tl;dr to be found further down :)
Still under construction, but it's ready for public scrutiny. Most of the big stuff has been nailed down, just a matter of refinement.
Grythelm has ever stood as an independent trading city; a prosperous gateway between the civilised and industrious nations of the east, and the unruly, backwards tribes of the west. Through her gates goods from both worlds passed, and into her coffers fell decades of generous tariffs. Her walls stood tall, her soldiers strong- for five centuries, no foreign power dared to threaten her sovereignty.
In a city made of wealth, it was inevitable that one day greed would drive a King to madness.
King Keradon, the eighth Crown Bearer of House Jalsador, saw that the west was a fruit ripe for the taking; indeed, for what were a random collection of villages, spread out over hundreds of miles, to a King who possessed a legion of steel and heavy horse? Would it not be best, if the city-state of Grythelm became the Empire of Grythelm? Such thoughts occupied the mad King, whose lust for power beyond his means grew to a point of great folly.
A year of warfare; a surprise attack on the liberty of a hundred western clans. Thousands slain, dozens of savage realms brought under the banner of the mighty Grythelm. Atrocities were committed; men quenched their lust for all things earthly on the hapless populations they enslaved. Indeed, it seemed that for a moment, the King may not have been mad - just another powerful fool who would cause unimaginable suffering at the behest of his own legacy.
But each month saw more losses in the King's ranks; every hundred miles of land taken, only stilled the resolve of the savages. Eventually, the Grythelm campaign ground to a halt, and at the Battle of the Black Crag, the mighty army of the world's most prosperous city-state came crumbling down in an hour of the utmost savagery. Of the ten thousand Royal soldiers that entered the vast expanse of the west, none returned.
Chief among them, the Crown Prince - and this loss only broke the King's already fractured mind.
And now the savages have come to reap their vengeance upon Grythelm. The western defences were overcome in a single night; the defenders too few to cover walls so mighty, and the attackers too courageous in their costly assaults. A day later, the West Bank fell - thousands of citizens caught in an orgy of rape and slaughter, as the savages sought to repay the atrocities of the King's campaign ten-fold.
In the trembling War Room of Grythelm Keep, around a table of maps, does our story begin.
A Prince tempts his father from further folly; a King denies the inevitable.
Prince Galdron, a young man of his mid-twenties and as handsome and as tall as any member of Royalty should be, arched his back over the vast oaken table.
"The Wildmen have broken through on a wide front, sire," he said, not looking up to acknowledge his father's passive gaze. "They have surged across the South Bridge, and are battering down our defences along the North Bridge. A Count and his men have deployed to contain the southern breach, but he will not hold for long. If we do not dispatch reserves to the north, then we'll face a similar situation there."
King Keradon snickered, his glassy eyes rolling over the map of his city with insane denial. He waved his hand dismissively. "Captain Hulwater's counter attack will bring the Southern Front under control, he's a good man and full of courage. As for the north, I believe Captain Grymes is preparing his regiment to drive the savage scum back into the West Bank as we speak."
Prince Galdron's eyes widened as he listened to his father's prattle, and he locked glances with Brigadier Eckhardt - a Galbadian commander, who had arrived with two hundred fusiliers as a token of his peoples' support. Most of them had died on the first night of the siege. Eckhardt tugged at his collar nervously.
"My Lord," the Prince stuttered, knowing his following words would throw his father into a rage. "Captain Hulwater was slain on the West Bank six hours ago, and Captain Gryme's regiment is barely holding the North Bridge as we speak. There will be no counter-attacks, no victories - we must evacuate the city!"
The King lurched forwards, and slammed the table. "LIES! You traitor!" He roared, catching Prince Galdron across the face with the back of his ring-laden hand. "You want my throne, you insolent little prick! You want to pack me up and send me on my way when we're on the verge of victory! I knew you were scum, but if only I knew the real truth!"
Brigadier Eckhardt, in his strange grey uniform - all flattened with exquisite red lapels and gold buttons - grunted. "Begging your pardon, your grace," he spoke with the guttural twang of a Galbadian, "but the Prince has made an accurate assessment of the situation. The city, speaking from a military standpoint, is lost. There are simply not enough men to hold back the enemy. My country will prove a sound safe-haven for your peoples, until we are able to bring the situation under control at a later date. Order the evacuation, and let us live to fight another day."
The King's face scrunched into a portrait of mind-rending anger, and he turned, spitting his words. "I AM IN COMMAND HERE! THIS IS MY CITY! MY PEOPLE! MY LEGACY!" He suddenly caught his emotions, and a guise of calm passed over him. His breathing slowed, and a feint smile formed. "My son, you must take the remains of the 1st of Foot, the Brigadier's rifle company, and whoever still has the will to save this city, and lead a counter attack across the South Bridge. Drive those savages out of the East Bank, push them into the West Bank, and make them fear the day they ever thought they could lay waste to our glorious city!"
The Prince shook his head, "my lord, that's barely a hundred men. Against thousands. What you are asking for is impossible!" He had neglected to inform his father than the '1st of Foot' had ceased to exist entirely back on the West Bank.
"IS THERE STILL A PRINCE HERE THAT WILL DO HIS DUTY!?" The King roared, sweeping the table with a clumsy hand, and sending goblets and map counters crashing to the floor. "MUST I RIDE OUT MYSELF, TO DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE?"
The Prince merely sighed, as Eckhardt found a place on the floor on which to stare. "As you wish, father."
Fighting rang out ahead, as the Prince led his hopeless hundred through a network of burning thatch, screaming children and sobbing mothers. Sword in one hand, shield in the other, he prepared himself physically and mentally to meet an enemy he had no real prospect of defeating. The mood of his followers reflected his own; they were a motley bunch, divided by wealth and combat experience, but bound by an unassailable courage to achieve the impossible or die trying. Some were men-at-arms, whose masters had perished earlier in the siege; others were knights whose fiefs had been destroyed outside the walls. There were also nobles, whose livelihoods would perish with the city, and thus had resolved to die in combat than live as penniless refugees in a foreign land.
Hired blades had been drafted in, and they represented the Prince's more exotic warriors. Galbadian fusiliers, in their neat uniforms and brass buttons, marched with muskets held at the shoulder - this was not their fight, but they were professionals, and theirs was not to reason why, they were but to do and die.
And die they all would, the Prince had little doubt of that.
The end of a street gave way to the conflict that had erupted at the South Bridge; dozens of men in mail and plate, fought in pockets against a rising tide of armourless savages. Buildings blazed, collapsing in explosions of searing embers; in the distance, masses of wildmen streamed across the South Bridge, desperate to enforce their foothold on the East Bank.
"For honour, for the city!" The Prince roared, raising his sword and pointing it forth. His company echoed him, and together they surged forwards into the chaotic melee.
The city-state of Grythelm has prospered for generations as a trade city, nestled on the borders of an industrialised and civilised east, and a lawless, barbarian-like west.
The current King of Grythelm decided it was high time he annexed the barbarians, and sent his army forth. At first there were many victories, and great swathes of the west came under his control. However, ultimately, his forces were ground down by the numerical superiority of a "hundred clans", and his campaign was utterly defeated at a climatic battle. There were no survivors.
Now the barbarians have reclaimed their lands, and launched a campaign of their own - striking at the city itself. They overcame the western defences, and the West Bank; they've pushed across the South Bridge into the surrounding streets, and are trying to do the same at the North Bridge.
The King, mad with denial at his impending doom, has sent his son on a suicidal counter attack with merely a hundred men.
The story starts as the Prince and his contingent surge head first into the faceless masses of the savages.
Militia
Citizen soldiers, conscripted into the Prince's ranks, or who have otherwise volunteered. They are armed with whatever they can get their hands on; frying pans, pitch forks, rusty mail. They are unskilled, but their courage should not be doubted.
Men-At-Arms
Professional soldiers, wearing whatever armour they can afford. They are typically trained and are seasoned veterans of battle. They form the backbone of the city's defence force. Their masters are probably dead or unaccounted for, and they serve the Prince purely because honour demands it.
Archer
Lightly armoured, but carrying a variety of ranged weapons, these men and women are trained in the use of bows and crossbows. They have been a thorn in the savages' side since the beginning of the battle, and have inflicted grievous losses on them throughout.
It goes without saying that if an archer is captured alive, then the savages treat them to a fate worse than death.
Knights
Moral crusaders, upholding the universal ideals of chivalry. Typically they wear expensive armour and use robust weapons; they are masters of mounted combat, and are hardened foot soldiers. They will die before suffering dishonour, and form the Prince's hardened core of elite fighters.
Nobles
If the city falls, then these men and women will lose their livlihoods, condemned to live as vagrants in a foreign land with no title or wealth. Whilst some have left the city with all the gold they could carry, for others it is not so easy; a defeat here will consign them to a fate worse than death. Therefore, they will die in battle before they see some stinking savage counting their gold!
Some are veterans, some have never held a sword before; they're a mixed bunch, but with their wealth, they are certainly carrying the best weapons and armour that money can buy.
Galbadian Fusiliers
A hundred leagues onwards, into the valley of death, marched the one hundred!
Fusiliers are pseudo 18th century musket men, professionally drilled in the use of tight-unit tactics and the employment of the musket. They are well disciplined, and do not consider dying in a foreign land a negative thing; indeed, they are merely carrying out the commands of their parliament - whatever end awaits them, will be in noble service to their homeland. A soldier's death is not to be frowned at, it is to be embraced.
Their muskets will sweep aside even the most heavily armoured combatant, and their bayonets are sharp. However, their field-grey uniforms, for all their beauty, do little to deter an axe swing.
Hired Blades
Mercenaries are a normal part of Grythelm's mercantile heritage.
When thousands of screaming savages descended on the western wall, it was no surprise that the king found himself able to call forth hundreds of these sell-swords. They made a world of difference in the early hours, but after the West Bank fell, many deserted, whilst others were simply killed in the fighting.
Those who remain do so because they are honour-bound to uphold their contracts, or carry a moral obligation to stand and fight.
They ail from all four corners of the known world, and bring a variety of weapons and fighting styles to the table. They're a wild card, that could either tip the scales, or bring them crashing down.
Appearance:
Name:
Gender:
Age:
Class:
Renowned Skills:
Armour:
Weapons:
Personality:
Other:
Still under construction, but it's ready for public scrutiny. Most of the big stuff has been nailed down, just a matter of refinement.
A Kingdom Under Siege
Grythelm has ever stood as an independent trading city; a prosperous gateway between the civilised and industrious nations of the east, and the unruly, backwards tribes of the west. Through her gates goods from both worlds passed, and into her coffers fell decades of generous tariffs. Her walls stood tall, her soldiers strong- for five centuries, no foreign power dared to threaten her sovereignty.
In a city made of wealth, it was inevitable that one day greed would drive a King to madness.
King Keradon, the eighth Crown Bearer of House Jalsador, saw that the west was a fruit ripe for the taking; indeed, for what were a random collection of villages, spread out over hundreds of miles, to a King who possessed a legion of steel and heavy horse? Would it not be best, if the city-state of Grythelm became the Empire of Grythelm? Such thoughts occupied the mad King, whose lust for power beyond his means grew to a point of great folly.
A year of warfare; a surprise attack on the liberty of a hundred western clans. Thousands slain, dozens of savage realms brought under the banner of the mighty Grythelm. Atrocities were committed; men quenched their lust for all things earthly on the hapless populations they enslaved. Indeed, it seemed that for a moment, the King may not have been mad - just another powerful fool who would cause unimaginable suffering at the behest of his own legacy.
But each month saw more losses in the King's ranks; every hundred miles of land taken, only stilled the resolve of the savages. Eventually, the Grythelm campaign ground to a halt, and at the Battle of the Black Crag, the mighty army of the world's most prosperous city-state came crumbling down in an hour of the utmost savagery. Of the ten thousand Royal soldiers that entered the vast expanse of the west, none returned.
Chief among them, the Crown Prince - and this loss only broke the King's already fractured mind.
And now the savages have come to reap their vengeance upon Grythelm. The western defences were overcome in a single night; the defenders too few to cover walls so mighty, and the attackers too courageous in their costly assaults. A day later, the West Bank fell - thousands of citizens caught in an orgy of rape and slaughter, as the savages sought to repay the atrocities of the King's campaign ten-fold.
In the trembling War Room of Grythelm Keep, around a table of maps, does our story begin.
A Prince tempts his father from further folly; a King denies the inevitable.
Prince Galdron, a young man of his mid-twenties and as handsome and as tall as any member of Royalty should be, arched his back over the vast oaken table.
"The Wildmen have broken through on a wide front, sire," he said, not looking up to acknowledge his father's passive gaze. "They have surged across the South Bridge, and are battering down our defences along the North Bridge. A Count and his men have deployed to contain the southern breach, but he will not hold for long. If we do not dispatch reserves to the north, then we'll face a similar situation there."
King Keradon snickered, his glassy eyes rolling over the map of his city with insane denial. He waved his hand dismissively. "Captain Hulwater's counter attack will bring the Southern Front under control, he's a good man and full of courage. As for the north, I believe Captain Grymes is preparing his regiment to drive the savage scum back into the West Bank as we speak."
Prince Galdron's eyes widened as he listened to his father's prattle, and he locked glances with Brigadier Eckhardt - a Galbadian commander, who had arrived with two hundred fusiliers as a token of his peoples' support. Most of them had died on the first night of the siege. Eckhardt tugged at his collar nervously.
"My Lord," the Prince stuttered, knowing his following words would throw his father into a rage. "Captain Hulwater was slain on the West Bank six hours ago, and Captain Gryme's regiment is barely holding the North Bridge as we speak. There will be no counter-attacks, no victories - we must evacuate the city!"
The King lurched forwards, and slammed the table. "LIES! You traitor!" He roared, catching Prince Galdron across the face with the back of his ring-laden hand. "You want my throne, you insolent little prick! You want to pack me up and send me on my way when we're on the verge of victory! I knew you were scum, but if only I knew the real truth!"
Brigadier Eckhardt, in his strange grey uniform - all flattened with exquisite red lapels and gold buttons - grunted. "Begging your pardon, your grace," he spoke with the guttural twang of a Galbadian, "but the Prince has made an accurate assessment of the situation. The city, speaking from a military standpoint, is lost. There are simply not enough men to hold back the enemy. My country will prove a sound safe-haven for your peoples, until we are able to bring the situation under control at a later date. Order the evacuation, and let us live to fight another day."
The King's face scrunched into a portrait of mind-rending anger, and he turned, spitting his words. "I AM IN COMMAND HERE! THIS IS MY CITY! MY PEOPLE! MY LEGACY!" He suddenly caught his emotions, and a guise of calm passed over him. His breathing slowed, and a feint smile formed. "My son, you must take the remains of the 1st of Foot, the Brigadier's rifle company, and whoever still has the will to save this city, and lead a counter attack across the South Bridge. Drive those savages out of the East Bank, push them into the West Bank, and make them fear the day they ever thought they could lay waste to our glorious city!"
The Prince shook his head, "my lord, that's barely a hundred men. Against thousands. What you are asking for is impossible!" He had neglected to inform his father than the '1st of Foot' had ceased to exist entirely back on the West Bank.
"IS THERE STILL A PRINCE HERE THAT WILL DO HIS DUTY!?" The King roared, sweeping the table with a clumsy hand, and sending goblets and map counters crashing to the floor. "MUST I RIDE OUT MYSELF, TO DO WHAT HAS TO BE DONE?"
The Prince merely sighed, as Eckhardt found a place on the floor on which to stare. "As you wish, father."
Fighting rang out ahead, as the Prince led his hopeless hundred through a network of burning thatch, screaming children and sobbing mothers. Sword in one hand, shield in the other, he prepared himself physically and mentally to meet an enemy he had no real prospect of defeating. The mood of his followers reflected his own; they were a motley bunch, divided by wealth and combat experience, but bound by an unassailable courage to achieve the impossible or die trying. Some were men-at-arms, whose masters had perished earlier in the siege; others were knights whose fiefs had been destroyed outside the walls. There were also nobles, whose livelihoods would perish with the city, and thus had resolved to die in combat than live as penniless refugees in a foreign land.
Hired blades had been drafted in, and they represented the Prince's more exotic warriors. Galbadian fusiliers, in their neat uniforms and brass buttons, marched with muskets held at the shoulder - this was not their fight, but they were professionals, and theirs was not to reason why, they were but to do and die.
And die they all would, the Prince had little doubt of that.
The end of a street gave way to the conflict that had erupted at the South Bridge; dozens of men in mail and plate, fought in pockets against a rising tide of armourless savages. Buildings blazed, collapsing in explosions of searing embers; in the distance, masses of wildmen streamed across the South Bridge, desperate to enforce their foothold on the East Bank.
"For honour, for the city!" The Prince roared, raising his sword and pointing it forth. His company echoed him, and together they surged forwards into the chaotic melee.
Too Long; Didn't Read :/
The city-state of Grythelm has prospered for generations as a trade city, nestled on the borders of an industrialised and civilised east, and a lawless, barbarian-like west.
The current King of Grythelm decided it was high time he annexed the barbarians, and sent his army forth. At first there were many victories, and great swathes of the west came under his control. However, ultimately, his forces were ground down by the numerical superiority of a "hundred clans", and his campaign was utterly defeated at a climatic battle. There were no survivors.
Now the barbarians have reclaimed their lands, and launched a campaign of their own - striking at the city itself. They overcame the western defences, and the West Bank; they've pushed across the South Bridge into the surrounding streets, and are trying to do the same at the North Bridge.
The King, mad with denial at his impending doom, has sent his son on a suicidal counter attack with merely a hundred men.
The story starts as the Prince and his contingent surge head first into the faceless masses of the savages.
Rules
- Players take on the role of the Prince's men.
- I am the Prince! Woooohoo.
- We cut our way through the savages, retaking the city in a heroic feat of arms, or we all die and the city falls.
- No magic/Super powers.
- Story has no established direction; we'll make it up as we go!
Classes
Militia
Citizen soldiers, conscripted into the Prince's ranks, or who have otherwise volunteered. They are armed with whatever they can get their hands on; frying pans, pitch forks, rusty mail. They are unskilled, but their courage should not be doubted.
Men-At-Arms
Professional soldiers, wearing whatever armour they can afford. They are typically trained and are seasoned veterans of battle. They form the backbone of the city's defence force. Their masters are probably dead or unaccounted for, and they serve the Prince purely because honour demands it.
Archer
Lightly armoured, but carrying a variety of ranged weapons, these men and women are trained in the use of bows and crossbows. They have been a thorn in the savages' side since the beginning of the battle, and have inflicted grievous losses on them throughout.
It goes without saying that if an archer is captured alive, then the savages treat them to a fate worse than death.
Knights
Moral crusaders, upholding the universal ideals of chivalry. Typically they wear expensive armour and use robust weapons; they are masters of mounted combat, and are hardened foot soldiers. They will die before suffering dishonour, and form the Prince's hardened core of elite fighters.
Nobles
If the city falls, then these men and women will lose their livlihoods, condemned to live as vagrants in a foreign land with no title or wealth. Whilst some have left the city with all the gold they could carry, for others it is not so easy; a defeat here will consign them to a fate worse than death. Therefore, they will die in battle before they see some stinking savage counting their gold!
Some are veterans, some have never held a sword before; they're a mixed bunch, but with their wealth, they are certainly carrying the best weapons and armour that money can buy.
Galbadian Fusiliers
A hundred leagues onwards, into the valley of death, marched the one hundred!
Fusiliers are pseudo 18th century musket men, professionally drilled in the use of tight-unit tactics and the employment of the musket. They are well disciplined, and do not consider dying in a foreign land a negative thing; indeed, they are merely carrying out the commands of their parliament - whatever end awaits them, will be in noble service to their homeland. A soldier's death is not to be frowned at, it is to be embraced.
Their muskets will sweep aside even the most heavily armoured combatant, and their bayonets are sharp. However, their field-grey uniforms, for all their beauty, do little to deter an axe swing.
Hired Blades
Mercenaries are a normal part of Grythelm's mercantile heritage.
When thousands of screaming savages descended on the western wall, it was no surprise that the king found himself able to call forth hundreds of these sell-swords. They made a world of difference in the early hours, but after the West Bank fell, many deserted, whilst others were simply killed in the fighting.
Those who remain do so because they are honour-bound to uphold their contracts, or carry a moral obligation to stand and fight.
They ail from all four corners of the known world, and bring a variety of weapons and fighting styles to the table. They're a wild card, that could either tip the scales, or bring them crashing down.
Character Sheet
Appearance:
Name:
Gender:
Age:
Class:
Renowned Skills:
Armour:
- Head:
- Chest:
- Arms:
- Groin: If applicable
- Legs:
- Feet:
- Hands:
Weapons:
- Left Hand:
- Right Hand:
- Back:
- Sheathed: (Back up weapon/s)
Personality:
Other:
