Troldmand
Your Bizarre Acquaintance
Picture an evening sky. Fainting light of distant stars above, a turbulent ocean of milky white clouds below, and the blinding Sun where sky grades from warm scarlet hues to cold blue shades. Hush, and you will hear the sighs and whistles of lukewarm winds, or chirps and tweets of a migrant flock. Peer down, and you will see archipelagos floating in the sky, stretching well beyond horizon, as if taken out of a heavenly painting. But, fly closer, and you will hear a cacophony of thrums and drums of sweating factories and bustling streets, a fitful blast of an air-horn from a zeppelin about to dock, and a dozen airplanes patrolling the skies, buzzing like a beehive. As you descend lower and lower, lukewarm winds will turn black from ash – ash-clouds – and stink of coal and diesel. Descend even lower, and you will stand among the crowd of impoverished labourers, iffy constables and wannabe revolutionaries, on the dimly lit streets of a great and awful metropolis, one of many bastions of this new, airborne civilisation. Welcome to the Heavens.
Industrious hum and diesel fumes down here stand in contrast to untouched serenity higher in the sky, and make many think this polluted way of life is a punishment for a crime man committed against this earth. Great War of 1914 was seen by many as a war to end all wars, and they were right, in a sense. It was a war of innovation, Kings and Tsars and Kaisers sought new ways to kill on an industrial scale fit for an industrial century. Shells to drive soldiers mad, machine guns to mow them down, flamethrowers to scorch the survivors.
Ipricht was one such invention. A heavy gas, thick and tinted acid green, it replaced the dreaded sulfur mustard. Gas mask-wearing enemies would charge right through the green mist, and drop dead like flies anyway. No screams, no coughs, no gasps for air, just the thump of falling bodies. But the mist would not dissipate, it travelled with the winds. As it engulfed more and more, trees rotted, grass yellowed, flowers shrivelled, and towns went silent. Confronted with this apocalyptic miasma, great thinkers of the past elevated the ground still free from Ipricht’s deathly grip, and took to the skies. Up here, old empires contend with a new culture of daring pilots and zeppelin-driving freebooters.
The year is 1999. “Turn of the millennium” is a new buzzword. Newsboys shout it, fellows discuss it over a pint of beer, preachers believe it to be a sign of the end times, and demagogues preach to leave the monarchy in the old millennium. All of them are right to worry, there is trouble in the Western Skies. Great Game – the arms race between the British Empire and that of the Germans – has seen a nerve-racking move when rumours of a revolutionary German zeppelin reached the ears of Westminster’s elite. They say it’s armed with bombs of Ipricht, even though the formula has been lost to history, and sports so many guns no airplane would ever be able to close in. They claim it’s so powerful it can tear islands whole to shreds with the press of a button, and gave it the moniker “Dreadnought.” Perturbed, the Parliament and the Queen concoct a plan – to find the Dreadnought, and make it go up in flames, for the "good" of both Empires. An inconspicuous blimp is chartered, and infiltrators picked from among the urchins in the street, mischievous labourers, sentenced-for-life and other shady sort. You, too, are a person of an adverse background. Join them on a voyage across the skies, evade sky-pirates and marauders, sell your soul to a soul-trader for the Dreadnought's whereabouts, visit the renowned Market-in-the-Sky, blow up the Dreadnought and come back a hero… or?
*
Phew, that was lengthy. Glad you’re still with me. I’m looking for a partner to join me on an adventure in a dieselpunk-ish, WW1-esque setting with some steampunk undertones, and a healthy dose of fantasy. You don’t have to pump out novel-sized replies, or have an academic way with words, though decent grammar is appreciated. Usually, I’m busy on the working days, but somewhat free on weekends, but what I lack in reply frequency I make up for in quality and “meatiness.” I’m easy-going, feel free to discuss ideas or just chat about whatever, though I may be slow to respond sometimes. I don’t mind romance, and play both genders (or anywhere in between!), though I intend for this story to be a classic, action-packed adventure, with an emphasis on "action." If this all sounds like your cup of tea, or you have a question or two, go right ahead and shoot me a message!
Hope to hear from you soon!
Industrious hum and diesel fumes down here stand in contrast to untouched serenity higher in the sky, and make many think this polluted way of life is a punishment for a crime man committed against this earth. Great War of 1914 was seen by many as a war to end all wars, and they were right, in a sense. It was a war of innovation, Kings and Tsars and Kaisers sought new ways to kill on an industrial scale fit for an industrial century. Shells to drive soldiers mad, machine guns to mow them down, flamethrowers to scorch the survivors.
Ipricht was one such invention. A heavy gas, thick and tinted acid green, it replaced the dreaded sulfur mustard. Gas mask-wearing enemies would charge right through the green mist, and drop dead like flies anyway. No screams, no coughs, no gasps for air, just the thump of falling bodies. But the mist would not dissipate, it travelled with the winds. As it engulfed more and more, trees rotted, grass yellowed, flowers shrivelled, and towns went silent. Confronted with this apocalyptic miasma, great thinkers of the past elevated the ground still free from Ipricht’s deathly grip, and took to the skies. Up here, old empires contend with a new culture of daring pilots and zeppelin-driving freebooters.
The year is 1999. “Turn of the millennium” is a new buzzword. Newsboys shout it, fellows discuss it over a pint of beer, preachers believe it to be a sign of the end times, and demagogues preach to leave the monarchy in the old millennium. All of them are right to worry, there is trouble in the Western Skies. Great Game – the arms race between the British Empire and that of the Germans – has seen a nerve-racking move when rumours of a revolutionary German zeppelin reached the ears of Westminster’s elite. They say it’s armed with bombs of Ipricht, even though the formula has been lost to history, and sports so many guns no airplane would ever be able to close in. They claim it’s so powerful it can tear islands whole to shreds with the press of a button, and gave it the moniker “Dreadnought.” Perturbed, the Parliament and the Queen concoct a plan – to find the Dreadnought, and make it go up in flames, for the "good" of both Empires. An inconspicuous blimp is chartered, and infiltrators picked from among the urchins in the street, mischievous labourers, sentenced-for-life and other shady sort. You, too, are a person of an adverse background. Join them on a voyage across the skies, evade sky-pirates and marauders, sell your soul to a soul-trader for the Dreadnought's whereabouts, visit the renowned Market-in-the-Sky, blow up the Dreadnought and come back a hero… or?
*
Phew, that was lengthy. Glad you’re still with me. I’m looking for a partner to join me on an adventure in a dieselpunk-ish, WW1-esque setting with some steampunk undertones, and a healthy dose of fantasy. You don’t have to pump out novel-sized replies, or have an academic way with words, though decent grammar is appreciated. Usually, I’m busy on the working days, but somewhat free on weekends, but what I lack in reply frequency I make up for in quality and “meatiness.” I’m easy-going, feel free to discuss ideas or just chat about whatever, though I may be slow to respond sometimes. I don’t mind romance, and play both genders (or anywhere in between!), though I intend for this story to be a classic, action-packed adventure, with an emphasis on "action." If this all sounds like your cup of tea, or you have a question or two, go right ahead and shoot me a message!
Hope to hear from you soon!
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