Avatar of Yam I Am
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    1. Yam I Am 7 yrs ago

Status

Recent Statuses

3 yrs ago
Current This site's like Old Broadway...I'm seeing a young man sittin' in an old man's bar, waitin' for his turn to die.
3 yrs ago
I would sooner face outright phobia again than be given a half-hearted apology by the same systems which did nothing in the face of injustice and to now seek to make profit from our suffering.
1 like
3 yrs ago
I will never celebrate Pride Month for being stabbed in the leg and shot in the neck while it is sponsored by Chase. I will never mistake complacency for forgiveness nor acceptance.
1 like
3 yrs ago
Pride Month is celebrate by those who have never struggled. Those of us who have - those who have been harassed, assulted, detained and debased - have no such pride in it. There is only ire and spite.
1 like
3 yrs ago
So sorry if I'm not enthused. It's just that there's nothing to be happy about now, and people just buy rainbow stuff from the same corps who need us kept down to sell them in the first place.
2 likes

Bio

“There was a time when I was master of the universe. As I was staying ageless and motionless before my computer, flying untouched over human frenzy, cities rose and crumbled under my thumb, tiny people ran hurriedly to their death on the roads I had built and time flew at my command.

Then it all stopped, and I had to become one of those running specks. They call it 'life.'”

Nicolas Combrexelle

Most Recent Posts

Here's my (hopefully) complete CS. Here goes nothing!

A steady drizzle did not wash away the stains of defeat, now soaking itself into Inès with every marching step. The soldier grew more soggy, yet still the sheer residue left by the late Marathon ingrained itself into every fiber of her clothing, the rain only weighing her down further than any arduous slouch she might gait. It reeked, the saltine, acrid noxiousness of Thomas' blood and sinew now etched into her very skin, from head to toe, permeated thoroughly in some profuse ichor, only growing more bitter with every sinking step. Inès' mood turned all the more sour, the pitter-patter of rain upon her helmet-less head in the early morning reminiscent of her earliest days in practice. Of awakening early and dedicating one's self to the art of savate, only to find ones canvas thoroughly hideous, and carry naught but the feeling that this ugliness might be one's best effort. She lost track of time. All the memories, all the anguish, every last defeat in her formative years culminated perfectly, in one final opera in which her only choice was, as always, the Darcsen Mantra: Move Forwards, Everlasting.

It resonated too perfectly. The syncretic combination of toil and study, embroiled in a pedagogy of hardship, all coalesced into the sobering reminder that, in spite of one's knowledge, there are always more lessons to be learned.

And the best-learned lessons...are those learned the hard way.

When the familiar sight of those sandbags came to, Inès stood with some manner of strength; Not born of triumph or victory, no, but one born of necessity. No doubt, there would be an endless procession of queries and quarrels to come of why the only war hero of that posse...returned lifeless atop a comrade's back. Barely into his twenties, and already considered a veteran...Inès knew the feeling too well. Ghostly well, she dared to think, that inkling of being knowing that, for all she had experienced and taught herself months and years prior, that so instantaneous a decision, so quick a thought could so forcefully change the flow of life. With such a conclusion resoundingly reached, in a single blank stare, Inès wondered when might that time come again.

Oh, fear not. Inès possessed the certainty of knowing another misfortune would soon come upon her; It is a rare breed of Darcsen who goes through life without peril, and a more exotic ilk to trespass through its many corridors without reprise. Reprisal, yet, was an antagonistic virtue to the Darcsen people, for to wallow in its harrowing passage so long, so inescapable that it envelops itself as a pure staple of life, this alone seemed to touch the very foundations of their humanity. Such horrid acts would never be reciprocated, no matter the intensity of attacks weathered in times past, for like all things on earth, the Darcsen knows there comes a time when all things must wither away, and such antipathies - if we dare to say we have a choice on the grander events of this hallow Earth - should rightfully be the first to pass.

Thomas' death was...unfortunate.

A...certain type of Darcsen might have said.

Yet as Inès or any other denizen of the Northern Pisque of Francia might remind one, it is foolish to insist the Darcsens are a unified people. They might share common heritage - if that, on many an account - but to insist they all follow common law or ethic is, as no doubt many a traveler has learned, naught but stereotype. The Darcsens of Ostend were a fortuitous ilk, possessive of an uncommon resolve many would find irregular of a Darcsen elsewhere. And if such stereotypes were to be exclusively applied, Inès shone as the paragon of such lustrous generalizations. As it were...Inès found herself rather blank at the sight, so...accompanied with the sensation that was the loss of a loved one, if Inès felt so strongly to brave that usage. After all, much of him longed for her such that Thomas found it better to attach parts of him upon her. If only until she found a proper bath.

For moments, she made her slight way back to her tent, if she found herself uncaring as to whether Thomas - at his worst - clung to her for a bit longer. In all honesty, Inès found herself appreciating the company. Such trust placed upon her, such virtue was it for her to receive such parting gifts. Each step came, and as each puddle soaked more through her boots did she slowly feel him soak into her, as if she still bore her in her arms. Her face remained blank, yet with no visible exaggeration came a mental smile, for Inès - in a sense - felt a most peculiar honor; To accept Thomas at his worst, as his most fearful, at his weakest...Inès gazed down blankly...and smiled, for in the realization of such burdens, Inès knew the true meaning of "love".

And so it would be...until that familiar voice rung out.

That distinct Highlander voice...

That crude voice...

...the one who wished to become Thomas, without knowing Thomas.

And so when he spoke, so violently, so fervently, with such recourse and without such remorse, Inès looked down upon her crimson-soaked chest and felt a heaviness bear upon her, as if with every remark came a certain resolve, like parts of her grew from the experience alone. Such a dilettante demeanor towards heroism, that one, claimant of some testament of vengeance as if it were his destiny. For what Inès knew, he would make his destiny, his mark upon history...even doing so if it meant his name would be one, perhaps, not as fondly remembered. He had a goal and a creed, to not wish to fade away into some manner of void, unthanked and forgotten.

The upholding of a code is a most righteous thing, indeed. But even stronger is it to challenge it.

"You disrespectful son of a bitch!"

An ire pervaded the air so thick, the grounds about them became mist, so powerful was her choleric demeanor, it seemed to fry the puddles beneath their feet. A bloodstained Darcsen gave forth her Hell March to the unsuspecting Luke Godfrey, so proud of his demagoguery.

"And just what do you think you have accomplished?" Her stern pedagogy shut out even the rings of gunfire about her.

"You, of all of us, have no reason to say he didn't die in vain! You were the one to run away! When Thomas laid there begging for help, begging for his life, he looked to me in my eyes and called out for someone to help! And you looked at a man, crying in pain, and what did you do?"

The crowd slowly peeked around the tent cover, like the curious conscript peeking over a trench's top, for every veteran of the organization knew better than to possibly draw the fire of the woman producing such a Hellstorm.

"You looked him dead in the eye, and you said, "He'd be fine.""

"You say you wanted to draw away the fire so we would be safe, but you also seem to think that my eyes don't work! You didn't want to leave to protect us! When you ran off to charge after the Fox, you didn't do it with any sense of urgency! You fucked around, you talked him down, you taunted him, you cut his damned ears off, and you plucked your trophies off of his body!"

"So what did you do? While even Jean cowered and stood hopeless? You didn't care about Thomas, or Jean, or me, or any of us. The only thing you cared about was your own ego, and playing Mister Bigshot while you though helping Thomas - one of our own - to me: You were too good for it, so you went glory-chasing and left the dirty work to the Darkies."

"You had no orders. You had nothing but your own instincts."

"And you cannot even do "nothing" right."

"And you can say that Jean is a cowardly Darcsen, but i'll take him over you any day." she added, squaring up even more firmly to Luke in front of her. "And you're right. He is spineless. He is cowardly. He doesn't know how to do his own job. And I would still take him over you. Jean doesn't pretend he's brave. He doesn't act like he wants glory or like he wants to be respected."

Her voice maintained its steadfast austerity, yet lowered in volume. In comparison, she hushed like a disappointed mother as Inès slowly paced toward the man.

"And when we talked on your birthday, I really thought a bit about you. I just thought you were another dumb guy, wanting to look out for the people close to him. A guy with more guts than brains, but that's alright, because you still have heart."

"But now, I know why you want it. Why you went off to war, and left your family, and why you act the way you do."

At a hair's length away, Inès halted her march. She glared Luke down, like she might lunge at his neck at any moment and snap it with one quick wrasp.

"It's because you're afraid."
As he looked up, Kazik drew forth an expression of clear surprise at which his new and oldfound associates dispatched their assailants. Whilst his pistol did click as he chambered the second barrel, before him had fallen nearly a dozen foes only by the skillful hands of the crew. Just has one of the pair had pointed one of their sidearms, it seemed, in any variety of violent action did they just as soon meet their fateful demise. In the mist of a heavy, howling sleet, both Kazik and Charlotte heaving in relief that those who remained among that damned crew had, at least, the talent to keep themselves alive.

From each shot of a musket, the clouds of smoke so famous to their use vaporized into the stormy winds, the omnipresent push of each passing gale enveloping the crash scene into a hazy cloud. What was created was the constant, acrid waft of gunpowder rising against the nose as each round of wind blew, almost like tiny shards of glass jabbed themselves into the nostrils with every inhale. Charlotte, with little to protect herself, rose her elbow to her face as she looked about from her hunched-over position of cover.

Both of them exchanged looks in clear surprise; They agreed even through a thick haze of hail and ice that they had done well in selecting a capable crew, if this random rabble could do so much as so readily assail an entourage of pirates to retreat, surely, any remnant could only pose so much resistance. Just as soon, they were forced to avert their eyes, both ceding to an oppressive gale.

Still, Charlotte continued a short march to her right amidst the chaos, sure to keep her posture low while a continuous roar of wind and fire rained around. As the wind blew stronger, the howl alone blew in such tumultuous roar that it threatened their very perceptions, eyes, ears, and all, until all that consumed them was a never ending blur on the cusp of detection. Her head dived down as another gale pressed over, digging her face well into the corner of her arm while the brunette woman desperately sought some relief.

“Bloody tempest…” One could tell the woman screamed aloud from exhaustion, but the omnipresent screech of the storm hushed her all too well.

Kazik fared little better in the face of the winter storm. Somewhere in the blur could he be heard, fighting, a clanging of steel against flesh and iron parading itself amidst the omnipresent screech which pervaded the Cotsch coast. He darted about hectically, searching in some attempt for assisting his friends against the already mostly-fallen group which had assailed them just moments prior, yet as he drew sword or pistol to find one foe, only heard their silencing, and each hush via cloud of gun smoke only loosened his grip upon his instruments, almost a bit...disheartened at the display.

That relieving looseness provided that little extra comfort - for what could be provided amidst so fortuitous a tempest - as the young captain did shout over the coming storm in effort to regroup that band.

“To the centre!” he shouted, waving his sword as he tried to draw attention, “Push them back up to the-!”

He turned. Just a glance was what it took to interrupt him, not even paying mind to how he inhaled snow and ice with his agape expression. That little unfocused blur, of rich blue and white color, that was just enough to make him stop.

"Rrraaggh!”

Kazik was well off his feet, feeling himself being driven downwards and wrapped around like a fishhook dragging him deep into the snow below. He twitched and turned, struggling to free himself, yet the assailant confined him too well, maintaining his hold as Kazik desperately struggled to free himself! A pounding sensation came just moments later, like some spike bludgeoning into Kazik’s head while the pair did burrow themselves into knee-deep snow. A wave of hardness came across his entire body, thrashing him and cracking him with a pained grunt.

In a tangle of arms, the captain struggled away from his captor’s confines, finally setting loose his arms as he made his best defense. Great weight sat atop him, the murderous eyes of a pirate hunter atop him adorned with an acrimonious snarl. Kazik rose his hands before him, posing to parry whatever came down upon him.

The hunter’s arm raised. The opposite dove in. Kazik attempted to breathe, and found his breath being seized. Like some flailing sea creature, the myrmidon floundered for air, both hands gripping the ironclad vice of the assailant atop him. Jolting and seizing, Kazik’s wrestling drove the arm left and right, yet his choker atop him remained steady, like he tried to instead wrest a pole driving well into his throat. Through every wrest of his jolting body, the choke hold would not cede without a struggle, and for every struggle came another whiplash of air, freezing into mist as Kazik grunted. It grew numb, and harsh...like every choking gasp of air left him one bit closer to conceding for the final time...

Another push! Another jab! Another snap!

And with one final throw, a sonorous smack! broke through even the howl of the storm above. His assailant recoiled back and up, retracting his hold to immediately lift a pained cry, holding his nose and eye however he might support them. Kazik gave him no respite; Seizing the initiative, then with his own two hands did he just as well return the favor only moments old, springing forth with all his weight as the myrmidon crashed atop his assailant! Now, it was his own hands placed in firm chokehold of his foe, seizing whatever composure remained from his reversed adversary.

The pirate hunter made few attempts to strike back, ceasing after the first unsuccessful smack to Kazik's head, which he minded perhaps as much as if the storm had passed; He even seemed to grin as he felt the blow, without a flinch wordlessly daring him to do his worst. That invitation registered henceforth as his cue to take on a defensive position, shielding his eyes through splayed hands. He'd screech atop his lungs, crying for his comrade's assistance as he desperately struggled. His cries were cut short, a heavy thud pounding his throat, sputtering out a violent hack to complement. As the myrmidon established his dominance, firmly pinning the stunned hunter to the ground by his neck, his spare hand spiked down, drawing forth his blade as he nearly cut his opponent along the lengthy draw. His arm was seized, his foe jamming his reach with his one good hand, a wild desperation in his blood-soaked eye! He grunted, drawing forth breath and slammed his elbow upon the side of the hunter's head, a great, sickening crack! signifying the hunter's repeated disablement!

Forth, Kazik reached, and pressed his inner fingers against the side of his blade...

...and with a swift, heavy shink!...eviscerated the wind from his adversary's neck.



“The flags! Fall back! Fall back!”

From atop the overhang just above, what remained of the over-watching force waved backwards into the forest behind, signalling the group’s retreat whilst they made a mad dash for cover. The men at hand made odd glares back at Enzo, acknowledging the Fioretzan with their bewildered, consternated expressions, and finally once last slight wave as the men bolted back into the treeline even suggested for a mere moment for him to follow. Such, inevitably, invited him to be lost in the confusion of his supposed adversaries, of course, but it could give a great way to gain an upper hand, if Enzo could find a good moment to launch an ambush...

The most apt posse had done more than their fair share of fighting off their enemy, their works on clear display as the hunters made their retreat; A dozen well dead, the weeping blood seeping into the ground as if they were the Springtime melting the snow. Not even a steady onslaught of winter could dare cover the scene, instead only robbing the bodies of whatever warmth they still carried, as even from their dead bodies, the steady rivers of blood from which they ran crystallized in the wind, freezing into a thick, pungent, frozen sheet. Scarcely four remained, all making their full retreat at whatever pace a full sprint could afford in what was soon becoming knee-deep snow.

Kazik made his voiciperal grunt halt the storm, so great was his exertion, rising on his own two feet as he wiped off the contents of his dead foe off him. Even the body-heat warmth of the blood nearly burned onto his skin, so cold were the prevalent winds, and before such a prize would leave a more lasting impression did Kazik wipe it with his thick sleeve. Charlotte marched to his aid, still shuddering as every howl whipped aside what cloth bolts she had on. She smirked at him, nudging toward the cliff's overhang.

"They've been malkied enough tae run, Kazie!" She happily reported, stretching her arms out in celebration. Kazik, yet, still marched on, a fierce-set determination awash over him.

"...K-Kazie, mate, where ye' oaf te'?" Her smile dropped as she began picking up pace to walk at Kazik's march. He drew his sword once again, straight-faced as if he carried some manner of indignancy.

“Loose ends are a luxury we cannot afford, Charlotte. Not now.”

“Ach, Kazie! Look at ‘em! They cannae get far in this weather!” she refuted, pointing toward a group of limping figures, slowly disappearing into the haze of the storm.

“If they make a retreat now,” Kazik responded, “they know where they’re headed. Their hideout must be nearby!”

Charlotte raised her hand to object, and with a biting roar from the tempest, soon found herself objecting to the buffeting winds that tormented them.

"Oi, ye' daftie, och awa' an' dinnae talk pish!" She yelled back at him. She seized his arm quickly, almost forcing him to cede his push onwards, and with the turn of his head, Kazik continued to go forth, almost dragging the woman along with him.

"They're weak, Charlotte! We can finish it! And when we're done, we can take what they have for ourselves!"

"Ach, Kazie! Look at us, we cannae go'on an' go take a damn pirate hunter's cove when we're oot here half-starved to death!" Charlotte dug her heels into the snow, Kazik grunting as he tried moving further.

"We need the supplies, Charlotte! We have nothing, and only the Gods know how long this damnable storm is going to last!"

It was clear that the longer these two argued, the chance either of their plans would succeed plummeted by the second. Even so, as if to remind them of the structure at which they so thoroughly promised aboard their ship, intervention would help well enough to move affairs along. Of course, insofar that none believed that direct action would help make up their minds...
Well, well, well...

What did we have here?

There was rubble and wreckage all to be found across the tattered remains of Amone, a most fitting locale for their final pittance in a simple task that had, as what seemed almost inevitable, taken a turn for the worst. At the resound of artillery fire over the patter of the gentle rain both above, what downpoured did little to alleviate the chaos that lie below. And throughout that conundrum, Inès did commit herself most thoroughly to that man, shaken and battered, as she did bear witness to the pitiful scene about her.

Those few among the fireteam of scouts paid as much mind to discipline and organization as they may have the day's precipitation. One of these fools did scrape together a plan on the basis that firing drills and running exercises constituted as an apt tactician, and just as soon found himself joined by another more foolhardy to insist his justification was not hasty enough, and flung herself into the fray just as well. Just as well, another fool had clamored about, waving his hands as he darted back and forth looking for some manner of inspiration from which to obtain orders, when the fact of the matter was that they were there all along; Report back, and bring everyone back to base. Yet, as it would seem, even so simple of ordinances could be needlessly...obtuse, when the time came to put order into action. No, for the time being, as Inès performed the most necessary of tasks, she too was carrying the burden of a squad dead-set on refusing to coordinate with one another, whilst a pained Marathon was left to her very best care.

She heaved for one moment, lugging up the taller man into her fold, and dashed wildly into what sparse cover there could be. Another heave signaled her release of the man, himself holding upon her for dear life as if the Darcsen were the man's own mother. She felt him quiver. Shiver, as if he was cold. He shook and tremored with every waking, hurried breath at irregular intervals, as if a thousand frissons came over him like the man, standing so proudly and strongly not seconds ago, quaked like an invalid. Inès set his back against a wall, well feeling him shudder with every fleeting moment. Time was of the essence. Think, Inès, think!

Reaching down to what remained of his half-limb, her fingers pressed further and further along each and every vein she could feel, yet as she applied more pressure, felt the coursing vessels almost deflating with every press. Over her thighs and legs, herself, she felt it. Warm. Clumping. Like it stuck to ever fiber of her and imprisoned her with dread, like it suffocated her limbs as rapidly as it poured out like it were a boiling oven of molasses and sap. Even in the lukewarm summer shower, it seemed to burn. Sear, almost. Leave a scar deep and unique into her as Inès felt the Oceaner's blood weep whilst he cried in pain, and impress into her clothes the life it so gleefully imparted from Thomas' own. And the more pressure she did apply, even through the hemorrhage, the profuseness, the carnal sickening that she so calmly overcame...Thomas shed tears.

His voice was a soft thing, at the edge of hearing, but to his caretaker, it was most thoroughly pronounced. Thomas, the great, invincible Pride of Oceania, wept in pain, his mouth agape and crying for air. With each moment came another sorrow, another gasp, but in that strength to cry his breath drew weaker and weaker, more irregular, hurried and as if he were drowning to his own tears. His entire body shivered more the greater he tried to draw for air, until all he did was make constant vibrations, like his heart itself marched steadily until his death.

Inès looked over him. Full well...she was giving what she could to spare the man, yet had neither the tools nor the expertise to grant him redemption from this horrid mistake. Desperately, she would find new veins to press, only to find them soon deflating to a constant offset of blood upon her, and the sobbing mess before her growing into agony so deep, the strength to scream was robbed from him.

Yet...if she could not save him...Inès could...

...the woman looked down at her side, meeting gaze with the closed flap of her satchel. Max had given her a few things to trade away, of course...or use them in case of emergency...but she could never...

Her hand met with the top of the bag. The bleeding lessened. There were shouts and gunfire, and the roars of such detonations grew further with each moment, until it deafened itself to her action.

Another case she undid, well in the bottom of that bag. Then a bronze hook she undid, to which the strapped, constrained elements unfurled themselves in the dark. The bronze shone through, four rows neatly distorting their glisten as the rain assailed them. Down her bag, she reached, almost hesitating with how slow she grasped her tools, yet as she felt the cold, cold cylinders come around her fingertips, the retrieval came with ease.

Thomas' eyes paralyzed in fear, shaking as he deathly stared into the rain above even as the irritant of drops into his very eyes muted to his sensation. He responded to Inès' brushing not, uncaring that she had cleaned him up or tilted his head. Nonplussed that he now faced the Darcsen head-first. Apathetic to how she unbuttoned his shirt and jacket, coursing her hands until she found a familiar, urgent sensation.

A sharp pain came about him. He felt his chest tighten, pierce open like his body was almost being sundered apart by some manner of explosion, so intense was that initial sensation. Then...it...came over him...it was...

...it was...

...like...

...heaven...

...

...

..
.
.
.
..

Thomas fluttered his eyes into bliss, some sensation of peace overcoming him, like some surge came awash over him as what came of the harsh reality set in, not to be gone, but to be accepted. That these, were, in fact, his final moments. That what was here were the circumstances, no matter how unpleasant or brutal they may be, and yet...Thomas felt his missing leg itching. Tickling. He'd ceased shivering, a sudden, cooling calmness washing over any shock throughout him. And he'd certainly feel nothing as he numbly felt the cold bronze withdraw from his chest, not even the apparent drop of his body like his own bones were being plucked from his skin did register as anything more than a light pat.

Thoughts coursed over him in some...blurred fashion. Unfocused. Unready, like...like they came by all too quickly for them to count. And amidst what remained of the pleasure of life slowly sapping from him...Thomas smiled.

He remembered so much...

...so much...and so little...

...
..
.

.

..

...
..
.
.
.

"...girl...?"

His mouth hung in awe to the angel before him.

"...Thomas?" The seraph called back.

Thomas crookedly smiled, for deep down, no matter what any of his logical senses might have said, that there was no literal angel before him. Yet...for too long, Thomas beckoned for any manner of cherub...this day...he knew, somehow, some way, would come, for on that fateful day, there would need for there to be an angel to guide him along that final expedition.

Inès was not the angel he had hoped. Yet she held him like only an angel could...and looked upon him with two cherubic eyes.

Two...soft...

...heretic...

...stern...

...austere...

...weary...

...melancholic...

...beautiful, beautiful eyes.

And he smiled.

"...I need another..." He wished.

And awash came over the man, in a blissful blur, another willful hole did he feel inscribe into his bare, bleeding chest, and deluged in numbness did he feel whilst the second pillar struck him where he lay. And so, his wish was granted.

He felt his body deflate with his simple exhale, like the air which gave him life slowly defusing into the world around him as the life which he so righteously stole was reclaimed by the earth, as she so righteously retook what was owed her for so long. In the few moments of peace to follow, Thomas hushed, slowly taking back in small amounts of air, as if not to anger the earth around him whilst nothing else mattered. It was an awash, serene peace in which he came to with his own body dissipating. And he did so all with the willing company of one.

The one he never asked for.

The one he never wished for.

Yet...the one who was there for him. In the last moments that he needed someone the most.

And yet...Thomas laughed. Weakly chuckled, each chortle coughing up streams of tears to run across his face, his pain, whilst Inès above only held as she still tried to save him. He laughed. Laughed at her futility. Laughed in knowing full well that help could only be made when those wanted to be helped.

And laughed...painfully. With sorrow and remorse...in knowing he had failed her.

"...it's alright, lass..." Thomas hushed. He chuckled, looking back once more into those two azure gems...

"I'm...bloody...fuckin'...heheheh..."

His laughter came painfully, even the numbness never failing to mute the tears he swallowed. To the end, he'd be that beacon he hoped to inspire in every one of his friends, comrades, family-to-be. Friends he'd never met, or friends he'd neglected. Friends who could have been, and friends who never were. And he still regretted every last moment of it.

"I-i'm...why...why did I..."

Inès squinted, slowly shaking her head in some manner of pained confusion.

"...bloody fuckin' Riley...oh...Riley...why did I let you go on the charge..."

"...How-...Howard, mate...why'd you go on the trench raid with me..."

"Wess...bloody Wess...why did you say to go without you..."

"...Prim, Prim, gal...I-I...fuckin'...why-why...why didn't I just say I loved you...why didn't I tell you...before..."


He felt the nothingness loom over him. His angel clenched him harder, he felt, Inès listening politely to the corpse below her speak those parting verses. They were...pained. No matter the morphine she injected him with, no matter how numb his body lay as he murmured and stared distantly into his closing eyelids, he felt that pain stronger than ever before. A guilty, conscious pain, of one that no medicine nor science could hope to bandage, whilst the wisest of the animals proclaimed their miracles might help their fellow creatures through such struggles. Thomas knew it all to be lies...and had lied to himself for too long.


"And fuckin' Val. Sweet, innocent, Val...i'm such a fuckin' cunt..."

"...why did I leave you behind...why'd I leave you without a brother..."

"...why'd I leave you without a son..."


He welled up. In those final, sad-set eyes, in the alienation of rain and debris about him, Thomas recalled the dusty scenery that was his home. It's people. His people. His friends, his family...his beloved who he would never see, not for some time, he earnestly believed, looking to the sky as his mind reached to where he felt himself longing.

But...of course...Thomas wept one last chorus. A requiem to who remained. Unfortunately remained, so it would seem.


"Frey'..."


It came out as a crying grunt, pained, like that bronze needle stabbed right through his lungs, and for any semblance of memory, he would have to fight just to say. Numbness overruled his corporeal sensation, guilting him into calmness.


"Frey', you bloody idiot..."


Thomas weakly looked to his angel above, something he, out of frankness, didn't deserve. Pallidly...he chuckled.

Freya was a fool for rejecting the seraph above him.

Freya needed an angel more than he did.

And Freya's cherub had, to her, long departed to heaven, and for whatever beacon Freya might be, the travelers to her were only led astray.

But Thomas laughed once more in sorrow. For no matter how much a fool Freya was, he looked well inside of him on his deathbed muse, and resoundingly, he knew he was the sorrier. He'd abandoned living for the people he loved, and told himself he'd die, carrying with him the things he wished he'd told them earlier. And now, in the final moments he had accepted too long ago...Thomas couldn't tell Inès that the woman she loved needed someone the most...and would never accept them.

Thomas...was not Freya. If he had accepted his own demise so long ago under such different circumstances, integrity to himself proved far more grave than any manner of worthless muse. Slouched in some haze...he felt the aching returning...a swell over him as he struggled again. His time was now. His time had passed.

Slugging his head up to Inès eyes once more, the weak man did gaze, and for one final time, tried to crack a smile.


"...hey...Inès?"


She quirked up, softly residing over what was left of the legend in her arms. Tried as she had, Inès' attempts to still save him bore no fruit. He'd turn colorless, cold, bleeding over her in slouched, neurotic smile.

"Yes?" Inès responded.

"...one...more." he begged.

The final needle impaled him. He felt the gate to heaven open before him.

He had let go...he hadn't told everything. No...that man would die with many regrets set before him, sobbing still that he had not the strength to confess them all, even to a stranger. Even the secrets she'd need the most. Even to the people who needed him most. Yet, for all too long, this, Thomas felt, was a befitting end for a man like him:

A propped-up hero on paper-thin premise, hollow and ready to be discarded as soon as he'd gotten wet.

And so...Jean called back.

"T-Thomas! I need you to tell us...what to do? You know what to do, right?"

Thomas smiled.

"...fuck if I know...i'm just a bloody farmer."

There were some words, some cries as he had just cried, and Thomas found it all adrift in a void. Hollow. And pointless.

"I can see the world...get a bit..."

"Dark."


This was it.

He wouldn't meet Him standing tall.

And that was alright.

He wouldn't make love to anyone.

And that was alright.

He wouldn't have a real job. A house of his own.

And that was alright.

He died a disposable hero, in a faraway land fighting for money, instead of protecting the people he claimed to care about.

He died knowing his only friend from home could only bear more pain to the one who loved her, and did nothing to stop it.

That was unacceptable.

"From the port side bow! Royal Navy!"

The stern's bell resounded through the tumult, and so persisted its ringing in spite of its operator scrambling across the deck. Each rock of the ship swayed it side to side, almost as if flipping her cargo side to side like they were morsels in a frying pan. Yet as each thick raindrop pelted upon their flesh it did almost instantly turn to ice, as howling wind and the cannon fires alike continued their assault. Though the storm's constant, shrieking whine that, almost in synchronization with each freezing raindrop driving a frigid stake through one's ears, an unyielding roar of cannon fire dominated as the prime deafener.

"Main deck! All hands!" Kazik roared out, competing with a constant bark and howl of a storm with quite some rivalry, "Port side mains, get them ready!"

The Czaszkan barked orders quickly, yet performed the same orders in more rapid pace while he pushed and shoved aside some scrambling crewmen whilst he pumped the sponger in and out of cannon after cannon. Tumbling and diving from arm to arm, Kazik soon had sponged each and every one of the 12-pounder guns, and soon began to take up with vivid, ireful eyes as he commanded their continued opening amidst their constant watery assail.

"She wouldnae chase us in this weather!" Charlotte cried out, her left forearm giving their grandest performance to ensure her clear sight, "We need tae veer off!"

"I'm not doin' it!" The helmsman protested, anger and weariness crying straight through the rains, "The storm's too strong! We need to keep fighting through the blizzard, it can't go on forever! It's gonna die down soon!"

"It's bloody April!"

Whilst she continued in her plight to remain upright and well of sight, Charlotte staggered down from the bridge, each step of a plank coated with a solid icy gloss that threatened to remove her balance with the slightest misstep, to which the tempestuous breeze did always ask for her hand in that dance, the likes of which would certainly spell her imminent - yet thoroughly slow and agonizing - demise. The icy ocean waters of the Chotinay Sea spelled the ends of the hardiest of men, for the waters ran so chilling that in mere minutes, entire men would be frozen to their cores inside; their blood ceasing to flow as their veins turned to a crystalline solid, then inevitably shattering with even the slightest twinge. Yet for just that brief moment, Charlotte's expression turned overboard, and any onlooker knew whilst weathering that storm that she wondered if such a fate was better than to be killed by pirate hunters.

"All hands, ready!" All six of them - Kazik among that count - held forth their triggers the same way they clinged to the heavy masses of iron while the ship rocked and swayed. Their target raised and lowered, too, whilst the ship undulated, like some crooked pendulum with a deafening whine. Kazik, determined and pressed, did keep himself raised whilst those sad and jaded eyes locked upon his prey with gaze to rival a harrier.

"FIRE!"

The sonorous resound of the 12-pounder array bayed back with the ship, sending its carriers struggling to keep their footing. Whilst that roar too combined with the bellowing of the winds, an ear-splintering cry shattered the balance of the crew, the payload of their fire barely audible whilst the shot whistled through the storm. Kazik made his best attempt to rise again, his hand covering his left ear whilst his elbow did its finest to shield his eyes from the sleet's ceaseless pelting. A faint, dull glimmer splintered off the raindrops as they collided with their cannonballs, and for a second's fraction, a faint hope had arisen.

Thunderous rolls arose from the silver-masted ship in the crew's sights, and through the incessant argent assail, their foe's midsection howled forth in torrid display. Great, long shards of molten material flew above, even the ignited splinters of what was their rear deck stroked across the storming seas as Hell itself unfurled its artisanship. A thick volley of smoke soon followed, fueled by a raging inferno below, and for that moment, what remained of the crew did unravel a triumphant rejoice.

"We've hit their ammunition hold!" The man announced with so great of joy that the storm itself proved no obstacle to his sanguinity, "She'll be crashing into landfall! She-!"

Yet what Kazik was met with was the floundering of his Captain-in-arms embroiled in unyielding shouting between her and the helmsman. Charlotte's voice did not yet exceed that of the wind's assault, for when Kazik followed the ireful gestures of Charlotte, he turned to face, with his own face turning so pallid and fearful, a much larger threat, just before the bow.

"What are you doing?!? WE'RE HEADED STRAIGHT FOR LAND YE BLOODY EEJIT!"

"It's an iceberg! We need to hit it straight on!"

"You bampot! YOU'LL KILL US ALL!" Charlotte threw her whole self to the helm, wrestling what little she could from their would-be killer to veer the ship left, yet her efforts did little to direct her to safety. Her journey was a collision course; Her fate in fortune's hands.

Kazik stood atop a cannonade, bellowing out as best he could with a throat-splitting screech:

"BRACE FOR IMPACT!"

Tremors ripped through the ship, a splintering shatter screeching through whilst the recoil of their impact threw those unfortunate souls upon the ship rearwards. There were some verisimilitude of cries, roars, and pleads for either help or mercy, yet the combined efforts of the icy waters below and that rocky coast well devoured what the shattering ship did feed to them. Some debased, ravenous gourmet took slowly what the impact alone did not, for what remained of that fateful privateer's crew clinged aboard some thirds of a ship whilst it made some rapturous journey toward the coast. No longer was it possible to stand upon the deck of this half-ship, for so overtaken was it by manner of undulation and quake that the vibration alone drove splinters into the flesh, where the tempest above, so graciously in turn, dug its freezing rains into the skin of the disparaged.

And for what better end to such suffering than the final capsize? That remnant of a ship, shattered in pieces innumerable, did finally rest upon the frigid shores of Cochise, giving one final bellow as it gave its survivors one final throw.



...

......

......

...

..


Weak grunts came before their awakening. The duo slowly rose from their snow-heaped ruin, rising to the storm whilst the rain slowly turned to snow. Such minor mercy seemed much appreciated, for how Charlotte did have her expression changed from anger to annoyance, yet such pittance to the Czaszkan captain made to appeal to how his consternation rose with his posture. A foot before himself, then a slow run, he gave chase - in clear injury whilst he huffed with every move - to what once was of their supply.

"That...we need our supplies." he heaved, stumbling forth towards a steadily impaling wreckage. His teeth gritted whilst he did witness all his efforts be slowly consumed by a heap of jagged stone and storming tidal waves ripping coin and provision alike to oblivion.



Key items, interactable objects, and other articles of import are outlined in bright orange. Whilst not everything not outlined in orange cannot have some manner of utility, those in the color are of particular interest.

Create your own key objects using the hex code e99e5b.



"Kazik...!" Charlotte cried out, reaching forth toward the determined man. Those fingers clenched around his ice-laden shoulder, a heavy shrug insistent upon Kazik's continued march.

"Kazik!" she ordered once more, at last halting the man in his trek, "Kazik, mate...it's gone."

Moments passed whilst he stared down the wreckage, who remained slowly peering into the pair's view. Charlotte did trot forth through the calf-deep snow, Kazik slowly following behind whilst he cursed beneath his breath:

"Had this tempest not caused enough quagmire already," he swore, "It's robbed me of the pleasure of killing Ambrose myself."



Persons of interest are colored bright green. They typically are those with key plot elements tied to them, and will usually dispense quests, information, services, or other useful tidbits.

Create persons of interest with the hex code 5ba259.



Kazik lambasted their now-deceased helmsman with a disappointed sigh, firstly that he had brought such ruination to them, and secondly that he had not had - to Kazik's clear displeasure - the capability to survive whilst Kazik enacted just revenge for his idiocy. Yet such affairs, the Czaszkan knew, were no longer for contention, for the moving of other figures meant they were still not yet among the sole survivors of their trepidation. His performer companion, holding her hood tighter about her head whilst she waved back to the ship, called out whilst Kazik inspected his surroundings.

"Aye! Hello?! Can any of you hear me?!" she "introduced", insofar that a disaster on the likes of this could constitute any manner of proper meeting. Charlotte had been acquainted with much of the crew before - and while she prided herself on remembering the names of the many she had met - did make haste in some attempt to the surviving crew.

"I...ah..." Charlotte drew breaths as she tried to stay warm, yet the posturing of her comments made it clear she, too, was equally consternated by their threatening scenario. At odds with her usual silver-tongued demeanor, Charlotte didn't quite know what to say.

"It's good seeing ye all." she nodded, looking over the collecting cast, "I ken we're off to a grand start...but, we can come up with something, I know."

Kazik turned back, shouting forth at the assembly, "Yes! Ahead!", he pointed, tilting his frame back whilst he pointed north.

At the edge of sight, along the blinding coast obfuscated by the arctic tempest, a yellow beaming pulsated periodically. For a second did it wax into full then wane into nothing, returning at regular intervals. Charlotte lowered her head, heavily sighing in relief from the view.

"Oh, thank Gods...it's a lighthouse..."



Places and locations are highlighted in blue. They are typically nearby, though they may also be illuminated when done in reference to a location of particular note.

Reference such places with the hex code 5ea3b9.



"There must be someone keeping it on." Kazik insisted, waving forth the group, "Come! If that is true, then we-"

The unmistakable bellow of gunfire erupted from the north, just above a ridge which overlooked the craggy coast below. Though behind them lay the faint outlines of several coves, their assailants had the definitive upper ground, only mercifully graced by the intermittent gales which provided concealment through turbulent snowfall. Along the lower shoreline were many of the same creeks and jagged rocks, enormous shards of obsidian spiking out from the volcanic geology. To the bare - and the incautious - the volcanic glass would certainly slit the unwary open with grievous injury. Yet the sole pass down from the ridge - while gentle and shielded from the gale force winds, presented danger all their own; A few score of men - clad in bright blue and white - heaved a mighty battle cry whilst they charged down the pass. Pirate hunters. Royal Navy.

BANG!

BANG!

More gunfire echoed. Kazik's pistol smoked from the fire, his two barrels expended whilst one several meters before him fell, clutching his wound.

His right hand clutched his blade, crouching behind some stone, and roared back at the survivors:

"Pirate hunters!"

They would have to be fighting their way to safety. Charlotte, too, prepared herself, drawing forth her flintlock while she looked about for some manner of vantage point.

Welcome to Cascadia.
"DINNERTIME!"

"Oh...merci mon dieu..." Inès sighed, relieved to hear the call of dinner as an end to her hours-long utility as a pillow for Franz's comfort. Indeed, it was sweet, for Inès ultimately knew that Franz would have done the same for her, had their positions been switched and she came to his aid, but neither could she reject the reality that such immobility - and inactivity - drove her well past tolerance and well into boredom-induced insanity.

"Franz," the Shocktrooper called to her companion, nudging him awake, whilst also extending a generous - yet gentle - assistance toward the man getting on his feet that would clearly suggest she wished to stand. Somehow, Inès had wondered, given the past few weeks, if awakening others was to be a habit, that she may very well become the company bugler.

"Dinner's ready. Let's go eat." she urges on, exiting from the tent with a steady look back, as if she made certain Franz would follow.

Dining standards for the military were generally mediocre, generously speaking, and those served in the field lesser than such a meager title. More often than not, the food itself on offer did nothing to alleviate such judgements, the disgusting slop in a can they foisted upon soldiers as food often making matters worse for the troops at hand. What was supposed to be some manner of potato and meat stew instead blackened and soiled inside a cold, grease-laden broth. For ingredients that were largely salted for preservation, Inès gave the packagers credit; even one who had only modest ingredients herself could not make a largely fiberous meal taste acidic. Maconochie, it was called, and was famously lambasted as, "An inferior grade of garbage."

A meal taken and prepared for the crew was, appropriately, a gift that Inès graciously appreciated, even if the scent coming from the table would have indicated they were otherwise eating char-burned scrapings from a meat pan. Though her face would never show it, whatever manner of concoction was preferable to whatever waste logistics and supply would foist upon them otherwise. At the long table, Inès took her seat at the side of Franz, across from Freya, and well in good company.

...well in good company of their one and only Corporal hoisting about a loaf of buttered bread as if he had found some holy relic itself, to everyone's amusement, Inès' note. Inès appreciated the change of pacing, sure, being the first truly cooked full meal she'd had in weeks now, yet Jean was...clearly a bit too excitable about it.

Thoroughly nonplussed, Inès' nonamused features remained rather blank while eyes and ears turned to the Darcsen Corporal.

"Uh...Jean? Ça va?"

Inès mentally noted that she likely already had an answer to such an inquiry. At minimum, it was polite to ask, if Inès' lack of formality in her query betrayed her true thoughts behind that expression. An unamused sigh flowed throughout her body, the rather unimpressed woman retiring once more to her seating. She would look about for a fleeting moment, taking view of the general demeanor of the company at hand whilst she did serve herself. Manners, it would seem, would have to wait, yet Inès knew that much was only formality she seldom had time to acknowledge. And as she folded her legs, prompt to dine, Luke's rising mood she did notice. She would pause before she dug in upon the first wishes of Luke escaping his mouth, almost freezing her utensil as she passed eyes over the scene. That would soon turn to cautious listening, never fully looking over the two as expression soon turned to fumble, then to apology, then to faux pas once again. Even whilst the poor fool threw out his racial retorts as some uncultured troglodyte, Inès did look upon the display and give a smile.






A Letter of Marque from the Republic of Aira? Right where your journey to the New World begins.

Though, perchance one did not know about the New World would do one well to heed the tales that long stem from Cascadia. Among the Old World rumors, there is a constant peddling that the New World would be a free land, one of infinite possibility, ripe with riches for the taking which hang so low that one must only walk to attain their righteous fortunes.

These whispers, like all others, are only part true. Cascadia herself is a bountiful and beauteous land, true, yet the tale that these lands are up for grabs is, as tales tend to be, embellishment. Long before there were settlers from the Mediterranean lands of Fioretza nor the highlands of Calleighn, prodigious empires and proud nations called the region their proper domain, and only through conflict and resolution have these lands ever exchanged lands. The natives of Cascadia have in their codices a body of legend which may very well dwarf any mythos of the Old World, documented or forsaken, and in those oft-preserved stories remain the tales of mighty rulers who ruled over the sun itself, of mythics and heroes who stood as insurmountable champions, the slayers of foul spirits and fell gods, and from their victories, carved empires of unparalleled wealth and prosperity. Alas, as the stories of all account, from settler to pilgrim to native wise-man again, the larger the empire, the greater the fallout. And, perhaps, as the stories of the keen do say, that there exists few worthy successors to these ill-spoken dominions would suggest there is a particular wisdom toward the modest lifestyle of many a Cascadian tribe.

And what are the boundless rumors without envy?

Surely, there cannot be any denial that any of the Old World who have lasted to this year are not in some ways jealous of the achievements of the mighty Dudatihna, Xia’pct, Altepeme, or Yona Empires, said to have stretched through Cascadia and Ambrogia alike, even to lands far to the East in locales yet unexplored to the Old World. Even if many dismiss the ruins which dot the landscape as a bygone legacy or the vibrant fables of Cascadia as nothing more than fairy tales, that they so willingly subscribe to the ancient Hero-Kings, Warrior-Queens, and Saviors from Dragons of ages long past show it naught but ridiculous at best.

Yet what none in the Old World can rightly deny is the sheer bounty Cascadia has to offer. Motta flower and juniper grow abundantly in the otherwise frigid Cascadian climate that cultivation of the otherwise exotic crops is a near moot endeavor, for the crop will inevitably grow far beyond the normal boundaries of one's land grant to where management becomes an impossible task. The virgin forests which dot Cascadia's many coasts stretch far into the interior, and the boreal hardwood within grows from rich, volcanic soil, giving it an unmatched hardness, sheen, and durability. Clusters of iron and copper ore burgeoned from the earth like weeds grew in an empty field, and so precious were the many minerals in Cascadia that it was reported back that the whole of the Holt Mountains were constituted of near-pure silver. To such an end, it was unavoidable that countless farms and estates established themselves along Cascadia's coast...and, as envy so does, has stemmed countless conflict within and without.

Many of the natives soon tired of their mistreatment for money, and would form the Confederacy of Cochise in lieu of the many splintered nations which dotted much of Cascadia. The many estates have formed houses and wealthy families from their profit, who seek to have their industry unperturbed or burgeoned, no matter the cost. The disenfranchised and unscrupulous alike prey upon the many exports of Cascadia, for her constant churn of wealth outbound make their work a steady and lucrative - nevermind free - trade. Many within their capacity find uses for such mariners, who in turn are rewarded handsomely for their expertise. Likewise, many such brigantine tasks on Cascadia's mainland require those with a certain finesse, for there exists much intrigue along the the settled coasts of Cascadia - and even more spoilage.

You, under the employ of two co-captains, are privateers to the United Republic of Aira, administrators to the Province of New Bretagne. Though this may seem restrictive, true pirates, as the co-captains would tell you, are simply privateers flying under one fewer flag. Yet, with your Letter of Marque, you possess a level of legal immunity many would be envious of. Couple this with an adventurous life, flexible hours, and as much pay as you can pillage, your adventures of Cascadia will certainly be that to spark legends all their own...



Creating a Character


Creating a character for Fire Emblem: Sword and Sail is a fairly streamlined process, in my personal opinion. Though the character sheet is quite long - and can easily be considered intimidating, there's a few basic steps i've outlined that should assist in the process.


  • Think of a character you want to play. Don't be concerned about what roles need filling! The game is intended to be played by any assortment of cast, and although there are stats in effect, they are only there to provide clarification for what your character is capable of achieving.
  • Think of what your character is like as a person. What are their goals and ambitions? Their worst fears? What makes them angry? What's their favorite thing to eat? Do they drink themselves to sleep before noon, or are they straight-edge? If they're from the Old World, what made them want to leave?
  • Don't be worried about stats. This RP is intended to have multiple solutions to every problem you come across. Don't be worried if you think your stats won't be high enough! With a little ingenuity or teamwork, you can get through any problem!
  • That said, try to make stats that represent them as a person. The option to raise and lower stats is there, certainly, but more often than not, you might find min-maxing your character to be overkill in many situations. The best attribute you can have is your own ingenuity!













@Double There definitely is magic in the game, so don't worry. It's split along the varied classes in four ways: Mages, Clerics, Shamans, and Adepts, all with distinct spells and roles. How exactly magic works is being ironed out, but the best analogy I can make for it is it works mostly like Shadows of Valentia, where you learn/memorize specific magical spells at the cost of your own lifeforce.

As an anecdote, in-world magic is very much seen as a hard "science". There's specific fields of study for it, and it's explained as a natural force in the world, much like how gravity and heliocentric astronomy were revolutionizing academia at the time; The same is true for Natural Magic. You could even see it as an extension of physics.






When Signor Marco Antonucci discovered gunpowder in 1514, the medieval era was decreed thoroughly over. Castles now lie dormant. Knightly orders are little more than frivolous social clubs. Kings and queens gave way to the rise of the republic and merchant house. Century after century, decade after decade, the Old World saw the fall of many a kingdom, and from their ashes rose the constitutional assembly and parliament. In a single generation, the playing field gave genesis to the Modern Era, the age of knight and dragon seeming like a withered husk in comparison.

Most importantly, a modern age required modern supply. The feats of the most modest modern state make the most accomplished Hero-King of yonder wither in inadequacy, for this new age of science and reason has given birth to a new world where all save the most isolated of hamlets may see traveling patrols and faraway supply alike. Only in the most remote of locales do the threat of banditry ever cross the citizen's mind in the Old World, for the ever-lengthening arm of the law reaches forth with paved road and deliberate canal. The fields of Ferreir have proven to give ample supply in decades past, yet that luxury has faltered under constant pressure of an ever-developing Old World. There is seldom a hill in the Old World that has not seen conflict, for lands innumerate and flags uncountable have risen, held, and fallen to war and lack of resource. These failings are not ones the wizened men of now seek to reproduce.

For as long as the throes of history do echo, the spirit of human curiosity, an ever wonderful and resourceful pique to know just what lay beyond shrouded veils has imbibed itself thoroughly in the quintessence of men. A great woman decreed that, "Idealists foolish enough to throw caution to the wind have advanced mankind and enriched the world". In that everlasting pursuit to stride forth, many a brave mariner took to the pacific Myriadic Ocean, thorough in their belief there was - contrary to what many insisted - something beyond the veil of old. After all, if so many chains before them could be shrugged off, what was one more?

And beyond that gleaming veil...Cascadia.

Sheer bounty of the land alone were the stories of every perspective traveler. "A land more gorgeous than Ferreir herself," they wrote, "where the deer run so plentiful in untouched forests the combined wolves of the world could not dent her populus." An untouched, unexplored land, oozing in natural allure. An alpine land, fair and coastal, that stretched further than spyglass or compass. Such wonders were mere mythos in the Old World by now, nevermind the new bodies of legend that came from the colorful tales of the natives. Cities of gold, scrolls that controlled the sun, primordial civilizations far beneath the sea, a water clock said to be able to show events far into the future...such rumors were manifold. Yet, the mere existence of Cascadia herself was dismissed as but superstition not long ago; Who was to say these legends had no veracity, and instead lie in wait for another to uncover them? With the promise of newfound land teeming with such riches, it would only be a matter of time before the race for the New World would commence.

Such ambition turned to rivalry, the sparks of desire waiting to strike as each Old World power scrambled for the riches of Cascadia. A simple spark, a stray remark, would be all that was required for conflict to erupt over the New World, and soon, the powers that be engulfed themselves in numerous wars - The War of 1711, The Bergesse War, The First and Second Cascades War, Arthur's War, The Belchier-Robin War - only to list a few.

And what is rivalry without stakes - and those to play upon those wishes?

Such treasures are well-coveted, and by those with the fortitude, intelligence, and fortune...alleviating these troves is quite the lucrative business. For in this New Era, there is always room for negotiation, for how would such grand new empires last under the ironclad grip of a delusional an ocean away? That pirates would step up to fulfill such requests is hardly a needed statement, yet the spirit of a newfound world pervades such that it seeps well into the minds of the idealist, the enterprizer, and the rogue. And for that aforementioned reason - that the bickering ministers of the Old World have more land than they can reasonably manage, or know what to do with - allegiances of pirates, buccaneers, and freebooters have very well carved out their own New World.

Their services are, of course, very high in demand, and the free life of a pirate charms many a perspective sailor to Cascadia. And a Letter of Marque from the Republic of Aira? Right where your journey to the New World begins.




Welcome, all my prospective privateers, to Fire Emblem: Sword and Sail! When making this RP, my Co-GM and I wanted to do our best to provide a more free-form experience to all of our players. As you've no doubt noticed if you've read/skimmed/speedread thus far, our setting is quite a bit different from most typical Fire Emblem settings. Set in Cascadia - inspired by 18th Century British Columbia, Alaska, and California - our band of adventurers will be able to forge their own stories, bought with steel, rum, and their own ingenuity.

Along with your fellow roleplayers, you'll be free to uncover the vast sights, sounds, and stores of loot Cascadia has to offer. There's quite the sum of people interested in the ongoing affairs of the region, and becoming embroiled in it is almost as natural as breathing. After all, what's adventure without making some very powerful enemies?



Current ideas, and thoughts on the RP are:




  • Wolves of Land and Sea - This RP is intended to have a variety of adventures along coastal cities, ancient ruins, the high seas, pristine wilds, and pirate coves alike. Consisting of both land and nautical points, this ensures that little space of Cascadia goes unused. If you see a space and go, "I wanna go there!", who's to say we can't?
  • Goal-Based Momentum - By having a steady stream of equipment to buy, goals to meet, and people to please, there will always be an overarching goal to work towards. However, in your approach to meet said objectives, you're free to use many of the tools outlined in ways you can think of - or even think of your own unique solutions!
  • What's A Captain Without His Crew? - Our captains may have their names upon the Letter of Marque, but that doesn't mean they're dictators. You can suggest, talk, and dissent from them all you please, and I encourage you to have similar interactions with your fellow roleplayers! Naturally, how you influence our captains may turn in motion events far into the future...
  • Fire Emblem-esque - There will be some light stats for the sake of solidifying your character's abilities and skills, as well as a variety of classes to pick for your character; Some familiar, some new to the Age of Sail. You'll be able to progress and evolve your character's abilities with time and experience. There are no plans for FE-like combat maps quite yet, but if there's enough demand for it, we can surely concoct something!
  • The Door Is Always Open! - If you have an idea for a side adventure or side quest, just suggest it at any point! The point of roleplaying is to give and take, so it's only natural that you have a lot of ideas on your own accord.


If any of this interests you, please join the Discord, as a lot of our OOC talk and planning will be located there; this is by far the best way to get in contact with me. All this said, I look forward to what we can create with this new take on Fire Emblem! Grab a bottle of rum, sharpen up your cutlasses, and sing a sailor's shanty, the New World awaits!
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