OOC: Land of honor, land of blood

[Narf the Mouse]

This is a playtest.

Lords' holdings dot the mountains and plains. Bandits, often armies of bandits, move across the land or strike from secret hideouts - Often enough, at the command of one ambitious lord or another. In the cities, the rich plot and plan, daggers striking in the dark, flooding their coffers with ill-gotten gains...Or fighting off the attentions of more ruthless competitors. Out of the wastes of the south stalk horrifying monsters, seeking to feed. And scattered across the land are the sidhe, last of the Elder Races, immortal, violent and hiding an ancient secret of darkness...

In this blood-drenched land, skill means nothing. To survive, you must summon forth all that you are, all that you believe in - And every sworn oath and alliance you can muster.

Your word is your bond. Break it at your peril.



Rating: Violence, grim situations, nasty politics.

Power level: As much as your character can gather. PC's will start with 10 CP - You'll have already started making a local name for yourself, but it's recommended that you take service with somebody - Oaths for power are common.

The rules are Here. They are an older version, but the updated version isn't that much changed. The updated version will be posted as soon as my comp gets back from the shop. Costs should be the same.

When making a character, feel free to make stuff up. I will moderate introductions, but only to make sure they fit the world.

PCs should have a reason to interact, at minimum.

[Narf the Mouse]

Sheer cliffs fall away three hundred feet to crashing waves. Marble-sheathed granite soars another fifty feet, forming walls which sprout the occasional form of a catapult or ballista. The curve of the cliffs carries the walls around in a wedge-shaped half-circle, which then arcs around to face the Outlook peaks and cradle the city in its protection. In the far distance, in the gap between the two peaks, stands a stout, crouching fortress. The city is the labor of twelve centuries, a city that has suffered blood and death, yet never suffered itself to lay down and die.

It is often called a city of marvels, this city of an irrigated valley. And of engineering marvels, the greatest is in the wide Menos Harbor - Specifically, the additions that have been made over the years. The first is indubitably the creation of an Elder race; a delicate-looking span of arcing supports and supporting cables, anchored to the very bedrock and of unknown material, it stretches across the half-mile of the bell-shaped harbor and has never so much as shown the slightest flaw or defect.

The second is the caverns carved out of the cliff opposite the city - Fully eighty of them, each large enough to berth even the largest of cargo ships, they hold cranes, walkways and locks such that the ships can be worked on in water or on dry land.

The third, then, is the miles of tunnels carved out of the granite to support this strange dockyard. Homes, shops, warehouses and, of course, pubs all support the sea-going trade, while carefully-cultivated underground plants provide exotic colour.

The city, Menos, is itself a political marvel; being bequeathed to his council of advisers upon the death of the last Lord Menos, it now proudly declares itself a free city - And displays a grim readiness to argue that point upon the blood of would-be conquerers. Nonetheless, some in the city argue that the freedoms in the city are not enough; they call the oligarchies 'Substitute lords' and talk treason or rebellion. Never more can this been seen than in the dockyards, where high wages and disassociation fuel constant clashes between Loyalist and New City gangs - and the guard.