Zugzwang

Deification. Let's give some random people divine powers of creation and see if they get along.

George

Name: George Marshall

Age: 19

Personality: Before his ascension, George was a fun-loving, studious college student. He worked part-time at the school newspaper, made friends and enjoyed his time day-to-day without much worry. He was eager to chase women, with mixed success, and had a core of good friends and an expansive body of friendly acquaintances. He is still highly competitive in everything he does, though fortunately learned at a young age the myriad benefits of sportsmanship and courtesy. He still has a dislike for authority, a strong distaste towards dogmatic beliefs and a lack of open-mindedness, and respects free thought and innovation. He is quick to laugh, and a temper to balance. He is direct, and dislikes beating around the bush in most things. He is always quick to act, preferring to trust his improvisational skills when a problem arises rather than make plans that fall apart at the first unforeseen hurdle. Despite this, in every individual task he does he strives for perfection, sometimes at his detriment, often to his advantage. He considers himself a utilitarian, and judges actions intellectually on the grounds of greatest possible good, but like every human, especially every college sophomore, he often compromises his beliefs for hedonistic reasons. A result of this philosophical position is that he has become rather frugal, to an almost detrimental degree, always searching (or imagining) a better value around the corner. He is, however, not unaware of his failings: George rightfully prides himself on understanding himself, and strives for self-improvement constantly, with typically varying success. George is a paranoid man, and despite his propensity for quick action he spends a great deal of his free time thinking about possible dangers, real or imaginary. He is slow to trust friends, despite the speed at which he makes them, and truly opens up to very few people. He has, currently unbeknownst to him, an affection for power and control, not only for its ability to enable him to do good, but for its ability to assuage his paranoia and let him direct things the way he finds satisfactory.

Interests: He is a military man, through and through. He isn't brave enough to actually fight, not really, but he has a fascination and an excellent knowledge of military matters. He finds history fascinating, especially as it pertains to military matters, and he always tries to not only learn about the intriguing secrets of the past but to apply them to himself in his quest for self-improvement. His hobby, besides engaging in the college social life, is firearms. He loves them, both for their practical applications in protecting himself and acting as a salve for his paranoia, and also just as objects, in the same way someone may love cars or trains (interests George has just never understood, really). He owned several firearms, before his death, and frequently shot with friends and family.

History: Born in rural New Hampshire to moderately wealthy parents, George had a normal life. He went to a good school, made friends, and earned good enough grades to be accepted into a competitive college. He spent his free time playing sports, socializing with his peers, surfing the internet, and reading prolifically. He had a string of short-lived relationships, truncated not by any particular drama but just changing personalities and the tribulations of high-school, and later college, life. He worked part time at a gun store, a job he lauded over his peers who were being paid minimum wage to flip burgers. His quirks arose slowly through his life: like most deep-rooted personality traits, he had no specific triggering event. He was always paranoid, encouraged by his family's old house and his status as an only child. His quest for self-improvement is likely a result of a competitive edge and his parent's insistence on the idea that anyone, if they work hard enough, can achieve great things. His love of firearms and matters military is much more easily traced, to his Great-Uncle, who would not only spoil him rotten for the decade before he died of pancreatic cancer, but would take him shooting on the expansive family property.

Appearance: George is tall and thin. His brown hair varies wildly, cycling from a buzz cut to an untidy nest of hair as he procrastinates getting a haircut. His eyes are wide and brown, his skin tanned several shades darker than its normal pasty complexion. He tries to remain fit, finding that a light jog is an excellent way to dissolve stress, and a good way to let him sate his smoldering paranoia. He has a wide smile that he wears frequently. He dresses in business casual wherever he goes, preferring a casually-worn button up to a t-shirt. He has bad posture, partially a result of his height and a desire to remain near the level of his peers, and partially because of unadulterated laziness. He walks quickly, and frequently catches himself whistling or humming to himself, a habit he wishes he could quit, but so far has not been able to. He is attentive when listening, subdued when silent, and animated when talking on subjects that interest him. He has a personality that alters between blending in and filling the room, and he has learned when to do either, at least among his own peers.

Notes: Partially WIP, I'm not entirely happy with it, and I need to go to sleep. I'll edit tomorrow after class.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

Boom. Paul von Oberstein I mean Pompey the Great I mean Nikita Kruschev I mean SECOND CHARACTER DONE BITCHES

Vahir-senpai inspired me.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

Name: Sixth Prince of the Empire, Sigismund len Ruthweiler, Duke of Kolberg

Age: 23

Caste: Royalty

Occupation: Former Deputy-Chief Researcher at the Royal Chemical Society, Kolberg Branch. Currently General of the Army of the Northern Electors.

Appearance and Personality: Sigismund is a small man, the trappings of youth still present in him. He is lanky, standing taller than most men but weighing significantly less, without the paunch of older officers or the taught muscles of the younger. His skin is naturally pale, free of the common soldier's tan due to his posting to the far north. He wears his uniform smartly, but lacks much of the pomp and circumstance the gold braid would normally suggest. He slouches, and frequently has his hands in his pockets. He moves carefully, always wary of making a mistake, and his trepidation is clear to all those who observe him. His voice is deep, but when he speaks it is either slowly, with pregnant pauses between his words, or quickly, his mind stumbling over what he wants to say before it leaves his mouth. His angular face is topped with a mop of brown hair, perpetually untidy despite constant ministrations. His eyes are large and vibrant green, his mouth looking like it is always on the verge of smiling. When alone, in contemplation or at work, he rarely lets a contented smile leave his face. When speaking, answering questions or dispatching orders, a look of frustrated uncertainty replaces it.

He is a jovial man, deep down. When among friends, in a casual setting, he is quick to joke and quicker to laugh. He prefers to listen than to speak, but is known to hold forth on subjects of particular interest, sometimes longer than his peers would like. He is excitable when dealing with the few matters that hold his interest, and has a long, if grudging, attention span for matters that do not. He respects knowledge and sage wisdom, but idolizes those who innovate and think outside the normal bounds. He thirsts after information, always wanting to learn more about anything he is told. He values bravery and daring in their place, but despite his position still feels the heavy weight of dead men on his shoulders. He is not one for violence himself, and is even more loathe to send others to do violence on his behalf, but does at least understand the realities of his situation. Sigismund does not make friends quickly, though he is perpetually polite, but what friends he manages to collect are cherished by him higher than any others would.

Biography: Sigismund had a happy childhood. The sixth son of the royal family has little expected of him as a child, or at all, really. He lived in the Imperial Palace, playing with his brothers and sisters and those few children who he managed to meet, isolated as he was. He never wanted for anything, and made extensive use of the royal library, working his way from the children's section and the Scriptures to the adventure serials and finally to the histories and sciences. He played with tin soldiers and loved to play checkers. He was always working on a puzzle, and would never stop until they were finished, though he would take breaks of months at a time.

He was educated privately at first, much younger than the other princes. He remembered at five years old, begging to be let into the classroom with his older brothers. He was fascinated, and even when he finally grew bored, as all children do after sitting still for more than ten minutes, he was not put off. He applied himself in all subjects, and as he grew from a precocious child to a prodigious teen he left to study at the Imperial Academy of the Natural Sciences, where he became enamored with the burgeoning field of chemistry.

He graduated at 16, and immediately was granted a post at the Royal Chemistry Society, one with authority not fitting his knowledge. He never exerted his power, and was just content to learn from and debate with the much older, much more knowledgeable scholars. He published his doctoral thesis at 19 after successfully synthesizing urea, earning not insignificant attention from the scientific community.

When he turned 21, his father demanded he take a commission in the army, which he grudgingly accepted. He continued his research while in command, though he had to spend a great deal of his free time actually learning military theory, unwilling to be a imbecilic figurehead. At 23, he quite by chance discovered a mixture of charcoal, sulphur and saltpeter that has the potential to act as a propellant or pyrotechnic. Two weeks later, his favorite older brother was tragically murdered, thrusting him unwilling into the deadly game of succession.

Motivation: When Admar was the Crown Prince and heir apparent, Sigismund had little ambition beyond living a comfortable life and breaking new ground in the field of chemistry. With his older brother dead, he finds himself playing a deadly game, and he is realizing more and more that he wants to win. He would be a better emperor than his failures of older brothers, of that he is certain, and he could right the wrongs so ingrained into the empire. Winning is the only way to guarantee his survival and the survival of those he cares about. Inevitably, but reluctantly, he is starting to realize that he is going to have to rebel against the new Crown Prince, and start a deadly reaction that might blow the empire to smithereens.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

Name: Major General Alexander len Myrtenblume, Count of Velburg

Age: 30

Caste: Lesser Nobility

Occupation: Chief of Staff, Army of the Northern Electors

Appearance and Personality: Alexander’s picture could very well be found in the dictionary, next to the word ‘Soldier’. He is tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled. His skin is tan from years in the field, and he looks perfectly at home in grey uniform and gold braid. His posture is pike-straight, his strides purposeful, and his voice loud and confident. His black hair is kept neat, a dusting of stubble always visible on his chin. He bears the scars of a professional soldier, but they lend him an air of worldliness and bravery rather than danger. His brown eyes are always set on the horizon, and he always gives whoever addresses him his full attention, and is never disrespectful. He is rarely seen without his sword, and more rarely seen out of uniform. Though the gruff and adventurous man has dropped out of fashion somewhat, he finds himself blessed with the attention of fashionable ladies, though has never been seen letting them interfere with his duties.

Alexander is, at his core, a man who understands the workings of power. Every action of his is a move in the game of its accumulation and exchange. He acts and looks the perfect soldier, kind, fair and ruthless, and is loved by his subordinate officers for it. He understands rhetoric and its uses, and applies the tactics of the podium in his everyday life. Alexander values friendships for their practical applications, hates those who prohibit him from continuing his advancement, and deals with both friend and ally with decisiveness. Years ago he learned to control his temper, and now uses it rarely and forcefully, wielding it as other men may handle a sword. He is an utter fake, through and through. He wears the mask that suits the situation, and changes them like other men change clothes. His free time, if it can truly be called that (as he seldom swerves from his goal of accumulating power) is invested in knowledge. He understands that knowledge brings opportunities, and those opportunities are the path to power. Deep down, he respects those who follow the same path as him, who work with single-minded determination to reach the top and never let it go.

Biography: The county of Velburg is poor. Its people work for subsistence and little more. His family was poor, and though he was an only child thanks to his mother’s untimely death at the hands of the flu, he was never used to luxury or excess. He helped his father manage the estate to earn his keep, and spent what little time he was given free to attend lessons and learn the scriptures, despite his protestations.

At thirteen, his father was killed. The family had borrowed money from another family, having too much pride to turn to bankers, and when that family was denied its repayments, it invested Velburg with soldiers, hundreds of trained and fit men fighting a score of second sons masquerading as guards. His father resisted in a fit of anger or fright, and he was killed. Alexander only learned of the event when he returned from a camping trip in the mountains, so quick was the affair that would change his life forever.
Like any son who loses his parents, he was driven mad. Grief consumed him, and he dedicated himself to revenge while in the constricting clutches of sorrow and desperation: revenge not only against the family who had killed his father, but against the institution that let it happen. He blamed the structure of the world, and decided he needed to rule it to change it. What he would change was not something with which he was concerned at the time. Seeing no other avenue for advancement, he studied desperately for the entrance exams to the Imperial Military Academy. He earned an almost full scholarship. He still needed to sell his mother’s jewels to pay for the tuition.
At the Military Academy, he excelled. He made friends, established connections, and worked as many of his peers as he could into his debt. He made every effort to appear the genius, the invincible. He studied all night, worked all day, learning to fight and speak and act and command. He graduated when he was 16, and shot through the ranks of the army with single-minded determination and heinous, exorbitant corruption. He bribed, blackmailed and stole his gold braid, and spent the political capital he had accumulated over 14 years of service to be named Chief of Staff for what he thought would be a docile, easy-to-control Prince, one at the head of the Army of Northern Electors. He held the role for no more than five months before the Crown Prince was pronounced dead.
Motivation: Alexander wants to rule the world. He hates those above him, and pities those below him in the great chain of being. He dreams of commanding the great masses of humanity, justifying his burning ambition to himself by promising unspecific reforms to vague sections of the population. He can have no man as his equal, and will be named a deity just to have no metaphysical being who stands above him in the hierarchy the unconscious masses decide.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

S-Senpai...

You finally noticed me.

Star Wars: Rise of the New Empire (Accepting new players)

Why not hop on the Bazaar and chat with Amolia. She would be looking for a second opinion on interrogating Jedi, after all.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

Boom. Done. This post will eventually become my other character, who I do not have time to start.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

Name: Sixth Prince of the Empire, Sigismund len Ruthweiler, Duke of Kolberg

Age: 23

Caste: Royalty

Occupation: Former Deputy-Chief Researcher at the Royal Chemical Society, Kolberg Branch. Currently General of the Army of the Northern Electors.

Appearance and Personality: Sigismund is a small man, the trappings of youth still present in him. He is lanky, standing taller than most men but weighing significantly less, without the paunch of older officers or the taught muscles of the younger. His skin is naturally pale, free of the common soldier's tan due to his posting to the far north. He wears his uniform smartly, but lacks much of the pomp and circumstance the gold braid would normally suggest. He slouches, and frequently has his hands in his pockets. He moves carefully, always wary of making a mistake, and his trepidation is clear to all those who observe him. His voice is deep, but when he speaks it is either slowly, with pregnant pauses between his words, or quickly, his mind stumbling over what he wants to say before it leaves his mouth. His angular face is topped with a mop of brown hair, perpetually untidy despite constant ministrations. His eyes are large and vibrant green, his mouth looking like it is always on the verge of smiling. When alone, in contemplation or at work, he rarely lets a contented smile leave his face. When speaking, answering questions or dispatching orders, a look of frustrated uncertainty replaces it.

He is a jovial man, deep down. When among friends, in a casual setting, he is quick to joke and quicker to laugh. He prefers to listen than to speak, but is known to hold forth on subjects of particular interest, sometimes longer than his peers would like. He is excitable when dealing with the few matters that hold his interest, and has a long, if grudging, attention span for matters that do not. He respects knowledge and sage wisdom, but idolizes those who innovate and think outside the normal bounds. He thirsts after information, always wanting to learn more about anything he is told. He values bravery and daring in their place, but despite his position still feels the heavy weight of dead men on his shoulders. He is not one for violence himself, and is even more loathe to send others to do violence on his behalf, but does at least understand the realities of his situation. Sigismund does not make friends quickly, though he is perpetually polite, but what friends he manages to collect are cherished by him higher than any others would.

Biography: Sigismund had a happy childhood. The sixth son of the royal family has little expected of him as a child, or at all, really. He lived in the Imperial Palace, playing with his brothers and sisters and those few children who he managed to meet, isolated as he was. He never wanted for anything, and made extensive use of the royal library, working his way from the children's section and the Scriptures to the adventure serials and finally to the histories and sciences. He played with tin soldiers and loved to play checkers. He was always working on a puzzle, and would never stop until they were finished, though he would take breaks of months at a time.

He was educated privately at first, much younger than the other princes. He remembered at five years old, begging to be let into the classroom with his older brothers. He was fascinated, and even when he finally grew bored, as all children do after sitting still for more than ten minutes, he was not put off. He applied himself in all subjects, and as he grew from a precocious child to a prodigious teen he left to study at the Imperial Academy of the Natural Sciences, where he became enamored with the burgeoning field of chemistry.

He graduated at 16, and immediately was granted a post at the Royal Chemistry Society, one with authority not fitting his knowledge. He never exerted his power, and was just content to learn from and debate with the much older, much more knowledgeable scholars. He published his doctoral thesis at 19 after successfully synthesizing urea, earning not insignificant attention from the scientific community.

When he turned 21, his father demanded he take a commission in the army, which he grudgingly accepted. He continued his research while in command, though he had to spend a great deal of his free time actually learning military theory, unwilling to be a imbecilic figurehead. At 23, he quite by chance discovered a mixture of charcoal, sulphur and saltpeter that has the potential to act as a propellant or pyrotechnic. Two weeks later, his favorite older brother was tragically murdered, thrusting him unwilling into the deadly game of succession.

Motivation: When Admar was the Crown Prince and heir apparent, Sigismund had little ambition beyond living a comfortable life and breaking new ground in the field of chemistry. With his older brother dead, he finds himself playing a deadly game, and he is realizing more and more that he wants to win. He would be a better emperor than his failures of older brothers, of that he is certain, and he could right the wrongs so ingrained into the empire. Winning is the only way to guarantee his survival and the survival of those he cares about. Inevitably, but reluctantly, he is starting to realize that he is going to have to rebel against the new Crown Prince, and start a deadly reaction that might blow the empire to smithereens.

The Imperial Crisis: Succession

I'm gong to try to have something up tomorrow, but next week is midterm central, so I can't make any promises. Expect something in the next few days.

Star Wars: Rise of the New Empire (Accepting new players)

“Admiral Fairfax, Eriadu has been seized. The governor and his council have surrendered, and the defense forces have been neutralized completely within the capital. We’re receiving messages of compliance from other population centers now, and I am deploying the rest of my Stormtroopers to ensure cooperation. The Revenue took light damage from the small complement of anti-pirate ships, but its combat functionality is not impaired.”

Commodore Fayet’s young, pale face was displayed in rather poor definition on her personal screen, his voice small and tinny, blaring from the cheap speakers. Amolia noticed a few of her bridge officers listening in: it was the first combat any of them had seen, beyond simulation, and she shared their enthusiasm. She did not stop them, this time.
“Well done, commodore. The fleet will be arriving within the hour: begin procuring food and materiel at high prices, and give ground forces eight hours leave. Remind them we are liberators: rape and pillage will be met with firing squad.”

The commodore nodded along with her, memorizing his duties and no doubt already planning ahead. It was one of few things she liked about the man. Understanding her to be finished, he saluted. “Understood ma’am. Emperor protect.”

She did not respond. His face snapped off her screen, and she looked up, running over what she knew. She looked out of the fore window, the transparisteel almost invisible as she gazed past it and saw the enormous dagger-shaped ship extend in front of her, the point nothing more than a speck against the white streaks of hyperspace. She stood from her command chair with some relish.

“Captain Linser, you have command. Relay to the fleet that orders have changed: the fleet is to enter medium orbit above Eriadu and prepare to repel counterattacks. I have business to attend to.”

The balding man, no more than thirty years old and with chocolate-hued skin, turned from his station directly in front of her now- vacated chair and saluted smartly. “Yes, Admiral.”. He knew better than to wait for a response, and simply began executing her orders efficiently. They had become quite the team over the months.

The walk to her quarters was a short one. A flight of stairs and a trip down a drab grey corridor deposited her in her spacious quarters. Two rooms and a personal lavatory, well appreciated. She used very little of it, of course, and today was no exception. She dropped herself in her far more comfortable personal chair, and turned to her desk, turning her various computers and communicators on as she did so. Her desk was immaculate, of course: there was no using heavy, wasteful and expensive paper on a Star Destroyer. Her computer, however, was highly cluttered. She still managed to navigate it smoothly, and keyed open a new communication channel. She trusted her staff, as any officer must, but some matters are best kept out of the minds of the fragile.

“Pardalis. I trust the Jedi were no problem, even without the bomb.”

The rough voice of her agent came across in terrible quality, the price paid for portable communicators. “They weren’t, boss. I managed to take the padawan alive, like you asked. I couldn’t get the knight, too dangerous.”

“Indeed. Is she fit for transport?”

“Absolutely.” Even through the bad connection she could hear a note of relish. “She’ll be no danger on the ship, though I’d recommend you let me handle her while she’s aboard. Jedi are slippery, even when you can resist their tricks.”

“Understood. The Bazaar will be entering orbit in an hour. I expect you here as soon as possible.”

“Got it, boss.”

His face disappeared, and Amolia sat back calmly. She couldn’t wait to interrogate the jedi: there were just too many things she wanted to know. A rare smirk played on her face, just for a few seconds.