Lots and lots and lots.
It can be a tad bit overwhelming, but I need the variety.
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When you make a roleplay do you like making several characters or just one?
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12 yrs ago
Forum: Roleplaying Discussion
GORGEN! YOU HAVE APPS.
The Inca have emperors that turn into llama's.
I was in the original and I am a good friend of the OP. I can probably answer some of these.
1: Yes. Just... try to be stylistically similar. No robots, no aliens in space ships. Something that fits the world we are in.
2: This is tricky. The best way to handle it is A: Be vague when mentioning specific nations, B: Try to only directly interact with players or NPC nations that neighbor you directly. C: Even if you travel, ignore as many details about the wilderness as you can get away with.
3: Presumably there are pre-existing relations. I would imagine there are translators for your neighbors wandering around, and there are translators for the more active trading powers.
4: Don't worry about numbers. I don't think having population and army number limits are conducive to anything. Same with the rest. We are RPing over a relatively short period of time, so you won't be moving up a civilization style tech tree. Tech improvements would be slow and subtle. Maybe the Dread-Engineer Broseph discovers a new crossbow and brings it to the court of the local ruler to show off. And, impressed, the ruler orders a few hundred built. That would be how technology would play out. Nobody wants to see some in-RP conversation that goes like this.
Steward: "Mi'lord, we have reached level 15 in the weapons tree! We can now use shootin' guns."
King: "Excellent, Steward! Next we should research on the social tree. I want us to discover prostitutes who don't have the pox."
Pretend you are writing a book or a tv show, not like you are playing a game.
1: Yes. Just... try to be stylistically similar. No robots, no aliens in space ships. Something that fits the world we are in.
2: This is tricky. The best way to handle it is A: Be vague when mentioning specific nations, B: Try to only directly interact with players or NPC nations that neighbor you directly. C: Even if you travel, ignore as many details about the wilderness as you can get away with.
3: Presumably there are pre-existing relations. I would imagine there are translators for your neighbors wandering around, and there are translators for the more active trading powers.
4: Don't worry about numbers. I don't think having population and army number limits are conducive to anything. Same with the rest. We are RPing over a relatively short period of time, so you won't be moving up a civilization style tech tree. Tech improvements would be slow and subtle. Maybe the Dread-Engineer Broseph discovers a new crossbow and brings it to the court of the local ruler to show off. And, impressed, the ruler orders a few hundred built. That would be how technology would play out. Nobody wants to see some in-RP conversation that goes like this.
Steward: "Mi'lord, we have reached level 15 in the weapons tree! We can now use shootin' guns."
King: "Excellent, Steward! Next we should research on the social tree. I want us to discover prostitutes who don't have the pox."
Pretend you are writing a book or a tv show, not like you are playing a game.
Country Name: Colloquially "Graeg", after the Graegii culture that rules the majority of it. The King is officially declared "King of Rock and Sea" rather than ruler of any specific nation.
Government type: Semi-feudal, clan-based society. Monarchy has very little in terms of power.
Ruler: King Bergen of the Stoenclif dynasty.
Location:
(Slightly large because the area is sparsely populated, and the government is loose. The area to the north marked off in dashes is a de-jure vassal of the King, but is inhabited by a different race who's unique oaths leave them virtually autonomous.
Capital City: Not applicable. The court reigns alongside the King, and the King has more than one holding.
Language : Graegian
Species: Human
Army: No real standing army. Capable of (poorly) outfitting all able bodied men for short term campaigns if absolutely necessary. Land owners expected to be able to outfit their own levies. The family of major land owners are at the core of the regions marshal ability, but their number is 5,000 in the best of times. Most citizens are expected to be able to defend themselves if necessary, and militias of women and children have not been unheard of in times of desperation.
History: The black goat came down from the Mountain of the Wind and mated with river wolf, thus was born Graeg Godskin. The legendary hero has an endless number of stories attributed to him. Even his name is an uncertainty - many say that he was simply related to the Gods, while others say that he slew the greatest of the mountain gods and wore his skin for a cloak. Whatever he did in life, the Graegii say that he mated with wild women and giants, rivers and goddesses, giving birth to the many clans that would form the Graegii people. They take pride in this heritage, and every clan argues over who their first-father birthed first.
The Graegii are a mix of folk in truth. Most are short in stature and dark of hair, possessing dull colored eyes and strong bodies. Similar to them are the more thinner coastal folk, who have mixed with foreigners enough to have gained a larger variety of traits. The third people are the Skrael, a tall and wild people who armor themselves in thick furs, have eyes of blue, green, silver, and gold, and hair of blonde, red, and pure platinum. The Skrael do not consider themselves Graegii, but many of them have mixed with their neighbors enough to have introduced their traits. The purest Skrael live in the land to the north, and give special oaths to the King of Rock and Sea.
The Clans predate the Kingdom. The Suerfoots of the deep mountains and the Wetbreeches of the seaside bogs, the Worgs of the North and Saltruks of the South, are just a few of the families that ruled their lands before the Kingdom was formed. According to their lore, Graeg ruled as "The King of Rock and Sea" until his death. This is where the title comes from, but there is little evidence that such a kingdom existed. Some more cynical folk have pointed out that only his children and grandchildren would have existed to be his subjects, making his kingdom little more than a young clan. Still, when the Rockrills married into so many other clans that they had direct relations with half of the other families, Daril Rockrill made use of it. He pushed the territorial claims of his friends and family, ripping at old feuds and bringing to light ancient borders based on vague descriptions of the land. His enemies unified to fight him, but their defeat at the Battle of Bald Mountain caused Daril to shift from being meerly a major force, and made him a power that could not be questioned. His allies loved him for what he had given them, and they declared him King of Rock and Sea. When he died shortly after, it passed to his daughter Bena, who would become Bena the Trueblood when she took the loose alliance and brought it into true unity.
The Rockrills ruled for centuries, conquering the Skrael to the north and building the first castles. It was in one of these castles that the paranoid King Rascal had his entire family murdered during the new years feast, including their friends and spouses. The families of those caught up in the slaying besieged his castle, and he tossed himself from the battlements in grief. With his death, the Rockrill throne was passed on to a surviving decedent - the daughter of one of Rascal's bastards and wife of Bryn Tophills. The Tophills ruled for another century until a series of impotent monarchs brought the family to a halt. It was another bastard who took the empty throne, a distant relative named Brennar Stoenclif. The Stoencliffs have ruled ever since.
Graegii culture is on the cusp of what some in the south would call barbarism. Some of its inhabitants are still nomads, moving from valley to valley as need suits them. The tending of goats, hunting for wild game, and fishing the seas and rivers provide nearly as much food as agriculture, as the rocky soil and summer freezes make growing plants limited to the heartier crops.
Unlike many foreign lands, the Graegii do not favor sons in succession. An elder daughter will inherit over a younger son, just as an elder son would a younger daughter. They do not view women as natural warriors, though female warriors are by no means unheard of. Female rulers are seen as bringers of prosperity, whereas male rulers are seen as bringers of glory. Like the Bare-rock mountain and the biting salt sea, both are seen as necessary and good.
Heavily armed warriors are rare, as the Graegii prefer to go lightly armored. This makes sense in the context of warfare in their lands, as agility and sight are very important when fighting in thin passes or on the sides of mountains. Horses are virtually never used in battle, and even the nobles fight afoot.
Under the Stoencliffs, the Graegii have began to open themselves up to the world beyond. What that means for the future is hard to say.
Pic:
(credit)
Religion : A loose form of pagan animism
Population: ~100,000
Government type: Semi-feudal, clan-based society. Monarchy has very little in terms of power.
Ruler: King Bergen of the Stoenclif dynasty.
Location:
(Slightly large because the area is sparsely populated, and the government is loose. The area to the north marked off in dashes is a de-jure vassal of the King, but is inhabited by a different race who's unique oaths leave them virtually autonomous.
Capital City: Not applicable. The court reigns alongside the King, and the King has more than one holding.
Language : Graegian
Species: Human
Army: No real standing army. Capable of (poorly) outfitting all able bodied men for short term campaigns if absolutely necessary. Land owners expected to be able to outfit their own levies. The family of major land owners are at the core of the regions marshal ability, but their number is 5,000 in the best of times. Most citizens are expected to be able to defend themselves if necessary, and militias of women and children have not been unheard of in times of desperation.
History: The black goat came down from the Mountain of the Wind and mated with river wolf, thus was born Graeg Godskin. The legendary hero has an endless number of stories attributed to him. Even his name is an uncertainty - many say that he was simply related to the Gods, while others say that he slew the greatest of the mountain gods and wore his skin for a cloak. Whatever he did in life, the Graegii say that he mated with wild women and giants, rivers and goddesses, giving birth to the many clans that would form the Graegii people. They take pride in this heritage, and every clan argues over who their first-father birthed first.
The Graegii are a mix of folk in truth. Most are short in stature and dark of hair, possessing dull colored eyes and strong bodies. Similar to them are the more thinner coastal folk, who have mixed with foreigners enough to have gained a larger variety of traits. The third people are the Skrael, a tall and wild people who armor themselves in thick furs, have eyes of blue, green, silver, and gold, and hair of blonde, red, and pure platinum. The Skrael do not consider themselves Graegii, but many of them have mixed with their neighbors enough to have introduced their traits. The purest Skrael live in the land to the north, and give special oaths to the King of Rock and Sea.
The Clans predate the Kingdom. The Suerfoots of the deep mountains and the Wetbreeches of the seaside bogs, the Worgs of the North and Saltruks of the South, are just a few of the families that ruled their lands before the Kingdom was formed. According to their lore, Graeg ruled as "The King of Rock and Sea" until his death. This is where the title comes from, but there is little evidence that such a kingdom existed. Some more cynical folk have pointed out that only his children and grandchildren would have existed to be his subjects, making his kingdom little more than a young clan. Still, when the Rockrills married into so many other clans that they had direct relations with half of the other families, Daril Rockrill made use of it. He pushed the territorial claims of his friends and family, ripping at old feuds and bringing to light ancient borders based on vague descriptions of the land. His enemies unified to fight him, but their defeat at the Battle of Bald Mountain caused Daril to shift from being meerly a major force, and made him a power that could not be questioned. His allies loved him for what he had given them, and they declared him King of Rock and Sea. When he died shortly after, it passed to his daughter Bena, who would become Bena the Trueblood when she took the loose alliance and brought it into true unity.
The Rockrills ruled for centuries, conquering the Skrael to the north and building the first castles. It was in one of these castles that the paranoid King Rascal had his entire family murdered during the new years feast, including their friends and spouses. The families of those caught up in the slaying besieged his castle, and he tossed himself from the battlements in grief. With his death, the Rockrill throne was passed on to a surviving decedent - the daughter of one of Rascal's bastards and wife of Bryn Tophills. The Tophills ruled for another century until a series of impotent monarchs brought the family to a halt. It was another bastard who took the empty throne, a distant relative named Brennar Stoenclif. The Stoencliffs have ruled ever since.
Graegii culture is on the cusp of what some in the south would call barbarism. Some of its inhabitants are still nomads, moving from valley to valley as need suits them. The tending of goats, hunting for wild game, and fishing the seas and rivers provide nearly as much food as agriculture, as the rocky soil and summer freezes make growing plants limited to the heartier crops.
Unlike many foreign lands, the Graegii do not favor sons in succession. An elder daughter will inherit over a younger son, just as an elder son would a younger daughter. They do not view women as natural warriors, though female warriors are by no means unheard of. Female rulers are seen as bringers of prosperity, whereas male rulers are seen as bringers of glory. Like the Bare-rock mountain and the biting salt sea, both are seen as necessary and good.
Heavily armed warriors are rare, as the Graegii prefer to go lightly armored. This makes sense in the context of warfare in their lands, as agility and sight are very important when fighting in thin passes or on the sides of mountains. Horses are virtually never used in battle, and even the nobles fight afoot.
Under the Stoencliffs, the Graegii have began to open themselves up to the world beyond. What that means for the future is hard to say.
Pic:
(credit)
Religion : A loose form of pagan animism
Population: ~100,000
Schylerwalker said
...wow. xDBut in all seriousness (As serious as discussing a fantasy medieval kingdom simulator can be), will there be a trait system or anything of the like?
CKII style?
We don't really do systems. We give you limits, an idea of how the world works, and you write from there.
Pepperm1nts said
I would defend men but I'm the laziest bastard alive when it comes to posting, so I'd be a terrible defense.
Aaron posts as regularly as Old Faithful farts water. And he is a he.
I don't actually know what I look like, having never seen a mirror or left this computer since I was planted here. So what I did was find a picture on my hard-drive that I think is of me.
thorgili said
Or even better men! Tall beardless dwarves who roam the surface! I say we call them humans!
Or short beardless dwarves who morph into humans.
And we call them children.
Fire. Smoke. Choking. He could see it, the flames eating at the mother-of-pearl walls. Panels and glass and bodies ripped from the air and sent into the gaping light. Steel bending as it tore asunder, and walls buckling under the pressure. He couldn't breath. He could only smell smoke. He heard the ear-punching scream of the oxygen as it was sucked out the hole, but he did not feel it. He felt like he was swimming, staring as the light swallowed everything around him. And then a shadow passed, and he saw Landfall - a glass donut, glazed in steel and stretching across miles of alien forest. He reached out, his heart lifting with hope only to be dropped into his stomach as a bloom of flame licked up the walls. He was afraid to die, and his hand was wet.
Herc woke up in a cold sweat. Sticky slobber dripped from his hand where Yipp has licked it. He looked down at the dog, and the dog looked back up at him as if he were the oldest friend it had. Yipp yapped twice, as shrill as any alarm.
"Okay, okay." Herc said gently. He pawed for his wallet and pulled it sleepily to his face. Hercules Ofakimuli.. It was his. He stuff it lazily in the pocket of his jumpsuit and crawled out of bed.
The cold touch of the tarp floor against his bare feet sent a chill up his legs, and it crunched like sticks with every step. It had been weeks, and he had yet to get used to sleeping in a tent. Or in a camp. Every day brought a new bad smell to the mix, and some days the wind would catch it right and cause him to gag. The smell of shit and piss and rotten food. On bad days, the putrid stench of decomposing corpses added to the mix.
He changed jumpsuits, leaving the top half hanging off his waste like the half-peeled rind of a banana. The jumpsuits hardly covered his girth, and his height only made it more awkward. It was more comfortable to wear the undershirt and leave it at that. The camp had grown increasingly informal anyway. Soldiers wore disheveled uniforms, using their plasma rifles or rail guns as badges of authority rather than their appearance. Old men grumbled in front of their tents wearing nothing but stained pairs of underwear, and toddlers eschewed clothes all together if it meant they could play in the mud.
Herc moved through his morning routine in a dull blur. He ate no more then a cut of flesh from one of the airborne mushroom-trees that filled the air like balloons during the day and landed on the ground like parachutes at night. They had become a staple crop - easy to find, and capable of feeding many. They were nearly flavorless, like eating air with a bitter earthy aftertaste. Sometimes, it made him wish for the gruel he often ate in the morning back home in Hawaii so many light years away.
There were more soldiers today than most days. That made Herc nervous. They were there to protect them, and in many cases they did, but it seemed that the drama they managed to create was often worse. The camp commanders had started to argue about who was in charge, or who was disobeying orders, or about what they should be focused on. It has created a tension that spread through the rest of the camp. Herc was afraid that people would begin taking sides in a more violent way, but so far they had not.
The Infirmary - a glorified name for a series of larger tents protecting the infirm, with a silvery climate controlled tent serving as a place to safely perform surgeries - was also busy with soldiers. Herc entered, looking for some answer.
"Hercules, my boy." he heard a familiar voice, stuffy and aged. Dr. Kumar stuffed a chart to Herc's chest. "I was afraid you had overslept. These men are with Lieutenant Babalola. They claim they had some trouble with a handful of acid barrels. Minor burns, nothing more, but I need you to handle this." Before Herc could speak, Kumar walked off, his grey dreadlocks tapping against the wrinkled brown of his skin.
Lieutenant Francis Babalola. He hadn't been taken care of yet? Confused, Herc went to find him.
Babalola was still in his armor, even in bed. It was thicker then Wen's, but made from the same plastic-like material that caught the light in stripes. He was a black-skinned man, and his moon like face showed little hint of emotion. When he saw Herc, he spoke calmly with only an underline of marshal sternness.
"I told the Indian doctor that I was to be treated last. Go find one of your other patients."
Herc looked at the chart in his hand and flicked the page. "You are the only one I have." he said gently.
Babalola sighed. "Fine then. It is nothing. Just a burn."
Herc looked, taking the mans sinewy arms and turning them. Simple burns, in pink and tan spots across his skin. "How did this happen?" Herc asked.
Babalola leaned back, wincing as he wounds were treated. "That is classified." he said. "I cannot say."
Herc smiled. "Who classified it?"
There was no answer. This one is cold Herc thought. He left him to heal.
Herc woke up in a cold sweat. Sticky slobber dripped from his hand where Yipp has licked it. He looked down at the dog, and the dog looked back up at him as if he were the oldest friend it had. Yipp yapped twice, as shrill as any alarm.
"Okay, okay." Herc said gently. He pawed for his wallet and pulled it sleepily to his face. Hercules Ofakimuli.. It was his. He stuff it lazily in the pocket of his jumpsuit and crawled out of bed.
The cold touch of the tarp floor against his bare feet sent a chill up his legs, and it crunched like sticks with every step. It had been weeks, and he had yet to get used to sleeping in a tent. Or in a camp. Every day brought a new bad smell to the mix, and some days the wind would catch it right and cause him to gag. The smell of shit and piss and rotten food. On bad days, the putrid stench of decomposing corpses added to the mix.
He changed jumpsuits, leaving the top half hanging off his waste like the half-peeled rind of a banana. The jumpsuits hardly covered his girth, and his height only made it more awkward. It was more comfortable to wear the undershirt and leave it at that. The camp had grown increasingly informal anyway. Soldiers wore disheveled uniforms, using their plasma rifles or rail guns as badges of authority rather than their appearance. Old men grumbled in front of their tents wearing nothing but stained pairs of underwear, and toddlers eschewed clothes all together if it meant they could play in the mud.
Herc moved through his morning routine in a dull blur. He ate no more then a cut of flesh from one of the airborne mushroom-trees that filled the air like balloons during the day and landed on the ground like parachutes at night. They had become a staple crop - easy to find, and capable of feeding many. They were nearly flavorless, like eating air with a bitter earthy aftertaste. Sometimes, it made him wish for the gruel he often ate in the morning back home in Hawaii so many light years away.
There were more soldiers today than most days. That made Herc nervous. They were there to protect them, and in many cases they did, but it seemed that the drama they managed to create was often worse. The camp commanders had started to argue about who was in charge, or who was disobeying orders, or about what they should be focused on. It has created a tension that spread through the rest of the camp. Herc was afraid that people would begin taking sides in a more violent way, but so far they had not.
The Infirmary - a glorified name for a series of larger tents protecting the infirm, with a silvery climate controlled tent serving as a place to safely perform surgeries - was also busy with soldiers. Herc entered, looking for some answer.
"Hercules, my boy." he heard a familiar voice, stuffy and aged. Dr. Kumar stuffed a chart to Herc's chest. "I was afraid you had overslept. These men are with Lieutenant Babalola. They claim they had some trouble with a handful of acid barrels. Minor burns, nothing more, but I need you to handle this." Before Herc could speak, Kumar walked off, his grey dreadlocks tapping against the wrinkled brown of his skin.
Lieutenant Francis Babalola. He hadn't been taken care of yet? Confused, Herc went to find him.
Babalola was still in his armor, even in bed. It was thicker then Wen's, but made from the same plastic-like material that caught the light in stripes. He was a black-skinned man, and his moon like face showed little hint of emotion. When he saw Herc, he spoke calmly with only an underline of marshal sternness.
"I told the Indian doctor that I was to be treated last. Go find one of your other patients."
Herc looked at the chart in his hand and flicked the page. "You are the only one I have." he said gently.
Babalola sighed. "Fine then. It is nothing. Just a burn."
Herc looked, taking the mans sinewy arms and turning them. Simple burns, in pink and tan spots across his skin. "How did this happen?" Herc asked.
Babalola leaned back, wincing as he wounds were treated. "That is classified." he said. "I cannot say."
Herc smiled. "Who classified it?"
There was no answer. This one is cold Herc thought. He left him to heal.
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