THE IMMORTAL BLOOD TIMELINE
PRESENTS

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The Sundered Ruby Throne

Watch the http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8s0fPmIN-q8 by Lord Tidus

PART ONE IN THE SUNDERED HEARTLAND SAGA

http://ibt.wikia.com/wiki/Immortal_Blood_Timeline_Wiki
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We are always taking new participants! You may join at any time.

Please post all character sheets and questions in the IBT Discussion Thread.

* A FEW WORD FROM THE FOUNDER, http://www.gamesas.com/user/388646-immortalblood/...

After so long it's really nice to see us all coming back together to create yet another wonderful RP. I look forward to creating an Imperial City of political deception and dark intrigue with you all. Cyrodiil is the heart of the Empire and the continent of Tamriel. All roads lead to the heartland and whoever controls it has dominion over the Empire. This plot will be a bit different than what we've seen before. Hammerfell is riddled with the bodies of the fallen, both for and against its independence. We've had a focus on the military side of things, with a touch of politics. Here we will deal with matters of state where words wielded skillfully can raise both the hearts and arms of many. Politics will be the main focus here.

* The Triumvirate

Lucretia Ducale (ImmortalBlood), The middle daughter of Vito Ducale. She found fame and fortune by military expedience and now seeks to recrown Cyrodiil as the Emperor's Province.

Lucrum Nostro (Storyteller), One of the richest and most powerful men in Cyrodiil, a senior council member with eyes on restoring the throne with his own goals in mind.

Arch Bishop Sixtus III (gaiusimperator), The charismatic and influential Arch Bishop of the Church of the Nine Divines. He seeks to further the Church's power by whatever means necessary.

* Characters

(Will be added when the list is sent)

* CHAPTERS

* Summery of Event's and Maps...

[To be edited later]


Rules

1. Use good grammar and spelling. Type your post up in Word if you don't think you can do it. Everyone makes mistakes so I don't have anything against people who aren't good at the language. English isn't my first language either, but not using precautions such as Word shows you really don't care. Make your posts thoughtful and relevant. Length without relevance is boring.

2. Do NOT be all knowing. It's just stupid when you have a guy in the RP that just seems to be able to guess everything. RP your character unknowing of something if he really doesn't know even if it means his/her death.

3. Familiarize yourself with the lore of the region (just enough to post adequately)

4. Try not to dwell too much on game mechanics

5. Don't expect to be spoon fed. Make your content.

6. Please avoid doing lengthy back and forths. I've seen so many RPs where you have 4 whole pages of just two people writing back and forth be it a conversation or a fight.

* THE SAGA THUS FAR...

After the death of the last Septim Emperor and Oblivion Crisis, the Empire found itself in a weakened state. The uprising in the Summerset Isles prompted a quick but violent war between the Empire and the reborn Aldmeri Dominion. The Legions, battered and weary from fighting hordes of Dagon's servants, were forced off the island by the spirited Altmer in their renewed national pride. Soon the coasts of Valenwood were in revolt. The Treaty of Anvil stipulated that the Empire would recognize the sovereignty of the Dominion. Sure in their prowess, the Dominion set about continuing the war against the Empire by proxy instigated conflict on the Valenwood/Elsweyr border. The Empire abandoned the province to its fate and the Dominion fought a bloody and vicious stalemate against the Khajiit.

Taking advantage of the instability, Hauron, a Crown noble from Sentinel sets about his rebellion thwarting a coalition of allies set to defend the Empire's interests. Chancellor Ocato is assassinated and Hauron's uprising gives way to the fall of the western coastal cities of Hammerfell. The division within the Empire's forces causes them to fall back to the city of Rihad, the last Imperial hold against the newly created "Yokudan Empire." Through the betrayal of the Empire by Anvil, Rihad falls giving way to Hauron's rule over Hammerfell.

With these losses and a heightening level of autonomy in High Rock, Skyrim and many of the other provinces the Empire requires a solid and new leadership. The Elder Council gave way to the Triumvirate, a trio of some of the most influential and capable people uniting in their cause to keep Cyrodiil and the Empire strong. Behind the scenes however, each individual has at mind their own specific interests and goals. Various noble families both old and new fight for power. First and foremost on their agenda is the status of the city of Anvil. With their friendship status with Hauron's Hammerfell, Cyrodiil is left with only one port city in the form of Leyawiin.

The matter is the first to be discussed but tonight we begin our story in the 5th Year of the Fourth Era during a hot Summer night of the Moth Festival. The attendees are present aboard a ship hosting the festivities of the holiday along with some of the most powerful individuals in Tamriel...

Emblems conveyed much among the nobility of Cyrodiil. Origin, myths, legends, claims. For Lucretia she need only look at the emblem of Ducale to know her history. A moth surrounded by a snake biting its own tale in turn surrounded by nine orbs evenly spaced. Usually covered in her armor as she led her company of mercenaries, the teal dress reminded her that she was still a woman. A slight smirk adorned her as she sat with her poised posture. She was the image of elegance, beautiful but known for her battlefield exploits. The light breeze breathed life through the thin material on warm nights such as this. Feline eyes leaped from person to person among the ship taking note of each individual of importance there. Nostro, he was certainly powerful but distinctly Colovian. Surprisingly he was adaptive for his surroundings. The good Arch Bishop Sixtus III wanted to be present but seemed to keep his distance from anything at the festivities that would incriminate him. Of course there was a level of privacy aboard that only the rich could afford, yet one had to pace themself or run the risk of seeming crude.

Lucretia herself allowed herself to enjoy the company around her fully knowing that the next day the difficult issue of Anvil would be the primary concern. For now she pushed it out of her mind and found herself deciding which berry sauce would best go with her Rumare Lake fish. The low tables and pillows that adorned the deck's ship hosted various people that commonly shifted from seat to seat. She kept a pleasant demeanor but not overly affectionate already taking note of her unique youth among the Triumvirate. Aside from her military background, uncommon for someone such as herself already, she enjoyed attention as a bit of a celebrity due to her family background and appearance.

The large party ship that was sailing around Lake Rumare had a full military escort of no less than four war ships and various lighter vessels of guards. Even so safety was not something to be taken for granted. Deep below the deck, Lucretia's Dunmer Illusionist Serosi, caught sight of a peculiar Breton woman. After enticing a couple of the less disciplined guards below deck, he noticed none returning. There seemed to be a pattern in which area she was focusing on as well. To be on this ship you needed to be either influential or beautiful. With her sanguine red curls and vibrant deep green eyes she was obviously one of the latter if not former as well.

This had been the third guard and even the most veteran prosttutes would need a bit a pause. Perhaps their interactions had been less than affectionate. Serosi wore a subtle black robe accented with violet design of Velothian style. Clean shaven he had a youthful appearance, the long braid hanging over his shoulder gave testament to his ties to House Dres. He walked toward the door leading below deck, his quietness and consistency giving him the appearance of a menacing shade or wraith. As he peered down the steps dimly lit, he could hear the footsteps of both guard, and the mysterious Breton woman.

The rhythm of relentless, restless drumbeat, and the roar of fire; the gentle, yet all-pervading smell of the Great River Niben, and the faintest tickle of spice, lingering in the air; raucous laughter and the creak of wood, rickety rope-bridges, half-rotted quays and even the rooftops of derelict shacks - leaned against the resolute stone of the Imperial Waterfront's massive warehouses, like crashed ships against a rock - besieged by a thousand thousands feet, writhing and contorting in unbridled celebration as clouds of ancestor moths fluttered overhead. Far and away, archaic hymns rose ceaselessly into the evening sky, the croaking voices of an untold multitude of Moth Priests mingling with the tireless dance-steps of the Coryphees of Dibella - all in praise to the Moth and the Ancestor; the Men and the River that birthed them.

Night drew over the Imperial Capital, and still its breakneck pace showed no signs of slowing.

On that one week of maddening heat and dazzling revelry, Ald Cyrod was awakened - and it would not sleep again until its thirst insatiable had been quenched; until the twentieth-and-two-thousandth step had been danced; until all but the last among the moth-monks had chanted their voices away, only to return with the hatching of the very first ancestor-born-anew.

Tools lay forgotten in the fields, their farmers too concerned with losing themselves in cup after cup of rice wine, or in the clumsy patter of their feet, echoing off tavern walls and humble riverside shacks whose likes clung to every corner of the Niben. Forges sat, calm, quiet and untended; shops and plazaside stalls void of their typical proprietors and customers, a deathly quiet descending over all the business and sense in the Imperial City. Men and women of power and influence twirled and danced in the streets, in the recluse of the lavish gardens of the Arboretum or the safety of their own mansions, money and cutthroat ambition pushed for the meantime from their minds - but never truly forgotten.

And even the halls of the Elder Council, the ageless heart of the Empire, were still and silent - save for the gentle snoring of that solitary Councilor, grey and wizened, that slept calmly on the table, struck down by the very drunken stupor that had, for reasons incomprehensible, guided him to those chambers in the first place.

White-Gold stood alone and abandoned; the unflinching finger of the gods in a roiling sea.

The streets and canols below rang with mirth and mantra, all the worries of the world thrown aside in favour of one brief window of careless celebration - one slight reprieve before Tamriel's dark clouds descended once more upon the decadence that was the once and future capital of the world.

Dark clouds overhead made for darker hearts within; even as, without, the glitter and glamour of the lavish riverboat guarding in its briast the secrets of all the greatest and most powerful of Cyrod's people did much to capture and excite the wildest dreams and imaginings of those unprivileged many watching it pass them by - together with all the finest luxuries that life had to offer.

Together with all its deadliest dangers.