Vor

Yggdrasil Chronicles [A Dystopian Steampunk Resistance RP]

Welp, yet another question for me - do you guys insist on colouring dialogue? I mean, I don't normally do it, but if everyone else is going to, I might as well for uniformity.

Yggdrasil Chronicles [A Dystopian Steampunk Resistance RP]

Casimir Volk

Casimir was so focused that his tongue was sticking out from the corner of his mouth and his hands were growing sweaty from the effort required to keep them from flinching. He just needed to move the damned thing a little bit to the left, only a fraction of an inch, and the blasted radio would finally be tuned. It was an old, sorry bit of machinery, not like those fancy new receivers in posh restaurants and the residences of the rich. Its signal was not amplified, so it had to be listened through a pair of battered headphones, which he had placed around his neck. The object of his attention was a thin, copper wire or a “cat’s whisker” as they called it around here, which was mounted on an adjustable arm, positioned above a small crystal. The whole idea was that the “whisker” had to touch a specific point of the crystal’s surface so that the radio signal could be modulated and heard through the headphones.

Easier said than done, as even the tiniest vibration or movement could disturb the signal. It was a process that required a lot of patience and steady hands, which was why he had been loath to do it in the first place. Still, he had promised Mrs Hassett that he’d see to it and Casimir Volk was not a man to go back on his word. Especially when the woman’s goodwill was all that kept him from sleeping in the gutter. He was out of roots and out of work, so he made himself useful by repairing whatever was needed around the tenement in exchange for a small, cramped room on the second floor.

Some of the radio’s wires had come off due to age and he had already replaced those, believing that most of the work was done. The tuning process, however, had taken the majority of his time. Carefully, he nudged the “whisker” and was greeted by static, followed by voices. It worked! He slammed his hand on the table in a misguided act of celebration, realising a moment too late that this would cause the bloody wire to shift.

And just like that, the signal was gone. At this point he was too frustrated to shout or curse, so he stood up slowly and moved away from the infernal machine, hand pressed to his forehead. His room was big enough to hold a bed, two small tables, a rickety chair, a coat hanger suspended from a rusty nail and an indeterminate number of papers scattered throughout the rotting, wooden floor. All in all, considering his situation, Casimir couldn’t complain.

He’d placed the radio on the smaller table, while the one next to it contained the pieces of a clock he had taken apart. One hundred and twenty-seven pieces to be exact, carefully laid out and arranged on the wooden surface. Now this had taken him a lot longer than the radio, he’d laboured on it for the past week. He thought he heard Mrs Hassett calling from downstairs, but decided to disregard it. With luck, she might think he was asleep.

At any rate, Casimir still couldn’t determine what was wrong with the clock. It was masterfully-crafted and he couldn’t understand how his landlady had managed to acquire such an expensive piece. He leaned in and picked up a delicate spring, which was slightly bent out of a shape. Maybe this was the culprit?

“MISTER VOLK!”

Sighing, Casimir looked up. How did the old hag expect him to fix anything if she kept pestering him every five minutes?!

Only then did he actually focus on the sunlight coming through the small window above his bed. He looked at the candle near the radio and realised it had burnt out long ago. Damn it, was it morning again?

He quickly slipped into a clean shirt, put his worn coat on and made his way downstairs. Mrs Hasset was in her usual place, sipping tea in her rocking chair, which stood next to a round table in the middle of the common room like some throne. She was an old lady, in her sixties or maybe even seventies, but Casimir had never dared to ask. Tough, stubborn and spry for her age, she was well-regarded in the entire neighbourhood. Her husband had been a doctor and had treated people for free, settling for whatever they could provide – food, clothes or simple thanks. From what Casimir had heard, the man had passed away a couple of years ago, but his memory was very much alive. Even the local toughs looked out for his widowed wife and made sure nobody disturbed her.

For her part, Mrs Hassett was quite the character. She was known for being kind and charging fair rent, but she had the overbearing desire to always have things her way. Oh and of course, she believed she always knew what the best course of action was, even if she was completely unfamiliar with the subject. Casimir had been with her for about a month now, but every interaction with her had been a…experience.

“Good morning, Mrs Hassett.”

“Mister Volk, are you deaf or have you no manners? I’ve been calling for the past ten minutes!”

“Apologies, but it can’t have been ten minutes, I heard you just now.”

“Well, I would know for certain how much time had passed if I had my clock here. Something which, by the way, you promised to fix last week.”

Casimir suppressed the urge to sigh, he felt like he was in front of a firing line.

“Mrs Hassett, I’m working as fast as I can, but it’s a complicated contraption.”

The old woman tsked, shaking her head. “Ah, youth these days…Never mind that, a wee lad came through here and said he had a message for you.” She produced a parchment, cleverly folded like an envelope.

Doing his best not to show his excitement, Casimir carefully took the paper and, walking to the window, read through it. There was not much to read, actually, save for a single sentence:

“Business prospects reviewed, found adequate opportunity for employment, would like to hold an interview immediately and in person at residence, post haste. M & B"

He’d never met “M” or “B” in person, but he had a good idea of who they were. The woman he had contacted, after doing some digging on local insurgents, had told him to wait for just such a message. Casimir had been doubtful that this so-called Resistance was actually more than whispers, but the letter in his hand told a different story.

“Will you take some tea, Mister Volk?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hassett, but I must go. It’s about a job!”

She looked at him as if he had just admitted to murder, but Casimir was too busy running up the stairs to notice. By habit, he burnt the letter first, then took his knives and lockpicks – he didn’t think he would need them at this point, but it never hurt to be prepared. Plus, he didn’t want Mrs Hassett snooping through his things while he was gone.

Less than five minutes after he had read the message, Casimir was already rushing out of the tenement’s door and onto the sleety street.

---

Whenever he found himself in a rich neighbourhood, Casimir couldn’t help but remember how many estates he had broken into. When normal people looked at such mansions, they’d usually imagine luxury, gardens, ballrooms and parties. Casimir, on the other hand, thought of safes, vaults, cabinets – dirty secrets hiding under the affluent sheen. Though customs varied from place to place, rich people were all the same.

It had taken him about an hour to reach this part of town. He had been here only once before, when he had scouted out the location of the estate he was now travelling to. For such a huge city the streets seemed almost deserted, he’d only come across a handful of people and most of them had been Asgardian soldiers. Casimir found that funny, if only these grunts knew that a wanted fugitive from Beakhaven was within an arm’s reach…He was practically a walking promotion, but they’d have to catch him first.

The depressing silence engulfing the district was only broken by the crunching of his boots on the oily sleet. Apparently, this is what passed for snow around here. The relative quiet made it easy to discern a shout coming from a nearby estate. Casimir glanced in that direction and realised that this was the place he had been summoned to.

A lone figure stood in front of the manor’s door, well-set and carrying a large duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like a mechanic, but Casimir doubted the estate’s owner would call for repairmen and would-be rebels at the same time of day. The man said something about steam and repair jobs, so with the practiced ease of a professional, Casimir strolled up to the manor just as the butler was opening the door.

“Blazes, there you are!” he exclaimed at his colleague. “I thought we’d agreed to meet at the square?!” he pointed back in the direction from which he’d came. Not wasting any time, he continued, turning towards the butler “So, we’re here. What exactly is the problem? Come on, we’re busy folk – let’s get to it!”

Yggdrasil Chronicles [A Dystopian Steampunk Resistance RP]

I think we've got enough intel to pull it off, so I concur.

Two random questions about the setting: a)do they have radio or some other form of wireless communication? what about a telegraph? b)have they invented typewriters yet or is it just the printing press for now? (OK, I lied, those were three questions)

Starting work on a post, but I might not be done until sometime tomorrow.

Tales of the Path [The Darklight Project & Vor]

Ugh, the map appeared pretty large when I previewed the post, but it seems the hider tag resizes it or something. If you right-click on it and view in a separate tab it should appear in all its glory.

Pontar Valley sounds good to me. Obviously, I'm more familiar with it as a locale than Kovir, so that's great. The story can eventually take us further north if needed, but as a starting point Pontar's cool.

I'll try to get something posted by the end of the week, but if RL pushes me too hard I might leave it for Saturday. Feel free to go ahead if you've got the time.

Tales of the Path [The Darklight Project & Vor]

Tales of the Path

(A RP based on the works of Andrzej Sapkowski, as well as those awesome people at CD Projekt RED!)

So, here's the OOC! @The Darklight Project

I've taken the liberty of summarising the state of the region below:

Current events
1140 BR, Late spring.

King Radovid III of Redania has long dreamed of regaining the prestige accorded to his illustrious ancestor, Radovid the Great. Over the years he has scuffled with his neighbours, most notably Aedirn and Temeria. After long negotiations, a compromise was reached between Temeria and Redania, resulting in the deceleration of Novigrad as a free city. With his southern border secure, Radovid III now turns south-east, toward Aedirn and the bountiful Pontar Valley.

In an attempt to gather resources for his war, he heavily taxes the Appanage of Kovir. Kovir’s ruler, Gedovius Trojdenida, refuses and declares his kingdom independent, in which he is joined by several of Redania’s outlying northern provinces. Moving swiftly, Radovid III musters his forces and along with his allies from Kaedwen marches on his unruly vassals. With the coming of spring, their combined forces cross the Braa river and engage the rebels in a number of skirmishes, driving them into the highlands.

Meanwhile, on the borders of the Pontar valley ambitious barons are already plotting to lay the foundations for Radovid’s conquest, believing that the insurgency in the north will quickly be crushed. Joined by Kaedweni lords, still bitter over the loss of the Lormark, they have begun testing the defenses of the local Aedernian nobility, who in turn are planning to use the chaos in Redania to further their own agenda.

In such troubled times, work for a Witcher is plentiful and a growing number of communities are putting out the call for monster-hunters. Inkeeps and gossips will be all too eager to point a Witcher looking for a contract toward Redania...

Map - Beware it's huge

---

There's just one last thing we need to figure out: Where do we actually start? Somewhere in Kovir or around the Pontar Valley? Could be in a different part of the region as well, up to you!

Game of Thrones

Symon Rivers, in service to House Hightower
King's Landing, present day

“Does Lord Hightower regard House Florent so poorly that he sends a bastard to treat with me?”

Symon was disappointed, but not surprised. It had started out well enough, Lord Florent had agreed to meet and listened calmly as Symon made his proposal. And so, he had spent the last couple of minutes extolling the virtues of House Hightower and carefully presenting the benefits a marriage between the two Houses would provide. He had prepared the speech and all his arguments the night before, but after Lord Florent’s remark he suspected that it had all been in vain.

None of that showed on his face, however, as he calmly replied:

“Lord Hightower means no offense, my lord. He trusts that his dignified lineage and the prestige of his House lend enough weight to his seal.” He paused to gesture at the signet ring positioned on the table between them, wrought of the finest gold as befits a Hightower, before continuing. “I beg forgiveness if my presence offends, but the words I speak are those of Lord Otho himself and they have merit – even spoken by one such as I.”

“Save your flowery talk for the whores, Rivers.” Lord Florent waved a hand to silence him “Your words have merit, aye, but my answer is clear – no.”

The head of House Florent let the words hang in the air, perhaps trying to provoke a reaction from Symon, though he would have to try harder than that. He took a sip of his wine, still keeping his eyes on his guest. Symon couldn’t shake the feeling that he was sitting face to face with House Florent’s sigil and not a man, such was the lord’s resemblance to the animal. With his prominent ears and narrow face, he was the very image of a fox. He was as sly as one too – he’d quite purposefully left Symon talk to get his hopes up, only to dash them with a single sentence. Bastard…

“There’s also the matter with the attacks on our traders…” Symon decided to change the topic, knowing that he would get nothing if he continued pursuing that avenue.

“What….? The merchants?” Lord Florent shrugged, making it clear what he thought of that. “I have no time for such things, discuss it with my seneschal.” He nodded at a man standing nearby, before giving Symon one last look “You have my message, now take it to your lord.”

Symon knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he got to his feet, pocketed his lord’s seal and bowed respectfully before leaving Lord Florent’s presence. Accompanying him were two Florent men, as well as Luthor Serry, the so-called seneschal. They walked through the manse’s hallways in silence, giving Symon plenty of time to gather his thoughts.

It was a lavish residence, well-decorated and spacious – the Reach had many wealthy Houses and they weren’t afraid of flaunting their wealth when they came to the capital. Nevertheless, Symon noticed a few cracks in the walls here and there, blemishes on the wood, the smaller number of servants. Try as they might to hide it, the Dance had taken a heavy toll on House Tyrell’s bannermen. Though a generation had come and gone, the conflict still left its mark and few Houses could boast of having recovered completely.

They halted on a small balcony overlooking the busy street below. The Florent residence was located on the hill of Rhaenys, which provided a spectacular view of this part of the city. He could see the gold cloaks manning the Old Gate in the distance, the flow of people going up and down the Street of Silk even at this early hour – from up here, even the stench that permeated everything wasn’t as detectable and the city could almost be called beautiful. Almost.

Leaning on the stone railing, Luthor Serry turned to face him, doing little to hide his smug expression.

“As I already told Lord Florent-“ Symon began.

Serry raised a hand to stop him. “Please, Lord Rivers, I was present and heard your account, there is no need to go over it again.”

The way he said “Lord Rivers” made it plainly obvious it was spoken in mockery, but this was yet another thing Symon was used to. These arrogant nobles thought that by constantly reminding others of their rank it somehow made them better or smarter than him. A mistake they would often regret.

“In that case, I will reiterate Lord Hightower’s request – these attacks on our transports must stop. Trade between our two Houses has flowed freely in the past and I doubt Lord Florent would wish it to stop now. As Lord of Brightwater Keep, it is his duty to keep the roads safe for travellers.”

In truth, it was a trivial matter, one that could be solved by a knight with a few seasoned men. A number of caravans from Oldtown had been attacked in Florent lands, near their border with House Hightower. Symon doubted that the brigands were affiliated with the Florents in any way, but the House’s continuous toleration of this nuisance was reason enough for Lord Otho to bring the matter up.

“Surely you do not expect Lord Florent to concern himself with a few cutthroats harassing traders and money-lenders? My lord is a busy man and he has greater matters to attend to.”

Symon expected that reply, he had hoped for it, in fact.

“Aye, our lords must concern themselves with the important affairs of the realm. I do not expect men of such high standing to express interest in the day-to-day activities of their demense. After all, that is why they have servants like us.”

Serry smiled, but said nothing. He was regal in appearance, tall and muscled, with a pleasant face and features that would make most women swoon. He seemed perfectly in control of the situation, feeling he had the upper hand in this exchange.

“Of course, being free of such lofty duties allows one to notice minute details, which a busier man might overlook.” Now it was Symon’s turn to smile, the corner of his mouth twisting ever so slightly. “Take for example a certain brothel in Oldtown, near the docks. Now, a perceptive man might notice that you have a tendency to frequent it during your visits to our city.”

For the first time since their meeting, Luthor Serry’s ingratiating smile slipped from his face. He attempted to open his mouth, but Symon didn’t let him speak. Now I have you, you pathetic cunt.

“Now, now, Lord Serry,” he patted him on the shoulder, leaning in conspiratorially, “As a man, I perfectly understand the desire to unwind after a long day of doing business for your lord. And what better way than in the warm embrace of a girl?” Symon lowered his voice, until it became almost a whisper. “However, there is something unusual about this brothel in particular. All of the whores there are male, as is the entire clientele.”

Even if he had achieved nothing else, the colour draining from Serry’s face was reward enough. Symon took a step back, but kept his eyes on the other man. He let the silence stretch, knowing that a man’s worst fears were his own thoughts. Well, that was the main reason, but he couldn’t deny that watching Serry squirm was the most enjoyable thing he had seen all week. When a few more moments had passed, he decided it was time to end this.

“I’m just a bastard, as your lord rightfully pointed out, so who am I to judge?” Symon finally looked away, turning his eyes to the city and the fields beyond it. “However, a pious man such as yourself,” he tsked, “what would the septons say? And what of your wife? I am told she is a beautiful woman and a cousin to Lord Florent himself! No…it would not do for your little secret to come out, not at all.”

“You filthy, up-jumped son of a whore…” to say that Serry’s voice had taken on an edge would be an understatement, the malice dripping from it could almost be heard. His hand unconsciously went to the dagger at his belt, but Symon wasn’t afraid. The Florent guards nearby would not allow an emissary of the Hightowers to be killed under their lord’s roof and even if they did, Serry would have to explain his violent outburst.

“You wound me, my lord. My mother was a seamstress and she earned her coin honestly, unlike some people. Now, I trust the matter is settled and no more brigands will plague the northern roads?”

“I will personally see to it that they are hanged,” Serry spoke in a flat voice, “now be gone from my sight. You breathe a word of this to anyone and I swear on the Seven I’ll see you dead, even if it’s the last thing I do.” He gestured at his guards and they moved in to escort Symon.

“Have a pleasant day, my lord.”

---

A few moments later he was already out in the street and walking away from the Florent manse. This was the second prominent House in the Reach that had refused Lord Otho’s offer of marriage. Symon’s task had seemed easy enough at first, after all who wouldn’t want to marry Orthos Hightower, heir to the Hightower and Oldtown? This was one of the rare cases in which Symon had grossly underestimated the situation.

Though he knew little of his lord’s plans, he had an inkling as to what these marriages meant for the Reach. Unfortunately, so did the other lords and they were scared, as they should be. The Good Lady Merry had spies everywhere and she kept a particularly watchful gaze on her son’s most powerful bannermen. Symon shuddered, if she wanted to, she could probably destroy his entire network of contacts with a few letters. There was no shame in admitting it - he was good, but there were always bigger fish in the pond.

However, there was no point in worrying over eventualities and he still had much to do before his return to the Red Keep. Drawing the hood of his cloak up, Symon turned in the direction of Flea Bottom and began making his way to that sinking shithole. It was always an unpleasant experience, but he had a favour to return…

Yggdrasil Chronicles [A Dystopian Steampunk Resistance RP]

Right on, got it!

If it's still not too late, I'd like to vote for intelligence option 2 as well. We don't wanna go in blind on such a delicate assignment, but at the same time it wouldn't be wise to spend too much at such an early stage.

Yggdrasil Chronicles [A Dystopian Steampunk Resistance RP]

Right, so how does this work exactly? Do we just do a "I vote for XYZ" and leave it at that or do we need to argument it in some way?

Anyway, I vote for Jailbreak.

Also, how does intelligence work exactly? Like, who chooses what to spend it on? Do we do it after we vote for a mission or beforehand?

Pardon the dumb questions, but it's the first time I'm doing something like this, so would like to clear it up!

A Tolkien based RP: Out of the Past

Enjoy your trip!

As for me, start of the month is always hectic at the workplace, so I'm perfectly fine with the slight delay.

Game of Thrones

Alright, I've done the necessary changes - master-at-arms reporting in!