Faulty Member
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Sounds hella
HazmatMedic said
...screw you, Legion.I never said land cannons are unacceptable, merely that they are rarer and more expensive that cannons on boats.Ok, let's take history out of it for a jiffy. I have a cannon on a Galley. It's designed for sea-based combat and sinking boats. It is therefore smaller, lighter and has a lower calibre than a siege cannon. It's designed to sit on a lightweigh boat alongside many others of its kin.With a Land cannon, it is designed to punch through the thick walls that surround a city. It is therefore heavier, bigger and stronger than the cannon on the Galley. It doesn't need to worry about weight or other cannons as much, because it won't sink the continent. Because it's bigger and stronger, it is more expensive.
And at that outburst, I'm out of this RP. As a GM, and especially as this is your first go at it, you should always be open to criticism and help, and when your own knowledge is lacking you should never be less than ecstatic to learn more. Attacking people for giving you information that you clearly didn't have earlier isn't helpful for anyone, let alone yourself, and the fact one of your rules is to keep it realistic serves to emphasise the fact that you're just going to use your role as GM to try and smack down anyone who disagrees with you. Let's look at what you've said.
...screw you, Legion.
Not the language a GM should be using. I don't care if Legion fisted your new born babies and used them as boxing gloves to fend off your grieving wife, that outburst of language is unacceptable for a GM. You, as GM, must always show restraint and must always take the higher, more respectable ground by being calm and considerate. Saying "screw you" because you've had your feelings hurt for people following your own rules isn't conducive to a good RP.
This is without mentioning your overall tone. Instantly you're on the defensive - "I never said land cannons are unacceptable" - and yet all Legion can be accused of doing is following your rules, specifically rule three on the very first page, "3. Keep it realistic".
I've had my reservations about this RP for a while now, especially since I saw how you sought attention when people last had the unbelievable audacity to question your judgement by repeatedly claiming you couldn't do it, and thereby repeatedly gaining assurances that you could and you were brilliant and you were amazing and special and good and true and the one GM to rule them all and in the darkness bind them all. It's particularly glaring that you had that entire episode of ostensible self-doubt by the fact you moaned over and over that you didn't feel comfortable being GM, but have made no move to transfer power.
I'm sorry, but that this is your first GMing of an RP is no excuse, and you should know full well how to behave. Attacking people for following you rules, and then having you break them yourself by calling for us to "take history out of it for a jiffy" is the height of hypocrisy, and those doubts I had about this RP, and believe me there were many, are now just too much to bear and I withdraw. Using your position as GM to smack down other players is rude and unnecessary, and I can confidently say that, even in the first RP I ever GMed - which, incidentally, went well because all an RP needs to be GMed properly is patience, research, and, god forbid, effort - I never once went out of my way to make another RPer feel little or irrelevant, and, God as my witness, I've never said "screw you" to any other RPer I've ever RPed with.
#yoloswag
Early naval artillery was an antipersonnel weapon to deter boarders, because cannon powerful enough to damage ships were heavy enough to destabilize any ship mounting them in an elevated castle.
So cannons are just for firing at people, not other ships, yes? Good, this makes naval combat way more fun than the simple over powered "bang bang cannon ur dead lel" rubbish.
Ionians beaked with death ftw #lookoutxerxes
Titanic said
Anyone want to trade?
With the League being the major trading entity up north, I can see our two nations being quite friendly... Or huge competitors.
So Boerd said
Anyhow, Faulty, we will need a place to fence stolen art. You down with that?
Yeah, the League's more or less a giant flob of trading and fencing whatever
The Most Serene City of Deauxerr
Deauxerr Proper
The Flamenois Palace
King Stefan II was, above all, a reticent and kindly man, as jovial as he was portly – and, indeed, the king was extremely portly. He was the type of monarch who would have been altogether too happy to neglect his duties and wile away his time in a garden, and to the extent it was there, in a small and floral courtyard of his palace, nose deep in the biting smells and bursting colours of a well-tended garden, that a knock on the door drew the careless king from his hobby and planted him most firmly in the world of reality. Only half turning to the door, he gave only a half wave, and went back to plucking with tender, if stubby, fingers at the thorns of a particularly vibrant flower, gently removing each green knife with a soft “och” and “ah” of appreciation as the de-thorning continued.
It was only on a second knock that it hit Stefan that, actually, doors are most certainly not transparent, and his distracted wave had been about as noticeable as an invisible fish swimming through an invisible lake shouting “I’m invisible” over and over again. With this newly discovered knowledge, then, Stefan diverted his whole attention to the heavy wooden door and adopted his regal voice, a slow and deliberate one which tickled his throat to use, and called out “You are recognised”, before quickly picking a rather noticeable piece of dirt from his walrus moustache.
Into the room strode a finely dressed man, one whose entire form seemed to battle with the shabby and dirty king. It would not be incorrect to say that this tall and angular man, with an expression so reminiscent of a hawk it would make you feel no more than a mouse, was a person of great warmth. Instead, he devoured the warmth and colour of any room he entered; he was a great vacuum, a colossal sponge, a prim and proper prick whose humour was only one level above terminal illness in its propensity for being utterly dull and completely unwanted. There was nothing about the pale pallor of his skin, or the rigidly styled black mess of his hair and goatee which could ever suggest to even the kindest of people that this was a person with whom you would want to be friends, and as the king unconsciously sucked in his gut and squirmed beneath the penetrating glare of the man’s eyes, Stefan suddenly considered that his life would be far easier if he were a hermit. Standing up then, to better meet the man, Stefan wobbled over to the far taller man, and, smiling broadly, clapped his hands together in a messy clasp that sent a small plume of dirt into the air, while also dirtying the man’s pristine white gloves.
“Dubois! Come in, man, come in! What’re you doing here? No, don’t say a word yet, you old sausage, what- what- what- have you seen Eleanor yet? She’s sung your praises for hours since your last visit,” a partial lie. In fact, Queen Eleanor had spent several hours vomiting after a poorly cooked meal during Archbishop Matthieu Dubois’ last arrival; Stefan was never quite sure the visit and the vomiting were totally unrelated.
For his part, Matthieu was quite ready to be dragged around the small enclosed garden of the palace, being pushed and pulled from one ornate marble pillar to the next with all the cold formality that the Archbishop of Deauxerr could muster. Eventually, however, with his white robes thoroughly soiled by the king’s grubby hands and his red stole rather crinkled, the king stopped parading his archbishop through his white-walled gardens and smiled regally. “Go on, then, Dubois, tell us what you came here for.”
“Your Majesty,” he said in his piercing tone, coupled with a deep bow, “a message came from the Holy Stomian Empire. The Consul of the League received the missive and had copies sent to you and the Kings of Aden. I’m sure that the other cities have received a copy also, though I struggle to see any of them responding.
The letter given to us is from Doge Rudun, and it is calling for a council of leaders of the Haloist faith.”
Passing the letter towards the king, Stefan read the message with a worried expression. He gave his round head a soft shake, scattering from his short blond hair a loose film of dust. “Oh dear… This sounds remarkable, doesn’t it? As head of the League’s faith, I suppose I should go, shouldn’t I? Oh dear oh dear, oh dear oh dear… Thank you archbishop, that- that- that- would you send a reply? I’ll write it, I just need you to send it. Excellent, wait outside my door, I’ll have it with you in a jiffy.”
With an apprehensive twirl, the king strode away to a small corner of the garden, where stood a large canopy under which there was a writing desk covered with paintings he had done. Pushing them aside, he took a quill and a blank sheet of paper, and, writing in the Deauxerran dialect of Stomian, engineered his reply, not eager to begin the preparations for his trip to the Empire.
Deauxerr Proper
The Flamenois Palace
King Stefan II was, above all, a reticent and kindly man, as jovial as he was portly – and, indeed, the king was extremely portly. He was the type of monarch who would have been altogether too happy to neglect his duties and wile away his time in a garden, and to the extent it was there, in a small and floral courtyard of his palace, nose deep in the biting smells and bursting colours of a well-tended garden, that a knock on the door drew the careless king from his hobby and planted him most firmly in the world of reality. Only half turning to the door, he gave only a half wave, and went back to plucking with tender, if stubby, fingers at the thorns of a particularly vibrant flower, gently removing each green knife with a soft “och” and “ah” of appreciation as the de-thorning continued.
It was only on a second knock that it hit Stefan that, actually, doors are most certainly not transparent, and his distracted wave had been about as noticeable as an invisible fish swimming through an invisible lake shouting “I’m invisible” over and over again. With this newly discovered knowledge, then, Stefan diverted his whole attention to the heavy wooden door and adopted his regal voice, a slow and deliberate one which tickled his throat to use, and called out “You are recognised”, before quickly picking a rather noticeable piece of dirt from his walrus moustache.
Into the room strode a finely dressed man, one whose entire form seemed to battle with the shabby and dirty king. It would not be incorrect to say that this tall and angular man, with an expression so reminiscent of a hawk it would make you feel no more than a mouse, was a person of great warmth. Instead, he devoured the warmth and colour of any room he entered; he was a great vacuum, a colossal sponge, a prim and proper prick whose humour was only one level above terminal illness in its propensity for being utterly dull and completely unwanted. There was nothing about the pale pallor of his skin, or the rigidly styled black mess of his hair and goatee which could ever suggest to even the kindest of people that this was a person with whom you would want to be friends, and as the king unconsciously sucked in his gut and squirmed beneath the penetrating glare of the man’s eyes, Stefan suddenly considered that his life would be far easier if he were a hermit. Standing up then, to better meet the man, Stefan wobbled over to the far taller man, and, smiling broadly, clapped his hands together in a messy clasp that sent a small plume of dirt into the air, while also dirtying the man’s pristine white gloves.
“Dubois! Come in, man, come in! What’re you doing here? No, don’t say a word yet, you old sausage, what- what- what- have you seen Eleanor yet? She’s sung your praises for hours since your last visit,” a partial lie. In fact, Queen Eleanor had spent several hours vomiting after a poorly cooked meal during Archbishop Matthieu Dubois’ last arrival; Stefan was never quite sure the visit and the vomiting were totally unrelated.
For his part, Matthieu was quite ready to be dragged around the small enclosed garden of the palace, being pushed and pulled from one ornate marble pillar to the next with all the cold formality that the Archbishop of Deauxerr could muster. Eventually, however, with his white robes thoroughly soiled by the king’s grubby hands and his red stole rather crinkled, the king stopped parading his archbishop through his white-walled gardens and smiled regally. “Go on, then, Dubois, tell us what you came here for.”
“Your Majesty,” he said in his piercing tone, coupled with a deep bow, “a message came from the Holy Stomian Empire. The Consul of the League received the missive and had copies sent to you and the Kings of Aden. I’m sure that the other cities have received a copy also, though I struggle to see any of them responding.
The letter given to us is from Doge Rudun, and it is calling for a council of leaders of the Haloist faith.”
Passing the letter towards the king, Stefan read the message with a worried expression. He gave his round head a soft shake, scattering from his short blond hair a loose film of dust. “Oh dear… This sounds remarkable, doesn’t it? As head of the League’s faith, I suppose I should go, shouldn’t I? Oh dear oh dear, oh dear oh dear… Thank you archbishop, that- that- that- would you send a reply? I’ll write it, I just need you to send it. Excellent, wait outside my door, I’ll have it with you in a jiffy.”
With an apprehensive twirl, the king strode away to a small corner of the garden, where stood a large canopy under which there was a writing desk covered with paintings he had done. Pushing them aside, he took a quill and a blank sheet of paper, and, writing in the Deauxerran dialect of Stomian, engineered his reply, not eager to begin the preparations for his trip to the Empire.
Dear Doge Rudun;
It is a delight to be invited to your feast, and, standing as the Princep of the Deauxerran League, as well as King of Deauxerr, it is with great privilege and honour that I would very much like to accept your invitation with all grace.
Hoping this letter finds you in good health,
His Royal Highness, Defender of the Faith, by the Grace of Our Lord Atos, King of Deauxerr
Stefan II
HazmatMedic said
Well, I like the two new, completed NS's. Accepted.As for the Ralgon Empire, it looks good so far. Keep at it. Especially like the Welsh Dragon in the United Kingdom flag.Actually, I always wondered why Wales wasn't represented in the Union Flag. Something to do with the Treaty of the Crowns, apparently.
When the two Act of Unions were passed, Wales wasn't a country, it was just a part of the Kingdom of England, and, in the second Act, the United Kingdom of Great Britain.
Also, the Deauxerran League's open for anyone who wants to trade! Our ships're ready and willing to be penetrated by your heavy loads of goods and commodities.
My city states are in these regions
Cosmic Fury said
Those unnamed purple islands towards the center of the map -- I'd like to reserve that area for myself, if possible. I've got a ton of ideas that would fit perfectly for that spot.EDIT: @ Faulty, loving that faction you made! I very much look forward to interacting with it.
#Swag
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