Vudukudu
Farseer to the Warsong Clan
Far Shores is an advanced, detailed RP about the end of a civilization. Pressed on all fronts by the ravaging Lutheri, the Alliance has fallen. Man, dwarf, elf, and orc flee across the Grey Sea, a body so vast it is thought to be without end, as the heart of their empire goes down in smoke and flame. The characters will consist of people of note, doing their part to shepherd the remnants of their people to some distant land where they may rebuild anew.
This will have elements of political intrigue, as well as emphasis on the rigors of reinstating order after catastrophe. Things like conspiring against the surviving Prince are permitted and encouraged as long as its conducted well and not simply as a matter of being an edgy rebel. Characters, depending on their skill sets, may have a role in everything from taming the new land to managing scarce resources to instilling hope in people who believe all is lost and the gods have abandoned them. This means most any kind of character is acceptable, be it an adventurer or a simple priest or even a mason. You are, however, expected to be able to guide your own actions in some capacity - I am here to help you, but it will help if you have some sense of direction of your own.
While I won't allow for the killing of characters willy-nilly, expect some "realistic fantasy" in that swords do, in fact, kill people. If you make poor decisions, the world, governed by your fair and honorable GM, will punish you for it.
I'm not going to set a length limit, just write well and make sure your posts are meaningful in some way.
This will have elements of political intrigue, as well as emphasis on the rigors of reinstating order after catastrophe. Things like conspiring against the surviving Prince are permitted and encouraged as long as its conducted well and not simply as a matter of being an edgy rebel. Characters, depending on their skill sets, may have a role in everything from taming the new land to managing scarce resources to instilling hope in people who believe all is lost and the gods have abandoned them. This means most any kind of character is acceptable, be it an adventurer or a simple priest or even a mason. You are, however, expected to be able to guide your own actions in some capacity - I am here to help you, but it will help if you have some sense of direction of your own.
While I won't allow for the killing of characters willy-nilly, expect some "realistic fantasy" in that swords do, in fact, kill people. If you make poor decisions, the world, governed by your fair and honorable GM, will punish you for it.
I'm not going to set a length limit, just write well and make sure your posts are meaningful in some way.
Prince Elomir, his two brothers, their father, and a cluster of lords and generals, two Elves and a Dwarf among them, gathered about the war table dominating the floor of the throne room. In balconies strewn about the room, less important lords whispered among themselves while ladies and children wept. Two dozen of the Kings Guard, clad in their gleaming mithril plate, stood still and silent. Outside, thunder boomed and lightning cracked as the rain began to fall.
The King's face was tired, and his shoulders looked as if they bore the weight of the world - in a way, they did. He was overseeing the end of the Alliance's days on this world. He raised his gaze from the table to his gathered advisers and sighed. "What news of Yordrin and the Marsh-landers?" He asked. General Curindir's elfin ears pricked.
"My scouts returned an hour ago, my liege. Yordrin has fallen, and the Marsh-landers are scattered." He answered, his tone calm even as his lower lip quivered.
The King cleared his throat. "And what of Patriarch Ironflayer?" He asked, turning his eyes on Prince Elomir.
Elomir's voice wavered. "We've no word from the Dwarves, and no sign of them from the Tower. They have sent no message for two weeks, either by horse or griffin."
The King's lips turned to a distinct frown. He had been a good friend of the Dwarf-lords. "Then we must assume the Home-Under-the-Mountain has fallen. And that the Southerners will not come, and what few Elves have not perished are already here. What of the Horse-Lords?"
Before anyone could answer, a mighty horn blasted at the city gates. Everyone at the table rose, flocking to the windows to peer through the dark, rainy evening towards the gates. They were flung open, and a mass of cavalry surged through. The King's brow rose.
"Perhaps we are not doomed. The greyskins have made it." He murmured. They continued to stream through, their burly warhorses thundering through the already packed streets. The city had turned into a refugee camp, containing every last man, dwarf, elf, and orc who had fled before the wrath of the Enemy. A rider and his retinue sped across the city streets, and their leader dismounted and entered the keep.
The orc was garbed in the characteristic armor of the Orcish Horse-Lords, but it seemed ill-fitting. His skin, thoroughly scarred and laced with gold and silver jewelry, showed prominently as he began unceremoniously removing his gauntlets and arm-guards. "I am Thorgrim, of Clan Black Hand. You have my war host, King Ereglar." He introduced himself, bowing low. "We came across some of the Marsh-men on our way here, but many were lost. Yordrin died honorably, giving us enough time to escape with the survivors." He explained.
The King gave an approving grunt. "Then I name you Thorgrim Black Hand, Master of Beasts." It was a great honor for the Black Hands - they were the smallest of all orc clans.
The War Council reconvened, all its member races represented, and once more began plotting the city's defense. Anyone capable of wielding a weapon had already been conscripted, barriers had been built to reinforce the walls and fortify the streets, and every possible measure had been taken to insure the city would not fall. Just as the Council saw fit to adjourn, the horn sounded once, then twice, then a third time. The Enemy had arrived.
They bore no torches and sounded no drums as they marched from the North. Great war machines left clefts in the earth as they rolled towards the city. The siege began without an announcement or any sort of negotiation. The pale Lutheri were here to kill, not talk. As soldiers rushed to defend the walls, the first barrage of catapult fire struck the city. Commanders rushed to their posts and civilians to the city harbor, furthest away from the gates. The Last Battle of the Alliance had begun.
Elomir and his soldiers were dispatched to the western wall, where the fighting was expected to be the mildest. Commanding a force composed almost entirely of conscripts, frightened men and women who had never before wielded weapons, and supported only by a few dozen veterans, he was expected to hold the flank and remain there. There was not time for an inspiring speech - the hail of arrows had already begun, and everyone cowered beneath their shields or what cover they could find as the rain mercilessly beat down on them, some of its barbs sharper than others. Finally, the siege ladders reached the walls, and the chaotic melee broke loose.
The Prince struck the first blow, his long sword piercing the gut of the first Lutheri to scale the walls. The creature, unarmored, pale as moonlight, and gaunt as a corpse sputtered feebly before the light faded from its eyes. The beast fell, careening off the ladder and crashing into its gathered allies below. Scores more of their grunts clambered upwards, most slaughtered before they could find their footing until there were simply too many to stop. Soon the stone walls ran thick with blood and water as defender and invader alike fell. Just as all seemed lost, a hooded figure ascended the stairs and a jet of arcane flame washed over the wall, putting the nearby ladders to the torch. The flames billowed, even as the rain came crashing down upon it. Before the heroic mage could speak, an arrow from beyond the wall caught the words in his throat.
While Elomir's force gained a moment's respite and licked their wounds, a new wave of ladders came forward. Evidently, the enemy had realized this was the weak point of the defense, and a number of their shambling behemoths led the charge in this fresh assault. Blades and spears ripped men and Lutheri alike to bloody tatters, gore streaming down into the streets below and the blood soon became ankle deep. Still, the forces of the enemy were boundless, stretched as far as the eye could see across the valley.
The siege continued like this, essentially unabated, for sixteen straight hours. Fresh troops were cycled to the front until only weary ones remained, and the number of casualties was becoming unbearable. Now, Elomir was surrounded by the survivors, and it was hard to tell who among them hadn't held a sword before today. To the last man, woman, and child, they were smeared with blood and wearing the battered armor of the fallen if it was still serviceable. For the moment, Elomir's portion of the wall was not under attack, and that gave its defenders the best vantage point from which to watch the gates fall.
The great Red Gate of the Capitol came crashing down after one final blow from the rams, and the Lutheri hordes rushed inside. The cry whirled down the ramparts. "The gate has fallen! Retreat!" Elomir's soldiers looked to him for guidance, and he raised his unbroken right arm, sword clutched in its hand. "To the harbor!" He shouted. One of the minor lords who had fought beside him cast him a curious look.
"Milord, aren't we supposed to reinforce the market?" He asked.
Elomir shot the man a dirty look. "The city is fallen, Lord Redding. Would you rather die on the streets, or save what we can?" He replied.
The lord blinked, suddenly realizing what the Prince had in mind. "Men of the Alliance! Rally to your Prince!" He bellowed, apparently content to live another day. They would deal with their shame another day, if they lived to see it. They did not wait for the men on their east flank, the elves under General Curindir, to join them for the retreat. When Elomir and his men disappeared, the Lutheri climbed over the wall, sweeping like a horde of locusts onto the elves unprotected flank. Within minutes, they were overwhelmed, and the Silverleaf banners flew no longer.
Around them, the city was in chaos. Civilians fled further inward or clung to the retreating soldiers, hoping for protection as the cannibalistic barbarians rampaged across the walls and into the city. Smoke filled the air and roaring flames burned across the city, its former beauty marred by the destruction overtaking it. Around him, Elomir had gathered perhaps a hundred men, followed by maybe half as many civilians, and they passed by the marketplace they had been ordered to defend. They grabbed whatever supplies they could find before setting the neighborhood to the torch, hoping it would stem the enemy advance. Their act of cowardice now complete, they made all haste for the harbor.
People were already fighting to board the fleet of merchant ships and men-of-war docked there. Women pushed their children aboard and were left behind, deserters carved paths onto ships with their swords, and men dashed the brains of other men out with rocks to insure their place on one of the escaping vessels. In less than a day, the noble people of the Alliance had resorted to savagery. Elomir gathered his men about him and shoved a path forward, boarding the Divine Wrath, and raised anchor. Behind them, dozens more ships overflowing with refugees set sail, and on land, the Alliance fell when King Ereglar's head separated from his shoulders.
Leading the fleet, Prince Elomir stood at the prow of his ship, Lord Redding beside him. They were sailing westward, into the open sea. Lord Redding coughed into his hand, then spit some blood overboard. "Milord, there are.. there is no land to the west." He said hesitantly.
The Prince frowned. "Not that we know of, and not that the Lutheri know of. Perhaps we will find peace on some far shore." He replied grimly.
The King's face was tired, and his shoulders looked as if they bore the weight of the world - in a way, they did. He was overseeing the end of the Alliance's days on this world. He raised his gaze from the table to his gathered advisers and sighed. "What news of Yordrin and the Marsh-landers?" He asked. General Curindir's elfin ears pricked.
"My scouts returned an hour ago, my liege. Yordrin has fallen, and the Marsh-landers are scattered." He answered, his tone calm even as his lower lip quivered.
The King cleared his throat. "And what of Patriarch Ironflayer?" He asked, turning his eyes on Prince Elomir.
Elomir's voice wavered. "We've no word from the Dwarves, and no sign of them from the Tower. They have sent no message for two weeks, either by horse or griffin."
The King's lips turned to a distinct frown. He had been a good friend of the Dwarf-lords. "Then we must assume the Home-Under-the-Mountain has fallen. And that the Southerners will not come, and what few Elves have not perished are already here. What of the Horse-Lords?"
Before anyone could answer, a mighty horn blasted at the city gates. Everyone at the table rose, flocking to the windows to peer through the dark, rainy evening towards the gates. They were flung open, and a mass of cavalry surged through. The King's brow rose.
"Perhaps we are not doomed. The greyskins have made it." He murmured. They continued to stream through, their burly warhorses thundering through the already packed streets. The city had turned into a refugee camp, containing every last man, dwarf, elf, and orc who had fled before the wrath of the Enemy. A rider and his retinue sped across the city streets, and their leader dismounted and entered the keep.
The orc was garbed in the characteristic armor of the Orcish Horse-Lords, but it seemed ill-fitting. His skin, thoroughly scarred and laced with gold and silver jewelry, showed prominently as he began unceremoniously removing his gauntlets and arm-guards. "I am Thorgrim, of Clan Black Hand. You have my war host, King Ereglar." He introduced himself, bowing low. "We came across some of the Marsh-men on our way here, but many were lost. Yordrin died honorably, giving us enough time to escape with the survivors." He explained.
The King gave an approving grunt. "Then I name you Thorgrim Black Hand, Master of Beasts." It was a great honor for the Black Hands - they were the smallest of all orc clans.
The War Council reconvened, all its member races represented, and once more began plotting the city's defense. Anyone capable of wielding a weapon had already been conscripted, barriers had been built to reinforce the walls and fortify the streets, and every possible measure had been taken to insure the city would not fall. Just as the Council saw fit to adjourn, the horn sounded once, then twice, then a third time. The Enemy had arrived.
They bore no torches and sounded no drums as they marched from the North. Great war machines left clefts in the earth as they rolled towards the city. The siege began without an announcement or any sort of negotiation. The pale Lutheri were here to kill, not talk. As soldiers rushed to defend the walls, the first barrage of catapult fire struck the city. Commanders rushed to their posts and civilians to the city harbor, furthest away from the gates. The Last Battle of the Alliance had begun.
Elomir and his soldiers were dispatched to the western wall, where the fighting was expected to be the mildest. Commanding a force composed almost entirely of conscripts, frightened men and women who had never before wielded weapons, and supported only by a few dozen veterans, he was expected to hold the flank and remain there. There was not time for an inspiring speech - the hail of arrows had already begun, and everyone cowered beneath their shields or what cover they could find as the rain mercilessly beat down on them, some of its barbs sharper than others. Finally, the siege ladders reached the walls, and the chaotic melee broke loose.
The Prince struck the first blow, his long sword piercing the gut of the first Lutheri to scale the walls. The creature, unarmored, pale as moonlight, and gaunt as a corpse sputtered feebly before the light faded from its eyes. The beast fell, careening off the ladder and crashing into its gathered allies below. Scores more of their grunts clambered upwards, most slaughtered before they could find their footing until there were simply too many to stop. Soon the stone walls ran thick with blood and water as defender and invader alike fell. Just as all seemed lost, a hooded figure ascended the stairs and a jet of arcane flame washed over the wall, putting the nearby ladders to the torch. The flames billowed, even as the rain came crashing down upon it. Before the heroic mage could speak, an arrow from beyond the wall caught the words in his throat.
While Elomir's force gained a moment's respite and licked their wounds, a new wave of ladders came forward. Evidently, the enemy had realized this was the weak point of the defense, and a number of their shambling behemoths led the charge in this fresh assault. Blades and spears ripped men and Lutheri alike to bloody tatters, gore streaming down into the streets below and the blood soon became ankle deep. Still, the forces of the enemy were boundless, stretched as far as the eye could see across the valley.
The siege continued like this, essentially unabated, for sixteen straight hours. Fresh troops were cycled to the front until only weary ones remained, and the number of casualties was becoming unbearable. Now, Elomir was surrounded by the survivors, and it was hard to tell who among them hadn't held a sword before today. To the last man, woman, and child, they were smeared with blood and wearing the battered armor of the fallen if it was still serviceable. For the moment, Elomir's portion of the wall was not under attack, and that gave its defenders the best vantage point from which to watch the gates fall.
The great Red Gate of the Capitol came crashing down after one final blow from the rams, and the Lutheri hordes rushed inside. The cry whirled down the ramparts. "The gate has fallen! Retreat!" Elomir's soldiers looked to him for guidance, and he raised his unbroken right arm, sword clutched in its hand. "To the harbor!" He shouted. One of the minor lords who had fought beside him cast him a curious look.
"Milord, aren't we supposed to reinforce the market?" He asked.
Elomir shot the man a dirty look. "The city is fallen, Lord Redding. Would you rather die on the streets, or save what we can?" He replied.
The lord blinked, suddenly realizing what the Prince had in mind. "Men of the Alliance! Rally to your Prince!" He bellowed, apparently content to live another day. They would deal with their shame another day, if they lived to see it. They did not wait for the men on their east flank, the elves under General Curindir, to join them for the retreat. When Elomir and his men disappeared, the Lutheri climbed over the wall, sweeping like a horde of locusts onto the elves unprotected flank. Within minutes, they were overwhelmed, and the Silverleaf banners flew no longer.
Around them, the city was in chaos. Civilians fled further inward or clung to the retreating soldiers, hoping for protection as the cannibalistic barbarians rampaged across the walls and into the city. Smoke filled the air and roaring flames burned across the city, its former beauty marred by the destruction overtaking it. Around him, Elomir had gathered perhaps a hundred men, followed by maybe half as many civilians, and they passed by the marketplace they had been ordered to defend. They grabbed whatever supplies they could find before setting the neighborhood to the torch, hoping it would stem the enemy advance. Their act of cowardice now complete, they made all haste for the harbor.
People were already fighting to board the fleet of merchant ships and men-of-war docked there. Women pushed their children aboard and were left behind, deserters carved paths onto ships with their swords, and men dashed the brains of other men out with rocks to insure their place on one of the escaping vessels. In less than a day, the noble people of the Alliance had resorted to savagery. Elomir gathered his men about him and shoved a path forward, boarding the Divine Wrath, and raised anchor. Behind them, dozens more ships overflowing with refugees set sail, and on land, the Alliance fell when King Ereglar's head separated from his shoulders.
Leading the fleet, Prince Elomir stood at the prow of his ship, Lord Redding beside him. They were sailing westward, into the open sea. Lord Redding coughed into his hand, then spit some blood overboard. "Milord, there are.. there is no land to the west." He said hesitantly.
The Prince frowned. "Not that we know of, and not that the Lutheri know of. Perhaps we will find peace on some far shore." He replied grimly.
