"STOP. QUOTING. ME." Jb, 2019, quoted in 2022." Roland, 2022, quoted in 2022.
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5 yrs ago
STOP. QUOTING. ME.
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5 yrs ago
Gone fishing for a week, will return soon.
6 yrs ago
Happy New Year!
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6 yrs ago
Merry Yuletide, one and all! Gods bless.
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Bio
Greetings,
I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.
As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)
So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.
I would consider joining if it was outside of the main storyline. However, I will wish you the best of luck with this idea.
Well it isn't really in the main storyline, I mean we could bugger off to Asshai if that was the general consensus. My thanks for your wishes though.
This sounds intriguing. Count me down as having expressed interest.
I shall, and thank you.
<Snipped quote>
hol up.
SSSSSHHHHH! I meant ninety-eight, just wasn't concentrating.
How hard will it be for a sellsword to get himself a castle in this? I'm willing to settle for less than Highgarden, mind you.
Unless we take it by force and hold it in our own name, avoid being killed by one side or the other, and can actually put forward a reason for keeping it...Not easy.
@Jbcool A band of mercenaries in a Fantasy world... Sound’s familiar....
A common enough trope that I've done before, so I imagine it would - is that interest or just spouting, good sirrah?
@Stormborn You've got one post in two days, so I will politely need to ask for a writing sample if you wish to join, if that's alright? A DM would be fine.
I'll sign on for this. I've played the mercenary theme before, and I'm also a fan of the Hundred Years War and the War of the Roses. I have thoughts on an individual character in the way of sellsword longbowman (and sometime bandit.)
Out of curiosity, would this start in the Seven Kingdoms or in the Free Cities...and is this a new company or an established one?
I will say that I'm personally leaning toward beginning in the Free Cities (or more specifically in the Disputed Lands) as part of an established company - just not a canon one - before it gets decimated somehow (think of the Battle of Hattin, but with survivors I.E. the lot of us), leaving we merry few, we band of brothers, to go...somewhere; could be anywhere from reforming the company to simply heading over to Westeros (assuming we're not already there) and becoming bandits on the King's Road - that's something to work out once/if this gains some traction,I think.
That said I think the starting location is something that can be discussed, assuming we get enough folks on board. As for new or established, I was thinking more of a band of Sellswords, rather than an entire free company - hence the rout of the prologue - but again the size of the group and so on can all be hashed out in the event of this taking off.
If you do have any suggestions of your own, do feel free to put them forth at any point.
The year is two-hundred and ninety-eight after Aegon's Conquest, Robert Baratheon is dead and Eddard Stark - Hand of the King and personal friend of the Usurper - has been imprisoned in King's Landing.
Many within the Seven Kingdoms most assuredly see this as the worst thing to happen since the fall of the House Targaryen - the realm has been thrown into turmoil, battle lines are being drawn, and monarchs and nobles are preparing their levies and warhosts - but there are also those that see this as a time of opportunity, a time to gain reputation, to show ones valour, but most importantly to amass a fortune in coin.
These are the Sellswords, outcasts, exiles and masterless men who have not yet sunk to the depths provided by base banditry but will sell their blades to the highest bidder nonetheless; it is also with a small band of these ill-reputed warriors that tale is concerned...
Welcome, welcome, one and all to A Fistful of Dragons!
I've always had a fascination with the medieval period and, as my degree may have it, with the War of the Roses. I like to think this placed be in good standing with the works of Mr R.R.Martin, or at least the history behind his semi-fantastical world, and I suppose inevitably this should eventually directed me toward a roleplay based in that world...and it has.
So what I would like, if any willing writers could/would oblige me, some dedicated volunteer Sellswords willing to make the best of a bad situation in Westeros.
I intend for this to be a slow-burn down-to-earth roleplay, involving a range of colourful characters - both players and NPCs - on a journey that could potentially take us anywhere in the ASoIaF world.
The main plotline and events of the books, no matter how far or for how long this RP lasts, will generally be used as more of a backdrop - though interaction with POV characters could happen in certain instances.
As far as the television show is concerned, don't even bring it up.
Questions and intentions of interest are both welcome in equal measure, so if there's anyone with either then, please, go for it.
Van Graff had almost finished his third flagon of piss-poor alcohol when the first applicant - albeit one that looked severely confused and not at all like a volunteer - made their way through the poor and into the The Intelligent Guard. Indeed, this...man soon revealed that what Helmut believed to be true was.
"Now-now, sorry friends, it was an accident, I don't know whats here but I mean no trouble and I couldn't cause any even if I wanted to, I'll just be on my way out now if you wouldn't mind."
This nearly gave the Witch Hunter cause to smile, almost. Instead he studied the young man and found him to be the atypical model of a noble born Imperial, a Middenlander from his accent, his hand already seeming to be going for something just out of sight.
Helmut was about to raise a hand to reassure the dumbfounded lad when another figure entered the tavern, this one clearly recognising him from somewhere (possibly one of the posters slapped up around the place?), and he took a moment to recline in his chair and switch his steely gaze from one to the other and back again.
"I see you are both confused," he finally said, his tone oddly friendly for a man of his profession, "but please do not be too alarmed by my friends and I, there is good reason for their presence."
The last part was directed much more at Hans, and, hoping that the boy wouldn't drag out his pistol and unleash it on someone - it would not end well for him - Van Graff opened his arms wide, accompanied by a swish of his coat, and gestured to two seats placed on the opposite side of the table at which he sat.
"Please, seat yourselves. Tell me your names. Would you like a drink? You both look exhausted."
Not waiting to see whether they said yes to the drink, he then gestured to the proprietor of the tavern.
"Three flagons, if you please."
Rutger Helfried, the belligerent owner of the Intelligent Guardsman, gave a long suffering sigh and went to fetch the drinks.
Lord-Captain Horatio Drake - maligned and recently ostracised scion of House Drake - squatted like some grotesque upon his command-throne, his pale and aristocratic features fixed in an expression of extreme pensiveness, while his mind roamed hither and thither; even now he could still recall, all those months ago, the joyous moment when his father had announced that he would become the recipient of his very own Warrant of Trade. That moment had swiftly passed as soon as he had departed holy Terra, given a single vessel from his families miniature armada of ships, enough wealth to show that he was not completely destitute, and once drifting through the empty black of space he had only then fully understood why he been given the Warrant...and how final his exile was. It was true, he had never believed that his hedonistic ways and lack of interest in family matters would amount to anything, but as the twelfth son he soon discovered that he had been termed 'expendable' by his progenitor and selected to spread the honour of his House or die in the attempt - for the House of Drake it was a situation in which they could not lose!
Even the chariot which would allow him to make his way through the cosmos was of the lowest quality, at least in terms of what his father may have been able to gift him. It was a Cobra-class Destroyer, one of the most common ships in the Imperium, one that could accurately be termed as 'mass produced' by shipyards galaxy-wide, five-point-seven megatons of Terran craftsmanship and equipped with a crew of some fifteen-thousand. For ease of use, and to lessen expense, at least ten-thousand of those crew were servitors - blank minded fusions of man and machine, thoughtless slaves to his every whim - the remainder being living beings who made up up his closest advisors, a cadre of Armsmen who bore his family crest on their uniforms, and many he could truthfully not care less about. Perhaps the only advantage of the ship, that he had named the Golden Aquila, was the speed with which it could travel and manoeuvre, and the torpedo tubes that he had removed to make room for larger cargo holds.
Eyes half closed, he listened intently to the soft humming of the ships engine, the vibrations moving from the deafening epicentre of origin and up to his ears; he enjoyed listening to them, for they soothed his constantly frayed nerves and eased his troubled mind. This was because, deep down in his heart and soul, he knew that he was no explorer...no Rogue Trader...he was just some shaving from the block of wood that was his family, whittled away with a knife and thrown onto the fire that was his current state.
"My lord," spoke a voice, seemingly far away but actually right before him, the gruff First Mate of the ship causing him to tumble back into the world of blinking lights and shifting figures, of sights, sounds and Astropath choirs.
"Mister Briggs," acknowledged the slender man in his clipped Terran accent, one slender hand adjusting his deep green uniform while his other brushed the jet-black hair back against his skull, "what is it, that you must disturb me in the middle of my musings?"
First Mate Briggs sighed inwardly, looking at the figure that was his master and sighing again, "forgive me lord, but we have come into orbit of Footfall; I thought you might like to know." Briggs had the air of a former Naval officer, straight-backed and straight-talking, and never yet had he failed House Drake or its offspring.
"Quite right," agreed the attentive noble, "please, let me see it."
Buttons were pressed, and the command-throne whirred about to look directly out of the viewing window, Drake narrowing his eyes into no more than slits as he rested an elbow on a knee. For moments that seemed to last forever he observed the slowly turning station, a mass of metallic colour that formed into all manner of buildings, a great edifice of the Emperor's might emptied in a time of war and never filled again by its rightful inheritors. Briefly he pondered, would the Imperium ever try to reclaim this place? Why, it was only a few lightyears from Port Wander, and he had seen first hand the efficiency of the Imperial Navy.
"Lord?"
He had known this moment would come, the moment when he was required to leave his ship and descend to the station, but it was not as easy as he had imagined it would be to remove himself from the relative safety of his floating fortress and the protectors aboard; he knew he must go though, for he did not know the Koronus Expanse - into which he intended to travel - and knew full well that most of his bridge crew, as handy as they were with a ship, would not be able to assist him with those duties he could not do himself. Finances for example, one of the greatest joys for many Rogue Traders, was something completely alien to him - Horatio Drake spent currency, he did not study it! Then there was protection from raiders and pirates, networks of contacts to form across the Expanse, as well as issues of not entirely legal nature, and so forth. All these things could go smoother, faster and with greater efficiency if he could find personages more capable than he to work for him; in order to do this he had been directed to Footfall, for he was told that in all the sector there was no more wretched hive of scum and villainy.
"Have my shuttle prepared, Mr Briggs."
"Aye lord, as you wish."
It took half an hour for Drake to fully prepare himself, a small shuttle - able to carry Drake and a handful of Armsmen (for the moment) - would be waiting there, bedecked in his House crest and their colours of black and white. Now, bedecked in his deep green uniform, trimmed with black at the epaulettes and lacing - one in the style of a Colonel of the Imperial Guard no less - and his fine trousers with there broad central stripe of crimson, he took long strides through the corridors of his ship; beneath this uniform he wore carapace armour, an auto-stubber on one hip, his family chain-axe, an heirloom handed down from the times before the Horus Heresy, on his other.
Upon entering the hangar, a vast expanse the size of a cathedral, he noticed not for the first time just how small he and the multitude of servitors seemed in comparison. "Indeed," he quipped to himself as he moved, "the Emperor does like to make us feel small..." in the distance he could pick out the shuttle and at least a dozen figures around the open ramp at the rear, his steps echoing loudly as his boots clanged against the metal grating of the floor, noise blocked out by the sheer amount of activity taking place around them; here some servitors were lifting and moving empty storage crates, others making snap repairs on otherwise functioning pieces of venerable technology, and above all the all-pervading thrum of the engine.
Picking out the escort he made his presence felt - the Armsmen moving aside to flank their superior, salutes thrown up by every man of them, each then forming the sign of the Aquila - Horatio greeted the usually aloof men with a smile perfected on women and blue-bloods, one hand gesturing to the shuttle, the other resting on the butt of his stubber.
"So, let us see what Footfall has to offer."
Right, here we are. The Golden Aquila has just arrived in orbit around Footfall, and Horatio is about to begin his search for you wonderful folk! While I get his act together and get to the port, please feel free to post some introductions of your own. You could be lazing in a dive, praying to the God-Emperor, dealing narcotics...whatever tickles your fancy, really. You could also know, or not know, about the arrival of a new Rogue Trader to the station - perhaps even know a couple of details about him or his ship? I'll leave that up to you.
Greetings,
I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.
As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)
So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">Greetings,<br><br>I am Jb; Briton by birth, roleplayer by my own hand, and lover of literature. I am also an amateur historian, a receiver of a Bachelors degree in Ancient and Medieval History - quite a useless degree, actually - and would like to think that I'm a fair, honest and open guy.<br><br>As far as RP'ing goes, I'm pretty open to most things really, all you need to do is ask! :)<br><br>So, if you've ever any questions for me, wish to speak about RP's involving myself or run by myself, or simply feel like a chat, don't be afraid to get in touch.</div>
Vampiretwilight
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NecroKnight
