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Old 02-06-2008, 04:38 PM   #1
Legolas
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: March 31, 2001
Location: The zephyr lands beneath the brine.
Age: 39
Posts: 5,459
Default Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

A merchant caravan halts in a dusty settlement. Thirty-two horse- and oxen-drawn wagons carting apples and gemstones, building materials, slaves, royalty and everything in between are guided off the packed earthen road.
The journey has been long, but will be longer still and though Brisken has naught to offer, here they would stay, and rest a few days. The watering holes, two humble taverns, and the sizeable inn had seen many a traveller over the years and now stood worn and crooked upon the dry and infertile soil.

There were two names to this place, as there were to its grander counterpart on the other side. Trepidation, and Relief. For the traders who now moved among the hired guards, ensuring the finest protection of their valuable wares, for those men and women who would soon be retiring to those real and soft beds long longed for, Relief lay on that other side.
Not a thousand thousand soldiers could guarantee the days and miles between here and there would be free of peril.
It will be no surprise, then, that while their men recover their strength, they will recover their wine casks, and perform that too familiar rite.


We'll be starting out with some low fantasy. There are wondrous creatures, magical realms, foul warlocks performing forbidden witchcraft and shining objects invested with potent enchantments - but thanks no doubt to your protective charms and warding rituals they come no closer than that friend of a friend who swears to have seen something spooky.
Being the obvious source of fortunes and misfortunes, these rumours of unearthly forces are what passes for religion, and many a man has a personal imp or related creature to beg for aid or mercy.

It is an age of metal blades and links of chain, oaken shields and wagon wheels, and great stone buildings - though the only stones erected in Brisken are found in the graveyard, unmarked but not forgotten by the seven families who occupy the humble homes and tend to those passing through.
The caravan itself is best described as a travelling city, migrating along predictable patterns for the better part of each year.

You're free to choose your own role, whether that of a caged labourer, a mercenary guard, merchant's daughter or journeying prince. A local lad looking for adventure, or a lucky survivor of the last group to brave this dangerous stretch of land. Play one of the horses if you must. We'll try to bring all or some of you together before long and make it an adventure.

When submitting characters, I'm mainly interested in the following:
- A physical description on age, appearance, fitness and the like.
- A mental description on what they hope to get out of life etc..
- Personal history, what have they been doing the past few years, which skills did they hone, how did they end up where they are?
- Family history, who are the relatives, what did they do, how did they get along. Also, who's your family now?
We won't be using anything like statistics; instead, success in any venture depends mainly on your experience with such matters.
Please PM your character details, and inform the other players of what they need to know in an introductory post.

I can imagine you'd like to know a little more about the lands you're in first, and the perils you're about to face, but since most people couldn't care less about who rules where and what nasties approach so long as they have more important things to worry about (such as finding the next meal and saving up some riches for a cow) I'll leave you to discover most of that over time. You're in a kingdom and equality's hard to find.
If, however, you want to play one from the upper classes, I'll be happy to let you (re)invent some of the noble houses and even lord over all the other travellers and locals. Until they stone your pompous bottom, of course.

Last edited by Legolas; 02-06-2008 at 04:40 PM.
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Old 02-12-2008, 06:27 PM   #2
Calaethis Dragonsbane
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Join Date: May 29, 2002
Location: Somewhere in between
Age: 39
Posts: 7,029
Tongue Out Casquinto's entrance - a grandeur has never graced thy presence

The wagon rolled. A simple observation, for a simple wagon. This wagon was not grand, nor vast, but rather, it was small and intricate. Intricate was a good word. Painted black, with exotic designs of silver knots covering it, every so often studded with a circle with a cross through it, it was somewhat unremarkable compared to the highly decorated gypsy wagon behind it. And it was small. It really was more of a trap than a wagon, truth be told, for it had a covering of wood. Wood with holes in. Lots of holes. Four screens made up its walls, with a roof covering it. Of course, these holes were tiny; having been delicately carved by some master craftsman or other. Fine wood. Sturdy wood. Wood, covered by curtains from the inside. Curtains of black silk.

Of course, who knew what lay inside the wagon? It seemed big enough to hold a man, with a bit of wiggle room. Perhaps two ladies at most, if the ladies were petite. On the outside of the wagon, the driver's seat, sat a nondescript man. He was decked out in black; rather smartly, as one might see if one was to pay attention. Shiny boots, polished enough to reflect one's face upon inspect; tidy breeches and a doublet-cum-jerkin as a jacket. His brown hair was cropped, and he wore a sharp beard, trimmed to a neat point. This was accompanied by a moustache, and a sardonic smile. Not quite oily, but almost greasy; the sort you might see on a used-cart merchant, except for that sparkle in his eye at some sort of jest no one but he knew of. At his belt, he wore a dagger and purse, and in his gloved hands - leather, naturally - he causally held the reins to the horse in front. A rather large black horse. As he lounged in the seat, while managing to keep his back straight and adorn a rather bored expression, the hero of our tale rode past.

Mounted on an almost identical, but somewhat larger steed of his own, our dashing young man cut a rather striking image. Rapier at his side; long dagger at the other, he held the reins of his horse almost in disdain; it was more for show as he used his knees to guide the beast. His black sable cloak swept dramatically behind him as a gust of wind picked it up and carried it along with his mane of raven hair. His eyes were grey and as piercing as a hawk's; his finely chiselled face fair with just the right trim of triangular moustache and beard - much like his driver's - and his white silk shirt fell open at the neck. Cuffs and collar alike were adorned with swirls, and his breeches were black with just the right amount of snugness - to show off that wiry, toned acrobatic-fencer's body of his. And his wide rimmed riding boots, of course, were good proper leather, cut right to the knee. He cast that slight knowing smile that had broken more than five hundred girls' hearts as he swept his glance around, those deep, deep eyes taking in everything at once. In his right hand, he twirled a white rose, and took a deep sniff of its illustrious scent. On his finger dangled his signet ring; the crested basilisk upon the crossed sabres. Studded with diamonds, it dazzled like fresh dewdrops in the sunlight. Oh, the romance! What young, susceptible farmer's daughter/tavern wench/young noblewoman/bored (or married) middle-aged woman could resist?

His driver gave a silent chuckle-snort. They would soon be on their way, as soon as they got from behind the flower cart and the gipsy wagon.

The rider exchanged a sardonic look of his own with him. How many would buy his image this time?
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Old 02-14-2008, 01:41 PM   #3
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

*Rattle. Rattle.*

Unkempt black hair. Beard touching his waist. Spit mixing with the remnants of last night's stew for the choicest spots of the beard.

*Rattle. Rattle.*

Piercing black eyes staring into nothingness. Black eyes in a very pale face.

*Rattle. Rattle.*

Rags clinging to pale skin. Skin scarred by more wounds than one sees in a lifetime.

*Rattle. Rattle.*

A hungry grin. A tasty rather large black horse. What a feast it would make. Something different than-

*Rattle. Rattle.*

than the crap they usually fed-

*Rattle. Rattle.*

him.

*Rattle. Rattle.*

"Oi, won't you bloody-"

*Rattle. Rattle.*

"stop"

*Rattle. Rattle.*

"THAT!" one of his caretakers growls. Its a fierce growl, but can not be taken seriously, coming from the other side of the bars.

*Rattle. Rattle.*

"You'd better stop that, you-"

*Rattle. Rattle.*

"One of these days, I'll kill-"

*Rattle. Rattle.*

"That's it, I'm gonna-"

*Rattle. Rattle.*

*Rattle. Rattle.*

*Rattle. Rattle.*

Hours of fun were to be had with this loose iron bar. It made such a nice sound as it rattled in its socket.

Mmmm, tasty horse. Who could the rider be, shining such a brilliant light from that ring on his finger?
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Old 02-15-2008, 02:45 PM   #4
Legolas
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: March 31, 2001
Location: The zephyr lands beneath the brine.
Age: 39
Posts: 5,459
Default Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

It takes the better part of an hour to organize the wagons and carts, abandoning the dun road for use by the nightly traffic which would not pass through in a village like this. Even now, as most of the trekkers have reached their spot, there is a lot of settling ahead. Camp fires are lit, using the dried waste of pack animals for want of proper wood. Pots are mended, bedrolls unfurled. The first scents of dinner fill the dusty air in this least unwelcome of unwelcome places.

The prisoner's wagon is drawn up at the edge of camp, away from what light the settlement provides at this hour. It is no accident the cage rests next to a cart laden with manure, though surely this was not his guards' idea as their noses wrinkle and their hatred for the man grows each time the wind picks up. Their spite was displayed in different ways; harsh words, spilled dinner or else their own special recipes they spiced with spit and hoped to make him beg for. This night, they would simply leave the prisoner to starve a while before feeding him his grub. If they should remember to feed him. One unpacks the dice.

Elsewhere in the caravan, in a place smelling more of roses, a young boy in a commoner's rags approaches an expensive looking carriage, tugging at the pants of its smartly dressed driver.
"'scuse me, mister," he says. "Me ma says yer lord's welcome to stay at our place, if he likes. We got room an' it's not all liced up like Grysson's inn."
The child points out his home, a modest construction near the centre of Brisken - in so far as there was one.
"She's boiling chicken an' everything," the youngster adds, surprised and delighted, before running back home.


The cage itself is cramped. Thick metal bars rising up from the wagon bed, with equally thick bars wrapped around them. The holes between allow the air in, along with a pattern of light during the hours of day. It is no place for a man, but none would argue their content on this trip isn't beastly indeed. Like every night before it, a group of the righteous and concerned gathers around to catch a glimpse of the thing inside, that man who is no man. Some carry sticks, and try to fit them through the gaps. Laughter rises every time a noise emerges from within. The guards continue their game. He should arrive alive, but nothing more had been asked for.
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Old 02-15-2008, 04:19 PM   #5
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

*Rattle.*

The sudden sound causes the fearsome to fall back a pace or two, but soon enough they and their sticks come back and rattling the loose bar in its socket will no longer cause them to shy away from the caged animal.

They are only brave because they are outside and he is inside. Because they have sticks and he has only half-torn rags to cover his bruised body. Because there are two dozen of them and he is alone.

Crowds were always easy to control. Cow the strongest, the most vocal and the rest would shy away. The most vocal here are the women, bravely egging on their husbands from a dozen paces back. "Hit him!" one shouts, "In the privates!" another adds.

He moans and groans only because if he did not the men would just poke harder with their sharp sticks. One of these days, he would shove a stick up someone's...

He had tried that a week back, when they had camped in the middle of nowhere. He had snatched a stick from a boy of about ten and had smacked him hard in the ribs with it. It had been the only time that the guards had intervened in the mobs' favorite pastime.

He has so many plans for when he escaped from this cage. None of them goes farther than slaughtering all the guards and his pitiful torturers, but they are the only thoughts that filled his heart with joy these days. Imagining the stupid peasants and the cruel guards frozen in their own blood, expressions of horror still frozen on their faces. It is beautiful. He just needs to get out of the cage. He would do the rest with his bare hands if he needs to, but not even his bare hands can release him from his prison, however much he rattled at the only loose bar.

The constant poking does not bother him. It would die down when the women were hungry and dragged their sons off, the men soon stopping without their brave wives urging them on. And besides, it almost feels good in comparison to what awaits him at the end of the journey. He had been given a taste of it before leaving the prison that had served as his home for the last three years; a good long torture session, at the end of which he had been assured that he was being taken to much better equipped facilities.

"The fat bastard has two sixes," he shouts over the heads of the departing crowd after he spies the guard who had his back to him carefully hiding his dice from the other players. That sentence makes the fat guard accidentally step into the bowl of food that had been prepared for the prisoner. A pity, but he would have to stay without his food for the night. It had totally been worth it though.

*Rattle. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.*

He will keep at it for the whole night if no one stops him.

*Rattle. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle.*

The bar was getting looser everyday, but as he shakes it with all his force it is not freedom he is thinking about, but about the sweet ringing monotone sound that it makes. The blunt end of the patrolling guard's spear into his stomach stops the rattling and the prisoner curls up on the floor of the cage.

He knows that he wouldn't sleep for more than fifteen minutes before a studded boot or the flat of a sword woke him. He is used to falling asleep in just a few seconds, giving himself to dreams of blood, murder and madness.

Last edited by dplax; 02-15-2008 at 04:23 PM.
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Old 02-15-2008, 09:57 PM   #6
Calaethis Dragonsbane
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Join Date: May 29, 2002
Location: Somewhere in between
Age: 39
Posts: 7,029
Default Casquinto's dilemma

"Hold!" The rider called at the boy, "Wait one moment, child! Be still!"

Seeing the boy had already run off, the rider sighed. Well, he should check it out. But first, he had something else to do; so, he rode alongside his trap, and murmured at the wall, "My dear, come out and join me. We have a dinner invitation and it would simply be dreadful not to have you along as my escort. Do come along and join me."

...

(OOC:) Who could he be talking to? For the next instalment, please check with your DM.
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Old 02-20-2008, 10:48 AM   #7
Legolas
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: March 31, 2001
Location: The zephyr lands beneath the brine.
Age: 39
Posts: 5,459
Default Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

A green eye peers out from betwixt the black silken curtains before the trap door opens. Feminine hand in the lead, begging Casquinto's gallant assistance, his companion emerges from the perfumed confines of the carriage.
These common scents of the out of doors never fail to offend her, and she looks down upon the expensive white gown as though it is already dirtied beyond salvation.
"Why must my lord parade me at every halt," she complains with an indignant toss of her copper crowned head. The accusation seems mild, however, and like as not she is as pleased with the opportunity to stretch her legs as anything.



The night darkens and those with the unfortunate chore of keeping an open eye on this, the first real halt after a lengthy journey, find little threat in the presence of these locals. Brisken has ever made a living off traders like their masters, and could ill afford to lose its hospitable, if humble reputation. With the few families keeping their offspring in check, the only threat lies in the greedy hands of fellow travellers. Travellers who even now sleep in beds and on tavern floors, or else down one chilled ale after the other, all for the first night in weeks. Even with a murderer to torment, what could make for a duller watch?
The faintest jumble of his cart is enough to waken the caged man once more. A guard strolls up, rapping on the cage and growling insults before returning to his post - righteous duty done for now. But he is not the hooded figure which crept onto the cart only seconds before, crouched in what shadows can be found in the dark, almost close enough to grab. The hood and its accompanying cloak seem black, or darkest purple perhaps. If there is purpose or reason to this visit, it is not voiced, and indeed the visitor's gaze is directed down and away from its host, where it remains.
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Old 02-20-2008, 02:27 PM   #8
dplax
Jack Burton
 

Join Date: July 19, 2003
Location: an expat living in France
Age: 38
Posts: 5,577
Default Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

He can feel his heart beating through the rags, sleep having deserted him after being woken for the ninth time that night. He can also hear the furtive footsteps and hushed breathing from but a few feet away. Dark garb more often that not betrays dark intents and the prisoner can not know who those intents would be directed at. Has someone come for revenge? Is he finally being released from his torments? Or is it a different kind of release that is awaiting him?

The intruder does not look at the prisoner, doesn't even seem to acknowledge his existence. Whether that is good or bad he does not, can not know. He wonders about the stranger. He wants release. He wants it badly. Even if it is death.

But then again, there is still some fun to have in life.

*RATTLE*
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Old 02-20-2008, 08:09 PM   #9
DrowArchmage
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Join Date: July 29, 2004
Location: Mt. Pleasant, MI
Age: 33
Posts: 1,400
Default Re: Tales of the Roving - City on Wheels

Rohan reined in his pure blooded stallion, slowing it to a very slow walk. He adjusted the hood of his dark green cloak so that a passerby could only see his eyes, then he moved his sword so it could be easily drawn. His black boots and black leather gloves shined as if new, he smiled to himself as he watched the people interact. Maybe here he would find what he was looking for. Maybe here his search was over and he could finalize his training and finish his fight.
He held the reins with one hand and patted his sword hilt with the other. It had been a curiously long time since he'd seen any trouble, not since that last battle almost a year ago......... the memories bubbled...

"Rohan no!!!" Nickoli shoved him out of the arrows path. it thudded into his back and he staggerd.
"Nickoli...." rage boiled inside him, he unsheathed his sword and attacked in a blind rage, cutting down the man with the bow before he could draw his own sword........

"Our dream will be relized my old friend." he whisped to himself, blinking away tears and resuming his exspresionless stare.
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Old 02-21-2008, 06:14 AM   #10
Calaethis Dragonsbane
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No No No Casquinto's Grievance

"Because, my dear" he sighed in exasperation - mock-exasperation; it was all for show anyway, such was the duty of the nobility, he inwardly sighed - "niceties have to be maintained, and besides, it will do you good to get out of that stuffy cart for a while. Come, ride with me."

...And that really was that. So the night darkened and guards went around doing whatever it was those useless layabout loafs did - probably wenching, drinking and pissing all over hedgerows, too drunk to find the latrine; such filthy creatures these peasants, he commented to his lady, as was expected. Appearances and all that.

So they had rushed off and dined, had a simply marvellous meal with the old woman who had been more than delighted to cook for them; after all, it was an honour to have such esteemed guests, and to hear tales of faraway lands, daring exploits, dashing heroes and hapless heroines, not to mention ruthless cut throat brigand scum and those tragic, but suitably trying-to-be-noble dark figures who invariably have suffered some great loss and wind up on a quest of revenge only to get themselves killed in a most unheroic fashion since death, no matter how dramatised and trumped up is never pretty, and to glorify it really is the height of stupidity and ignorance that only a fool peasant would believe, but since there were no fool peasants around - peasants, yes, but not fool ones - at least here, in the wagon-caravan-whatever the old woman called her travelling home - they all laughed when the dark, tragic hero got himself castrated after trying to charm the wrong heroine with his wily ways and not-so-silver tongued wit. Then she'd stilled his heart using some sort of herb and tricked the rest of his companions (who didn't like him anyway) into believing that it was a 'mercy killing' and nothing else could be done. She later became known as the 'Wicked Witch of the East', and was said that there were no fairer maidens than she. Except she wasn't technically a maiden, but eh, details.

So while entertaining his hosts and sending the boy into squeals of delighted laughter, and no doubt earning more than a few indulgent smiles from his lady, the nobleman eventually took his leave, dropping a small amount of coins into the boy's hand as he left; leaving the child wide eyed. His way of saying 'thank you'; word would get around that he was a most generous man, and not only would this win the approval of the ladies, - and older women - but also of the peasants. Which meant that hopefully the grumbling would be reduced and there would be not spitting in his food, sabotaging of his wagon and the commonfolk would go out of their way to earn his favour. On the flipside, it meant that some might try to raid his cart while he slept, but that's what his wagonmaster-cum-driver was for. They slept in shifts, after all. Besides, he had little to fear since he had already befriended most of the convoy. A flash of a smile here, a benevolent gesture there - oh yes, all that was expected of a handsome, young, successful upcoming noble. He was the perfect image of a man destined for great things.

So it came to pass that on the way out, with his lady, as they rode gently beneath the starry sky - as one was want to do, to increase the illusion of enchanting romance and make the women weep as they recounted the soppy tale - that they came upon the prison cage.

*RATTLE*

There was that damned noise again! It had been disturbing him all afternoon!

*RATTLE*

Always *RATTLE*. By the sky and sun above, what the blazes did those useless guards think they were doing? Poking the poor fellow with sticks?

So it was he came upon him; not the Caged One, but the rider. Awfully suspicious fellow; what was he doing out here at this time of night, and one to toy with his sword too. ...And then he saw it. The hooded cloak, revealing only the eyes. Great Spires and Steeples of the Seventh Realm! Could it be? No... surely not! Not a dark hero?!

"You there! Halt! I would speak with you a moment;" Called our hero; silently reassuring the lady with a hug. Daintily perched on his horse in classic fashion, both her legs leaning out to one side, he was in no real position to charge the strange fellow. "What are you doing dressed up like that?" He continued, "Someone might mistake you for a bandit, or worse, a figure out of a ballad! I would ask you i
dentify yourself."

Of course, our hero was well in control of his horse which he guided by his knees, and his hand supporting the small of his lady's back, and his other hand causally resting on his hip, he struck a dramatic pose as his own sable cloak (of black, of course; what other colour would a sable be to match his raven hair?) rippled gently in the breeze, he waited. These things had to be done with a certain about of style. The guards would be talking of this to the teammasters who in turn would tell their women... the only thing worse for gossip than a woman was a teammaster, or a man down the tavern.

*RATTLE*

There was that damnable noise again. Someone really ought to thrash that fellow. The Caged One. Sigh. Tonight was only going to get longer... at least for a while. Our hero ran his gloved hand through his lady's hair as it trailed down her back in a silken waterfall of rusty-red, (well, given the light, it was hardly its usual coppery hue due to the various torches that lay scattered around) and smiled. Time for that... later. First, deal with the strange cloaked fellow who seemed intent on drawing attention to himself in the worst possible way, and then Caged One - quickly becoming known as 'the Rattler', or perhaps 'Rattle Man'. That'd make a terrible novel: 'Rattle Man Strikes Back'.

*RATTLE*

Our hero gritted his teeth. These little trials were to be endured; they built character.

(OOC - DAM, my character is of course, addressing yours. Also, @ Dplax, "stealing" your rattle for the post. Hope you don't mind too much )
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