House War
A Matchlock/Baroque Fantasy NRP
You were only twelve years old when the madness took you.
For days you were confined to your bed; after the first two, your throat had become so raw that you could no longer scream, and after the third, you began (in the moments when you thought yourself still to be sane) to notice plants taking root in your mattress, water streaming from the rafters, blue fire giving off no heat nor emitting any sound engulfing the walls. At first you thought these strange sights to be the products of your mania, but when your mother nearly fainted at the sight, you realized that these things were, in fact, real.
A week or so passed, or so you think. You were on the verge of death; your mother had not brought you food or drink for two days, though you often heard her sobbing outside your door. Once, you overheard your father whispering to her about “putting him out of his misery” and the scraping of metal on leather. When you heard that, a branch grew out of the door and beat him over the head; your mother screamed and ran out into the street, begging the gods to save you.
You fell asleep after that, for how long you don’t remember.
When next you woke, you thought dimly: I’m going to die.
Suddenly, you heard soft footfalls upon the floorboards. You looked around your chambers. Although it was filthy—the chamber pot overflowing, chicken bones and breadcrumbs on the floor, overturned goblets of milk, strewn medicinal herbs—there were no longer any trace of plants or blue fire. In the corner, you saw something, though exactly what you could not say. The faint smell of pipe weed mingled with chamber pot, medicine, and rotting fruit. The something, perhaps noticing that you were awake, slowly began to move toward you. Out of the gloom emerged not a phantom of delirium, but a man. He was blue-eyed, with a black beard flecked with grey, aquiline nose, and flowing robes of cobalt silk. He had the look of Mezward, with the pendulous turban mounted atop his head.
“You want it to end, don’t you?” he whispered, though you barely heard him. His voice sound like it came out of the depths of the earth, yet it was distant too, as if he had spoken through a gag. But his eyes were clear. He gazed down upon you with a look of pity.
Tears filled your eyes. Faintly, you murmured, “Yes.”
Then, a pain greater than any you had ever known, greater even than the madness that seized you. Screams choked from your lips; blood poured from your eyes; bile rose to your throat; you tumbled from your bed in a shower of feathers and linen and spasmed upon the floor; colors, strange patterns, and images—birds taking flight, a king with a crown of candles, excrement transmuted into gold, overfilling vessels of wine, men turning into ships, women into cards, dancing children—flooded your vision. You fell into the claws of a deeper and more profound madness. Many times, you saw your own body from above. And through it all, the bearded man intoned his soft, droning mantra, its words seeming to penetrate into the darkest corners of your mind.
When you came to it was dawn. Wan sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains, and through the window you could see the sky reddening, and the heavy, purple clouds. Out of the corner of your eyes, you sensed a presence. It was the bearded man, gnawing on a hunk of cheese and poring over an old grimoire by the light of a fat yellow candle. When he noticed you, a wry smile creased his cheeks; he rose, crossed to you, hoisted you up from the floor, and placed you gently back upon the ruined bed.
Looking down at you, he laughed to himself softly.
“Ha! It worked! It worked!” he roared.
Then, he went out of the room and roused your parents. Your mother wept for joy. Your father, wearing a bandage around his head, said nothing, but seemed content enough. When they looked to the stranger, however, a peculiar look passed over them, and they averted their eyes from you.
It was then that the bearded man told you (because your parents could not bring themselves to admit it) that you were a magus, and you were to coming with him.
“In a manner of speaking, I’m to be something of a father to you now. No offense,” he said, nodding in deference to your true father with a smirk.
Only later did you discover that you were the first trial of a newly invented Limiter. By the bearded man’s (whose name you later discovered was Ebisa) own admission, he had expected it to fail. But, with the aid of this state-of-the-art Limiter, he said, vital overflow could be greatly reduced, and a magus’s lifespan increased by as much as two months.
You think that it was a worthy gamble.
His action taught you a cardinal law of magi: selfishness. Ebisa, who for some time you would idolize, was only pursuing his own research in saving your life. He would have felt little shame if you had died. After all, without him, you would’ve died anyway.
Short to live, fast to die, that’s the life of a magus.
It would not be a life of glamor, pleasure, or happiness. But even so, you had to go with him. You were to train as a magus; even with a Limiter, your latent Ability had to be tamed, so that it could become Art.
Ebisa tossed your father a bulging purse of fat riales. Your parents weren’t poor per se, but they certainly weren’t wealthy. With this sum, however, they would live like kings.
Ebisa turned and motioned that it was time to leave. Your mother clung to you, sobbing, her fat tears falling on your cheeks. You could barely stand, and scarcely understood what was happening; you simply looked at her, bewildered. Your father embraced you once, and turned away. He was a hard man, not one to show emotion, but he was kind nevertheless. You would miss him. Ebisa started towards the door, but you remained rooted in place. Growing impatient, he clasped your hand and pulled you to his side. You cast one last glance backwards at your father, who had begun to count the coins, and your mother, weeping, imploring you not to go. Then, the blazing light of dawn flooded your vision.
That was the last time you ever saw them.
For days you were confined to your bed; after the first two, your throat had become so raw that you could no longer scream, and after the third, you began (in the moments when you thought yourself still to be sane) to notice plants taking root in your mattress, water streaming from the rafters, blue fire giving off no heat nor emitting any sound engulfing the walls. At first you thought these strange sights to be the products of your mania, but when your mother nearly fainted at the sight, you realized that these things were, in fact, real.
A week or so passed, or so you think. You were on the verge of death; your mother had not brought you food or drink for two days, though you often heard her sobbing outside your door. Once, you overheard your father whispering to her about “putting him out of his misery” and the scraping of metal on leather. When you heard that, a branch grew out of the door and beat him over the head; your mother screamed and ran out into the street, begging the gods to save you.
You fell asleep after that, for how long you don’t remember.
When next you woke, you thought dimly: I’m going to die.
Suddenly, you heard soft footfalls upon the floorboards. You looked around your chambers. Although it was filthy—the chamber pot overflowing, chicken bones and breadcrumbs on the floor, overturned goblets of milk, strewn medicinal herbs—there were no longer any trace of plants or blue fire. In the corner, you saw something, though exactly what you could not say. The faint smell of pipe weed mingled with chamber pot, medicine, and rotting fruit. The something, perhaps noticing that you were awake, slowly began to move toward you. Out of the gloom emerged not a phantom of delirium, but a man. He was blue-eyed, with a black beard flecked with grey, aquiline nose, and flowing robes of cobalt silk. He had the look of Mezward, with the pendulous turban mounted atop his head.
“You want it to end, don’t you?” he whispered, though you barely heard him. His voice sound like it came out of the depths of the earth, yet it was distant too, as if he had spoken through a gag. But his eyes were clear. He gazed down upon you with a look of pity.
Tears filled your eyes. Faintly, you murmured, “Yes.”
Then, a pain greater than any you had ever known, greater even than the madness that seized you. Screams choked from your lips; blood poured from your eyes; bile rose to your throat; you tumbled from your bed in a shower of feathers and linen and spasmed upon the floor; colors, strange patterns, and images—birds taking flight, a king with a crown of candles, excrement transmuted into gold, overfilling vessels of wine, men turning into ships, women into cards, dancing children—flooded your vision. You fell into the claws of a deeper and more profound madness. Many times, you saw your own body from above. And through it all, the bearded man intoned his soft, droning mantra, its words seeming to penetrate into the darkest corners of your mind.
When you came to it was dawn. Wan sunlight filtered through the drawn curtains, and through the window you could see the sky reddening, and the heavy, purple clouds. Out of the corner of your eyes, you sensed a presence. It was the bearded man, gnawing on a hunk of cheese and poring over an old grimoire by the light of a fat yellow candle. When he noticed you, a wry smile creased his cheeks; he rose, crossed to you, hoisted you up from the floor, and placed you gently back upon the ruined bed.
Looking down at you, he laughed to himself softly.
“Ha! It worked! It worked!” he roared.
Then, he went out of the room and roused your parents. Your mother wept for joy. Your father, wearing a bandage around his head, said nothing, but seemed content enough. When they looked to the stranger, however, a peculiar look passed over them, and they averted their eyes from you.
It was then that the bearded man told you (because your parents could not bring themselves to admit it) that you were a magus, and you were to coming with him.
“In a manner of speaking, I’m to be something of a father to you now. No offense,” he said, nodding in deference to your true father with a smirk.
Only later did you discover that you were the first trial of a newly invented Limiter. By the bearded man’s (whose name you later discovered was Ebisa) own admission, he had expected it to fail. But, with the aid of this state-of-the-art Limiter, he said, vital overflow could be greatly reduced, and a magus’s lifespan increased by as much as two months.
You think that it was a worthy gamble.
His action taught you a cardinal law of magi: selfishness. Ebisa, who for some time you would idolize, was only pursuing his own research in saving your life. He would have felt little shame if you had died. After all, without him, you would’ve died anyway.
Short to live, fast to die, that’s the life of a magus.
It would not be a life of glamor, pleasure, or happiness. But even so, you had to go with him. You were to train as a magus; even with a Limiter, your latent Ability had to be tamed, so that it could become Art.
Ebisa tossed your father a bulging purse of fat riales. Your parents weren’t poor per se, but they certainly weren’t wealthy. With this sum, however, they would live like kings.
Ebisa turned and motioned that it was time to leave. Your mother clung to you, sobbing, her fat tears falling on your cheeks. You could barely stand, and scarcely understood what was happening; you simply looked at her, bewildered. Your father embraced you once, and turned away. He was a hard man, not one to show emotion, but he was kind nevertheless. You would miss him. Ebisa started towards the door, but you remained rooted in place. Growing impatient, he clasped your hand and pulled you to his side. You cast one last glance backwards at your father, who had begun to count the coins, and your mother, weeping, imploring you not to go. Then, the blazing light of dawn flooded your vision.
That was the last time you ever saw them.
Premise
It is the year 1465 N.O.C.
In Feolyn, a subcontinent of the vast supercontinent of Otumnos, tensions are palpable. The constellation of fiefdoms left in the wake of the fall of the transcontinental Otumnal Empire vie for territorial and political supremacy. Deep tribal grudges from before imperial dominion still simmer and threaten to boil over, and dreams of expansion, previously dormant, begin to awaken. To the east, the immense Khaganate of Hûy, itself divided by civil war, is a dagger poised to pierce the very heart of Feolyn. Even more worrisome, the steppe-lords have accepted the Penrose Star, Tiavana, a still growing but swift-spreading new faith that has begun to penetrate the borders of Feolyn. In the wine shops and teahouses, whispers of divine retribution and righteous conquest become ever more popular ideas. Pirates harry the coasts, and brigands roam the countryside. Harvests founder and fields lie fallow. And both in the shadows and in plain sight, the great Magi Houses war and plot against one another, to what end none can say. What exactly the future might hold is unknown, and changes with the winds; but what is clear is that a storm is coming to Feolyn, and it will be a whirlwind.
This is a low fantasy story principally concerned with war, political intrigue, and yes, magick. By low fantasy I mean that there are fantastical elements (such as magick), perhaps some legendary creatures, but they don’t take main stage. You’ll find no fantasy races here. Primarily, I’d like anyone who’s interested in this RP to help tell a human story, concerned with human beings who are caught up in a grand historical event.
Each person will make both a Nation Sheet and a Magi House Sheet. The Nation Sheet will be the vassal state of the Otumnal Empire you choose to roleplay; a list will be provided along with the map. The Magi House sheet will, obviously, be the Magi House (of the Twelve Old Lines) you choose to roleplay. Since all Magi Houses (at least, all of the Twelve Old Lines) are each "patronized" by a state and ostensibly serve that state, and because a great portion of the action will involve Magi Houses, you'll be playing as both the Magi House and the patron state. If this is confusing, there'll be more about this below. In addition, you'll be provided with the option of two character sheets, both a Magus Character Sheet and a Non-Magus Character Sheet, should you wish to fill out the background of a character in your House or State with more depth, or should you wish to play an unaffiliated-character. Want to play a smuggler or a bandit? A mercenary or a courtesan? An actor or a spy? You’re free to. Thus, this won't be strictly speaking an NRP, but more of a hybrid.
This is not completely a sandbox, though. I thought it’d be interesting to set a general endpoint to this timeline: the subcontinent of Feolyn will be embroiled in one of the bloodiest wars in its history due to the use of magickal weapons known as Golems; it will last roughly thirty years (each IRL week will constitute a year in game-time); during its course, the Otumnal Empire will fall and the Khaganate of Hûy will invade. Everything else, how these events took shape, the principal players, the battles, the drama, will all be up to the players to decide. There’ll be the opportunity for vast contests of men and magick, political scheming, espionage, as well as more personal human tales to act out.
And, just as a final note: this will be an advanced RP, with all of the expectations that goes with that, and an 18+, mature RP. Extreme violence, coarse language, and sexual content (though, please, keep love scenes to the barest of minimums) will be freely allowed.
Notes on the Setting
Feolyn is very roughly analogous culturally and technologically to Europe during the early-to-mid 17th century. However, this does not mean that it is an exact parallel. While the premise is based upon the Thirty Years War, and the Otumnal Empire bears resemblance to the Holy Roman Empire, the model of governance is similar to China under the Ming and the Qing, and the Celestial Emperor system similar to that of the Japan during the Tokugawa Shogunate. Below will be attached a number of essays on Feolyn that will explain the whole thing in depth; I strongly suggest that you read them.
In terms of technology and flavor, think: matchlocks, arquebusiers, pikemen, musketeers, tercios, galleons, landsknechts. This is the age of colorful doublets, feathered hats, knee high boots, pointed beards and mustaches. But with magick. Look at a couple of Rembrandt paintings to get the general idea.
Below will be a topographical map of Feolyn, as well as a very poorly drawn political map and an accompanying list of states to choose from. Aside from the name and the linguistic flair indicated by it, these states are blank slates. Even if the name might imply not-Spain, not-France and so on, feel free to experiment and devise interesting histories and characteristics; I don't want this to end up as an alternate Europe. Be creative!
Setting Documents
Sheets
