Romero
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Welcome, one and all, to a shiny new Nation Roleplay. To save launching it in full, only for it to fail to gain any traction, this is an interest check. The idea is to do what it says on the tin, check interest, and hopefully start gathering up the players needed to create the world for you to all inhabit.
The premise of Pro Patria Mori is fairly straightforward. We will begin in the year 1799, and each turn will encompass either one month, or three months, a choice of pacing that I will leave up to the general consensus if we have enough players. The RP will feature stats, in that you will be provided with a Nation Overview, listing the strength and makeup of your army and navy, your economy, and the feelings and issues of your people. Where the player comes in, is to take Actions, with which they can influence their nation. Ranging from lowering taxes for the aristocrats in order to win their favour in the upcoming election, to marching your army across the border to invade your neighbour. The world is your oyster.
Dice will play a part in deciding the success of your Actions, as well as the decisions and actions of the NPC's that will populate the map, and I, as GM, will roll the dice behind the scenes. The Quality of various aspects of your nation will impart modifiers upon these dice rolls, but even the finest nation of it's era can fall foul to the fickle ways of Lady Luck.
The setting of the RP will be a map of Europe as we know it, but we will be existing in an alternate world. Obviously it will be easy to find yourself inspired by the real-life nations that occupied Europe at the dawn of the 19th Century, but I do ask that the names of 'France' or 'Italy' etcetera do not make an appearance. You may be inspired, but you could also let loose your imagination!
So I've given you my best pitch, now the rest is up to you. Express your interest if the idea grabs you. Ask any questions that you may have if you're not quite sure. And to those that aren't gripped, thank you for taking the time to read, and good luck in the rest of your Roleplaying.
The premise of Pro Patria Mori is fairly straightforward. We will begin in the year 1799, and each turn will encompass either one month, or three months, a choice of pacing that I will leave up to the general consensus if we have enough players. The RP will feature stats, in that you will be provided with a Nation Overview, listing the strength and makeup of your army and navy, your economy, and the feelings and issues of your people. Where the player comes in, is to take Actions, with which they can influence their nation. Ranging from lowering taxes for the aristocrats in order to win their favour in the upcoming election, to marching your army across the border to invade your neighbour. The world is your oyster.
Dice will play a part in deciding the success of your Actions, as well as the decisions and actions of the NPC's that will populate the map, and I, as GM, will roll the dice behind the scenes. The Quality of various aspects of your nation will impart modifiers upon these dice rolls, but even the finest nation of it's era can fall foul to the fickle ways of Lady Luck.
The setting of the RP will be a map of Europe as we know it, but we will be existing in an alternate world. Obviously it will be easy to find yourself inspired by the real-life nations that occupied Europe at the dawn of the 19th Century, but I do ask that the names of 'France' or 'Italy' etcetera do not make an appearance. You may be inspired, but you could also let loose your imagination!
So I've given you my best pitch, now the rest is up to you. Express your interest if the idea grabs you. Ask any questions that you may have if you're not quite sure. And to those that aren't gripped, thank you for taking the time to read, and good luck in the rest of your Roleplaying.
The sun was still too bright, and Alcello was still gasping for breath as he glared at the two hoplites closing in on him. He was oblivious to any of his new companions, or of any of the other hoplites, his only focus was the two soldiers that faced him. They were within paces of him when one of the men was suddenly sent sprawling to the ground, weapons falling forgotten to the floor as he desperately clutched the shaft of the spear that had punched through his gut.
Alcello didn’t have time to look for the thrower of the spear, and even as he watched, the struck hoplite began clambering to his feet. Before the soldier could gather his weapons again, he was dead. An olive skinned figure, standing a few inches shorter than Alcello, his forearms and face shrouded by wraps, stepped from the dust. A long, curved blade flashed in the light for an instant, slashing open the downed hoplites throat. The body sprawled back to the dirt, blood already staining the ground, but Alcello had no time to celebrate. The remaining hoplite, still advancing despite the gash in the side of his neck that had already soaked his armour with blood, lunged forward, his spear tip driven towards Alcello.
The thrust was weak, the soldier’s strength draining as quickly as the blood pouring from his wound, but Alcello was still winded, his movements slow, and he barely managed to knock aside the spear. Another thrust, but again Alcello was able to knock it aside. The balance of the fight was quickly turned in the Mennonite’s favour, as he caught his breath, the ringing in his ears faded, while the hoplite only got weaker, even the coursing adrenaline unable to keep his body moving. Alcello managed a weak smile as the third spear thrust, almost feeble in it’s strength, and the kestaphos easily grasped the shaft of it, and with one quick move pulled it from the hoplite’s weak grasp.
The Kothar soldier staggered forwards, his strength all but spent, and as Alcello stepped to the side, the hoplite fell to his knees, the shield clattering to the ground. Alcello was a merciful man, and he didn’t hesitate, shifting his grip on his sword before driving it down through the back of the hoplite’s neck, killing him outright. Placing his foot on the centre of the dead man’s back, Alcello wrenched his blade free, wiping it clean for an instant on the bloodstained cloak of the soldier before turning to survey the chaotic scene that surrounded him.
He saw the ranks of more hoplites, hardened warriors in dark armour. He heard the horn as it echoed over the cacophony of battle that was swelling all around them. He saw the hulking champion, the crimson cape, the already blood-stained kopis clasped in his hand. Alcello had already sheathed his sword, quickly reaching for his bow, when Farrin turned to him, and Alcello hesitated.
Taking the reins pushed towards him, Alcello nodded quickly, reaching a hand up to try and calm the panicking horse as he carefully listened to Farrin’s instruction, committing them to memory. Tucking the jewelled dagger into his belt, Alcello carefully took the gem, cradling it with his free hand as he watched Farrin turn towards the champion, pulling his sword free as he met the challenge.
Alcello moved quickly, his thoughts focussed as he retrieved his cloak, pulling it about himself before mounting the wild-eyed horse. His movements were natural to him, he had been all but born onto a horses back, spending his childhood in the saddle, as any horsemen of Mennon did. Pulling the horse about with a quick pull on the reins, Alcello gave out a wordless cry as he squeezed the panting torso of the horse between his knees, pushing it onwards.
The hooves pounded on the dry dirt as the horse galloped through the towns narrow streets, away from the crash and roar of battle. He did not turn to see if any of his new companions were following him, he did not even turn to see Farrin’s fate. He had his mission, and he pressed his body low against the horse as it carried him towards Roshad.
Alcello didn’t have time to look for the thrower of the spear, and even as he watched, the struck hoplite began clambering to his feet. Before the soldier could gather his weapons again, he was dead. An olive skinned figure, standing a few inches shorter than Alcello, his forearms and face shrouded by wraps, stepped from the dust. A long, curved blade flashed in the light for an instant, slashing open the downed hoplites throat. The body sprawled back to the dirt, blood already staining the ground, but Alcello had no time to celebrate. The remaining hoplite, still advancing despite the gash in the side of his neck that had already soaked his armour with blood, lunged forward, his spear tip driven towards Alcello.
The thrust was weak, the soldier’s strength draining as quickly as the blood pouring from his wound, but Alcello was still winded, his movements slow, and he barely managed to knock aside the spear. Another thrust, but again Alcello was able to knock it aside. The balance of the fight was quickly turned in the Mennonite’s favour, as he caught his breath, the ringing in his ears faded, while the hoplite only got weaker, even the coursing adrenaline unable to keep his body moving. Alcello managed a weak smile as the third spear thrust, almost feeble in it’s strength, and the kestaphos easily grasped the shaft of it, and with one quick move pulled it from the hoplite’s weak grasp.
The Kothar soldier staggered forwards, his strength all but spent, and as Alcello stepped to the side, the hoplite fell to his knees, the shield clattering to the ground. Alcello was a merciful man, and he didn’t hesitate, shifting his grip on his sword before driving it down through the back of the hoplite’s neck, killing him outright. Placing his foot on the centre of the dead man’s back, Alcello wrenched his blade free, wiping it clean for an instant on the bloodstained cloak of the soldier before turning to survey the chaotic scene that surrounded him.
He saw the ranks of more hoplites, hardened warriors in dark armour. He heard the horn as it echoed over the cacophony of battle that was swelling all around them. He saw the hulking champion, the crimson cape, the already blood-stained kopis clasped in his hand. Alcello had already sheathed his sword, quickly reaching for his bow, when Farrin turned to him, and Alcello hesitated.
Taking the reins pushed towards him, Alcello nodded quickly, reaching a hand up to try and calm the panicking horse as he carefully listened to Farrin’s instruction, committing them to memory. Tucking the jewelled dagger into his belt, Alcello carefully took the gem, cradling it with his free hand as he watched Farrin turn towards the champion, pulling his sword free as he met the challenge.
Alcello moved quickly, his thoughts focussed as he retrieved his cloak, pulling it about himself before mounting the wild-eyed horse. His movements were natural to him, he had been all but born onto a horses back, spending his childhood in the saddle, as any horsemen of Mennon did. Pulling the horse about with a quick pull on the reins, Alcello gave out a wordless cry as he squeezed the panting torso of the horse between his knees, pushing it onwards.
The hooves pounded on the dry dirt as the horse galloped through the towns narrow streets, away from the crash and roar of battle. He did not turn to see if any of his new companions were following him, he did not even turn to see Farrin’s fate. He had his mission, and he pressed his body low against the horse as it carried him towards Roshad.
Alcello’s bow was in his hand at the first screams, and by the time the first fleeing peasant reached the tavern, he already had an arrow notched. Looking past the panicked townsfolk as they streamed past the small group of adventurers, Alcello looked back across the town, and grimaced as he saw the banners of Kothar quickly moving nearer. He had already begun to pull back the string of his bow when Farrin spoke, and he couldn’t help but see the wisdom in the other kestaphos’ words, lowering his bow.
Fighting was already consuming the town, the Mennonite survivors fighting desperate last-ditch battles against the Kothar army, but Alcello could tell that it was all futile. He couldn’t tell if the fires that were already starting to spread across the town had been started by the invading Kotharan’s, by the Mennonites in their attempted defence, or by the town people themselves, seeking to deny anyone from claiming their homes. Alcello moved beside Farrin and he could hear from the noise behind him that the others followed, but he still carried his bow, the arrow still notched as they ran through the streets, his eyes darting around every corner, ready for whatever might come at them.
Surprisingly, they made it to the stables safely, even as the town was consumed by the battle, but as they moved to free the horses, and secure their escape, their safety was quickly put in jeopardy. Alcello saw the hoplites an instant before Farrin did, and he already had his bow up by the time Farrin had stopped in his tracks.
He put the arrow through the first man’s throat, before he even had time to register the unusual group, or to raise his shield. Staggering back, the hoplite desperately clutched at his neck, his shield and spear dropped to the floor, long forgotten as he desperately clutched at the grievous wound. He struggled for a moment, and then he was dead, falling to the ground, blood already pooling in the churned mud of the village streets. Alcello was already reaching to pull another arrow from his quiver when he hesitated, cocking his head slightly. A distant thundering echoed above the cacophony of battle that surrounded them, a strange trumpeting that Alcello could swear he recognised, and then a house exploded.
Alcello had only seen an elephant a handful of times, and they were wild creatures, not the war elephant that burst through the house, crashing through the side of the Kothar soldiers as they struggled to form up. One man was crushed outright, and several others knocked off their feet as dust filled the air. Alcello had fought beasts larger and wilder than the animal that charged past him, but it was still an awe-inspiring sight, and for a moment he was transfixed by it, catching sight of a dark figure slipping from his saddle upon the beast. But the sudden charging of the Baccum man pulled him back to reality, and he quickly slung his bow away again.
He could hear the horses screaming and neighing wildly in the stables, panicked by the roar of noise outside of their housings, the smell of burning, and the stench of death in the air. If the group were to ever dream of achieving Farrin’s quest, then they would need to get out of the town alive, and if they were to do that, then Alcello knew that they needed the horses. He doubted any other members of the group had elephants that they could ride in on. But the kestaphos had only made it a few strides towards the stables when a figure stepped out of the dust. Clearly the Kothar soldiers were well-trained, not the type of men to fall apart even in the face of wild elephants, but that did not surprise Alcello. When he had been a younger man, before his calling had become a hunter of nightmarish creatures, he had fought roaming soldiers that threatened his people, and he knew that Kothar bred them tough.
The hoplite glared at the hooded man, his shield raised, and his spear levelled towards the stranger’s chest. Before Alcello could react, another figure stepped from the dust. Another hoplite. The two stood side by side, their shields coming together to create a miniature version of the phalanx’s that had made the Kothar forces notorious. Miniature, but still deadly. Alcello cursed under his breath. He did not know if his new companions would come to his aid, but he knew if he was to die here, slain by the foul Kothar, then he would die as a kestaphos, not some cloaked stranger. With a shrug of his shoulders, Alcello let his cloak fall to the ground, his batter lamellar armour catching the midday sun as he pulled his sword from it’s sheath across his back. He gave a nod of respect to his two opponents, but neither of them acknowledged him, moving towards him as a unit, their spears levelled.
The first thrust came from his right, and Alcello’s sword flashed as he knocked it aside. He was already moving to evade the second, and it glanced off his armour as it was driven towards him from the left. Catching the shaft of the second spear with his free hand, Alcello pulled on it with a sharp movement, slamming his shoulder against the onrushing shield of the hoplite and sending the man staggering back a pace. A pace was all Alcello needed. Their formation broken for an instant, he turned sharply to face the soldier to his right. He barely managed to knock aside the spear thrust, feeling it tear through the lamellar just beneath his left shoulder, a sudden searing pain as the point scratched across the skin beneath, but he ignored it, he was where he wanted to be.
The hoplite’s greatest strength is their ability to keep their foes at range, using their spears in great numbers to present an unassailable wall of sharpened metal. But now that Alcello was less than a pace from the hoplite, the spear was suddenly useless, the reach of it too long to be brought to bear. But for Alcello, he had a chakram in his hand, pulled from his sleeve, and it revelled in the desperate struggle of close quarters.
Realising the danger, the hoplite pushed forward with his shield, attempting to knock Alcello back with the heavy force of it, but the Mennon warrior twisted his body, letting it roll past him, and giving him the fraction of a chance that he needed. The chakram flashed in the air, and it cut deeply into the neck of the hoplite, the sharpened steel biting into the exposed flesh between the man’s helmet and his cuirass. To the soldier’s credit, he didn’t scream, nor did he fall. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the adrenaline flooding his veins dulling the pain, the Kothar man staggered back, raising his shield again even as his companion moved to his aid.
All this happened in an instant, and Alcello had almost forgotten the second hoplite, so focussed was he on his own assault, and it can only have been by the grace of Alkon that Alcello wasn’t killed outright where he stood. But the spear thrust that would have ended his life glanced off a plate of his lamellar armour, driving Alcello back a pace, the impact like being struck by a hammer rather than punching through his chest. The breath was driven from Alcello’s lungs, and he desperately gasped for breath as he staggered back, his vision suddenly too bright, the noise around him muffled, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He raised his sword as best he could, glaring at the two hoplites as they formed up again, spears levelled. The injured soldier was bleeding heavily from the wound on his neck, but he did not falter, and the two hoplites closed in on the injured Alcello.
Fighting was already consuming the town, the Mennonite survivors fighting desperate last-ditch battles against the Kothar army, but Alcello could tell that it was all futile. He couldn’t tell if the fires that were already starting to spread across the town had been started by the invading Kotharan’s, by the Mennonites in their attempted defence, or by the town people themselves, seeking to deny anyone from claiming their homes. Alcello moved beside Farrin and he could hear from the noise behind him that the others followed, but he still carried his bow, the arrow still notched as they ran through the streets, his eyes darting around every corner, ready for whatever might come at them.
Surprisingly, they made it to the stables safely, even as the town was consumed by the battle, but as they moved to free the horses, and secure their escape, their safety was quickly put in jeopardy. Alcello saw the hoplites an instant before Farrin did, and he already had his bow up by the time Farrin had stopped in his tracks.
He put the arrow through the first man’s throat, before he even had time to register the unusual group, or to raise his shield. Staggering back, the hoplite desperately clutched at his neck, his shield and spear dropped to the floor, long forgotten as he desperately clutched at the grievous wound. He struggled for a moment, and then he was dead, falling to the ground, blood already pooling in the churned mud of the village streets. Alcello was already reaching to pull another arrow from his quiver when he hesitated, cocking his head slightly. A distant thundering echoed above the cacophony of battle that surrounded them, a strange trumpeting that Alcello could swear he recognised, and then a house exploded.
Alcello had only seen an elephant a handful of times, and they were wild creatures, not the war elephant that burst through the house, crashing through the side of the Kothar soldiers as they struggled to form up. One man was crushed outright, and several others knocked off their feet as dust filled the air. Alcello had fought beasts larger and wilder than the animal that charged past him, but it was still an awe-inspiring sight, and for a moment he was transfixed by it, catching sight of a dark figure slipping from his saddle upon the beast. But the sudden charging of the Baccum man pulled him back to reality, and he quickly slung his bow away again.
He could hear the horses screaming and neighing wildly in the stables, panicked by the roar of noise outside of their housings, the smell of burning, and the stench of death in the air. If the group were to ever dream of achieving Farrin’s quest, then they would need to get out of the town alive, and if they were to do that, then Alcello knew that they needed the horses. He doubted any other members of the group had elephants that they could ride in on. But the kestaphos had only made it a few strides towards the stables when a figure stepped out of the dust. Clearly the Kothar soldiers were well-trained, not the type of men to fall apart even in the face of wild elephants, but that did not surprise Alcello. When he had been a younger man, before his calling had become a hunter of nightmarish creatures, he had fought roaming soldiers that threatened his people, and he knew that Kothar bred them tough.
The hoplite glared at the hooded man, his shield raised, and his spear levelled towards the stranger’s chest. Before Alcello could react, another figure stepped from the dust. Another hoplite. The two stood side by side, their shields coming together to create a miniature version of the phalanx’s that had made the Kothar forces notorious. Miniature, but still deadly. Alcello cursed under his breath. He did not know if his new companions would come to his aid, but he knew if he was to die here, slain by the foul Kothar, then he would die as a kestaphos, not some cloaked stranger. With a shrug of his shoulders, Alcello let his cloak fall to the ground, his batter lamellar armour catching the midday sun as he pulled his sword from it’s sheath across his back. He gave a nod of respect to his two opponents, but neither of them acknowledged him, moving towards him as a unit, their spears levelled.
The first thrust came from his right, and Alcello’s sword flashed as he knocked it aside. He was already moving to evade the second, and it glanced off his armour as it was driven towards him from the left. Catching the shaft of the second spear with his free hand, Alcello pulled on it with a sharp movement, slamming his shoulder against the onrushing shield of the hoplite and sending the man staggering back a pace. A pace was all Alcello needed. Their formation broken for an instant, he turned sharply to face the soldier to his right. He barely managed to knock aside the spear thrust, feeling it tear through the lamellar just beneath his left shoulder, a sudden searing pain as the point scratched across the skin beneath, but he ignored it, he was where he wanted to be.
The hoplite’s greatest strength is their ability to keep their foes at range, using their spears in great numbers to present an unassailable wall of sharpened metal. But now that Alcello was less than a pace from the hoplite, the spear was suddenly useless, the reach of it too long to be brought to bear. But for Alcello, he had a chakram in his hand, pulled from his sleeve, and it revelled in the desperate struggle of close quarters.
Realising the danger, the hoplite pushed forward with his shield, attempting to knock Alcello back with the heavy force of it, but the Mennon warrior twisted his body, letting it roll past him, and giving him the fraction of a chance that he needed. The chakram flashed in the air, and it cut deeply into the neck of the hoplite, the sharpened steel biting into the exposed flesh between the man’s helmet and his cuirass. To the soldier’s credit, he didn’t scream, nor did he fall. Gritting his teeth against the pain, the adrenaline flooding his veins dulling the pain, the Kothar man staggered back, raising his shield again even as his companion moved to his aid.
All this happened in an instant, and Alcello had almost forgotten the second hoplite, so focussed was he on his own assault, and it can only have been by the grace of Alkon that Alcello wasn’t killed outright where he stood. But the spear thrust that would have ended his life glanced off a plate of his lamellar armour, driving Alcello back a pace, the impact like being struck by a hammer rather than punching through his chest. The breath was driven from Alcello’s lungs, and he desperately gasped for breath as he staggered back, his vision suddenly too bright, the noise around him muffled, and the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. He raised his sword as best he could, glaring at the two hoplites as they formed up again, spears levelled. The injured soldier was bleeding heavily from the wound on his neck, but he did not falter, and the two hoplites closed in on the injured Alcello.
The once quiet ruins of Silverwick had burst to life, echoing with the cacophony of battle. A shout from Salvio’s side caught his attention, and he turned in time to see a short, strangely dressed female, crouching for cover behind a fallen log, a reminder of the forest that struggled to reclaim the shattered stone of the ruins. One glance at the ethereal, glowing orb that rose above her told Salvio that this woman was another of the accursed ‘chosen’. He watched the lithe figure for a moment, long enough to see eldritch lightning burst from her pale hand, crackling through the air and knocking down a bowman that had stepped from the treeline. Salvio’s stomach turned, despite the death that surrounded him, it was the sight of this unholy magic that sickened him most. For an instant, he questioned himself, his journey to guide these souls away from the dark. Were they not already too far fallen, would it not be best to destroy the evil, rather than try to save it? Before these thoughts could form themselves together, Salvio heard the voice echoing through his head, a burst of warmth from the totem that hung around his neck.
“It is not your place to judge, Salvio. The gods have spoken. You are the hosen instrument of their will, of my will.”
Squaring his jaw, Salvio managed to tear his gaze away from the white-haired figure, even as she moved towards the footmen emerging from the trees on their flank. Turning to follow the remaining riders, he saw them charge past another female figure, this one wielding a wickedly bladed weapon, the likes of which he had only seen a few times. While the exotically dressed woman had charged towards one flank, this one, more conventionally dressed, moved towards the other flank.
As Salvio’s gaze followed the two horsemen, they seemed to split up. One wheeled back towards the road, while the second turned and began to charge, Salvio catching sight of the tall, hooded figure an instant after the horseman did. Salvio could see the figure hesitate, a hand subconsciously gripping a bow, and his brow furrowed. There was a sudden rush of movement, and a metallic crack that echoed above the roar of battle as the shaft of an arrow seemed to sprout like some macabre flower from the rider’s face, the lifeless body remaining mounted for an instant before crashing to the ground. The lean figure fired two more shots off in quick succession, and Salvio followed their flight across the remains of their camp. The final mounted rider crumpled from his saddle, and another horsemen, dismounted and clutching at an arrow already buried in his leg, suddenly fell still.
Turning to find the other cavalry, fearing a thundering charge at any moment, Salvio saw that all the riders lay dead, their horses either fled or dying alongside them. A sudden pounding of hooves demanded Salvio’s attention, and he turned in time to see the bandit, the same man that had seemingly dematerialized at the onset of the battle and now somehow mounted on a warhorse, knock down a soldier with a hatchet.
A sudden rush of wind buffeted Salvio, and some sense led Salvio to turn and look up towards the rooftop of a ruined townhouse, a mansion that made up one side of their makeshift camp. A figure stood silhouetted by the early morning light, and he recognised the figure of Agatho, longbow clutched in his hands, the string pulled back and an arrow notched. The mercenary had clearly not lied about his experience, even as Salvio watched, he loosed an arrow and notched another in a smooth, almost natural movement. Satisfied there were at least a handful of their party that had had the sense to take up vantage points, Salvio turned back to those members that had embroiled themselves in the vicious melee.
Salvio could only watch in disbelief as a stocky Northman wrenched a tree from the very ground, and brandish it as a weapon as he charged towards the group of footmen that had encircled the brunette female figure, who was fighting valiantly with her sword-staff, despite the overwhelming odds. The two of the footmen that noticed the bizarre sight of the Northman wielding the tree broke away from the group to face him, but were shortly knocked to the floor as the trunk was thrown towards them with an almighty heave. Salvio was astounded by the sheer brutality of the Northman, as he pummelled one of the fallen soldiers until his head was caved in, shattered bone catching the morning sun as the short figure finally let up his assault.
All this happened in an instant, and Salvio, assessing what remained of the conflict, could see that his hammers would be needed again if the group was to prevail. On one flank, the brunette and Northman faced seven footmen, although even as Salvio looked, an arrow punched through the throat of one of the soldiers, sending them crumpling to the floor, desperately clutching the grievous wound. On the other flank, the white-haired witch stood alone against four men, and was hard-pressed, a spear thrust grazing her leg despite her best attempts to avoid it. He grimaced as he realised that he had to go to her aid, despite her being the very antithesis of what he despised, what he prayed to see purged from existence. Almost as if it sensed these thoughts, the voice once more echoed through his head.
“She is strong, and she cannot be lost if your quest is to be achieved. Go, Salvio. Now!”
Despite the pain from his ribs that every breath brought, Salvio gritted his teeth and set off at a lumbering run towards the footmen that were attempting to encircle the witch. As he approached, he moved quicker at the sight of a spear stabbing into her shoulder, but almost faltered as fire poured from her hand and reduced the wielder of the spear to little more than ash. The acrid smell of burning filled Salvio’s nose, overpowering even the foul stench of death, but he continued his run.
Arrows flew past him, although he did not know which of his companions had loosed them. The first grazed the neck of the soldier nearest
Salvio, causing the man to cry out, staggering back as he wheeled about to look for the bowmen. The footmen’s wild eyes found the charging figure of Salvio instead, and the look of confusion and shock was still etched across his face when the hammer slammed into the side of his head with a sickening thud. Pulling his weapon free from the shattered remains of the man’s skull, Salvio let the corpse crumple slowly to the floor as he continued his charge.
Out of the corner of his eye, Salvio could have sworn he saw the glowing orb burn crimson red, but he was focussed on the soldier in front of him. A grizzled man, clad in hardened leather armour and wielding a wicked-looking hatchet and a battered, wooden shield. He was obviously a veteran, and he had turned to face Salvio, the new threat. Brow furrowing, Salvio swung the hammer, clutched in his right hand, in a sweeping arc. As he had expected, the soldier raised his shield to block it, staggering back a step at the force of the blow, but Salvio was already swinging with the hammer in his left.
To his surprise, the footmen twisted his body, and pushed back hard with the shield, knocking Salvio off balance enough for his swing to go astray and miss it’s mark. Forced to take a step back to regain his balance, Salvio righted himself as the soldier launched a ferocious attack with his axe. Barely moving out of the way quick enough, he couldn’t avoid the heavy frame of the shield as it slammed into his chest and face, sending him sprawling back onto the cracked stone paving. Feeling blood already beginning to flow from his nose, and tasting the iron of it in his mouth, Salvio felt rage flowing through him, his jaw squared as he let out a wordless roar.
Both hammers slammed into the earth, and the stone erupted apart. The leering smile quickly faded from the soldier’s face, as his advance faltered, the very floor beneath his feet crumbling apart, even as the paving beneath Salvio rose up and pushed him back to his feet. The footmen dropped to one knee, losing his balance as the floor continued to move beneath his feet. Salvio’s eyes burned as he let his momentum carry him forward, bringing both of the hammers down as one. The footmen was still struggling to his feet, only to be driven back to the ground, the back of his head caving in from the sheer force of the blow. Blood still flowing down his face, Salvio slammed the hammers down again and again, until there was nothing but a pulp left of the veteran’s head. Panting for air, it was only the voice that brought him back to reality.
“Salvio! You are not done here!”
Grimacing, Salvio rose to his feet, wiping the blood from his face as best he could, before squaring himself, hammers clenched in his fists as he stood, side by side with the foul witch, glaring at the two footmen that remained.
“It is not your place to judge, Salvio. The gods have spoken. You are the hosen instrument of their will, of my will.”
Squaring his jaw, Salvio managed to tear his gaze away from the white-haired figure, even as she moved towards the footmen emerging from the trees on their flank. Turning to follow the remaining riders, he saw them charge past another female figure, this one wielding a wickedly bladed weapon, the likes of which he had only seen a few times. While the exotically dressed woman had charged towards one flank, this one, more conventionally dressed, moved towards the other flank.
As Salvio’s gaze followed the two horsemen, they seemed to split up. One wheeled back towards the road, while the second turned and began to charge, Salvio catching sight of the tall, hooded figure an instant after the horseman did. Salvio could see the figure hesitate, a hand subconsciously gripping a bow, and his brow furrowed. There was a sudden rush of movement, and a metallic crack that echoed above the roar of battle as the shaft of an arrow seemed to sprout like some macabre flower from the rider’s face, the lifeless body remaining mounted for an instant before crashing to the ground. The lean figure fired two more shots off in quick succession, and Salvio followed their flight across the remains of their camp. The final mounted rider crumpled from his saddle, and another horsemen, dismounted and clutching at an arrow already buried in his leg, suddenly fell still.
Turning to find the other cavalry, fearing a thundering charge at any moment, Salvio saw that all the riders lay dead, their horses either fled or dying alongside them. A sudden pounding of hooves demanded Salvio’s attention, and he turned in time to see the bandit, the same man that had seemingly dematerialized at the onset of the battle and now somehow mounted on a warhorse, knock down a soldier with a hatchet.
A sudden rush of wind buffeted Salvio, and some sense led Salvio to turn and look up towards the rooftop of a ruined townhouse, a mansion that made up one side of their makeshift camp. A figure stood silhouetted by the early morning light, and he recognised the figure of Agatho, longbow clutched in his hands, the string pulled back and an arrow notched. The mercenary had clearly not lied about his experience, even as Salvio watched, he loosed an arrow and notched another in a smooth, almost natural movement. Satisfied there were at least a handful of their party that had had the sense to take up vantage points, Salvio turned back to those members that had embroiled themselves in the vicious melee.
Salvio could only watch in disbelief as a stocky Northman wrenched a tree from the very ground, and brandish it as a weapon as he charged towards the group of footmen that had encircled the brunette female figure, who was fighting valiantly with her sword-staff, despite the overwhelming odds. The two of the footmen that noticed the bizarre sight of the Northman wielding the tree broke away from the group to face him, but were shortly knocked to the floor as the trunk was thrown towards them with an almighty heave. Salvio was astounded by the sheer brutality of the Northman, as he pummelled one of the fallen soldiers until his head was caved in, shattered bone catching the morning sun as the short figure finally let up his assault.
All this happened in an instant, and Salvio, assessing what remained of the conflict, could see that his hammers would be needed again if the group was to prevail. On one flank, the brunette and Northman faced seven footmen, although even as Salvio looked, an arrow punched through the throat of one of the soldiers, sending them crumpling to the floor, desperately clutching the grievous wound. On the other flank, the white-haired witch stood alone against four men, and was hard-pressed, a spear thrust grazing her leg despite her best attempts to avoid it. He grimaced as he realised that he had to go to her aid, despite her being the very antithesis of what he despised, what he prayed to see purged from existence. Almost as if it sensed these thoughts, the voice once more echoed through his head.
“She is strong, and she cannot be lost if your quest is to be achieved. Go, Salvio. Now!”
Despite the pain from his ribs that every breath brought, Salvio gritted his teeth and set off at a lumbering run towards the footmen that were attempting to encircle the witch. As he approached, he moved quicker at the sight of a spear stabbing into her shoulder, but almost faltered as fire poured from her hand and reduced the wielder of the spear to little more than ash. The acrid smell of burning filled Salvio’s nose, overpowering even the foul stench of death, but he continued his run.
Arrows flew past him, although he did not know which of his companions had loosed them. The first grazed the neck of the soldier nearest
Salvio, causing the man to cry out, staggering back as he wheeled about to look for the bowmen. The footmen’s wild eyes found the charging figure of Salvio instead, and the look of confusion and shock was still etched across his face when the hammer slammed into the side of his head with a sickening thud. Pulling his weapon free from the shattered remains of the man’s skull, Salvio let the corpse crumple slowly to the floor as he continued his charge.
Out of the corner of his eye, Salvio could have sworn he saw the glowing orb burn crimson red, but he was focussed on the soldier in front of him. A grizzled man, clad in hardened leather armour and wielding a wicked-looking hatchet and a battered, wooden shield. He was obviously a veteran, and he had turned to face Salvio, the new threat. Brow furrowing, Salvio swung the hammer, clutched in his right hand, in a sweeping arc. As he had expected, the soldier raised his shield to block it, staggering back a step at the force of the blow, but Salvio was already swinging with the hammer in his left.
To his surprise, the footmen twisted his body, and pushed back hard with the shield, knocking Salvio off balance enough for his swing to go astray and miss it’s mark. Forced to take a step back to regain his balance, Salvio righted himself as the soldier launched a ferocious attack with his axe. Barely moving out of the way quick enough, he couldn’t avoid the heavy frame of the shield as it slammed into his chest and face, sending him sprawling back onto the cracked stone paving. Feeling blood already beginning to flow from his nose, and tasting the iron of it in his mouth, Salvio felt rage flowing through him, his jaw squared as he let out a wordless roar.
Both hammers slammed into the earth, and the stone erupted apart. The leering smile quickly faded from the soldier’s face, as his advance faltered, the very floor beneath his feet crumbling apart, even as the paving beneath Salvio rose up and pushed him back to his feet. The footmen dropped to one knee, losing his balance as the floor continued to move beneath his feet. Salvio’s eyes burned as he let his momentum carry him forward, bringing both of the hammers down as one. The footmen was still struggling to his feet, only to be driven back to the ground, the back of his head caving in from the sheer force of the blow. Blood still flowing down his face, Salvio slammed the hammers down again and again, until there was nothing but a pulp left of the veteran’s head. Panting for air, it was only the voice that brought him back to reality.
“Salvio! You are not done here!”
Grimacing, Salvio rose to his feet, wiping the blood from his face as best he could, before squaring himself, hammers clenched in his fists as he stood, side by side with the foul witch, glaring at the two footmen that remained.
Alcello Bas had been in the town for hours. He had arrived at dawn, before the fighting at the edge of the town had erupted into the crescendo that it had by now become. The town was all but deserted, and Alcello had even helped the remaining inhabitants to barricade the tavern, keeping the hood over his face as he did, despite there being few who would know his face. Once the people of the town had taken refuge, Alcello had found himself a seat opposite the tavern, and pulled his pipe from his cloak, lighting it and sedately smoking it as he watched the sun climb higher in the sky.
The noise of the battle had only increased as the hours had passed, but if Alcello was phased by the screams of dying men, and the cacophony of war, he did not show it. He had watched the deserters skulk into the town, nursing their wounds and hiding in the abandoned houses like the rats they were. Most of them had wisely ignored the hooded man smoking his pipe, and the two that hadn’t lay dead in the street, looks of shock and confusion frozen across their faces.
Alcello had watched Farrin walk slowly into the town and take his own seat, in the shadow of the tavern. He recognised the man almost at once, for his very name had been etched into the legends of the kestaphos. Farrin had faded since his time as a hero, his hair gone, and his legendary sword arm cut away. But Alcello had heard the songs of how Farrin had lost his arm, of how it had been lost in a titanic struggle with some unspeakable monster, and that Farrin had made it pay with it’s life. To Alcello, seeing the old man evoked his youth, his times studying the legends of the kestaphos, of Farrin, of his father, of the long line of great warriors that had taken on the name and defended their people against whatever horrors the Cradle threw at them.
A twinge of regret tweaked Alcello’s hardened heart, and his hand subconsciously gripped the handle of his pipe as he remembered the bloodshed of his people, carnage and slaughter flashing before his eyes until he drove his memories down again, squaring his jaw as he allowed himself to be distracted by the strange figures that began to gather around Farrin.
He was surprised to see two men clearly from Baccum join Farrin outside the tavern. Alcello had travelled across the length and width of Baccum over his years of hunting, and he knew the culture that existed behind the façade of savagery, but both men matched that façade. One stood tall, heavily muscled despite his thin figure, with straggled blonde hair and barely clothed, his tanned skin covered with arching tattoos. What was most curious were the two spears that the man carried, and Alcello frowned slightly as he took a long drag on his pipe.
The other Baccum man was nearly just as tall, tattoos also covering his body, the scars crossing the bands of muscle beneath the hardened skin. Lightly armoured, the man seemed constantly ready to move, almost like some predator waiting to pounce, and Alcello couldn’t help but be put on edge, glancing at the large swords the man carried.
The gem that Farrin pulled from his pouch caught Alcello’s eyes, but he still didn’t move, preferring to watch how events unfolded from his seat across the street. It was clear that it was not just his eye that the gem caught, as the taller of the two Baccum men challenged Farrin’s story, although despite himself Alcello found himself agreeing with the questions.
Smiling slightly as Farrin rose to his feet and rebuked the Baccum spearman, but at the mention of the great harrow, Alcello’s blood ran cold. He had seen creatures and monsters that could only have been dragged from the deepest and darkest depths of hell, and he had slain them, driving his blade through their twisted and corrupted flesh until they had finally stopped their writhing. There were few alive who better knew the horrors that could drag themselves into the cradle, and at the sound of Farrin’s suggestion of sealing the hellscape, Alcello’s mind was made up. He would join this quest, and lend his sword to whatever missions that Farrin gave the obscure group.
As Alcello went to move, he hesitated as he saw another figure join the group, even as the other Baccum male jibed at Farrin. The newcomer was lithe, and her female form looked fragile next to the two towering warriors that she moved to stand beside, but one glance at the wickedly bladed Naginata she carried gave Alcello an idea that the young woman was able to fend for herself. Glad that he wouldn’t be dealing with the butting of heads of the two headstrong Baccum warriors for the whole journey, Alcello was about to move to join the group when a fourth figure moved into his field of vision, and his blood froze in his veins.
Stunningly beautiful with fiery red hair highlighting her amazing body, the woman looked like she had stepped out of any man’s dreams, but for Alcello she was straight out of his nightmares. The mark of the Cult of Marra, carved into her stomach, had been burnt into his mind ever since he had slain the shaman that had butchered his people. He watched as the woman all but slithered her way into the group, and a chill ran down his spine as he watched her take the gem from the taller Baccum's grasp, just moments after Farrin had passed it to him.
Hand moving into his sleeve to grasp the handle of one of his chakram’s, Alcello extinguished his pipe and tucked it into his cloak, rising to his feet and moving to join the group, his face still mostly shrouded by his hood. He glared at the blood cultist for a moment, having to hold himself back from pulling his blade free and lunging at her, before he spoke, raising his voice slightly to be heard.
“This is a ragtag group of adventurers if ever I saw one. Perhaps it is best we let our wise friend here tell us more of his quest, rather than bicker like children.”
The noise of the battle had only increased as the hours had passed, but if Alcello was phased by the screams of dying men, and the cacophony of war, he did not show it. He had watched the deserters skulk into the town, nursing their wounds and hiding in the abandoned houses like the rats they were. Most of them had wisely ignored the hooded man smoking his pipe, and the two that hadn’t lay dead in the street, looks of shock and confusion frozen across their faces.
Alcello had watched Farrin walk slowly into the town and take his own seat, in the shadow of the tavern. He recognised the man almost at once, for his very name had been etched into the legends of the kestaphos. Farrin had faded since his time as a hero, his hair gone, and his legendary sword arm cut away. But Alcello had heard the songs of how Farrin had lost his arm, of how it had been lost in a titanic struggle with some unspeakable monster, and that Farrin had made it pay with it’s life. To Alcello, seeing the old man evoked his youth, his times studying the legends of the kestaphos, of Farrin, of his father, of the long line of great warriors that had taken on the name and defended their people against whatever horrors the Cradle threw at them.
A twinge of regret tweaked Alcello’s hardened heart, and his hand subconsciously gripped the handle of his pipe as he remembered the bloodshed of his people, carnage and slaughter flashing before his eyes until he drove his memories down again, squaring his jaw as he allowed himself to be distracted by the strange figures that began to gather around Farrin.
He was surprised to see two men clearly from Baccum join Farrin outside the tavern. Alcello had travelled across the length and width of Baccum over his years of hunting, and he knew the culture that existed behind the façade of savagery, but both men matched that façade. One stood tall, heavily muscled despite his thin figure, with straggled blonde hair and barely clothed, his tanned skin covered with arching tattoos. What was most curious were the two spears that the man carried, and Alcello frowned slightly as he took a long drag on his pipe.
The other Baccum man was nearly just as tall, tattoos also covering his body, the scars crossing the bands of muscle beneath the hardened skin. Lightly armoured, the man seemed constantly ready to move, almost like some predator waiting to pounce, and Alcello couldn’t help but be put on edge, glancing at the large swords the man carried.
The gem that Farrin pulled from his pouch caught Alcello’s eyes, but he still didn’t move, preferring to watch how events unfolded from his seat across the street. It was clear that it was not just his eye that the gem caught, as the taller of the two Baccum men challenged Farrin’s story, although despite himself Alcello found himself agreeing with the questions.
Smiling slightly as Farrin rose to his feet and rebuked the Baccum spearman, but at the mention of the great harrow, Alcello’s blood ran cold. He had seen creatures and monsters that could only have been dragged from the deepest and darkest depths of hell, and he had slain them, driving his blade through their twisted and corrupted flesh until they had finally stopped their writhing. There were few alive who better knew the horrors that could drag themselves into the cradle, and at the sound of Farrin’s suggestion of sealing the hellscape, Alcello’s mind was made up. He would join this quest, and lend his sword to whatever missions that Farrin gave the obscure group.
As Alcello went to move, he hesitated as he saw another figure join the group, even as the other Baccum male jibed at Farrin. The newcomer was lithe, and her female form looked fragile next to the two towering warriors that she moved to stand beside, but one glance at the wickedly bladed Naginata she carried gave Alcello an idea that the young woman was able to fend for herself. Glad that he wouldn’t be dealing with the butting of heads of the two headstrong Baccum warriors for the whole journey, Alcello was about to move to join the group when a fourth figure moved into his field of vision, and his blood froze in his veins.
Stunningly beautiful with fiery red hair highlighting her amazing body, the woman looked like she had stepped out of any man’s dreams, but for Alcello she was straight out of his nightmares. The mark of the Cult of Marra, carved into her stomach, had been burnt into his mind ever since he had slain the shaman that had butchered his people. He watched as the woman all but slithered her way into the group, and a chill ran down his spine as he watched her take the gem from the taller Baccum's grasp, just moments after Farrin had passed it to him.
Hand moving into his sleeve to grasp the handle of one of his chakram’s, Alcello extinguished his pipe and tucked it into his cloak, rising to his feet and moving to join the group, his face still mostly shrouded by his hood. He glared at the blood cultist for a moment, having to hold himself back from pulling his blade free and lunging at her, before he spoke, raising his voice slightly to be heard.
“This is a ragtag group of adventurers if ever I saw one. Perhaps it is best we let our wise friend here tell us more of his quest, rather than bicker like children.”
@Sierra Also still here
In
The World Undone: A History of the Modern World [NRP] (1905--)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Nation Roleplay
Holy Empire of Vigentino
2nd of August, 1905
The Escya I moved through the air like a ship through calm waters. The cabin only vibrated slightly, despite the eight powerful Forino engines that pushed it through the air. The whirring blades were nothing but a low hum within the comfort of the carriage.
The carriage was luxurious despite it’s size, a long table, lain with a carefully pressed, white tablecloth, five rocks glasses, a crystal decanter of whiskey and an ice bucket. Five chairs were set up around the table, and three of them were taken.
Diedi Falier, the tall, angular faced Minister of Transport, and one of the men freshly returned from the dealings with Steiner Meustadt, sat back in his chair, thin mouth curved into a slight smile as he absent-mindedly swirled the whiskey in his glass.
Cosimo Barbazini, the eccentric business owner who had amassed a fortune over the years, investing in industry across the breadth of Vigentino, was a short, stocky figure, thick moustache over his lip and bright eyes looking out from behind a small pair of glasses. He had carefully watched the arrival of the Escya Skyships and he had taken a keen interest, already deep in conversation with the man sitting beside him.
Jaako Pentti had come to Vigentino in the stead of Julian Kaplan, who was a renowned introvert and preferred the solitude of his workshop, despite his brilliant mind. Jaako was a gifted engineer, and he had been at Julian’s side since the first Escya Skyship had been designed. He was intently listening to Cosimo’s questions, smiling as he thrilled at sharing his love for air travel.
The last man seated in the cabin was not sat at the table, but instead sat before a bank of machinery and controls, hands carefully moving across the instruments as his eyes constantly glanced at the engines, and at the balloon itself, carefully steering the ES-1 over the grasslands outside Cogoli.
The two remaining figures in the carriage were stood at the wide windows, looking out across the stunning views, beautifully bathed in golden light by the setting sun.
Cenni Callocci was a handsome man, his beard and hair carefully managed, skin bronzed by his years in the sun and dark eyes flashing as he looked out through the window. A self-made man, Cenni had spent much of his youth in his father’s humble workshop, learning the skills and proving himself to be a natural engineer. After taking over his father’s business, Cenni had only expanded it, becoming a very wealthy man in the process. Skyships were his new obsession, and he had been the one to push for Vigentino to invest.
At Cenni’s side, clutching his arm, was his wife, the stunningly beautiful Maria. Blonde hair hanging loose, and wearing a dress of the latest fashion, Maria was the picture of beauty, but she was far from uneducated. It had not been Cenni’s wealth that drew Maria to him, for she knew him and loved him before he made his fortune. It was his mind that attracted her, and behind the scenes, it was Maria’s ruthless mind that ran their business, while Cenni busied himself constantly tinkering and inventing.
The carriage contained some of the greatest driving forces of the burgeoning Vigentino Skyship Industry, and as the ES-1 gently touched down a mile outside of Cogoli, there was an undeniable sense that this was only the beginning of something great.
ES-1 moving over Cogoli Lake
+1 to August Orders
In
The World Undone: A History of the Modern World [NRP] (1905--)
→
6 yrs ago
Forum: Nation Roleplay
Holy Empire of Vigentino
7th of July, 1905
Corso Bascio’s face was grim as he looked out over the city of Julia. The bombardment had not been kind to the city, and swathes of it had been reduced to rubble. But the evidence of the cities greatness was still evident, proud structures that had weathered the shells rising above the ruins, and even as Corso watched, he saw dishevelled figures moving through the city, continuing their lives as best they could. Feeling a presence, Corso turned to see that Lando di Prioli had joined him in the square.
The two men had met at the Università di Cogoli when they were both studying there, and had become firm friends ever since. When Corso had received the call to become Governor of Julia, his first thought was to have Lando at his side. He managed a smile at his old friend.
“What news?”
Lando handed a report to Corso, scrawled in his distinctive handwriting, and spoke as Corso’s eyes scanned the figures.
“The population of Julia are still scattered to the four corners, but they’re starting to slow their flight as reports of the annexation reach them. The city is all but deserted, but most of the towns are still populated, and they’re continuing as before.”
Corso nodded slowly, before glancing back up to Lando.
“The Viscount did all he could to run this proud nation into the ground, I doubt the people will mourn his death too greatly, but we still need to make our position clear.”
As Corso spoke, Lando had pulled a leather-bound notebook from his jacket pocket, already scrawling out the instructions as Corso spoke.
“Send out messengers across Julia, make it clear that all Julian’s are welcome to remain in their homes and continue their day to day life, and the refugees forced to flee from their homes are invited to return to the city and help us in rebuilding their proud city. We will do our best to make the transition of power as easy, and as painless, as we can, doing our best to reverse the damage done by the Viscount. Any who have problems that they wish to be resolved are welcome to come to the city of Julia, where I will be setting up the new local government, and lay out their problems before myself.”
(+1 to July Orders)
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