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shadowsworn

BY INVITATION ONLY

GM List: shadowsworn, Xeno, Loric

Intro: I thought I'd try something different for this one. Instead of making a very specific story from the start, this RP will start with a broad/vague storyline, and accumulate detail and depth as it goes. Also, instead of just being moderated by me, there will be several people running the thread, and possibly more as we go (and see which players seem to be the best at roleplaying).

OH ANOTHER THING. I hatehatehate people using pictures to describe characters. None of that filth.

Premise: The nations of Garchea and Saxes are about to begin a war. The story is a mixture of the following influences: Steampunk, Sherlock Holmes, the Three Musketeers, and Call of Cthulhu (basically anything we think sounds neat, within a steampunk context)

oh, steampunk means it takes place in a world with technology like that present around the year 1880-1900, basically. It also means the story has to do with science, in some ways (ie. kickass ironclad airships)

Common Weapons: Henry Rifle, Colt Peacemaker, Coach Gun, Mosin Nagant, and Schofield Revolver.

Character Sheet Template

Name

Age

Background

Physical Description

Apparel and Other Possessions

Background to the Story: You are one of a group of adventuring spirits in the hire of the King of Saxes, Alexandre IV. One of the King's agents, the Comte de Veilleurs, arranged for you to meet him at the Gaslight Inn, a large inn on the King's Highway, to tell you about an urgent matter that has come up. You arrive there, and that is where the adventure begins.

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C~Dub

Name: Jean Dreich Rentoy

Age: 23

Background: Jean was brought of in rural Saxes on a farm. He was taught by his grandfather to duel with an Epee and taught by his father to shoot. While he was in town buying groceries for his family, his farm was raised by who he suspected to be the Garchea Army. With no home, family, and little possessions, Jean took to illegal street dueling but when this was not enough he was forced to fight against his country for a soldier's wage to survive. However, when he simply could not bear to kill any more of his countryman, he fled the ranks of the Garchea Army and became a freelancer.

Physical Description:
(Obviously not)
Standing at 6'2, Jean does not look muscular but his dueling uniform masks strong arms, toned from years of hard work. He also has dozens of dueling scars on his chest and arms.

Apparel: Jean is nearly always wearing his grandfather's old Saxen dueling uniform and a scrap of his old Garchean army tied to his right arm to remind him of the atrocities he committed to his fellow patriots.
Other Possessions: Jean is always seen with his epee at his left hip. He also carries a Peacemaker on his right hip and a Henry Rifle on a gun strap attached to his back.

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Xenonight2

Name: Rafael de Patrice Faure

Age: 31

Background: Born in the slums of Soskolest, Loubet, Rafael had a difficult childhood, with periods ranging from starvation, to almost catching the plague, and being bullied by local gangs. He escaped this when he joined the Louben army at age 14 (by lying about his age) where he performed remarkebly well as a soldier, and served in the war against the Valreich. Nonetheless, he was discharged for being underraged, as well as having a problem with gambling. Kicked out onto the streets again, he worked many different various jobs until he joined the military again at age 17. He performed well in the Second Loubet-Valreich War, and was promoted to a Sergeant, and worked as a Grenadier. At 19, he was trained to be a saboteur, and by 25 he was one of the top sabotaging agents for Loubet. Nonetheless, his gambling habit got him kicked again, and out on the streets he fended for himself by using his skills as a mercenary, personal spy, and other various jobs.

Physical Description: Tall and lanky, but very much physically fit. He has short, greasy black hair, and sharp blue eyes. He is usually clean-shaven, making a large, garish scar running from just between the temple and the air, down to almost his chin along the side of his face very visible, as well as a few other scars on his face. He is not very handsome, with a nose that has apparently been broken too many times. However, he has a very charming smile and pretty teeth. Rafael has a very sonorous and throaty voice.

Apparel and Other Possessions: A Colt Peacemaker, a balisong and a few other knives of varying types hidden on his body. He usually wears rather nice and respectable clothing, and can even be found wearing a smoking jacket on occasion. He favors mild colors of blue, brown, olive, and gray.

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shadowsworn

Name: Étienne Loisel

Age: 27

Background: He has led a colourful life. He was his mother's fourth son, and his mother was the sister of the current Lord Deschenes. He was brought up in the Deschenes manor, and raised to be a priest, as was the custom for unimportant nobles.

When he was 16, however, during the night, during a raid from Garchea, the manor was set ablaze. Étienne was one of the only ones to escape, leaping out his window into the bushes, and creeping away into the wilderness.

Since then, he travelled to the capital on the last of his money, and enlisted on a ship, where he learned something of sailing and working with machinery (it was one of the new steamships in his majesty's fleet), and also some skill from the ship's doctor.

When he was 22, he left life on the sea behind, over a feud with the first mate over the hand of a lady. He has since done odd jobs, working as a gunsmith, a mechanic, and even a busker, to pay the bills. In his spare time he would read books on scientific developments, and do some work in the labs of the university. Among other minor things, he has created an instrument that looks rather like a large harmonica but manages to sound like a mellotron, and a sort of proto laser, able to fire rays of deadly heat (unfortunately it cannot be used very often, as the chemical required to power it is difficult to prepare).

Physical Description: About 5'9", with dark, inquisitive eyes, and black hair, already with a few streaks of grey. He is thin from living poor, and with a slight tan, and several minor scars on his arms from working. When he speaks, it is usually in a quiet tone, as if he is mostly talking for his own benefit.

Apparel and Other Possessions: He still wears the clothes of a minor noble, white shirt and a black jacket, though both are now faded by time, and discreetly patched and resewn in some places. The shirt still has a few traces of stains from ashes. he carries a pipe and tobacco pouch about his person, and a knapsack slung over one shoulder. He also has a Colt Peacemaker hidden in one pocket. Also, the knapsack contains the aforementioned instrument and weapon.

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Loric

Name: Paul-Henri Lefèvre

Age: 24

Background: Paul was born into a rich country with a rich heart.

Grotale, located to the far east of the Saxes, was designed to be the perfect province.
Saxes citizens of both noble and "natural" birth were systematically chosen and relocated to Grotale, with the purpose of creating a new nation. A perfect nation, synthesized in every way. To keep it sanct and pure, it was isolated from the rest of Saxes. It was to be the first of many, and such a colony may be the target of outside influences which could prove harmful to it's production.

Crops were laden with riches, and society prospered. Children grew up smarter and stronger than in any Saxan community before it. Every last detail of Grotale had been planned out perfectly, and all potentially problematic devices had been eliminated.

Human nature, however, cannot be accounted for.

Divisions were soon drawn between the Nobles and the "Naturals." Nobles, being of 'superior blood' felt a natural need to take the control of that which was rightfully theirs. The Naturals took this discrimination to heart, as well as to the Nobles' doorsteps. All teachings of conflict had been eliminated from Grotale. After all, what need would there be for violence in a perfect society?
The Grotalians were unaware of how to settle their newfound emotions.
Rage, fury, and frustration. All were alien to them.

Hate led to random acts of vandalism and violence, and inevitably, murder. Grotale was caught in open warfare, and it went as far as it could go with no weapons to speak of.

Men, women, and children brutally destroyed each other in the streets with tools, vehicles, and bare hands. All society was eliminated in humanities desparate need to destroy itself. Saxes abandoned Grotale soon after. It was a failed experiment, deemed needless. It was logical for it to remain isolated from the rest of the world. Such a dark, evil face of humanity should never be allowed to rise. Grotale was left to rot.



Paul was 12 years old when the war began.



A prodigy among prodigies, Paul excelled in every study offered to him in Grotale. His parents, scientist nobles, were selected for Grotale for their advanced work in molecular agricultular. Naturally, Paul inherited their natural capacity for knowledge and understanding.

He often found himself correcting children, adults, and his teachers in the community. He seemed to grasp a concept of the world nobody else could understand. A higher state of knowledge had befallen this boy, and all took notice of it.

The average Grotalion accepted his or her society as their entire world. Paul, although brainwashed from the beginning of his young life, knew there was more to existence.
Looking around, he understood there was no possible way a small society such as Grotale could sustain itself. He also knew, advanced as this society was, it must be a part of something larger.

Humans. They never left, never traveled or mated the way animals did. He saw their patterns and took careful note. Yearly, they made their existence scarce, only to return after the great thaw of winter. Also, although his parents' work in the field of agriculture was great, it couldn't provide food for the more than thousands of Grotalians.

Help was coming from somewhere. And when the war began, Paul was one of the first to seek escape.

Hijacking his family's vehicle, he took to the countryside where none seemed to venture. It was too barren, too harsh a travel for any man to endure. The creatures which occupied it were of legend, and everyone feared them. He had always wished to explore this area, to see the fabled creatures, but such an act was out of the ordinary. Especially for a child of 12. If he ever truly wanted to explore, he would need the perfect reason. The war seemed his prime opportunity.

Paul found the journey long, however, easier than any Grotalian could have ever imagined. He saw no living creature for what he calculated to be hundreds of miles. The terrain, though barren, was no rougher than any he had seen around Grotale. He soon realized Grotalians, his people, were trapped. He was now a fugitive.

The first city he reached seemed to spread for miles.

So did his horizons, as he finally came to the realization that he had been correct all along. Grotale was not the world, he was now certain. He finally had the satisfaction and peace of knowing this.

The world he was now in was that of Saxes. The Saxans, horrible creatures in Paul's eyes, barely gave any thought to the small child pestering them with questions. In his community he was revered as a brilliant mind. The son of scientists. He would have a hard time proving himself in this new world, to these ignorant, harsh people.

So different was this architecture, in comparison to Grotale. Cities spread for miles, and everything seemed so imperfect and ill-placed. Everything in Grotale had been planned down to the last square foot.

His first firearm brought a new world of wonder to the life of Paul. He first viewed this magnificent spectacle from afar, walking past a big city bar. The sound was unlike anything his ears had been blessed with, and the precision in which the instrument killed was a beauty beyond belief. Paul had witnessed death before in Grotatle, but never anything so beautiful. This was not the harsh violence he once knew.

As his parents poured themselves into molecular agriculture, Paul would pour himself into weaponry. Over the next few years he spent nearly all his time devoting to his studies of gunpowder, marksmanship, firearm developement, and marketing.

In order to advance his plans, Paul needed income. Putting his mind to work in the newfound field of capitalism, he created an extremely successful weapons dealer, which eventually evolved into a company. Running the company, however, he left to highly trained executives. He was richer than he could have ever imagined, and he intended to spend his wealth on pleasure.

He was soon found, however.

He was always curious. Nobody he had ever spoken to knew of Grotale, his abandoned home. He should have been more careful, being a previous resident of a virtually unknown society. However, he had made too large a name for himself.

He was arrested discretely, incapacitated, and awoken in a facility the location of which he did not know.

He was beaten, interrogated, and treated like a criminal. They knew his secret, and they needed to make sure he never spoke of it. How he escaped, and why, was beyond them. It never occured to Grotale's creators that a Grotalian would ever desire to leave, or have knowledge of the outside world. Paul was every form of disappointment to them.

Paul was eventually locked away for years. Isolation was beginning to drive him insane when he received his first visitor.


Comte de Veilleurs, the man called himself. He came on behalf of the King of Saxes, and of all people, needed Paul's assistance. He would be released into the Comte's custody, and upon completion of the King's task, would be a free man again.


Physical description: Bright orange hair frames the face of this young man. His years in confinement have brought a sullen, ghastly look to his frame. His eyes, however, remain untouched. Bright and hazel, they still hold the hopes and dreams of a young boy with a rare, gifted intellect.

Apparel and possessions: The standard issue uniform of the Saxan army is Paul's designated dresswear. He has been allowed no personal belongings, other than weaponry; His mosin nagant, which he crafted himself, and a colt peacemaker. He had trained timelessly with them both, and Comte de Veilleurs recognized his immediate talents as a marksman.

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Cloud13

Name: Edmond von Te'cleau. (pronounced Tay-Clue, in case my French name spelling sucks)

Age: 29

Background:

Edmond was born into a high-class family in Saxes. His family history is full of many nobles and well respected members of the Saxes society. He is said to bear a striking resemblance to his great-great-grandfather, Wurstatter von Degraffenreid, who was the only instance of Valreich in the family. Though the "von" part of the family name continues to this day.

Edmond was instructed in the various arts and sciences from a young age, and though he was respectable in his skill, he never demonstrated much interest. His father, Jean-Luc von Te'cleau, taught Edmond how to wield several types of swords and firearms, but most instructed him on the use of dueling pistols.

Edmond partook in his first duel at the age of 19. After a conflict with a rival over their particular favourite hunting grounds, Edmond dispatched his opponent with ease, but felt a certain amount of grief afterward.

Years past and Edmond continued to grow disinterested in the high class lifestyle. Eventually, he caught sight of a maiden whilst he was riding through town in his carriage. He came to that spot continuously on foot until he found her again. He discovered that she was not of noble birth, but a peasant. He knew that his father would not approve of this relationship, but he continued it in secret anyway. Eventually, Edmond decided that he could not restrain himself anymore. He proposed to the maiden and went to show her to his father. As Edmond had expected, his father refused to let his son marry a proletariat. Edmond had prepared for this, and disowned himself from the family.

Edmond and his wife went to live in the countryside. Poor, but happy. As they were expecting their first child, the wife grew ill. The doctor's that Edmond had known from his old life could find find what was ailing his love. After several months of pain, his wife passed away.

After this, Edmond sold his land and went away, not to be heard from for many years. He lived in the wilderness and foreign lands, his body wasting away by his grief. Until one day when he heard rumors of a war of nations that was about to be unleashed. He returned to his hometown, where, by coincidence or divine intervention, he ran into the Comte de Veilleurs, who arranged for Edmond to meet him at the Gaslight Inn in the coming week.

Edmond pulls open the door to the Inn and walks into the smoky haze.

Physical Description: 6 feet tall, of an athletic build. His body is slightly shrunk and emaciated from his time away. He has a mop of raven black hair that sweeps down to his eyes, which are a stunning grey-blue. His eyes are what most closely resemble his great-great-grandfather.

Apparel and Other Possessions: Edmond usually wears clothes such as that of a woodsman or hunter. But when he returned to his hometown he dressed again as that of a high class citizen. He shows up to the Inn wearing a grey suit jacket and pants, with a sharp black bow tie.

He has with his two Remington 1890 revolvers as his main weapons. He also has his great great grandfather's pair of dueling pistols (single shot flintlocks) and a hunting knife.

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Manic

Name: Felix Martel

Age: 30

Background: Felix was born to a lower-class Saxan family in the outskirts of the capital, but would rarely touch ground again after his second birthday. When his mother died giving birth to his would-be brother, Felix's father, an engineer, was heartbroken. His only ties to the world were his remaining son and his love of the sky, to which he fled with his child and what meager possessions he had to his name.

From an early age, Felix displayed an uncanny affinity for all things steam-powered. At seven years old, Felix was manning the boiler room of the small merchant airship upon which his father had been employed since his mother's death. The merchant, a wealthy man known only as Sir Francis to both acquaintances and friends, grew fond of Felix over the years. After the passing of the elder Martel, Francis took it upon himself to raise the twelve-year-old boy into a man. Sir Francis recognized that Felix, who by then had come to be quite the young inventor, was a child prodigy the likes of which would come along only once every few centuries. The tinkering done in Felix's free time was brought to the light by Sir Francis, who flaunted the boy's work to any and all who would see it.

When a traveling officer of the Saxan Navy was given a private show of young Felix's work, he immediately reported to his superiors that the boy displayed "a native talent for all things mechanical", and commented that the boy was clearly a genius of the highest caliber. He was immediately enrolled into the Royal Naval Academy of Saxes, where he was given the teaching and opportunities he needed to flourish.

Felix's understanding of the nature and innards of airships made him more than just a magnificent engineer like his father, but an unmatched pilot at the helm of any of the Navy's finest vessels. Felix credited it to the feeling of a ship being an extension of his very body, allowing him to soar beautifully through the air as easily as he could move his own body.


Upon his graduation at the age of 18, he was immediately commissioned as pilot upon a grand warship of a meandering count, a disgusting man eager for bloodshed at any cost. The next few years were a blur for Felix, a painful assortment of memories ranging from the razing of villages short on their taxes, to the violent torture of innocent men and women at the hands of the count himself. After his first tour of dirty, Felix, now 22, stole away with a smuggler while the count's ship was resupplying while docked.

Felix apparently dropped off of the map at this point, making no appearances in public places or official records. A warrant was put out for his arrest for abandoning his post with the Navy, but was forgotten as the years rolled by. Many assumed that he had died, when in fact he had reconnected with his old friend, Sir Francis. He encountered the old merchant at his death bed, wherein the lonely man's eyes sparkled at the sight of his young friend. To Felix's surprise, Francis had left everything to him, including the airship that had begun to decay after it's engineer's departure for the academy.

Felix salvaged what he could from old ship, and used the rest of his newly bestowed wealth to fashion an airship unlike any other over the next few years. It would appear to be a wreck to the naked eye, but could reach unfathomable speeds and maneuver with such dexterity that it's capture was but a dream. Felix's time with the vicious count had implanted a distrust for government and a loathing of violence, both of which he took with him in his next career, smuggling.

When a cloaked man in a shady pub had pulled him aside and handed him a piece of post, Felix was confused by the offer made within. He was even more confused when he had followed the directions in the letter to the Gaslight inn.

Physical Description: Felix Martel is tall and lanky, with sun-tanned skin and wiry muscles. His lack of grace does well to hide his magnificent mind, which is only betrayed by his penetrating stare. His short-cropped hair and unshaven jaw contribute to the nondescript look which has allowed him to live his last few years undisturbed in the shadows.

Apparel and Other Possessions: Felix can always be seen in his beaten, old, knee-high boots, grease-stained pants, and leather pilot's jacket. His prized possessions are his father's old wrench, worn faithfully at his hip, and Sir Francis' antique brass piloting goggles. He carries a shoulder-holstered peacemaker out of necessity, but never flaunts it, nor has he ever even seen the need to draw it.

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shadowsworn

OOC: alright, I think we can start. We can still invite more people at any time though.

IC:Étienne dropped to the ground, handing the reins of his horse to the young stableboy who rushed forward, along with a few copper coins. As the horse was led away, Étienne stretched his back and took a moment to look around him.

It had been a long day. He had learned to ride in his youth, and had occasionally ridden since, but not for a long time, and certainly not so far and fast as he had ridden today. There was seldom need to in the city, for one thing, he could simply hire a hansom cab.

The inn was two floors tall, it's walls mostly constructed of old stone, with gables and window frames made from a rich oak. Over the door hung a wooden sign, swinging in the wind, on which was written, in cheerful faded red script "The Gaslight". Below that was drawn the cloaked figure of a nightwatchman bearing an iron lantern.

Étienne strode forward. As he did so, the inn's door opened, and an old man in faded and worn peasant garb stepped out, nodding as he did so to Étienne, in greeting. Étienne glanced inside the inn. The day was fading fast towards twilight outside, and the inn was quite crowded. Already lamps were lit on the walls, gleaming in wreaths of tobacco smoke, and there was a fire lit in a fireplace on the far side of the common room. Barmaids rushed around, precariously balancing trays of drinks while managing to dodge the lascivious grabs of some of their more inebriated clientele.

He hesitated, then, turning towards the old man, he asked, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the din, "I was wondering if you might have seen someone, a tall man with a black mustache and a thin white scar above his left eye? He would be dressed much as I am, I think."

The old man frowned slightly, thinking, then shook his head, "Sorry sir, no I haven't seen anyone like that. Though that doesn't mean your man isn;t here. Could have taken a room upstairs, or gone out back, or I might have simply missed him entirely, it's that crowded tonight."

Étienne nodded, and handed the old man a copper coin. "My thanks," he said, and then passed inside.

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Cloud13

Edmond was sitting at a discrete table in the corner. He had been waiting for the Comte de Veilleurs for about an hour, but had not seen a glimpse of him.

As he finished off the rest of his second ale, he noticed that the sun's dying beams were coming through the threshold longer than usual. He looked towards the door and saw a somewhat short man talking to the old man that had just staggered out. Edmond took notice of the man's attire, and noticed that even though he appeared to be of the same age as Edmond, his hair betrayed the fact that this man must have been through quite a lot in his life.

He watched as this newcomer and the old man exchanged a few words and then saw a copper coin change hands. He raised an eyebrow for a second, but gave it no longing thought. He then raised a hand to call for the nearest barmaid, a buxom brunette. He ordered another ale, and then continued to scan for the Comte.

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Xenonight2

Rafael had walked from the nearest town to the Gaslight Inn, setting off around noon at a leisurely pace, with some travelling clothes upon his body and a pack with some day supplies and fresh, clean clothing on his shoulder. He wore shin-high leather boots, khaki pants, and a cotton shirt with a light jacket. It was a pleasant enough walk, and his comfortable clothing only helped him enjoy it more. The countryside of Saxes was fair as well, with broad meadows and deep, thick forests, and long hedges and bushes. It was not the spectacular beauty of Loubet that Rafael was used to, but rather a more subdued, esoteric charm. Rafael estimated that it would take about a week for him to grow bored of the natural scenery, but then it occured to him that it was all going to be torn up and burned like the Louben countryside by the ravages of war. He didn't have a chance to finish this train of thought, as he just reached the Gaslight Inn. In fact, he was so absorbed in thought that he had almost walked right past it.

He saw a man talk to an old man in the doorway, and then walk inside. From the sounds he heard pouring out of the Inn, it sounded crowded. Rafael was never one who blended in all that well with crowds, and he felt rather nervous for a second. Nevertheless, he took in a sharp breath of the fresh Saxan air through his hairy nostrils and summoned his courage and strolled straight into the Gaslight.

A few people glanced over at his noticable scar and clicking leather boots, but for the most part, Rafael was relieved to find, he was not noticed by the crowd.

He scanned the Innroom quickly, and saw a small table at the corner with only one person seated at it. The rest of the tables seemed to have no vacancies, or a a few vacancies but all of the other seats were filled with the obnoxious sort. In addition, the man in this corner table was smartly dressed, which was something that Rafael admired.

Rafael drew close to the table where the man with the bow-tie sat and asked politely, "Hello, sir. Iz thiss seat takeen?"

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