a burdensome question while already knowing an answer, only to see its recipient squirm under the weight. Nonetheless, Roelo had reconciled with the fact that any denial of his standing would only cause him another headache down the line. He had no desire to stand in Tælman’s shadow — but he would not hide from it, either. He would give this sycophant what he desired, but little more, by confessing his kinship to the the Duke of Orange; the Lion of Loðyria.

As much as Roelo loathed his father, he recognised why many across the Empire, especially those who valued justice and valour, perceived Duke Tælman as something of a living legend. It was not without reason. Over the span of two decades, the Duke had taken the tide-torn, pillaged coasts of his home nation and turned them into some of the most secure harbourlands in the Empire. What had previously been a region plagued by pagan raiders from the cold north — honourless men with axes and guns and cursèd blood-oaths — was now patrolled, fortified, and swept clear of the banners of corsairs. Now, trade thrived, fishermen dared to cast their nets at sea, and children could visit the beaches at summertime without a constant peril hanging over them. Tælman had achieved this through not only diplomacy and reform, but with fire and gallows. He had sank more ships and hanged more men than anyone alive — and he had done so without being perceived as a tyrant or a madman. No, he was respected; so respected, in fact, that it was a common thought among the gentry of the Empire that he was best placed to ascend to the Imperial throne, should an election take place in the near-future.

“I am. The Duke is my father,” Roelo responded — aloof, but not entirely dismissive. To shirk this mite, he’d have to first indulge him. “And no, quite the opposite. The weather here is much more pleasant.”

Though he did not offer such an intimacy as eye contact with his unwanted interlocutor, he noted the excitement that befell Lutz’ face with his confirmation. He must’ve thought he’d struck lucky by being classed with such a celebutante.

“They call him the Tallyman out there, don’t they?,” asked Lutz. “On account of how many pirates he’s hanged.”

Roelo nodded, dispassionately. “That’s what they say.” He spoke curtly, of course, with intent to hamstring the conversation. But his response, to his great despair, instead seemed to invite further questioning.

“Did you ever cross swords with them? — the brânwîchen?,” Lutz asked, speaking the final world in an exaggerated Loðyrian accent.

Perhaps Lutz employed a word foreign to him to flaunt his linguistic chops, or his erudite knowledge of geopolitics. Either way, it did not endear him to Roelo as intended. The lordling had to tame his glower and pull back the very reigns of his optic nerves to restrain an eye-roll. Roelo let the silence hang, hoping Lutz might tactfully interpret his disinterest and retreat. But no such luck. The boy’s grin had only widened, pleased with his own pronunciation, his own cleverness.

“I hear they’re among the most heartless and violent of men,” Lutz continued, hoping, perhaps, to elicit some epic tale of swashbuckling from Roelo.

“I never had the displeasure,” Roelo responded. “They are clever enough not to come inland these days.”

“Young man,” Frau Wiezlern spoke abruptly, aiming her icy stare at Roelo, breaking momentarily from her meandering instructions to provide a verbal slap-on-the-wrist. “You will have plenty of time to get acquainted with your classmates after I am finished talking.”

Roelo dipped his head, quietly grateful for her rescue — yet still a little resentful that Lutz’s advance ended with him being the one chastised. “Apologies, ma’am.”

She nodded, wordlessly accepting his apology, and then on went her monologue — describing, at length, the logistics of laundry, ’what to do in the event of fire’, and other such equally uninteresting topics.

“Sorry,” whispered Lutz with a sheepish smile, nudging Roelo in the arm.

Wiezlern, winding down on her lengthy induction, then delivered a room key to the hands of each of the classmates.

“Now, you have the best part of... oh, half an hour — how the time does pass — to get yourself acquainted with your quarters, and to see yourself fed and watered. After that, please make your way to the main complex,” Wiezlern pointed over to the building that surrounded the quadrangle. “East Wing, Room 3. Herr Schöst will be waiting. On the hour. I advise you arrive promptly.”

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Tlaloc's Travel Manifest

十二 ʜᴇᴀᴠᴇɴ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴢᴏᴅɪᴀᴄ 十二

天命杀死了生肖

ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴʀᴇꜱ
ᴡᴜxɪᴀ • xɪᴀɴxɪᴀ • ᴍᴀʀᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʀᴛꜱ • ᴍʏꜱᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍ • ᴍʏᴛʜᴏʟᴏɢʏ • ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀꜱʏ

ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ
ᴀᴠᴀᴛᴀʀ: ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴀɪʀʙᴇɴᴅᴇʀ • ᴊᴀᴅᴇ ᴇᴍᴘɪʀᴇ • ʜᴇʀᴏ • ᴍɪꜱᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀɴᴅᴀʀɪᴀ • ᴇᴀꜱᴛ-ᴀꜱɪᴀɴ ᴍʏᴛʜᴏʟᴏɢʏ

A second prompt -- similarly looking for advanced to novella level writers. Again, a character-focussed narrative, and set in a fictional East-Asian inspired world (so plenty of room for world-building). This prompt is a wuxia fantasy with emphasis on mysticism, martial arts, and political intrigue. Our characters would be two of twelve embodiments of the Zodiac; heavenly guardians who were destined at birth to protect the innocent, gifted with superhuman abilities by the stars to compliment their martial arts. Certainly reminiscent of Avatar:TLA, but perhaps more gritty and dark. The details of their powers/place in the world can be something ironed out with my partner of choice.

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Since time immemorial, the Tiānshǐ — twelve eternal guardians, each born beneath a sacred sign and chosen to embody the spirit of the Zodiac — have watched over the Empire. When one falls, their essence returns to the stars, to be reborn in another, and so the circle endures. But now, that circle is breaking. One by one, the Tiānshǐ are being hunted, and their spirits severed from the stars. Whispers speak of a nameless assassin wielding a forgotten art: the power to bring a final death to the undying. As the signs fade, the Empire trembles on the edge of ruin. As one of the Twelve, you must contend with extinction for the first time as your numbers thin. Beware — if you fall, it is likely the Empire will fall too.

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Tlaloc's Travel Manifest

꧁ ᴀʀᴄᴀᴅɪᴀ ᴏʙꜱᴄᴜʀᴀ ꧂

ÏīīīīīÏīīīīīÏīīīīīÏīīīīīÏ

════════

꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁ ꧁

Concealed in the Atlantic for millennia by forces not entirely natural, Arcadia — an island shaped by the legacy of Athens and Alexandria — is uncovered in the nascent days of global conflict. As rival powers race to claim it, the Arcadians must navigate a shadow war of diplomacy, espionage, and survival, or see their belovèd utopia carved into an evil weapon by ruthless ideologues and generals.

꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂ ꧂

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ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇɴʀᴇꜱ
ᴀʟᴛ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ • ᴜᴛᴏᴘɪᴀ • ʀᴇᴀʟᴘᴏʟɪᴛɪᴋ • ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ • ɢᴇᴏᴘᴏʟɪᴛɪᴄꜱ • ʟᴏᴡ ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀꜱʏ

ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ
ʟᴏꜱᴛ • ᴀᴛʟᴀɴᴛɪꜱ • ɪɴᴅɪᴀɴᴀ ᴊᴏɴᴇꜱ • ᴡᴀᴋᴀɴᴅᴀ • ɴᴜᴍᴇɴᴏʀ

Hello. I'm looking for a partner to explore this prompt with me. It will involve plenty of world-building, and could be heavily influenced by your own ideas and suggestions. However, it would first-and-foremost be a character-focussed narrative. The story would initially follow two young courtiers with moderate-to-high levels of political influence — magistrates, priests, aristocrats, etc. — who will seek to protect their home from the encroaching espionage on three fronts. Within this republic, there may be many once-allies who have been corrupted by outside influence, and would seek to open doors for them into the city. I think there is a lot to play with here, and we could really go crazy with the level of detail. Multiple characters are fine too, but I'd like primary focus to be on one protagonist each. As with my other posts, this will be advanced to novella level.

Hidden from the annals of history and untouched by the marches of empire, Arcadia has endured in secret, deep within the Atlantic Ocean — a sovereign land cloaked by mysterious electromagnetic properties. A curio of a bygone era, Arcadia retains much of the culture and custom of Hellenistic Greece — yet its people have developed significantly in their understanding of science and technology. Uncorrupted by the taint of war for nearly two millenia, Arcadia has found prosperity through peace, eliminating poverty through careful design. It is Earth's only true utopia. But in the waning days of the 1930s, as the world fractures beneath the weight of war, the island is discovered by chance by aerial magnetometers designed to track submarines. As the world's greedy eyes fall upon Arcadia, just as Prometheus' eyes did fall upon the Gods' fire, a secret war breaks out between superpowers who covet its annexation. The island becomes a target not merely for its bounteous resources, but more focally for its many secrets which defy common scientific comprehension. For Arcadia's people live long, rarely fall ill, and recover from wounds with uncanny speed; and across the island, time and space are known to shift in ways that defy logic — distances stretch or collapse, and the landscape itself seems to change. Now, as the veil that sheltered Arcadia for millennia is pierced, those who have taken its quietude for granted must contend with the arrival of sinister foreign ambition. Germans, Soviets, and Americans turn their focus to the proverbial fountain of youth — but neither force intends to share, nor do the people of Arcadia intend to bend the knee so readily. Raised in the legacy of statesmen and sages, you now walk a perilous path—one where loyalty fractures under foreign promises, truth is bartered like coin, and the fate of your homeland may depend on your ability to thread the needle between conviction and compromise.

____________________________________________________________________________ Art by size80.