Sadko

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

I'm suddenly super swamped IRL, helping my family and working two jobs parallel to my studies. I don't know when I'll be free. Just keep me on hiatus or kill off my character, fellas.

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

@Lady Selune Hey, nice to see another NCPD character. I've been planning to make a post where my character is partnered up with another detective and they interrogate a poser who took part in the firefight. Would you like me to switch that placeholder detective to your character so we can get you into the action? Feel that would make some sense. Otherwise if you want to keep some flexibility (since this would presume that Samed is the senior partner to yours) we could be investigating this separately and end up meeting at some point.

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

Finally posted something. Tell me what you think and maybe how our characters can interact.

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

(music)

As a law enforcement officer, my fundamental duty is to serve mankind; to safeguard lives and property; to protect the innocent against deception. I swear to protect the weak against oppression or intimidation, the peaceful against violence and disorder; and to respect the Constitutional rights of all men to liberty, equality and justice.

I will keep my private life unsullied as an example to all; maintain courageous calm in the face of danger, scorn or ridicule; develop self-restraint; and be constantly mindful of the welfare of others. Honest in thought and deed in both my personal and official life, I will be exemplary in obeying the laws of the land and regulations of my department. Whatever I see or hear of a confidential nature or that is confided to me in my official capacity will be kept ever secret unless revelation is necessary in the performance of my duty.

I will never act officiously or permit personal feelings, prejudices, animosities or friendships to influence my decisions. With no compromise for crime and with relentless prosecution of criminals, I will enforce the law courteously, without fear or favor, malice or ill will, never employing unnecessary force or violence and never accepting gratuities.

I recognize the badge of my office as a symbol of public faith, and I accept it as a public trust to be held so long as I am true to the ethics of the police service. I will constantly strive to achieve these objectives and ideals, dedicating myself before God to my chosen profession…

Samed stared into the bottom of the plastic cup. The remains of his coffee were cold and viscous like bog peat. The memory of his graduation played back in his head. It seemed like a ludicrous braindance, a cheesy flick that you could swear was a box office hit, but really never got past the producer’s desk. He glanced out the window as a carful of freaks barreled down the street, knocking down cans and mailboxes. The sleepy-eyed waitresses hissed to themselves, turning up the crooning chromer on the radio.

He wondered where the cops went wrong when building this massive institution. The gangs ruled the streets, and they were just there to pick up the corpses, dropping by Dunkin’s on the ride home.

Was corp-sec really better than this half-assed clean up job they were doing? He tried his hand at the CBD security for a while once. Had to transfer for pulling a knife on an acknowledged perp. Slid it right through the fabric of the perp's shirt, gliding the flat of the blade along the base of his neck, and pinned him to a warped and bubbled expanse of vinyl siding on the wall of the house that the perp was trying to break into. Thought it was a pretty righteous bust. But they fired him anyway because the perp turned out to be the son of some vice-chairman of a nameless subsidiary. Oh, the weasels had an excuse: said that the dagger was not on their Weapons Protocol. Said that he had violated the SPAC, the Suspected Perpetrator Apprehension Code. Said that the perp had suffered psychological trauma. He was afraid of butter knives now; he had to spread his jelly with the back of a teaspoon.

Long fingers looping up to his wrist, he found his pulse and pressed a sensor, the biomon lazily shifting under his skin and sculpting symbols. He thumbed them over like braille. 早上五点. He had no idea if this time could be called late or early. Tuning in to the police frequency, it was a lively buzz of murders, rapes and robberies, thefts and pursuits. 321, 21, 49... Numbers rattling off like gunfire, the avenues and streets reported flaring up like symptoms of a malignant tumor.

The whole night the service cars were there, speeding through the roads, following the braided filaments as they all fed into one superhighway crazier than the Ho Chi Minh trail. He didn’t even want to get started about the Combat Zone. Last days its’ inhabitants were rowdier than ever - practically tearing themselves apart, starting a gunfight bitchin’ even by Night City’s standards. Cops on the ground were calling at first calling in birds, then they called a dozen meatwagons to pick up the cold ones. In the Morgue he knew they’d run them through the registry, celebrating as a dozen wanted criminals were deleted from the database.

Nights like these were either like birthday parties or nightmares. Fellows from the office were always happy to juke the stats, but they needed to maintain a careful balance between saying “See? We can handle it.” and then tearing their hair out in tufts when crime spilled over where it shouldn’t. Bureaucrats always want to blow problems out of proportion to get more funding whilst still looking competent enough to deserve it. Samed knew all too well that when the paper-colossus fails to walk that tight-strung rope, it falls and everyone follows.

Maybe that’s why they’re calling me in. He thought with a scowl.

Samed pulled on his coat, flinging the coffee cup in the bin and missing by an inch or two. “Sorry.” He patted the janitor bot on its’ tinplate visor and walked out onto the street.

His Loafer stood parked on the curb, a myriad of scratches and nicks on the bumper and sides for him to see. Fucking punks. He closed the door and gripped the wheel. The beat sedan peeled out along the street as he took little-known shortcuts, the car’s trackfinding processors guiding him toward the epicentre of schizoidia.

The meatwagons were lined up in a crescent, folks from the Trauma Team milling about and inspecting the mangled up stiffs strewn around like broken toys. A few weren’t even covered with blankets, just circled off and surrounded by strange dudes in black and white suits. He flashed his badge and stepped over the perimeter, joining another detective as they squatted near a fried poser.

“What’s up, Mike?” He shook the thin Laotian’s hand, bending down to take a look.

“Just admiring some good handiwork.”

His sensors zoomed in on the tattoos to try and discern their gang affiliation. It was a punched through haze of flesh and gore. He gave up quick, lest he wanted to lose his lunch.

“You’re not too thorough,” Mikey quipped, adding; “Boss wants to see you.”

"I know."

Sam grimaced, throwing a glance over in the direction of the elongated, tipi-like portable strongholds. Admins and detectives on site would sometimes bunker down in these things to keep watch over crime scenes and have shelter from outside threats and hazards. A bizzare technological result of Big Pharma’s arrival in Central China’s cancer-infested industrial towns. The genius engineer who created this thing surely didn’t expect to be sponsored by the napthalene-soaked halls of pharmaceutical deities, but the invention gradually began to be used in a wider range of spheres. Police security protocols, for example. Sam dipped his head and went on in, not knowing what to expect.

If he ever was a beat cop, Frank Magnussen sure seemed like a shriveled up corpo more than anything. The man was shorter than Samed, yet stocky and wide in the shoulders. The Chief Superintendent kept a leveled gaze, cold eyes embedded with retinal upgrades tracking the smallest movement of facial muscle. Two gorillas fitted with pitch black arachnofiber weave stood by close, though Sam wasn’t sure why Frank needed them present for this sort of meet-up.

"So, you’ve seen the mess." Sam’s analyzer picked up on the fatigue in his chief’s tone.

"Yeah. You won’t be able to hold the media at bay much longer."

"Rub some more salt on my wound, would you? I called you here for a different reason." Frank lit a synthetic Bhutanese cigar. "Management needs us to look into a serious matter. You’re relatively off-the-radar, so I figured you could get a part in this."

One of the superintendent’s goons passed him an e-file. Plugging in for neural processing, the data was brief and precise. He diverted his attention away from it. Perhaps he didn’t feel at ease reading it right there and then. Perhaps he didn’t like what he saw.

Sgt. Richard Evans Morse, assistant deputy to the NCPD Armory, was last seen leaving the workplace on Thursday 5:23 PM. Approximately half an hour later his biomon went dark.

"What’s the catch with him?"

"Man’s in hot water with the department. No one’s seen him since the the start of the inquiry over his ties with the gangs.”

“You mean he bailed after you caught him red-handed. Why wasn’t there a tail?”

“There was. That’s what we’re asking you for. Either he skipped, or someone made sure he disappeared. We need you to make sense of this.” Frank’s gaze was unnerving.

This was a surreal request that Sam had not expected. He had a half-genuine hope that this was his chance. A big case. Yet he bore no illusions about the nature of Magnussen’s occupation - he was not a man particularly vested in doing real police work.

“I’d need a team. Zimin from the Weapons Division and Mike from Homicide.”

Frank made a stern face. “If you can vouch for them. We want this thing to be solved with a hush.” He puffed on the cigar as Sam turned to leave - “Don’t fuck up.”

He grimaced, finding the slim Laotian at a small ramen stand by the corner. The latter greedily sucked in the noodles, grinning as he saw Sam approach.

“What’s he say?” Mike asked, his tired eyes still twinkling with mischief even after a night of looking at corpses.

“That you’re a big pussy. Also you’re working with me now. You and Velimir.”

“Zimin? Not that freak. What are we up to?”

“He’s a good guy, give him a break." Sam frowned, continuing in a lazy tone, "I’ll need you to carve out the visual cortex off each dead punk’s neural processor from the scene. Bring it to the docs and try and make a picture out of it. Who these guys ran with, what started off the fight. Some of them must have survived and can spill more info. We just need to find and pinch them.”

“Aight. Love this necrophiliac business.” Mike sighed, beginning to dial up the morgue. His bald head glistened with sweat, vein-like cables connecting various compartments with elaborate, Singapore-made wiring.

Man loved his cyberware, and Sam couldn’t fault him for it.

“Good for you, Mikey. Hit me up when you find something interesting.”

The Turk patted him on the shoulder, shoving his hands in his pockets and briskly walking to his Loafer. He knew a case like this would have leads. Way too many to keep track of and sufficiently investigate each one, especially if there was only a three-man team to take action. He began to drive, his lights dimmed down in order to not attract undue attention, and his visual implants helped scan the road ahead. He was lost in thought.

Karga was baffled. Just what kind of bone were they tossing him? He didn’t need more than a few brain cells to put two and two together. Whoever this sergeant was, his absence ‘coincided’ with the surge of gang-related warfare creeping ever closer to city limits. Sam wasn’t sure about the others, but he had his suspicions for years that some folks from the armory were doing business with the underbelly.

If their source was gone, it made sense why they were so panicked as of late. Worst of all, someone would try to fill the vacuum. Maybe that's why management was so scared, too. Could be that the guy was an easy to control middleman. If someone more unpredictable would replace him, things could get out of hand. Fuck, I'm beginning to sound like a conspiracy nut.

He rubbed his eyes, nearly missing his stop. He looked around. Only the dark red tint of the neon sign illuminated the street. He walked inside the gym, the only place he knew he could find Zimin.

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

Detective Samed Karga

"A man must have a code."

Appearance:
Standing at 5’6, Sam is a heavyset and languid looking man, with unkempt black hair and an iron stubble hiding old scars. The gravity of too many worries had tugged prematurely on his features, imparting a care-worn look that belied his razor-sharp determination to see things through. The Turk consistently keeps an idle, somber expression, with his gaze lazily drifting about. Some people have an impression of him as an unattentive sluggard -- something which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Cyberware:
Over the years of his service in NCPD, Samed has become nigh obsessed with spending his own money on under-the-table body modifications to go above and beyond his duty. Most of these are minor, cheap devices that are nevertheless quite useful when investigating crimes. Though he is fond of these upgrades, he doesn’t forget about the possibility of cyberpsychosis and its’ dire consequences. The day they ask him to register and attend cybertherapy will be the day he puts a bullet in his head.

• Fashionware
  • A cheap subdermal biomon of Taiwanese origin that also functions as a timepiece. Out of solely mischievous concerns he has learned the numbers in Mandarin and perceives time in the language. This sometimes proves as useful as it is confusing.
• Neuralware
  • Neuralware Processor, regular NCPD-issue.
  • Olifactory Boost, a handy boon when you are a police detective prowling the city streets and need to track down a smelly psycho borg.
  • Neural ULF Transceiver that allows Sam to receive and transmit voice-messages and small volumes of data over a range of 15 km. Regularly glitches, no matter how much the ripperdocs tinker over it. Nevertheless, he makes use of the device.
• Implants
  • Nasal Filter.
  • Subdermal pocket just below his armpit, used for storing things one would want to hide from the crooks of Night City’s underbelly. Especially if you’re a cop.
• Cyberoptics
  • Low-end basic module he haggled from a Russian seller. Absolutely useless for more expensive visual options, so he crammed it chock full of minor but crafty things.
  • Microoptics for zooming in and inspecting evidence and whatnot. The software isn’t meshing well with his outdated cybermodule patch, so he uses it sparingly.
  • LowLite Sensors to see in dimly lit areas.
  • Digital Camera, shoots up to twenty images. Compatible with the Neural ULF Transceiver, but takes up a hefty amount of space in the module, eating up much of the processing power.
• Cyberaudio
  • Voice Stress Analyzer - by default something a police detective needs when interrogating a suspect. The wiring is a tad shoddy and it annoys Sam to no end when he hears the device analyzing his own voice.

Weapons:

• NCPD-issued 720 Moderatus firearm
• Izhmash PP-19 medium submachinegun, used for when there's no other option. Usually carried by parts and assembled when needed.
• Scion-Tech Loafer, an inexpensive and ugly sedan. No armor whatsoever, decent GPS system. Useless for driving off-road. Only safe for use within city-limits. No matter what, Sam loves this car.
• Serrated knife hidden in his boot.

Armour: Usually clad in a hard, dark synth leather coat, he’s one of the few cops to sacrifice protection for mobility and the inconspicuous guise of a bar regular and street vagrant. His leather belt pouch contains a multitude of pocket credit transfer devices and chips, zip ties, fake passcards and cell handles, utility tools to unscrew and disassemble devices and low-level security installations on the go.

For matters of particular importance, he requests a full surveillance kit of digicameras, mikes and tracers from the NCPD technical arsenal. Key word here is request, because management doesn’t always back him up on his investigatory ventures. When he has to go on a risky mission, he wears a ballistic vest underneath the leather coat.

Background: Born in the Boston-Atlantic Metropolitan Axis to a family of Turkish refugees, Samed has had a rather unremarkable upbringing, save for the fact that nothing happening at the time could be called unremarkable.

Insane technological advances and innovations brought about speedy, almost unhealthy changes society couldn’t keep up with. It was no wonder that crime skyrocketed when cyberware-regulating legislature was still being drafted and fought over in Congress, whilst the city streets were already awash with implants, weaponized by crime gangs both old and new.

Karga’s father was a patrol officer killed by some crook when he was off-duty. This loss had a profound effect on Samet’s choice of profession, and having dropped out of the medical school, he went to the police academy instead.

The next five years were a blur of high paced chases, interrogations, court proceedings and paperwork. Toward the end of his second year it began to be mostly paperwork. The BAPAPD was already a gargantuan bureaucratic body by the time the crime picked up, but with the weight of all the cases coming in daily, Samet found himself slogging through thousands of papers and files, too caught up in inter-department politics and rivalry to be able to do efficient, real police work. He purposefully decided not to go for a promotion, figuring he was more useful on the street than at a desk-job.

When Sam’s modus operandi got him into a conflict with the higher-ups, he transferred to Night City’s PsychoSquad detail patrolling the rim of no-go zones at night. His new line of work changed his view on law, and his role as a policeman as a whole. He realized he was living through a vicious cycle, and the machines they hunted had seemingly a never-ending supply of weapons they weren’t supposed to have. It was a dead end.

With his suspicions aroused after a particularly tense standoff with the borgs, he took a ‘demotion’ and once more began detective work, but now with the plan of weeding out the person responsible for arming the criminal underbelly. Regular, run-of-the-mill crimes were now disregarded by him, and the new territory he was operating in allowed Sam to blend in as much as he could. Even though he's still getting a paycheck for regular patrol work, he is essentially undercover.

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

Hoping to be the guy investigating all the mess you fellas leave in your wake <:

Det. Samed Karga

"A man must have a code."

Appearance:
Standing at 5’6, Sam is a heavyset and languid looking man, with unkempt black hair and an iron stubble hiding old scars. The gravity of too many worries had tugged prematurely on his features, imparting a care-worn look that belied his razor-sharp determination to see things through. The Turk consistently keeps an idle, somber expression, with his gaze lazily drifting about. Some people have an impression of him as an unattentive sluggard -- something which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

Cyberware:
Over the years of his service in NCPD, Samet has become nigh obsessed with spending his own money on under-the-table body modifications to go above and beyond his duty. Most of these are minor, cheap devices that are nevertheless quite useful when investigating crimes. Though he is fond of these upgrades, he doesn’t forget about the possibility of cyberpsychosis and its’ dire consequences. The day they ask him to register and attend cybertherapy will be the day he puts a bullet in his head.

• Fashionware
  • A cheap subdermal biomon of Taiwanese origin that also functions as a timepiece. Out of solely mischievous concerns he has learned the numbers in Mandarin and perceives time in the language. This sometimes proves as useful as it is confusing.
• Neuralware
  • Neuralware Processor, regular NCPD-issue.
  • Olifactory Boost, a handy boon when you are a police detective prowling the city streets and need to track down a smelly psycho borg.
  • Neural ULF Transceiver that allows Sam to receive and transmit voice-messages and small volumes of data over a range of 15 km. Regularly glitches, no matter how much the ripperdocs tinker over it. Nevertheless, he makes use of the device.
• Implants
  • Nasal Filter.
  • Subdermal pocket just below his armpit, used for storing things one would want to hide from the crooks of Night City’s underbelly. Especially if you’re a cop.
• Cyberoptics
  • Low-end basic module he haggled from a Russian seller. Absolutely useless for more expensive visual options, so he crammed it chock full of minor but crafty things.
  • Microoptics for zooming in and inspecting evidence and whatnot. The software isn’t meshing well with his outdated cybermodule patch, so he uses it sparingly.
  • LowLite Sensors to see in dimly lit areas.
  • Digital Camera, shoots up to twenty images. Compatible with the Neural ULF Transceiver, but takes up a hefty amount of space in the module, eating up much of the processing power.
• Cyberaudio
  • Voice Stress Analyzer - by default something a police detective needs when interrogating a suspect. The wiring is a tad shoddy and it annoys Sam to no end when he hears the device analyzing his own voice.

Weapons:

• NCPD-issued 720 Moderatus firearm
• Izhmash PP-19 medium submachinegun, used for when there's no other option. Usually carried by parts and assembled when needed.
• Scion-Tech Loafer, an inexpensive and ugly sedan. No armor whatsoever, decent GPS system. Useless for driving off-road. Only safe for use within city-limits. No matter what, Sam loves this car.
• Serrated knife hidden in his boot.

Armour: Usually clad in a hard, dark synth leather coat, he’s one of the few cops to sacrifice protection for mobility and the inconspicuous guise of a bar regular and street vagrant. His leather belt pouch contains a multitude of pocket credit transfer devices and chips, zip ties, fake passcards and cell handles, utility tools to unscrew and disassemble devices and low-level security installations on the go.

For matters of particular importance, he requests a full surveillance kit of digicameras, mikes and tracers from the NCPD technical arsenal. Key word here is request, because management doesn’t always back him up on his investigatory ventures. When he has to go on a risky mission, he wears a ballistic vest underneath the leather coat.

Background: Born in the Boston-Atlantic Metropolitan Axis to a family of Turkish refugees, Samed has had a rather unremarkable upbringing, save for the fact that nothing happening at the time could be called unremarkable.

Insane technological advances and innovations brought about speedy, almost unhealthy changes society couldn’t keep up with. It was no wonder that crime skyrocketed when cyberware-regulating legislature was still being drafted and fought over in Congress, whilst the city streets were already awash with implants, weaponized by crime gangs both old and new.

Karga’s father was a patrol officer killed by some crook when he was off-duty. This loss had a profound effect on Samet’s choice of profession, and having dropped out of the medical school, he went to the police academy instead.

The next five years were a blur of high paced chases, interrogations, court proceedings and paperwork. Toward the end of his second year it began to be mostly paperwork. The BAPAPD was already a gargantuan bureaucratic body by the time the crime picked up, but with the weight of all the cases coming in daily, Samet found himself slogging through thousands of papers and files, too caught up in inter-department politics and rivalry to be able to do efficient, real police work. He purposefully decided not to go for a promotion, figuring he was more useful on the street than at a desk-job.

When Sam’s modus operandi got him into a conflict with the higher-ups, he transferred to Night City’s PsychoSquad detail patrolling the rim of no-go zones at night. His new line of work changed his view on law, and his role as a policeman as a whole. He realized he was living through a vicious cycle, and the machines they hunted had seemingly a never-ending supply of weapons they weren’t supposed to have. It was a dead end.

With his suspicions aroused after a particularly tense standoff with the borgs, he took a ‘demotion’ and once more began detective work, but now with the plan of weeding out the person responsible for arming the criminal underbelly. Regular, run-of-the-mill crimes were now disregarded by him, and the new territory he was operating in allowed Sam to blend in as much as he could. Even though he's still getting a paycheck for regular patrol work, he is essentially undercover.

Printed guns, melded metal - An experimental GM-less Cyberpunk RP

Think there's a spot for me as a Police Detective?

STAR WARS - DARK ERA

Ghangu Tssosh

Ghangu Tssosh

"What are you looking at, you pussssy?"

Name: Ghangu Tssosh

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Species: Trandoshan

Age: 30

Planet/moon of Origin: Coruscant

Languages:

• Galactic Basic
• Dosh
• Huttese

Appearance: Ghangu has a light-green complexion, scar tissue running along his back and left arm from his first gnarly fight. His eyes are cold and focused, lips curled in a dark sneer, showcasing gold-tipped, sharp teeth and a bleak, old tattoo on his tongue. His voice is a low croak due to his happy childhood spent inhaling the toxic fumes of Coruscant's lower levels. He is muscled and in good physical shape, with his blaster and padded armor giving him a forbidding, cutthroat look.

Background: Ghangu was born on Coruscant to a dysfunctional family of Trandoshan immigrants living on Level 1997. His mother died when he was young, and until he was 11 he worked under the tutelage of his father, Dysskk, a professional scavenger and fixer involved in many underworld dealings.

When the planet's central power distribution grid was bombed by Separatist agents in 21 BBY, Ghangu and his father took part in looting and marauding during the ensuing blackout. Dysskk was shot dead by several underworld police officers, whilst Ghangu escaped and later found work with the crime families operating on the lower levels.

Towards the end of the war and Palpatine's accession to power as Galactic Emperor, Ghangu joined the mass exodus of non-humans fleeing from Coruscant and it's government's repressive policies. Initially trying to settle down on Trandosha, he was met coldly for his city-dweller mannerisms, and he did not find common ground with the native Doshans either - even their religious beliefs seemed different, and he began to worship Scorekeeper in name only, whilst his true religion seemed to be more and more about saving and multiplying his wealth.

He decided to seek employment with the Hutt Cartel in the Outer Rim, offering his services as a bounty hunter and fixer for the criminal organization. Over the years he took on harder jobs, until he was tasked with finding a target on Barab, a dark and murky world he was unfamiliar with. Having hired a local named Yisk to guide him in the dangerous marshes of his home planet, Ghangu was surprised at the Barabel's savagery as he pounced on the target faster than the Doshan could draw his blaster.

He invited Yisk to work as a team. The duo of lizard fellows became feared bounty-hunters, ones who didn't bother to read past the first two words of "Wanted: Dead or Alive" posters. When the Spice Wars began, the two were tasked with defending supply ships ferrying spice back to the Hutt homeworld. When things began to go south, Yisk and Ghangu tried to escape the ensuing blockade, killing several Imperial border guards in the process.

Skills: A curious case of a Trandoshan who prefers not to get his claws dirty, Ghangu is a dangerous specimen - his expertise in subterfuge is one shaped by a lifetime of mingling with criminal elements, whether it be in the lower levels of Coruscant or in the frontier worlds of the Outer Rim. He can lie, pressure, intimidate and extort his way through most of the time, since he knows how to navigate around the underworld and the dark market. Though adept with a blaster and an ax, he oft prefers to play a role in arranging the contracts and laying down the logistics, providing cover and support whilst Yist does the bulk of the bloodletting. Nevertheless, he is a crafty and swift fighter, and easily adapts in most tricky situations.

Drawbacks: His underhanded nature results in his actions being rather predictable; self preservation and greed making him a target for those seeking to manipulate him. Whilst he has experience in slugging it out with guns and blades drawn, he's still mortal and has no military education. Coruscant's polluted air dulled the Doshan's sense of smell, so he allows Yisk to take over in that regard.

STAR WARS - DARK ERA

Count me in.

Valar Morghulis: A Game of Thrones Roleplay

House Estermont wip

"Rest Upon Us"

---

Synopsis
▔▔▔▔▔
House Estermont is a noble family in the Stormlands, and is one of the principal vassals sworn to House Baratheon of Storm's End. They rule over the small, mountainous island of Estermont east of Cape Wrath, with the castle of Greenstone as their ancestral seat. The Estermonts have a long and tested relationship with their liege lords, and the two families often intermarried. With the ascent of the Baratheon line to royal status, the Estermonts' wealth and influence has only grown. Due to Lord Edam's expertise in naval affairs, they have now taken on the role of patrolling the waters around Cape Wrath and the Stepstones to protect merchants from corsairs. With those functions came the military position granted to them by their liege - Wardens of the Stepstones.

Realm
▔▔▔▔▔
House Estermont is one of the largest vassal houses sworn to the Storm's End branch of House Baratheon - and has the closest geographic proximity to the Stepstones, making it an important player and conductor in the regional naval operations. It can muster two hundred knights, one thousand and two hundred men-at-arms and six hundred bowmen. Under his rule, House Estermont's minor fleet swelled to twenty ships total, and his appointment as the Master of Ships on King Galladon's small council marked his position as one of Westeros' most seasoned naval commanders.

He captains his flag ship Seashell, a heavy dromond crewed by his hardy veterans, while his trusted bannermen fly the sails of the galleons Waterdancer, Turquoise Arrow, Stepstone Spear, Lady's Prank, Reefshadow, Storm's Whore, and Lord Aemon's Lance. There are three swan ships captured from Summer Islander corsairs, and the other nine are made up of smaller longships and carracks. The Estermonts' subjects live off fishing, as well as trading corals and shells and plying other trades. However, the ruling family exacts tolls on passing merchants, and is thus able to maintain the aforementioned fleet and retinue.

Important Members
▔▔▔▔▔
For the prominent members of your household.

Lord Estermont

Name/Age
▔▔▔▔▔
Edam Estermont / 48

Reputation
▔▔▔▔▔
Lord Edam Estermont is considered to be somewhat of an eccentric figure among the stormlander nobility. Not one for jousts or archery competitions, he has a natural affinity for water. Ever since he was a child, he always joined supper with matted, salty hair and wrinkly fingers. Even though he was the heir, his tendency to daydream and obsess over trivial activities like cyvasse or shell-gathering earned him the ire of most educators and servants on Greenstone. These patterns were only reinforced when he became the page and squire to Ser Aurane, and, in some ways, he has taken after him in his lifestyle and philosophy - a rather cynical outlook for the common Westerosi ideals of chivalry and honor, one shaped by instances of duplicity and malice he witnessed from knights and nobles alike.

A travelled man, he has met people from all walks of life, and always tried to perceive everything with an open mind, never rooting himself staunchly in one position or view, and instead easily absorbing the best that his aides and friends come with, irrespective of their political leanings. He is a highly perceptive and quick learner, with a very open and tactical mind - his ability to emphasize with high lords and the worst dregs of society has allowed him to make friends in the most unexpected of places; from the alleyways of Flea Bottom to the the highborn villas of Tyrosh.

Appearance
▔▔▔▔▔
Edam is a slight man, thin and hard as a bone. With brown eyes and a sharp, angular face weathered by the elements, his beard and thinning brown hair are peppered with gray. He's just got one of those faces that burns itself into your memory. Its sharp lines contort readily into a devilish, toothy smile - though he's aware that such full smiles always give him an air of a madman, and uses this feature of his physionomy sparingly.

He wears soft leather boots, a wide with nuggets of silver, a wool doublet, and a pale green, woolen cloak.
On campaign, Edam wears black oiled ringmail over boiled leather, a round steel halfhelm with a noseguard, and a mail coif. Edam wields a shortspear and a kite shield, with a flanged mace and dirk hanging from his belt and used as secondary weapons.

History
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Lord Alyn Estermont was a prominent nobleman and Stormlander who took part in invading the Stepstones together with Ser Aurane Velaryon in 310, two years after his first wife, Lady Jayna Bywater, was captured and held ransom by pirates. In captivity, she was raped and beaten so severely that she was a shell of a person by the time she came back to Greenstone. Suffering from depression and illness, she died six months later. Having spent a considerable fortune on her release, the aged Lord Estermont saw this as the greatest humiliation his family suffered in decades, and when Ser Aurane gathered an expedition to rid the Stepstones of its' petty bandit-kings, he devoted the entire manpower of Greenstone to help quash the corsairs.

Having met and made friends with Lord Jordayne during the conflict, he later visited their ancestral seat, The Tor, and, after some initial reluctance, arranged a betrothal between him and one of the Jordayne daughters, Alara, a beautiful girl in her teens. When she came of age in 321, Lord Alyn married her in a quiet ceremony off the Sea of Dorne. Stormlanders do not generally mingle with Dornishmen, so the marriage was not held in high esteem by the neighboring nobility or the children from Lord Alyn's first marriage.

In 322, Edam Estermont was born, and was named heir to all of his father's lands and titles. This led to much resentment Edam's eldest sister, Bancey, who's son from a marriage with a Blount stood poised to inherit. Other sisters regarded him with indifference and rarely sent ravens from their husbands' keeps, except Ireyne Estermont, who never married, and became his close friend and supporter throughout his life.

His early upbringing and education were marked by heated arguments between his mother and father. Alara resented her life in Greenstone and never felt herself at home, always trying to bring Edam with her to Dorne and play in the Water Gardens instead of swimming in hazardous waters surrounding the Estermont isle.

Alyn ultimately decided to keep the boy out of the pesky Dornish woman's reach, and sent Edam to page and squire for Ser Aurane Velaryon, a nigh-legendary naval commander and strategician. Alara could never forgive her husband for sending her son away to learn from a weathered soldier and old killer, and when Lord Alyn passed from a chill in 334, she moved back to the Tor immediately.

For the next six years, right up until Ser Aurane's death, Edam learned all he could from his mentor; taking part in negotiations with nobles and sellsails, scuttling corsair ships and arresting smugglers, all while Ireyne governed Greenstone in his absence. Aged eighteen, he was captaining his own ship and increasingly taking on the role of the Narrow Sea's coastguard - even though no one asked him to.

Considered half-mad by his peers for playing with ships and leaving the day-to-day running of his estate to his sister, he undertook longer and riskier voyages hoping to catch bigger fish. When he, along with the aid of Tyroshi sellsails, managed to capture four Summer Islander swanships, he briefly stopped at Sunspear to buy crateloads of incense, fruits and wine, and then sailed up to Stonehelm, the seat of House Swann. Arriving with a gift; a magnificient, swift swanship for, crewed by colorful and cheery Tyroshi, and sharing exotic produce with both smallfolk and nobles alike, Lord Swann already considered him as a son after he asked for his daughter's hand.

Within several months, Lady Sofina Swann and Lord Edam Estermont were wife and husband.

Having wed into another powerful vassal family of the Stormlands, local lords and peasants alike began to respect his name. As the closest to the Stepstones among the Baratheon bannermen, he petitioned his liege lord to assume responsibility and rule in his name over the troubled region, ensuring the king's peace throughout the islands. In exchange for this service, he would take a cut of the tolls from passing merchants, and keep the pirates' loot for himself, with the exception of slaves - who were offered a chance at freedom and serving the Stormlands, either as oarsmen in the Estermont fleet or as men-at-arms on the mainland.

For years he held the post of Warden of the Stepstones, only leaving it to assume the office of master of ships in King Galladon's small council. The title was then bestowed to his eldest son, Bryen, by Lord Baratheon.

Background
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Edam Estermont is the current Lord of Greenstone, having succeeded the late Alyn Estermont, a man who fathered four daughters and only one son. Edam was the youngest child and born when Alyn was already aged. He was twelve at the time his father died, and serving Ser Aurane Velaryon as a squire, although he spent most of his time on a dromond navigating the Narrow Sea with his friend and mentor, instead of jousting in mainland tourneys - an activity Edam considers too dubious to partake in.

For the next five years after Alyn's passing, he'd seldom stay at Greenstone, and his sister, Ireyne Estermont, assumed the duties of castellan during his absence. His few visits over the course of these years were mostly to check up on the condition of his lands, review the quarterly incomes and repair his flagship before going back to sea. In that time he has fought corsairs and slavers in the Stepstones and Narrow Sea, and scuttled dozens of vessels; he also expanded the Estermont's fleet with galleons captured from Summer Islander pirates, and constructed six new warships with fifty oars each.

Although most of his life was spent at sea and he rarely devoted his time to the day-to-day running of his lands, he has taken great care to monitor the condition of his keep and treasury, and so far has not been disappointed in the work done by Lady Ireyne, and later by his wife, Lady Sofina Swann.

Relations
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House Baratheon

Example information about relations between House TBC and TBC 2 here.

House Swann

Example information about relations between House TBC and TBC 2 here.

House Velaryon

Example information about relations between House TBC and TBC 2 here.

House Martell

Example information about relations between House TBC and TBC 2 here.

Ser Pate of Sow's Horn

"Bugger off, I'm not a bloody Crakehall."

Name
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Ser Pate Hogg

Age
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40+

Reputation
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Tough and heavyset like his kin, Pate is only a rung better than a hedge knight. With his family's keep little more than an old stone tower, the Hogg family has always lived in dirt and squalor, vassals of a vassal's vassal. Having abandoned his settled life twenty years afore, Ser Pate is considered by some to be one of the sturdiest men in the realm, with tourney heralds often mistaking him to be that of a Crakehall - an occasional nuisance that's he's beginning to despise. Pate has admittedly often overstayed his welcome in more than a few towns and castles after maiming local troublemakers in mad, drunken bar fights.

History
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Born in Sow's Horn a second son of Ryger Hogg, a poor, landed knight. Whilst his brother Olyvar learned books with the Hayford children and their maester, he spent his early years in and around the family estate, helping their few peasants toil the land and look after their humble flock of sheep and pigs.

A fortnight after his ninth nameday, Pate's uncle returned from the Disputed Lands after finishing his contract with the Gallant Men. Although he knew fighting on an instinctive level, he was a master at employing dirty tricks and moves, and in battle he moved much akin to a panther. He took to training his nephew as his squire, and by the time Pate was sixteen he was already brawling and battling for coin in the seedy pits of Flea Bottom, spending all his winnings on booze and women.

When Ser Ryger died, Olyvar inherited their humble stead. Even then he tried to cheat Pate out of a horse writ for him. Or so he says. He beat the devil out of his eldest brother, and only three heavy knights could pull him off the fellow before he'd become a kinslayer.
He left home, never to return.

For the next twenty years, he was travelling far and wide. Guarding caravans, rich men on business trips, hunting outlaws. Rarely he'd take up stationary jobs as part of a keep's garrison, but would find himself at odds with some of the serjeants and courtiers for his blunt manner. He was encouraged by one of the soldiers to sail over the Narrow Sea and carve out some glory. During a brief contract job with a Lysene sellsail, he met a vile Dornishman by the name of Morgan Sand. They became fast friends through their shared love of booze, whoring and fighting.

Family Tree
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"You wouldn't know him."

Ser Morgan Longspear

Name
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Ser Morgan Sand

Age
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40+

Reputation
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A heavyhanded and hot-blooded Sandy Dornishman, he has earned himself many enemies in Dorne and cannot come back. This circumstance angers him greatly, so he swaggers about with a southern pomp and arrogance that makes many hate him as soon as they meet him. Nevertheless, no one can deny his skills as a fighter. Some soldiers have taken to calling him by the moniker of 'Longspear', with a bit of irony.

History
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Baseborn son of a Qorqyle knight, he grew up near Sandstone until he was sent as a page to Sunspear. There, he befriended Dyron Martell and they both squired under the same knight - learning to ride a horse and fight with swords, spears and shields. Over time they'd begin to visit the different tourneys and competitions held around the realm.

Family Tree
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