NationStates Jolt Archive

Before the founding of Dancing Penguin, it and all the other nations on the continent went by one name: Mageddon. From the year 80 B.C. to the year 22 A.D., growing populations on Mageddon forced many people to leave their villages and wander the continent. This lead to a boom in epic writing as the travelers retold their tales. These tales, which were often no more than elegant lies, inspired others to go off as well. This period saw a huge increase in bastard children. The children would grow up and go off to find their fathers. It is easy to see how this quickly spiraled out of control. Near the end of this period, now called “The Legendary Era”, everyone had given themselves some kind of title. Traveling heroes weren’t the only people to rise during this period, however. Numerous tyrants and kings sprung up as well.

Of course, many little fights broke out and blood tournaments became very popular. The real violence didn’t begin until 12 A.D. when

Jack stopped typing and watched the cursor blink. He reread his work.

“Damn, I’m gonna fail this for sure.” He looked over at his clock: 9:15. It was due tomorrow and he had only just started. He leaned back in his chair as he looked through one of the book he had taken out of the library.

“It must have been a cool time to live. Much cooler than it is to write about...” And he went back to work.

ooc: This RP will be taking place on the medieval continent of Mageddon. I hope to make a trilogy out of this, though the plot is quite loose. You can go pretty much anywhere right now. This first thread is for character introduction and development. You can have as many characters as you wish as long as they follow the following rules:
1. Your character must be able to die. Most, in fact, will.
2. Magic and enchanted whatnots are allowed, but keep it in reason (see rule one). On a related note, dragons have been extinct on Mageddon for a long time. If one of your characters has a dragon fang sword or something, be aware that it is either really really old (and rare) or a counterfeit.

If you use multiple characters, do something to keep them seperate to avoid any confusion. I will make my first post shortly. Please either post your questions here or telegram them to Dancing Penguin.

OOC: Is this set in the medieval period (circa 1000AD - 1500AD), or the time around the birth of Christ (when your dates suggest, assuming they are the RL BC and AD usages). I'm interested in joining, but I would just like to clarify the tech level so I don't screw up in posts.

Also, talk of dragons suggests fantasy. Is it just (extinct) dragons, or are we in a land of elves and magic also? I don't mind either way, just like to get it right for continuity.

ooc: Sorry about that. Yes, it is medieval times (medieval times were just earlier in DP than in the real world). Elves and other near-human races are allowed, just remember that they need to be able to die. Sorry for the confusion.
IC:
Urka
A burly man sat near a fire listening intently to the cloaked man sitting across from him. From the corner came the relentless scratching of a quill as a young scribe recorded the man’s words. The room was a huge library, one of the many rooms in the huge manor. The cloaked man was just finishing his tale:

“And that is how I saved the princess of Londale!” He bowed.

“That was quite a tale, Mr. Shoger.” The muscular man clapped, his bald head glistening in the fire light.

The cloaked man turned and pointed a short sword back at his host. “That’s Shoger The Slayer to you.” He left and the other man turned to his scribe.

“Quite a story, eh Quinbo?” The scribe looked up, his seventeen year old face showing the hint of a grin.

“It was an elegant tale, Urka sir, though I do doubt Londale is a real place.”

“And why is that?”

“It was either the ‘streets lined with gold’ or the ‘fountain that sprayed silver.’ I’m not sure which. The man is a liar, sir. If you had a diamond the size of a man’s head, you certainly wouldn’t give it to a poor farmer for food, rest, and a horse.”

“You’ve called them all liars,” Urka stood, his broad shoulders and tall frame casting a massive shadow on the shelves across the room.

“And I stand by that, sir.”

“Lies or not, everyone will remember them.” Urka looked around the mighty library. “People like me will be forgotten while everyone looks to their stories. Make sure my offer is still known.”

“Two bloodstones and a warm meal to any with a decent story to tell? Yes, sir.” Quinbo stood and bowed as Urka left the library, bound for his bedroom.

ooc: More characters to come...

Sir Henry Paget, known formally as Viscount Longleat and with a Barony to his name also, threw his weight clumsily to one side as he stepped down from the saddle of his stallion. Reaching the ground with a metallic thump, he passed his jousting lance and shield to two of his pages, who both looked up at him with a mesmerised gazes as they stared wondrously at their hero and patron, and passed the reigns of his horse to a stable boy. Taking long, clanking strides in his bulky suit of armour, he headed to his opponent, the Earl of Marlbridge - the host anbd highest ranking entrant - extending his gleaming iron-covered hand out, taking the Earl's hand and, with the assistance of the Earl's pages, raising him to his feet. Raising his visor in unison with his adversary, he let the Earl speak first.

"Well met, Viscount Longleat. You fought hard and won well. A thoroughly deserved victory. My congratulations."

"Thank you, Lord Marlbridge. You are quite a challenge yourself."

"That may be so, but you fully deserve to be the victor of this tourney. Congratulations once again. Now, I believe it is time for you to recieve your prize."

Longleat smiled, thanking the Earl and turning to the main stand, a large platform hung with the Earl's colours and seating a number of lesser Nobles and gentry who had attended the event. In the centre two chairs stood, more ornate and decorated than any others, the seat of the Earl and his wife. Approaching the stand, Longleat stood before the chairs as the Earl took his place, then removed his helmet to show a face only glimpsed when the visor was lifted, the face of a mid-20s man letting his friendliness and kindness of a true chivalrous Noble show, yet with the steely determination and vigour of a true Knight. Letting a great beaming smile expand across his face as Countess Marlborough announced him champion of the event, he offered a bow to the people on the platform, removed a gauntlet, allowing a gold ring representing his victory to join several others on the fingers of his right hand, and finally gave the Countess a shot of his handsome face as she lowered herself to award him a kiss. Slowly making his way down the line of ladies of the Earl's court and of the Nobles who had attended the event, he reached the last lady in the line - the beautiful daughter of the Duke of Thairdwaite. Reaching to his arm, Longleat carefully detached the silk favour that she had given him, bowing to her before returning it. Barely able to contain his joy at approaching the lady as the victor, he raised his face to stare into her eyes, saying

"Well, My Lady. It appears your favour gave me the luck I needed."

"Indeed, Lord Longleat. It was my pleasure to sponsor such a talented Knight as yourself."

"And it was my honour to recieve your sponsor. I look forward to seeing you again, at another such event. But I fear I must go now. The tourney has been long, and I have business to attend to."

"That saddens me, but every man has his duty. But first, your kiss...."

Bending down until he face was level with his, she placed her hands on his shoulders, gently kissing him for as long as she dared without drawing attention. Finally, she stood up again, and congratulated him once more as he turned and returned to his tent where his pages and a servant were unsaddling his horse. As his pages ran up to him, eager to hear first his tales of his victory despite witnessing every second of it, Longleat strode into his tent, stretched his arms out, and relaxed as he was un-armoured. Each victory was more sweet than the last, yet to win such a prestigious event in the Duchy, and in front of Lady Thardwaite, was a real honour. There would be much celebration tonight, when he returned to his Manor. And when the news spread across his County, he didn't doubt that his housekeeping staff in his other residences, and indeed the garrison of his small fort, would find a decent excuse to open up several of the bottles of wine and kegs of mead in storage. Life could be very generous when you could wield a lance....

OOC: Hope this first post is OK. I doubt I will introduce any other characters, although I may a few of Longleat's retinue for some places if it warrants it. If I do create any other characters, they will likely be to fill holes in the plot...

Zev and Ulric
A white haired nineteen year old woke with a start. He stretched out and yawned, revealing a mouth with four fangs. His arms brushed a female form beside him and he smiled.

“Having fun, Zev?” The fanged teenager jumped, lunging for a nearby weapon. As he grabbed it, a foot stepped on his hand, pinning it. “That’s no way to greet an old friend.” Zev looked up and saw a man with long black hair and four fangs of his own.

“Ulric? It’s been a while.” Zev pulled his hand free and stood.

“Yes. Get dressed, we need to go.”

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A couple minutes later, white haired Zev and black haired Ulric ran down through the woods.

“Where are we going?” Zev asked.

“Home.” Zev stopped.

“You know I can’t-”

“Your father’s been poisoned. It seems the nobles have put a bounty on both our kind,” Ulric turned and looked hard at Zev. “The poisoning will be fatal, your people will need a new leader.”

“And how about your people. How’s your old man doing?”

“He died last year.”

“But that means you’re-”

“Yes,” Ulric held up a pendant shaped like a black wolf, “I’m the new chief of the Black Wolf Tribe. Now come on, your people need you.” And he began to run again. Zev paused a moment more, then raced to catch up.

“Why did you come for me? You always said I’d be the worst chief-”

“I said that you were cocky, arrogant and impulsive. However,” Ulric smiled a thin smile, “That’s exactly the kind of chief your people need now.”

ooc: Sorry for the delay, I’ve had a busy Thanksgiving.

He sat on the onyx throne, a relic from the old ages.
"We needn't be weak my lord. We can end this downward spiral. Our kingdom can become great again! Lictveria can be what it once was! It can be powerful again! Stand and fight and you will be the hero of our people!"
"The great empire that you speak of was built on a foundation of corpses. We built our nation on war, on death, on destruction. Just because our primitive ancestors were warlike monsters does not mean we must follow in their footsteps. Simply because we can crush them does not give us the right to."
"Sir, you must not realize the severity of our situation. A sea of golden armor, sir. Crimson banners snapping in the breeze. Our women being raped, our children becoming archery targets! The farms will burn. The towers will crumble. These barbaric savages will tear us limb from limb if we do not make a stand. My lord, they are coming. And they will stop at nothing."
"Very well. Send them a warning."
A tapestry, bearing a midnight-black dragon, was lifted and a figure emerged from behind it.
"Ebon, you failed."
"What?"
"It was a test. You can't be king yet. Wait another year, we'll speak."
"But wait a minute- are they attacking?"
"We have always had a gentle understanding with the humans- or at least, for the past three hundred years we have. Attacking them would be giving them more reason to kill us. It would be a response, and that's what they would want. We are peaceful. The days of bloodshed are over. I did appreciate your resistance to the idea, though. You remain prince."
"But he forced me to, sir! He wouldn't listen to me-"
"We all must stand up to our closest and most trusted allies when we know that what they ask of us is wrong. We will never wage war with the humans."
"But what if they attacked?"
"Then we would flee. We would negotiate. We would find a way to manage the conflict."
The young prince, his sleek ebony hair drifting to the left side of his face as a gentle breeze blew in, folded his arms over his polished breastplate. He darted his glaring eyes away from the man addressing him and a pout crossed his face. Another year of being just a prince rather than a king. They had told him his father was dead- told him that he would have to assume a king's duties immediately, with no time for ceremony, no time for coronation. But what if his father had died? The thought was sweet. It had crossed his mind many times before. He felt guilty about enjoying it and never went through with it. He loved his father, very much. But if the old man did die- if it were, perhaps, an accident- would he feel sadness at all? Perhaps there would be the evolutionary instincts telling him that a man dying was cause for sorrow, but that was it. Otherwise, he felt horrible knowing that he would be overjoyed. His mind wandered later as he strolled down the halls, crimson and gold cape fluttering in his wake. If only there was a way to kill him without knowing I had done it. Then I would feel no regret and would at last possess throne and crown. And then I would rule as I saw fit. But killing him without knowing he had done it was a feat that was impossible. He would just have to wait for kingdom to come.

Katrel Thunder-Spear
The woods where somewhat familiar, reminding him faintly of the Black Marsh, his homeland... The air was thick with the smells of rotting leaf litter & damp wood, comforting to the warrior... He was known as Katrel (Cat-Rel), of the Thunder-Spear. The sparking relic on his shoulder bore the marks of a long, hard life of vicious battles & bloody victories.

Katrel was a wanderer, a lesser warrior than his father & his father before him... He'd inherited the weapon as a bloodright, and while not unskilled in its use, he lacked practical battle expeirence... Through mortal conflict & harsh living he hoped to measure up to his ancestors. His reptillian features where well-suited to the forest, as was the natural aquatic ability of his race. Katrel's fin-ears suddenly pricked up... Something was nearby....

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Seljick Nightfang
He was marvelous, Seljick reminded himself... Such a skillfull poisoning of the old man was the work of a master assassin... Then again, those of the Nightfang line have always been braggartly & arrogant. Seljick's black scales where invisible against the night sky. The dark clothing he wore didn't make detection any easier. His perch atop a town building afforded him a wonderful view of the city below. He reminded himself again that he was indeed a masterful assassin before leaping off into the night...

Durbin and Milo

The crudely constructed little fleet of rafts had drifted for some weeks, before they landed on the northern shores of Mageddon. Little more than timbers lashed together with a kind of tough, rubbery vine that grew in the Black Marsh, powered by single masts, it was a miracle they'd survived the crossing at all; they were lucky the weather had been calm - rough seas would certainly have finished off the primitive flotilla.

Durbin, a hedge wizard, and the only human carried by the ramshackle rafts, was probably to thank for that. He'd spent a good few weeks before they had set out from the Black Marsh, crafting a magic beacon to deflect storms from their path. All in all, it had been reasonably successful; all that effort, just so that he could lead his little group of rebel marsh elves away from their oppressive homeland. Hopefully to somewhere where he could get some peace and quiet away from his own kind, and write his memoirs. Not that anyone would read them, but for his own peace of mind.

There were about three hundred of them; just about enough for a viable gene pool, but with marsh elves, Durbin expected, it probably wouldn't matter that much; inbreeding was rife in their original populations anyway, and it wasn't like it could make them even more stupid than they already were. The only reason they had survived as a race at all, as far as Durbin could tell, was their tendency to worship some big nasty monster, which in turn looked after them to an extent. Durbin reflected smugly, that for the purposes of this small group, he was the big nasty monster.

To be fair, they had done a reasonable job as first-time sailors, if not as first-time ship builders. Now they were constructing their crude hovels on the shore. He had insisted that they build his hut first, and do a better job of it than they normally did. It wasn't much worse than his yurt back in the Black Marsh, so he didn't complain too much afterwards; they took that as a compliment.

Durbin, a scrawny man in his sixties, bald with a huge, greying moustache, sat on a boulder by the front of his new house, smoking his pipe, and watching the marsh elves bicker about how best to construct the shaman's spirit lodge. They were short, as elven races go, ranging from four and a half to five feet in height. Since they came from a dank, nasty, dark bit of swamp, their complexion was a pale blue-grey, and Durbin had already heard them complaining about sunburn. Their eyes were invariably yellow, and hair invariably black, growing thickly on the head, neck and shoulders like a mane. And they smelled, too. Durbin had hoped that once he got them out of the swamp, the smell would go away, but it hadn't. It was like a cross between musk and compost. Durbin now hoped that, if he smoked enough of the strange plants growing on this new continent, he'd lose his sense of smell, and not have to worry about it.

On the whole, he could just about put up with them, incompetant little cretins though they were. He wanted an easy life, and the freedom to pursue his studies without having to work for a living, and having a village of marsh elves to do all his work for him was better than doing it himself. It was just mildly annoying that he couldn't find anyone better; all the cool wizards had goblin minions these days.

"Master?" said a voice from behind him, "I've unpacked all your books and equipment like you said."

Durbin turned, and cast a smile at the young marsh elf. This one he classified apart from the others, as being worthy of his attention; his apprentice Milo. Milo was something of a diamond in the rough, as far as marsh elves went. The lad was capable of logical reasoning, for a start, and Durbin had even taught him to read without much difficulty. Durbin had taken a solemn oath to his old master, to take an apprentice before he died, and, rather too late, had found himself in a position where the only suitable candidates were marsh elves. He'd had his doubts at first, but Milo had consistently proven himself a capable student, and Durbin was beginning to think he might make a wizard after all. Of course, he still smelled like a marsh elf, even though Durbin made him bathe twice a day.

"Good. I shall inspect them in a moment." he said, "In the meantime, take this list," he handed the young elf a scrap of paper, with his own spidery handwriting on it, "and go and see how many of these plants you can find in the woods here. We will need to replenish our stock of herbs and reagents soon."

Milo took the list, and gave it a quick glance - it was a standard list of wild flowers, berries, fungi, and, he noted, a few of the plants that Durbin was fond of smoking in his pipe. He nodded, and took a few of his own possessions that were packed with Durbin's - a bag and sickle - before heading off down the hill towards the woods. He spent almost every waking hour doing menial chores for Durbin, and hadn't yet learned much more than the basics of magic, but that didn't bother him; just being able to read put his level of education considerably higher than every other marsh elf in the village.

OOC: It seems that this thread has died.

OOC: It seems that this thread has died.

OOC: Pity. Looks like I'll have to extract these characters, and use them elsewhere.