(NOTE: The OOC can now be found here!)
From the fore-tablets to
𐏃𒍪𒌅𐏃𒁺𒀝𒆠𒋗
On Thraxia,
a Modern Historie,
as written by Nimak-šurrupāl, royal chronicler
as written by Nimak-šurrupāl, royal chronicler
My histories are no exception. Only whereas I was once commissioned by the fifth Mneššebnar (peace unto His rest) to document the Thraxian tribes, that he may understand them——ultimately, of course, in the aims of conquering them——these "barbarians" have proved themselves a race of cunning warriors and an eerie instrument in the unknowable engine of fate. My Nhirian readers will think it odd to hear one of their own extolling the virtues of a people living in houses of sticks and mud, but I tell you that only a great and terrible people could have effected that which was effected scarcely a decade ago, in the lifetime of a humble and immeasurably privileged scholar——privileged, I say, because I watched this historie blossom before me, vibrant and alive; not exhumed it from words on a page!
Yes, I have met many rare fortunes in the aweful Thraxian mountains: I have met Hridvir, daughter of Wulmod now avenged, wolf-mother to the wailing Gisilbards; Swutgerþ, who was sitting atop his golden mare of legend when he made contact with the "Great Invader" (as they know Him) on a western cape, and sponsored His journey through the passes; Hlundul, bold and terrible, tales of whose coppered axe still terrorize our heartlands today. All of these figures and others of the Thraxian people's vibrant histories were present at the great-council at Skeldefjarn, at which I too was able to sit. Lest I succumb into bragging I will cease here, although the sight of that naked and howling horde will never leave me, I am assured; and I must pen this chronicle to keep my own memory well-kindled in as much as to share it with posterity.
One honor I was not afforded is to have met our Emperor in person during these years, while he was still cloaked with the fires of youth, still navigating the valleys and causeways of His greatness. I should have liked, liked very much indeed, to have looked into the eyes of the Blood of Ārtammat and witnessed therein the same glint of glorious madness which inspired the very machination of which we prosper today; which ended a generations-long enmity between two venerable and bittered kingdoms. Alas, none the sources informing these early chapters are my own, rather collections I have accrued while visiting the Eshkhep races, and while retreading the routes of the mythic march.
None but among the Thraxians themselves claim to have known our good and righteous Dāmaxāriš before His rise to power; they know him as Torukulô, just as he is Amtir-aqqabeth in certain far-cities and Tsemekon in the Eshkhep provinces, where His person goes unremembered except as their wise and awesome liege. And these Thraxian accounts differ too wildly to be of use. Some claim they knew His Highest Divinity as a boy, reedy and cunning; others that He was already a man when He lived among their people. More insist He received the grievous wound of His hand while fighting in their ranks against Mneššebnar V's forces, and more still that he is an aspect of Frifn, or Voliþuz, a one-handed god. Dāmaxāriš's father, the previous ruler of a petty Eshkhep empire, is most certainly deposed, exiled across the Mesphoth; but no mothers have come forward, no brothers, no distant kin, despite all the nations' knowing that the son treats mercily and kindly with the families of sinners. The supreme of these truths, of course, is that we will never know, without that He deign to tell us; and until the day of that telling I would that the reader decide which truth he best favors.
What we do know is that His life began in a time of strife, a time when the land was broken and burning and many empires-minor squabbled over the cinders. Chief among them were we, the sons of Hezeret, embroiled with the tribes, meeting them on half a hundred battlefields; ...
Welcome to the Interest Check for DEVOURER, a game of strife: between armies, their generals, the passions and ambitions which spurn them.
You have been born into an infant world, a world still soft and ripe and tantalizing; a world where a dozen kingdoms have crowned a hundred kings, promising each of them a dynasty to reign ten thousand years, a country as big as the land itself, immortality, greatness ... if he can build them, or win them for himself.
Many have tried before you. The Sarsinids to the south, fielding massive hosts of yowling horse-archers, have slaughtered son and brother in the name of becoming Chief of Chiefs. Warlords of the Atalmo terrorize trade-routes, loosing poisoned arrows from rainbow ships. Chariots and spearmen stain red the Screaming Sands, until the eternal winds have blown over them again, burying what remains so that even the jackals cannot eat.
You are not one of these legendary men—not yet—not while pretenders plague your country, and your most terrible foe stirs to the south ... that foe who calls you mudman, savage, brute. You call yourself Angaturiz, "son of the clay," and thee alone the clay has chosen.
The Thraxian Mountains have preserved your way of life for as long as you can remember. Their maws of ice and rock have chewed up and spat out many foreign armies come to make slaves of your people, as if the land itself knows that only you are its heirs, that you alone continue its will. But something has changed. The tyrant of the Ûzurenids conquers your valley brothers; he puts them to work spying on your families, relaying your activities and whereabouts to lords with bruised knees, burning your roundhalls, softening you for an inevitable, hideous war.
You are a clan chieftain, or retainer to one. (More on this in a bit.) You have followed the call to attend a great council deep in the mountains you call home, with the aims of staying the doom of your people at the hands of an overwhelming external threat. But only ruin will reward you if you cannot bring yourself to forgive the right allies ... or if you pardon an enemy in disguise. See, you haven't always had the best relationship with your fellow clans, either. You have stolen from each other in times of hunger; you have killed their brothers in blood-feuds. Then again, you have also married into good families and forged unbreakable blood-bonds on the battlefield. In a word, your characters have history. Everyone knows everyone else other at this council, where grudges and favors will be remembered, allegiances will be tested, and where mercy may prove just as much a savior as strength and courage will. You will choose at least two players with whom to collaborate on your characters' relationships after the base applications have been accepted: are you avenging a loved one who they murdered? Is it time to repay a life-debt you have owed them? Or something in between?
If you are not playing a chieftain then you shall play the sort of person who a chieftain would bring along as a favored companion. This could be a sibling, spouse, or offspring; an important member of the clan, like its seer or its finest warrior; a childhood friend; a foreign mercenary; someone who the chieftain knows (or thinks he knows) and who he trusts with his life. Under perfect conditions there will be 3-4 factions of players; but you can join a player clan, join an NPC clan, or create your own new faction, at your leisure, with as many characters as you can handle. I will adjust accordingly the NPC chieftains' importance to the war effort if creating their own factions does not interest the sufficient number of players.
Either way, be ready for shit to get uncomfortable. Besides the obvious ugliness arising from early Iron-Age hygiene and medicine, the entirety of war, paranoia, and the brutality of ancient life will be on full display in this game—excepting, of course, that the things which will get people banned from this website will be mentioned as happening off-screen rather than depicted in gruesome detail. Mostly sexual stuff. Human nature and the consequent acts of horrible violence are fair game.
Knowing these two things, you should have discerned by now that other characters within the game—that includes both PC's and NPC's—will be able to betray you from the moment it seems auspicious. They won't necessarily (that's the fun of the game), but if that sort of thing makes you ragequit then you won't have fun here.
Conversely, you might like this game if:
- You love history
- You love ancient history in particular
- You're kinda sick of all the ancient history RPs being Greco-Roman-centric (or some silly anime shit)
- You've ever griefed people in some multiplayer game or other
- You watch TV shows and movies where more talking happens than shooting/stabbing/exploding (but the violence which does happen is fuckin' righteous 🤘)
- You remember characters easier than plot points
- You like Low and/or Dark Fantasy; you like when magic is expensive, rare, and deadly, practiced only by small sects of cultists and madmen
- You like worldbuilding and will take any opportunity to fill in blank parts of a map or timeline with your own whimsical bullshit
- Drama and gossip are your bread and butter
I'm actually not sure yet whether I will put this game in Casual or Advanced, but know that it will be held mostly to an Advanced standard, pertaining to grammar and style.
I think that's about all anyone needs to know this far into the project, so I'm now taking comments, questions, and suggestions.
