» Mon Apr 05, 2010 5:06 am Chapter 1: The first fingers of dawn
The regular splashing of oars in the night signaled the approach of one of the small skiffs that dotted the ink dark ocean. The bow ground on sand and more splashing could be heard as men jumped out and ran for the cover of the woods, a dark smear on the horizon only a hundred yards away.
The sky was glowing blue in the pre-dawn, and a haze clung to the dewy grass. The men who ran to the darkness of the trees were already soaking wet by the time they reached it's deep sanctuary. The long grass between the rocky beach and the woods was at least waist high. Deer trails and beds were matted throughout.
A shadowy hand reached down to pull several spiked seed pods off his pants. They were everywhere, clinging to the black wool breeches as if they had a mind of their own. A breath blew a fading match cord back to life. A man coughed as quietly as he could.
Things were getting easier to see now, the first fingers of dawn began to clear the horizon bathing the treetops in red-yellow sunlight. More shapes moved in the woods below. Polished brimmed helmets caught the sun like mirrors and sparkled in the tall grass. Azura was in full power, laying waste to the dark and showing the myriad of ships that sat of the coast. Fourty-six in all if one had the patience to count, most didn't.
More boats ground into the sand, and more men jumped into the surf to run across the grass that left them as wet as if they had just jumped waist deep in the ocean. Wooden powder vials clattered softly like Ashlander wind chimes as the men ran. The vials were strapped to their chest, tied with chord to a single leather crossbelt. At the hip, was a pouch that was filled with small lead balls, three quarters of an inch around. Hanging loose from the pouch was a flask, that resembled the metal vial carried by alcoholics the world over. Inside was a fine, salty dark powder. Next to that pouch was tied a second leather sack which held a seemingly random assortment of metal rods, screwdrivers and picks.
As the men ran they raised two long objects over their heads. One looked like a chest high walking stick, with a spike on one end and a U shaped bit of metal on the other. This was a forquette. The other object was a shiny steel tube attached to a long board. The thing was ungainly, heavy, awkward, and as tall as a man's shoulder. On the side, near the back was a small hinge covered pan. In front of the pan was a curved piece of metal, formed by a master craftsman into the shape of a dragon. The dragons head was split on the top. Inside that split was inserted the burning end of a long length of treated rope. That was the matchlock musket.
"If you would be a dear, could you please set up my command post here, what? I do hope those stout fellows have my baggage, I should be terribly sad if I was forced to command without it. A man should have some comforts, what?"
A odd voice whispered to a huddled group of dark figured. The man's face twitched as he scratched a stubbly chin with two fingers. The other three were missing on his hand.
Still more boats ground into the sand, discharging their living cargo. The sun was rising, now already half birthed from the sea. Steam rose in lines through the air as the dew was burned off. The temperature was beginning to rise, and the day would be a hot one for the men in the black wool jackets and steel helmets.
"You there, centurion, I say, could you poke around in the woods some and see I you can't find the other side? It shouldn't be too far away, what?"
"Yes sir." The figure pounded a closed fist on his left briast, the traditional salute of the legion.
Though the wood was wreathed in mist, the men walked confidently through, their long barreled muskets held under the armpit, so their torso could take some of the weight while the barrel was held level. Damp leaves crackled underfoot.
Suddenly, there was a rush of movement, a cry. A shape darted through the underbrush. Two hundred muskets went into two hundred shoulders as the men readied to unleash a terribly volley.
"Wait, it's just a boar?"
Sighs of relief.
The men continued on through the dark and foreboding forest. The trees seemed to lean in menacingly, threatening the Legionnaires. The men in black coats continued on, for light was in sight straight ahead. Cautiously they approached the edge of the woods, like it was a cliff, dropping away into a deep chasm beyond.
"Optio, hand me my spyglass."
"One second. Damn?wait, here it is?"
The well oiled brass tube telescoped open. It was trained on the sight below. Before the men at the edge of the forest, the countryside of Highrock spread like a painted canvas. It was breathtaking.
Splashed in the glorious and brilliant dawn light, the large flat plane was laid bare. Yellow squares of wheat dotted the land. Small dirt roads wound in and out of country villages, before leading to old stone bridges that crossed the deep blue streams. A cluster of windmills turned lazily in the light breeze. All facing out to sea where the wind promised to flow forth, to grind grain and power the machines that make the Breton penninsula famous the world over. The deep rich indigo of the sea glittered in the distance as small ships braved the water and wind to ferry cargo and goods to Daggerfall, Wayrest and Sentinel, Anvil, Alinor and Leyawiin, and even as far as Senchal, Vivec and Port Telavannis.
The small dots that moved around the green pastures and golden fields showed that the people here lived a happy and diligent existence, hard at work at their parcels of land. The spyglass trained on a grey stone road. Horses, carts and caravans moved calmly along, taking goods to the busy markets of Anticlere.
There the spyglass stopped. The city of Anticlere glimmered like a beacon of light in the dawn. It's roofs were a deep jade green. The bright copper having been long tarnished by the sea and sky.. Tall spires of it's churches rose into the sky over the low red masonry walls. Smoke from a myriad of chimneys rose to smear the clear blue sky a dirty grey.
It had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the dragon break and subjugation under the heel of Wayrest, and returned to a glory previously unimaginable. With the help of the Kingdom of Daggerfall, it regained independence nearly thirty years ago. It shook the politics of the Illiac by declaring itself a republic. Using it's position, an energetic army and a competent general, the newly formed Anticlere Republic began to conquer territory from it's former ally, Daggerfall as well as Wayrest, the barony of Daenia, the kingdom of Urvaius and the Dutchy of Shalgora.
That was why the men in black coats stood on the edge of a wood, eying it with cautious delight.
"Musketeer Caepio, run back and find Palatina, have him bring his men up. Tell Parvo that the planes are clear of any enemy. Now go boy! Quick!" The gruff voice of Centurion Praxus Ottus commanded his newest, wide-eyed recruit. The young man nodded and sprinted back into the misty deep.
"It's Margret." Antoine Velain piped up, bringing a chuckle from the men around him. Antoine was a Breton, one of many in Talos' Own first legion. His comment hid his worry about turning on his countrymen. Velaine was from Menevia, just north of Wayrest. While there was little love between the two states, they were still both countries inside the political volcano that was Bretony.
"Margret Parvo? No?" Praxus retorted.
"Think about it. There has to be a reason no one knows his name. I bet it's embarrassing. Like Margret?"
"Or Estelle" This comment was made by Optio Daenlin, one of the few bosmers, and the best shot in the whole legion. He was Centurion Ottus' right hand man.
"It's not Margeret or Estelle?It's Blanche. Knight Errant Blanche Parvo." Praxus joined in the fun before reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a small metal flask. He tipped the flask to his lips and felt the hot, wonderful taste of Cyrodiilic brandy burn his throat and warm his chest.
The underbrush cackled and snapped as two hundred more men came walking through the woods. Luther Palatina was at their lead, and he smiled before shaking hands with his old friend Ottus.
"Got a job for you Ottus. Parvo wants us to advance down the hill. There's a crossroad at the bottom. We're going to take that along with the cavalry and hold until our pikemen can disembark from the ships." Palatina said excitedly. The clockmaker from Skingrad was looking forward to his duty.
"Very well then. Talos' Own!" Ottus bellowed the cry through the woods, causing previously lounging men to snap to attention. After looking to the left and right, he stepped out into the sunlight.
"Musketeers, stand to your skirmish order!" With a bone cracking precision that would have impressed even the most dour drillmaster, the men stepped out of the woods and formed a long, spaced out line, a hundred men long. The remaining hundred of Ottus' company moved forward and to the right, so they stood a pace diagonally behind their partner. Palatina gave an ironic clap.
"Musketeers, forward!"
The regular splashing of oars in the night signaled the approach of one of the small skiffs that dotted the ink dark ocean. The bow ground on sand and more splashing could be heard as men jumped out and ran for the cover of the woods, a dark smear on the horizon only a hundred yards away.
The sky was glowing blue in the pre-dawn, and a haze clung to the dewy grass. The men who ran to the darkness of the trees were already soaking wet by the time they reached it's deep sanctuary. The long grass between the rocky beach and the woods was at least waist high. Deer trails and beds were matted throughout.
A shadowy hand reached down to pull several spiked seed pods off his pants. They were everywhere, clinging to the black wool breeches as if they had a mind of their own. A breath blew a fading match cord back to life. A man coughed as quietly as he could.
Things were getting easier to see now, the first fingers of dawn began to clear the horizon bathing the treetops in red-yellow sunlight. More shapes moved in the woods below. Polished brimmed helmets caught the sun like mirrors and sparkled in the tall grass. Azura was in full power, laying waste to the dark and showing the myriad of ships that sat of the coast. Fourty-six in all if one had the patience to count, most didn't.
More boats ground into the sand, and more men jumped into the surf to run across the grass that left them as wet as if they had just jumped waist deep in the ocean. Wooden powder vials clattered softly like Ashlander wind chimes as the men ran. The vials were strapped to their chest, tied with chord to a single leather crossbelt. At the hip, was a pouch that was filled with small lead balls, three quarters of an inch around. Hanging loose from the pouch was a flask, that resembled the metal vial carried by alcoholics the world over. Inside was a fine, salty dark powder. Next to that pouch was tied a second leather sack which held a seemingly random assortment of metal rods, screwdrivers and picks.
As the men ran they raised two long objects over their heads. One looked like a chest high walking stick, with a spike on one end and a U shaped bit of metal on the other. This was a forquette. The other object was a shiny steel tube attached to a long board. The thing was ungainly, heavy, awkward, and as tall as a man's shoulder. On the side, near the back was a small hinge covered pan. In front of the pan was a curved piece of metal, formed by a master craftsman into the shape of a dragon. The dragons head was split on the top. Inside that split was inserted the burning end of a long length of treated rope. That was the matchlock musket.
"If you would be a dear, could you please set up my command post here, what? I do hope those stout fellows have my baggage, I should be terribly sad if I was forced to command without it. A man should have some comforts, what?"
A odd voice whispered to a huddled group of dark figured. The man's face twitched as he scratched a stubbly chin with two fingers. The other three were missing on his hand.
Still more boats ground into the sand, discharging their living cargo. The sun was rising, now already half birthed from the sea. Steam rose in lines through the air as the dew was burned off. The temperature was beginning to rise, and the day would be a hot one for the men in the black wool jackets and steel helmets.
"You there, centurion, I say, could you poke around in the woods some and see I you can't find the other side? It shouldn't be too far away, what?"
"Yes sir." The figure pounded a closed fist on his left briast, the traditional salute of the legion.
Though the wood was wreathed in mist, the men walked confidently through, their long barreled muskets held under the armpit, so their torso could take some of the weight while the barrel was held level. Damp leaves crackled underfoot.
Suddenly, there was a rush of movement, a cry. A shape darted through the underbrush. Two hundred muskets went into two hundred shoulders as the men readied to unleash a terribly volley.
"Wait, it's just a boar?"
Sighs of relief.
The men continued on through the dark and foreboding forest. The trees seemed to lean in menacingly, threatening the Legionnaires. The men in black coats continued on, for light was in sight straight ahead. Cautiously they approached the edge of the woods, like it was a cliff, dropping away into a deep chasm beyond.
"Optio, hand me my spyglass."
"One second. Damn?wait, here it is?"
The well oiled brass tube telescoped open. It was trained on the sight below. Before the men at the edge of the forest, the countryside of Highrock spread like a painted canvas. It was breathtaking.
Splashed in the glorious and brilliant dawn light, the large flat plane was laid bare. Yellow squares of wheat dotted the land. Small dirt roads wound in and out of country villages, before leading to old stone bridges that crossed the deep blue streams. A cluster of windmills turned lazily in the light breeze. All facing out to sea where the wind promised to flow forth, to grind grain and power the machines that make the Breton penninsula famous the world over. The deep rich indigo of the sea glittered in the distance as small ships braved the water and wind to ferry cargo and goods to Daggerfall, Wayrest and Sentinel, Anvil, Alinor and Leyawiin, and even as far as Senchal, Vivec and Port Telavannis.
The small dots that moved around the green pastures and golden fields showed that the people here lived a happy and diligent existence, hard at work at their parcels of land. The spyglass trained on a grey stone road. Horses, carts and caravans moved calmly along, taking goods to the busy markets of Anticlere.
There the spyglass stopped. The city of Anticlere glimmered like a beacon of light in the dawn. It's roofs were a deep jade green. The bright copper having been long tarnished by the sea and sky.. Tall spires of it's churches rose into the sky over the low red masonry walls. Smoke from a myriad of chimneys rose to smear the clear blue sky a dirty grey.
It had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the dragon break and subjugation under the heel of Wayrest, and returned to a glory previously unimaginable. With the help of the Kingdom of Daggerfall, it regained independence nearly thirty years ago. It shook the politics of the Illiac by declaring itself a republic. Using it's position, an energetic army and a competent general, the newly formed Anticlere Republic began to conquer territory from it's former ally, Daggerfall as well as Wayrest, the barony of Daenia, the kingdom of Urvaius and the Dutchy of Shalgora.
That was why the men in black coats stood on the edge of a wood, eying it with cautious delight.
"Musketeer Caepio, run back and find Palatina, have him bring his men up. Tell Parvo that the planes are clear of any enemy. Now go boy! Quick!" The gruff voice of Centurion Praxus Ottus commanded his newest, wide-eyed recruit. The young man nodded and sprinted back into the misty deep.
"It's Margret." Antoine Velain piped up, bringing a chuckle from the men around him. Antoine was a Breton, one of many in Talos' Own first legion. His comment hid his worry about turning on his countrymen. Velaine was from Menevia, just north of Wayrest. While there was little love between the two states, they were still both countries inside the political volcano that was Bretony.
"Margret Parvo? No?" Praxus retorted.
"Think about it. There has to be a reason no one knows his name. I bet it's embarrassing. Like Margret?"
"Or Estelle" This comment was made by Optio Daenlin, one of the few bosmers, and the best shot in the whole legion. He was Centurion Ottus' right hand man.
"It's not Margeret or Estelle?It's Blanche. Knight Errant Blanche Parvo." Praxus joined in the fun before reaching into a pocket and withdrawing a small metal flask. He tipped the flask to his lips and felt the hot, wonderful taste of Cyrodiilic brandy burn his throat and warm his chest.
The underbrush cackled and snapped as two hundred more men came walking through the woods. Luther Palatina was at their lead, and he smiled before shaking hands with his old friend Ottus.
"Got a job for you Ottus. Parvo wants us to advance down the hill. There's a crossroad at the bottom. We're going to take that along with the cavalry and hold until our pikemen can disembark from the ships." Palatina said excitedly. The clockmaker from Skingrad was looking forward to his duty.
"Very well then. Talos' Own!" Ottus bellowed the cry through the woods, causing previously lounging men to snap to attention. After looking to the left and right, he stepped out into the sunlight.
"Musketeers, stand to your skirmish order!" With a bone cracking precision that would have impressed even the most dour drillmaster, the men stepped out of the woods and formed a long, spaced out line, a hundred men long. The remaining hundred of Ottus' company moved forward and to the right, so they stood a pace diagonally behind their partner. Palatina gave an ironic clap.
"Musketeers, forward!"
This is where you come in. You are a Musketeer in Talos' own legion. The very best of the new cyrodiilic army, and the tip of the Imperial spear. You may have joined the army for any number of reasons. Maybe you were hungry and the army guaranteed you three meals a day, maybe you were given the choice between jail or the army, maybe you joined because you heard romantic lies about the nobility and romance of it all.
For whatever reason, you enlisted. You trained hard, under the eyes of heavy handed drill masters. You marched for miles for seemingly no reason, You practiced loading and firing your matchlock for hours on hours. You practiced every day of the week until your muscles ached and you could barely lift up the musket. You learned things you never knew before, like how to start a fire with wet wood, how to gamble without being caught, how to bayonet a man so his ribs wouldn't catch your blade. You grew accustomed to army life, whether you enjoyed it's discipline and rigidity or hated everything it stood for is irrelevant. You marched where the emperor wanted you to march, and shot who the emperor wanted you to shoot.
And now the Anticlaire war. The emperor wants you to stamp out this breton republic. It wants you to overthrow it's freely elected government and kill it's all volunteer army. It wants you to replace the government with a dimwitted man named Girard DuBois. It doesn't matter that he never set foot in highrock, all that matters is that he can trace his lineage back 76 generations and will do whatever Emperor Corvus II wants him to.
This will be much different than many other adventure or quest based RPs you've done before. You must make a character within the confines of the army and what can be realistically carried on a military campaign. It will be as much about general survival as it is about reaching the capitol of Anticlaire. Aside from the Bretons you are fighting, you must also contend with the weather, fresh supplies, dissension and fear.
So decide...
Name:
Age: (12-35 in human years, or the Mer equivilant)
Race: include place of birth too
Gender:
Political views: for or against the war, emperor, army?
Religious views: Pious or athiest?
Why did you enlist:
Family back home:
education: (if well educated, must explain how you could afford it and why you dont have a better job)
Personal flaw(s): (ex: alcoholic, klepto, short tempered)
Money: (amount carried on your person. monthly pay is 18 pieces of gold per month, so dont be excessive)
Physical Description:
Clothing: Black wool doublet, Black wool breeches, 2 pair Red knit stockings, 2 pair undershirt, 1 pair leather ankle boots, 1 pair wooden clogs, Steel helmet
Weapons: http://img75.imageshack.us/i/matchlock.jpg/, Forkette, shortsword
Inventory: http://img187.imageshack.us/i/apostlescc.jpg/, equipment pouch, Powder flask, shot pouch, (include ONLY what can fit into your pockets and snapsack after packing the above required items. Food and water must be included.)
Miscellaneous:
Bio:
Useful References
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2KTS8PQ06Qo
http://www.fairfax.org.uk/main/gallery/gallery5/ffxgallery.htm
http://www.gamesas.com/bgsforums/index.php?showtopic=1018186
