Necca
Salty Dog
The Rapier Arias
Song I: The Hooded Coachman
~Rapier Arias Links~
Song I: The Hooded Coachmen (Main IC storyline, group)
Interlude: Shadowed Crowns (Supplemental storyline, 1x1)
Interlude: The Killing Fields (Supplemental storyline, 1x1)
Compendium (Lore and Setting Information)
Dramatis Personae (Player Character Sheets)
~Plot~
Song I: The Hooded Coachman
~Rapier Arias Links~
Song I: The Hooded Coachmen (Main IC storyline, group)
Interlude: Shadowed Crowns (Supplemental storyline, 1x1)
Interlude: The Killing Fields (Supplemental storyline, 1x1)
Compendium (Lore and Setting Information)
Dramatis Personae (Player Character Sheets)
~Plot~
One fortnight past...
Five dead men lay on blood-soaked earth beneath the shadowed boughs above. Each was arranged with cruel specificity, contorted and mutilated as the most blatant of warnings to those who traveled westward through the wood. It was impossible to discern their nationality or complexion; their flesh was equally maggot-ridden, burned black to the bone, gashed with still-bubbling wounds, or peeled away to reveal a reeking necrosis. Limbs were snapped in twain at right angles or twisted round and round, squeezing out blood and pulpy muscle to mingle with the loamy ground. A flayed, severed head dangled from a thorny vine that strung itself across the beaten road, and the wagon in which they'd traveled was an overturned pyre of charcoal and melted iron.
Fuck the Faen and their magecraft, Richter thought bitterly. His left hand rested on the basket hilt of the broadsword at his side while his right fingers played with the thicket of his salted auburn beard. Journeys through the Nightwood were rarely without incident, but he'd hoped the uneventful luck of the past two days would hold until they reached the Hooded Coachman. Clearly, their luck had just run out.
"There's nothing out there," a gruff tenor mumbled nearby. Richter turned to the coach as one of the four horses snorted a spray of snot. A grizzled, lanky, age-lined man with a frosty moustache sat upon the driver's perch, scanning the forest depths from behind the barrel of his wheellock musket. This was Grendt, a sellsword expat from the Corrmlandt Provinces seeking to be as far away from his country's civil war as possible. His exquisite firearm had evidently cost three full years of mercenary pay.
"That's what the twigs want you to think," Richter replied, trying to mask the basso resonance of his voice for fear of alerting what lurked beyond the flickering lights of the coach's lanterns. He stepped carefully over the nearest carcass but lost his balance, regaining it only by plunging a booted foot into the corpse's skull. "Damnit!" he spat, removing his blood-drenched boot. Flecks of bone and brain remained on its leather surface despite his best efforts to shake them off.
The side door of the coach opened with the squeak of metal hinges. The lone passenger, a woman of thirty or so years, stepped out with confident strides and an irritated huff. Her night-black hair was tightly tied behind her head, and her pallid flesh and cold blue eyes hinted at southern ancestry despite the hue of her tresses. "I assure you, the Guild will not be pleased with this delay," she cut, wrapping the folds of a rust-red cloak around her wiry frame. Her eyes darted across their surroundings, then fell upon the grisly scene before the coach. Her expression faded; what little color her flesh possessed was now lost to creeping fear. "Shit."
"My thoughts exactly, Madam Klass," Richter agreed. "Fucking Faen can't leave well enough alone. Can't accept the fact their time's…"
"Shut up," Klass snapped, abruptly ending his sentence. She moved swiftly to the dead bodies, searching desperately for something on or near them. She whispered softly to herself in a hushed panic, ignoring the two men entirely.
Grendt lowered his musket. "The hell are you looking for?" he asked, a little too loudly.
"Something far above your meager pay grade," she hissed. "Keep your musket ready and your eyes fixed between the trees."
"I'll keep my eyes fixed on your bony ass, you miserable bitch," the old sellsword muttered beneath his breath. If Madam Klass heard him, she was too preoccupied to care.
Richter sighed, and moved to examine the charred remains of the wagon. The large vehicle was in remarkable condition, disregarding the fact that it was entirely blackened from deadened flames. Few beams were broken, and the framework still held its shape. However, the horses that undoubtedly pulled the wagon were nowhere to be seen, and no tracks were evident on the packed earth of the road.
He heard a chunk of cerebellum fall from his boot, but instead of making a soft squelch on dirt, a faint metallic ping rose into the air. Looking down, the sellsword noticed a black-enameled metal cylinder half-buried in the soil. He squatted low, then gingerly pulled the object from the ground with a calloused hand and brushed flakes of charcoal from its surface. The cylinder was capped and locked shut, though no keyhole was visible. He heard the faintest sound of liquid within as he turned it over in his hand. "Madam Klass, is this what you are looking for?"
"Let me see," the woman said, moving to his position. Her brows were furrowed with confusion, but her entire demeanor relaxed as she caught sight of the cylinder. "Thank the Deity, yes." She swiftly snatched the object from his hand and carefully tucked it in an inside pocket sewn into her cloak. She looked to the bodies, a sudden urgency in her contralto voice. "We've no time to burn them." She turned to Grendt as she swept back toward the coach. "The Guild will triple your salaries if we reach the Hooded Coachman by nightfall."
Grendt did not reply; instead, he sat stone-still on the perch, musket aimed at the darkness of the wood.
"Oi, Grendt!" Richter called loudly. The driver still made no reply. He suddenly realized how silent the forest had become, and slowly slipped his sword hand to clutch the grip of his blade.
Madam Klass, oblivious, slammed the coach door shut. The smash of metal on hardwood echoed painfully in the muted air.
The forest answered with a shudder, boughs and branches whipping as one, leaves rustling to a deafening rattle. From the depths emerged three figures, humanoid in shape but utterly inhuman in every other attribute, an otherworldly shimmer of green light emanating from somewhere behind them. Their proportions were distressingly stretched; each limb was too long, each torso too short, with elongated necks, thin heads, long pointed ears, and almond eyes that gleamed aflame with gold and crimson. Their bodies were entirely nude, exhibiting tautly corded muscle and smooth, hairless flesh save the weightless manes upon their heads that swirled and shifted with an unseen wind.
Fucking faen.
Grendt pulled the trigger of his musket, which was followed by a loud krak and a plume of ghostly smoke. His shot was true, plunging into the arm of the center faen with a splash of glowing scarlet blood. A harsh, guttural scream erupted from the faen's mouth as it raised its opposite hand and pushed it forth, palm outstretched. With hurricane force, a buffet of wind bombarded the coach, shattering the glass windows of the cab and pushing Grendt from the perch to crumple on the forest floor with the sickening crunch of breaking bones.
Within, Madam Klass screamed, then bolted out of the coach. Her face and torso were studded with shattered glass, her pale flesh red with gushing blood, soaking through her clothes. Another gust of wind overturned the carriage, and it toppled onto Grendt and crushed him flat into the blood-muddied earth. The horses lurched to the side, still connected to the reins as the faen walked slowly forward with merciless focus.
Richter had little time to react. Using the freshly overturned coach as cover, he dashed to Madam Klass, who gasped wetly. Her lungs were punctured by a large shard of glass embedded in her chest. Each breath caused fresh blood to bubble up around the edges of the shard. Breathing ward literally killing her. The sellsword pulled back her cloak and reached into the pocket where she had stored the cylinder. He removed it, shifted it in his belt, then hacked the nearest horse free from its yoke and mounted it in desperation. He kicked it hard to a gallop, willing it forth, abandoning the woman to her fate as the three faen set the coach alight with emerald eldritch flame.
A sharp pain stabbed Richter's temple, and he swore. The sellsword had fought enough mageborn to know when domination magecraft was being used against him, and though he knew several resistance techniques, faen magic was far more powerful than what a human could conjure. His only hope was for the horse to move swiftly enough that they reached a spot beyond the range of their assailants. Each moment of resistance increased the pain's intensity, and he felt capillaries burst so blood ran freely from his nose and ears. Gritting his teeth, Richter kicked the horse again to pick up speed. His vision blurred, and he smelled the sour stink of vomit in the air as he puked violently upon the horse's mane. He swallowed air; it tasted of blood and bile and decay. He gagged again, vomited again, as blood dripped into his mouth and dripped down his neck.
Richter's world spun as the horse continued down the forest road. His mind was mangled, his body brought to illness, his thoughts empty and desperate. Only when he emerged into a large moonlit clearing did he allow himself the luxury of a deep breath. Within the clearing was a wooden palisade wall that encircled two large buildings. Above the gate, a cast iron sign squeaked in the night wind. It was of a horse-drawn coach, and the driver wore a hooded cloak. Richter felt himself slip from the horse's back as his body involuntarily relaxed. He fell to the dewy ground at the edge of the clearing, beyond the view of the watchmen who manned the walls, and fell to sleep.
Some time later, the sky had brightened with the twilit blues of pre-dawn light. Richter opened his eyes to see a shaded figure standing above him. The lighting was too poor to discern any distinguishable facial features, exacerbated by the broad-brimmed hat pulled down just above the figure's eyes.
"Faen attack?" the silhouette asked softly, seemingly concerned. He had an ambiguous accent that sounded vaguely Lutrecian, but it could easily have been from somewhere else.
Richter attempted a nod, but hot pain shot up his neck and from his temples. He managed to croak, "Aye," before coughing up a wad of blood and phlegm.
"Not the first." The figure sighed. "They've been getting worse, recently." He squatted, and withdrew a handkerchief to dab Richter's face. "Been waiting for a shipment to arrive here for two days and I'm fearing the worst. You didn't happen to come across a wagon with five Clockmakers on your way here, did you?"
Richter winced, but managed a nod. "Dead," he said. He thought he caught the figure smile under the shadowy brim.
"Well, damn." The figure paused just long enough to cause an awkward silence. "And that capsule stuck in your belt. I don't suppose you got it from them?"
Richter had just enough time to think the word shit before the figure deftly drew a dirk and buried it in his throat. As the sellsword gurgled for breath, the figure took the cylinder, shrugged with nonchalance, and strolled casually to the inn.
Five dead men lay on blood-soaked earth beneath the shadowed boughs above. Each was arranged with cruel specificity, contorted and mutilated as the most blatant of warnings to those who traveled westward through the wood. It was impossible to discern their nationality or complexion; their flesh was equally maggot-ridden, burned black to the bone, gashed with still-bubbling wounds, or peeled away to reveal a reeking necrosis. Limbs were snapped in twain at right angles or twisted round and round, squeezing out blood and pulpy muscle to mingle with the loamy ground. A flayed, severed head dangled from a thorny vine that strung itself across the beaten road, and the wagon in which they'd traveled was an overturned pyre of charcoal and melted iron.
Fuck the Faen and their magecraft, Richter thought bitterly. His left hand rested on the basket hilt of the broadsword at his side while his right fingers played with the thicket of his salted auburn beard. Journeys through the Nightwood were rarely without incident, but he'd hoped the uneventful luck of the past two days would hold until they reached the Hooded Coachman. Clearly, their luck had just run out.
"There's nothing out there," a gruff tenor mumbled nearby. Richter turned to the coach as one of the four horses snorted a spray of snot. A grizzled, lanky, age-lined man with a frosty moustache sat upon the driver's perch, scanning the forest depths from behind the barrel of his wheellock musket. This was Grendt, a sellsword expat from the Corrmlandt Provinces seeking to be as far away from his country's civil war as possible. His exquisite firearm had evidently cost three full years of mercenary pay.
"That's what the twigs want you to think," Richter replied, trying to mask the basso resonance of his voice for fear of alerting what lurked beyond the flickering lights of the coach's lanterns. He stepped carefully over the nearest carcass but lost his balance, regaining it only by plunging a booted foot into the corpse's skull. "Damnit!" he spat, removing his blood-drenched boot. Flecks of bone and brain remained on its leather surface despite his best efforts to shake them off.
The side door of the coach opened with the squeak of metal hinges. The lone passenger, a woman of thirty or so years, stepped out with confident strides and an irritated huff. Her night-black hair was tightly tied behind her head, and her pallid flesh and cold blue eyes hinted at southern ancestry despite the hue of her tresses. "I assure you, the Guild will not be pleased with this delay," she cut, wrapping the folds of a rust-red cloak around her wiry frame. Her eyes darted across their surroundings, then fell upon the grisly scene before the coach. Her expression faded; what little color her flesh possessed was now lost to creeping fear. "Shit."
"My thoughts exactly, Madam Klass," Richter agreed. "Fucking Faen can't leave well enough alone. Can't accept the fact their time's…"
"Shut up," Klass snapped, abruptly ending his sentence. She moved swiftly to the dead bodies, searching desperately for something on or near them. She whispered softly to herself in a hushed panic, ignoring the two men entirely.
Grendt lowered his musket. "The hell are you looking for?" he asked, a little too loudly.
"Something far above your meager pay grade," she hissed. "Keep your musket ready and your eyes fixed between the trees."
"I'll keep my eyes fixed on your bony ass, you miserable bitch," the old sellsword muttered beneath his breath. If Madam Klass heard him, she was too preoccupied to care.
Richter sighed, and moved to examine the charred remains of the wagon. The large vehicle was in remarkable condition, disregarding the fact that it was entirely blackened from deadened flames. Few beams were broken, and the framework still held its shape. However, the horses that undoubtedly pulled the wagon were nowhere to be seen, and no tracks were evident on the packed earth of the road.
He heard a chunk of cerebellum fall from his boot, but instead of making a soft squelch on dirt, a faint metallic ping rose into the air. Looking down, the sellsword noticed a black-enameled metal cylinder half-buried in the soil. He squatted low, then gingerly pulled the object from the ground with a calloused hand and brushed flakes of charcoal from its surface. The cylinder was capped and locked shut, though no keyhole was visible. He heard the faintest sound of liquid within as he turned it over in his hand. "Madam Klass, is this what you are looking for?"
"Let me see," the woman said, moving to his position. Her brows were furrowed with confusion, but her entire demeanor relaxed as she caught sight of the cylinder. "Thank the Deity, yes." She swiftly snatched the object from his hand and carefully tucked it in an inside pocket sewn into her cloak. She looked to the bodies, a sudden urgency in her contralto voice. "We've no time to burn them." She turned to Grendt as she swept back toward the coach. "The Guild will triple your salaries if we reach the Hooded Coachman by nightfall."
Grendt did not reply; instead, he sat stone-still on the perch, musket aimed at the darkness of the wood.
"Oi, Grendt!" Richter called loudly. The driver still made no reply. He suddenly realized how silent the forest had become, and slowly slipped his sword hand to clutch the grip of his blade.
Madam Klass, oblivious, slammed the coach door shut. The smash of metal on hardwood echoed painfully in the muted air.
The forest answered with a shudder, boughs and branches whipping as one, leaves rustling to a deafening rattle. From the depths emerged three figures, humanoid in shape but utterly inhuman in every other attribute, an otherworldly shimmer of green light emanating from somewhere behind them. Their proportions were distressingly stretched; each limb was too long, each torso too short, with elongated necks, thin heads, long pointed ears, and almond eyes that gleamed aflame with gold and crimson. Their bodies were entirely nude, exhibiting tautly corded muscle and smooth, hairless flesh save the weightless manes upon their heads that swirled and shifted with an unseen wind.
Fucking faen.
Grendt pulled the trigger of his musket, which was followed by a loud krak and a plume of ghostly smoke. His shot was true, plunging into the arm of the center faen with a splash of glowing scarlet blood. A harsh, guttural scream erupted from the faen's mouth as it raised its opposite hand and pushed it forth, palm outstretched. With hurricane force, a buffet of wind bombarded the coach, shattering the glass windows of the cab and pushing Grendt from the perch to crumple on the forest floor with the sickening crunch of breaking bones.
Within, Madam Klass screamed, then bolted out of the coach. Her face and torso were studded with shattered glass, her pale flesh red with gushing blood, soaking through her clothes. Another gust of wind overturned the carriage, and it toppled onto Grendt and crushed him flat into the blood-muddied earth. The horses lurched to the side, still connected to the reins as the faen walked slowly forward with merciless focus.
Richter had little time to react. Using the freshly overturned coach as cover, he dashed to Madam Klass, who gasped wetly. Her lungs were punctured by a large shard of glass embedded in her chest. Each breath caused fresh blood to bubble up around the edges of the shard. Breathing ward literally killing her. The sellsword pulled back her cloak and reached into the pocket where she had stored the cylinder. He removed it, shifted it in his belt, then hacked the nearest horse free from its yoke and mounted it in desperation. He kicked it hard to a gallop, willing it forth, abandoning the woman to her fate as the three faen set the coach alight with emerald eldritch flame.
A sharp pain stabbed Richter's temple, and he swore. The sellsword had fought enough mageborn to know when domination magecraft was being used against him, and though he knew several resistance techniques, faen magic was far more powerful than what a human could conjure. His only hope was for the horse to move swiftly enough that they reached a spot beyond the range of their assailants. Each moment of resistance increased the pain's intensity, and he felt capillaries burst so blood ran freely from his nose and ears. Gritting his teeth, Richter kicked the horse again to pick up speed. His vision blurred, and he smelled the sour stink of vomit in the air as he puked violently upon the horse's mane. He swallowed air; it tasted of blood and bile and decay. He gagged again, vomited again, as blood dripped into his mouth and dripped down his neck.
Richter's world spun as the horse continued down the forest road. His mind was mangled, his body brought to illness, his thoughts empty and desperate. Only when he emerged into a large moonlit clearing did he allow himself the luxury of a deep breath. Within the clearing was a wooden palisade wall that encircled two large buildings. Above the gate, a cast iron sign squeaked in the night wind. It was of a horse-drawn coach, and the driver wore a hooded cloak. Richter felt himself slip from the horse's back as his body involuntarily relaxed. He fell to the dewy ground at the edge of the clearing, beyond the view of the watchmen who manned the walls, and fell to sleep.
Some time later, the sky had brightened with the twilit blues of pre-dawn light. Richter opened his eyes to see a shaded figure standing above him. The lighting was too poor to discern any distinguishable facial features, exacerbated by the broad-brimmed hat pulled down just above the figure's eyes.
"Faen attack?" the silhouette asked softly, seemingly concerned. He had an ambiguous accent that sounded vaguely Lutrecian, but it could easily have been from somewhere else.
Richter attempted a nod, but hot pain shot up his neck and from his temples. He managed to croak, "Aye," before coughing up a wad of blood and phlegm.
"Not the first." The figure sighed. "They've been getting worse, recently." He squatted, and withdrew a handkerchief to dab Richter's face. "Been waiting for a shipment to arrive here for two days and I'm fearing the worst. You didn't happen to come across a wagon with five Clockmakers on your way here, did you?"
Richter winced, but managed a nod. "Dead," he said. He thought he caught the figure smile under the shadowy brim.
"Well, damn." The figure paused just long enough to cause an awkward silence. "And that capsule stuck in your belt. I don't suppose you got it from them?"
Richter had just enough time to think the word shit before the figure deftly drew a dirk and buried it in his throat. As the sellsword gurgled for breath, the figure took the cylinder, shrugged with nonchalance, and strolled casually to the inn.
Our tale opens at the Hooded Coachman, a neutral inn at the crossroads between Lutrice, Galdoris, and the Renjuguese Imperium. It lies within the ancient faen forest known only as the Nightwood.
All three nations have strengthened their borders due to growing disputes (specifics to be fleshed out by players), and war seems ever more likely. A diplomatic effort failed, as it was ambushed by members of the radical faen sect known as Kei'in Aerthula'an. The technical plans that were part of this intended exchange were then stolen by unknown forces. It is rumored these plans are of the utmost importance to both the Clockmaker's Guild and those nations aware of its existence. The Nightwood now brims with government agents, soldiers, sellswords, and others who seek glory or the handsome rewards offered for the return of the cylinder. Of course, others will also be drawn into this web of fast alliances and faster betrayals...
~Seeking~
Up to seven serious and experienced writers to compose the First Song (AKA Part 1). First come, first served, so long as you're up for something fun and challenging. I'll maintain a waiting list in case anyone must drop out.
~Content~
Nothing gratuitous. Violence must serve the story. Sex must serve the story. As this involves war and espionage, I expect both might work as narrative tools, but there are specific places on site for them to be the sole focus of an RP. However, I often find implication to be far more powerful or tantalizing than the overly explicit stuff. I'm planning on posting this in Poe's Corner if that helps give an idea of content level.
~Post Quality~
Good grammar is always appreciated for ease of reading, and clarity of intent should be obvious to any casual reader. I don't want to dictate post length, though, as everyone has a different writing style. However, the goal is for a thread with consistently high quality posts.
~Post Frequency~
I'm a quality over quantity kind of thread creator. If you post once a week I'll be happy. Personally, I work a full-time job with a crud load of overtime, have a one-year-old son, enjoy spending time with my wife, and have a sick mother I need to help care for. The last thing I want is for an RP to be taken more seriously than RL stuff.
~To join~
PM me indicating your interest and include a draft of your character sheet. I'll then send you a reply and open a Rapier's Aria Character thread. Once we have sufficient interested players, I'll open the IC thread and the game is afoot!
~Thread Resources~
Song I Map: Venture's Crossing and Surrounding Areas
Venture's Crossing is the intersection of major roadways from Galdoris, Lutrice, and the Renjuguese Imperium. The surrounding areas are of paramount strategic significance.
Points of Interest:
- The Bastion: A massive star fort with a commanding view of the Lake of Steam. The majority of points in the lake are well within range of the fort's cannons. A Commandante of the Grand Army is charged with its joint administration alongside the Marquis of Grisfume.
- Gros Poisson: A fishing village known for its carefully smoked trout, Gros Poisson also houses a way station for the Epines Noir, disguised as a storefront.
- Grisfume: A large town primarily known for the manufacture of timber. Grisfume also serves as a major trading hub with merchants from Galdoris and the Imperium. The town is the capital of the Eastern Reaches of Lutrice, and ruled by a marquis and marquess, who hold significant political sway and power.
- Cliffspear: Built atop the cliffs overlooking the Blacklake, Cliffspear is a small town that serves as both mountain respite for travelers and garrison for the Renjuguese army in times of need.
- Trogus Pass: A natural chasm widened with manpower and magecraft, the Trogus Pass is the main thoroughfare through the Dragon Wings connecting the Renjuguese Imperium to the nations to the south.
- West fort: A small watch post used by the Republican IVth Infantry Regiment
- Haldestrume: A large town most famous for the nearby gold deposits that earned it great wealth in centuries past.
- Goudspel: The first town in Ariae to construct a clocktower at its center, Goudspel is a haven for craftsmen and engineers.
- The Hooded Coachman: The only inn within the Nightwood, the Hooded Coachman is essentially a walled compound that employs its visitors to help keep watch for Faen. It is considered neutral ground, and has a strict policy that prohibits violent exchanges. Those who fight are left to fend for themselves after sundown.
- The Lake of Steam: A hot spring ridden lake, the surface of which is shrouded in mists once summer yields to autumn.
- The Blacklake: A still-surfaced body of water within the Dragon Wings. None know how deep it truly is.
- Burnished River: So-called because of the amber-colored soil of the riverbed, and because of the gold found in and near its flowing water.
- Dragon Wing Mountains: A jagged set of towering mountains that separates the main Renjuguese Imperium from the rest of Ariae
- Startip Peaks: Mountains that frequently see extensive falling Star activity.
- Forest of Fog: An extension of the Nightwood that is shrouded by residual mists from the Lake of Steam
- The Nightwood: An expansive Faen forest that divides Lutrice, Galdoris, and the Renjuguese Imperium
- Elmfell Forest: A major source of timber for the republic.
~Non-Player Characters~
NPCs can be written and created by all players, though posts should never be from their point of view. A list of NPCs will be included and updated in the Rapier Arias character thread.
~Player Characters~
Characters can hail from any walk of life, but must have motivation to be present at the Hooded Coachman. Please submit the following character sheet when showing interest in the thread. Please provide a detailed physical description, even if using a face claim.
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Race:
Nationality:
Religion:
Appearance:
Personality:
History:
Mageborn (Y or N)
Magic Domains (if applicable):
Last edited:
