Ashen Waste Interest Check
Ashen Waste is a dark/high fantasy RP in a mostly undefined world, for your purposes, but set within the doomed land of Pomria. The protagonist band will have to deal with a wide variety of threats inside and out as they decide their own course of action. If you have any questions or are interested in joining: drop me a private message, sound off or post a bio in the OOC, or say something on here and I will respond as quickly as I can.
Sheltered by vast oceans and raging winds, the teardrop shaped continent of Pomria existed in solitude, free to suffer among themselves without fear of the outside world. For centuries, Pomria remained divided. Disorganized, uncivilized, and seemingly forgotten by time itself, its myriad political states warred and schemed amongst themselves without the hope of any single power ever securing dominance, or even a notable legacy amidst the decades of strife. Without a foreign hand to help it, and without any of its ruling families willing to step down from their short lived offices, Pomria was destined to continue putting its population to the sword and its culture to the torch in the name of honor and the right to rule. However, the land's fate was changed when it became a topic of interest among the empires of the realm, slowly crumbling regimes from the far corners of the world that until then had overlooked the small Pomrian continent, far from any larger body of land. Vast forests still covered Pomria, and it was rumored that the scouts and surveyors that had first reached the land had discovered deposits of valuable minerals that the locals had never been able to fully exploit. Rather than risk costly international confrontations many nations opted to adopt a Pomrian nation as their middleman to the resources they sought. For the nations of Pomria, it was often only the offer of a single company's worth of troops or equipment needed to win their loyalty. However, arming the continent proved to be a grave mistake.
Their lust for territory fueled by the breathtaking power of foreign technology and expertise, the Pomrian kings warred as they could never before. In only a single year, the land had been reduced to cinders. Pastures and towns were crushed under jackboots and wagon-wheels. Humans and cattle extinguished in equal measure. Forests devoured to field frigates and fuel furnaces. The Pomrians found themselves abandoned, their former foreign benefactors had left during the violence, been forced out, or simply lost interest in salvaging what little had survived the war. If the utter destruction of their continent held anything positive for the Pomrians, it was that most of their rulers had died with their countries.
From the ruins, they crawled. The people of Pomria had borrowed not only weapons but ideals from the foreigners. Peace, stability, order. The regimes and regalia of the old kings had failed to deliver what the outside world had; what Pomria wanted. Again, the continent burned. With an uncanny unity the many states of Pomria cast off their ruling families and sought leadership elsewhere. At a time when the continent was consumed with questions - Who would rule? How would they rule? Would there be rule? - One man seemed to hold all of the answers. A survivor of both of the wars, a man educated in foreign academies, and quickly accumulating followers among the few settlements left in the wake of the dismantlement. One by one, the depopulated states gave in to the succour promised by the kind hearted, quick witted man and his fellow rebuilders. Cedric of Glinde would deliver Pomria its future, and every tiny parcel of territory he gained made it easier for the others to rally under the banner of his new world.
The continent, now the proud country, of Pomria flourished. Its growth was fueled by Cedric and those like him, visionaries with a dream for a new future; never working in any particular direction except away from the old ways. Cedric of Glinde ruled as Regent, paving the way to a new age for the troubled land. Pomria grew, culturally, economically, militarilly. The memories of imperial meddling during the great war seemed forgotten in the joy of newfound prosperity as trade relations with the outside world were built. From absolutely nothing, Pomria fought its way to opulence and influence. Foreigners flocked to Pomria for trade or leisure, and slowly left their diverse marks on the culture. For thirty years, the future was golden, and it took only one month for all of it to mean absolutely nothing.
The rich earth split, and from the ore ridden ground spilled atrocity that even the tragedy stricken Pomria could not comprehend. No better term than Abomination named the creatures that emerged from the rift, malevolent beings as varied as they were numerous. The tear grew near the capital, the northernmost port city of Pomria, Epirus, and quickly expanded to swallow parts of the city as well as the Regent's palace. Stretching down into the earth, the chasm belched incomprehensible monsters and their bloodthirsty familiars into the world. Behind the legions followed a thick, fast moving fog, a miasma that tainted the very ground in its wake. The Pomrian army, advanced though it was, could do nothing to stop the initial chaos no matter how many companies of pike or ranks of cannon they levied against the fog. The regent and his cabinet disappeared, and the capital burned. In the following weeks, the military attempted to stage a gradual evacuation of the heartlands but were vastly outpaced by the fog, and for a settlement lost in the fog to reestablish contact with the outside world was rare. For the most part, everyone fled south, into the trail of the Pomrian teardrop. Within four weeks, most of the continent was lost to the fogged tide of retribution. In the last days, a spare few roving groups of survivors began to plant themselves as new settlements in the south, preparing as best they could to make their final stand. The majority sought the coast and evacuation.
On the last day, a few hundred unfortunate souls found themselves huddled within a temple on the coast. The once proud, towering marble structure had been abandoned for years when its roll as a lighthouse had been replaced by settlements further up the coast. Its mottled white sides were dashed with ivy and its belfry had been half blown away by the rough coastal winds. Still, the white sentinel stood with dignity over the rocky shores behind it, finally reprising its role as the defender of the weak and hopeless. Without a ship in sight, rescue would not come. Those inside were left to make a choice or make their peace. It would be only a few hours before the fog and the horrors within arrived, and with their backs to the sea there were no more places to run. A ponderous choice had to be made. There were answers in the dark, maybe even a hope of survival. Would they struggle on? How had this happened? Was there anything left to save?
IC : http://roleplayerguild.com/showthrea...43-Ashen-Waste
OOC : http://roleplayerguild.com/showthrea...ste-OOC-Thread