Honestly, Japan's canon could easily be nuked and rewrote to fit Aaron's Asian stuff. It was sort of its own thing, hardly touched anything important, and was a little odd.
In which case, all that you'd have to attend to was the treaty between China, and the skirmishes in the Phillipines and Korea. The rest, about Hirohito being a thing, and de-imperialism, and the Asian Democracy League or whatever they were, could easily just be tossed aside.
This.
Japan's history is a crock of unintelligible bullshit. If you think you'll be joining us for the long haul, you can pretty much write whatever history you want so long as it includes the 1950ish Sino-Japanese war, Unit 731, the treaty with China, and that weird bit about the Ottoman excursion into New Guinea. Everything else can basically be up to you.
The MCF has never really been big with space-based RPs and it disappoints me. Worse yet, virtually none of the so-called hardcore RP'ers seem to like this setting. Maybe because vilage and Aaron and folks don't care for techno-babble at all.
I could be persuaded to join if this got a bigger following of committed RP'ers.
That's about the size of it. Thanks for putting all that up.
Again, if you have questions about a specific country/region, feel free to ask. Trying to read the whole thread would literally take you months and various portions have been declared non-canon or have been modified to better agree with the story; it's way easier for all parties for us to give you the gist of what you're curious about.
A high vaulted chamber within the interior of the elven citadel which served as its stables bristled with activity as the denizens of Zuyelan Nur prepared for the Icewalker hunt. Elven farriers drew glowing rods of iron from open pits of glowing coals and hammered them into horseshoes on anvils, adding percussive clanking to the commotion of the pre-hunt preparation. Riders twirled lance-sized spears in the air, inspecting their bifurcated points and polishing their razor edges with sharpening stones. The young warriors in training assisted the farriers in holding the horses steady as hot horseshoes were hammered into their hooves. Steam hissed from the hooves and the acrid smell of burnt hair wafted across the stables.
Among this nexus of bustling activity came Aryel and Aurelius who drew uncertain stares from the hunters. By this time, the presence of the Basilean in their midst was well known to them, as was Master Neras' discussion with him behind closed doors. While his presence had the blessing of their master, Neras' plans for him were unknown to them. This did nothing to soothe the palpable tension Aurelius could feel in the presence of any elf but Neras or his daughter Aryel.
Erigos, accompanied by a giant of an elf carrying one of the mighty-two pronged spears in one of his hands, saw Aurelius and Aryel and approached them with hostile demeanor. Aurelius immediately knew that nothing good would come of this discussion with the elven captain.
"What manner of insanity is this?" Erigos huffed, pointing accusatorily at Aurelius. "Now he is free to traipse about the citadel as he so pleases?"
"Do not complain to me about this, Erigos." Aryel snapped. "If you are distressed by the Baszili-rayel, voice them with Master Neras. I tire of your complaint."
"Wherefore do you bring the Son of Baszil into my stable, Aryel?" The giant elf demanded, resting the butt of his great spear on the dusty floor. Before his capture, Aurelius thought all elves slender, gracile creatures, but the stablemaster proved an exception. A muscular chest and arms bulged from underneath overlapping sheets of leather armor. Aurelius might have almost mistaken him for a wereman were it not for his smooth, hairless face and, of course, his long ears.
"Erigos is in possession of his musket, and the Son of Baszil needs his weapon back." Aryel responded. "He will need a weapon if he is to join the hunt."
"He will do no such thing." The stablemaster boomed.
"He will join the hunt, Sartye. Master Neras commands it." The eyes of all three fell upon Erigos, who stood dumbstruck by Master Neras' order.
"Fetch the Son of Baszil his musket, Erigos." Sartye commanded.
Realizing he had no choice nor say in the matter, Erigos huffed and stormed away. "This is folly!" He roared back at Aryel. "And lunacy!" With that, the stablemaster returned his view back to Aurelius, who stood a full head and shoulders beneath him.
"It matters not if Erigos returns your musket to your or not. Potent a weapon your firedust is may be, it will do nothing against the beasts we hunt." An Icewalker's hide is thick; calloused by the northern winds of their land. Musketballs and arrows will not pierce their skin." Sartye spun the spear in his hand down to his side, showing Aurelius the dual spearpoints. It reminded Aurelius of the hayforks he used to pitch hay as a boy, only far sharper and flattened into a blade.
"We hunt with these: spears with two points like the fangs of the Swordteeth that share our quarry. Only strength of arms and a weapon such as this will bring down our prey. You must ride alongside the beast as they scatter across the land, bring your spear to bear..." Sartye, with perfect fluidity, spun the point around Aurelius' head and thrust it forcefully up to the cieling, only missing the Basilean's head by inches.
"And take its life." The stablemaster finished coldly as Aurelius flinched from the spearpoint sailing just past his face.
"It is a dangerous enterprise to feed our people." The stablemaster warned solemnly as he returned the spear to his side. "I have seen many good warriors die on the hunt. I warn you, Son of Baszil: Do not put my warriors in any more danger than they are already."
"Understood." Aurelius acknowledged. It was then that Erigos returned with the blunderbuss he and his cohort had confiscated from him at the Singing Stones. Without uttering so much as a word, Erigos shoved the firearm into Aurelius' plated chest and walked past. The Ventator twirled the blunderbuss in his hand, inspecting it. At last, he did not feel so vulnerable with his weapon of choice back in his arms.
"Now go, Son of Baszil." Sartye ordered. "Rest well today, for tomorrow we ride North, to the land of the Icewalkers."
Perched in the hills above the verdant Konitsa Valley, looking northward across the bottomlands toward the Albanian border, stood a lonely farmhouse amidst a grove of spindly trees stuccoed in white lime as was fashionable in the north of Greece. The mountain homestead's surroundings were placid, but the goings on within the home were anything but peaceful. The rumbling of heavy bass speakers could be heard from the gravel road up to the house, and profuse amounts of gray smoke billowed softly from open windows. The Balkan Boys, it would seem, were home.
"Sheeeit, that some dank ass bud, *****." One of the Balkan Boys exclaimed in between coughs laden with THC fumes.
"I know it, *****. Good kush be a bitch to find these days."
Indeed, global cannabis production had declined sharply after the war. Brushfire war in Latin America and Subsaharan Africa had destroyed much of the Earth's capacity to produce marihuana. Among the war's survivors, with their battered bodies and broken spirits, demand for the drug was higher than any point in human history. Cannabis was now in far greater demand than could possibly be met, leaving most of the world to resort to synthetic, mind-addling substitutes such as the notorious krokodil and low-quality amphetamines. The Balkan Boys were well compensated; they could afford to have their fill of their drug of choice.
They lounged about on a cluster of sofas and couches that had been placed haphazardly around a giant flatscreen television flanked on either side by towers of speakers in what was meant to be the farmhouse's living room. Beautiful terra cotta tiling on the floor had quickly been covered in a mat of extension cords, swisher butts, and ash as the ex-Comptonites of the farmhouse spent their days idly watching prewar rap music videos and smoking.
The Balkan Boys, in a marihuana induced torpor, failed to notice a man enter the room from elsewhere in the house clad in a pressed lapeled jacket of a general. The general was a short man with a thick, blocky jaw and a thick, hooked nose that jutted outward from underneath his officer's cap.
"Excuse me, gentlemen." The general grunted with a phleghmy, raspy voice of the Serbian people. "Ve must have your attention!" The Balkan Boys failed to acknolwedge his existance, lounging lazily in the warm glow of the plasma screen as some black woman bounced her ass around to the sound of booming rap.
A second figure entered the room from behind the general - towering well above him and everything else in the Balkan Boys' lounge. A black trenchcoat wrapped itself around him down to his knees covered in tight black slacks. Everything that covered his body was black, save for his face. A laughing theatrical mask sporting an unsettlingly wide smile grinned menacingly at all those who looked upon his face. Without uttering a sound, the masked being drew a silenced firearm from underneath his jacket and peppered the speakers with bullets, immediately silencing the tower speakers and leaving only a dull hum in place of the booming rap music.
The Balkan Boys snarled and swore angrily at the interruption, and their leader stood up.
"I heard yo white ass the first time." Da-shawn, the ringleader of the Balkan Boys snarled. He was a dark, fat black man with the dusting of hair atop his head shaved into cornrows. His gapingly wide nose and thick eyebrows folded into a disapproving frown.
"Then perhaps you should have paid him heed when he asked it of you." The masked man shot back unapologetically as he stowed the sidearm somewhere underneath his jacket, standing directly in the way of the television which continued to show twerking dancers and rappers showing off oversized necklaces of gold.
"Creepy-ass muthafucka." A lankier Balkan Boy hissed.
"No more will you lounge about watching television all hours of the day like spoiled children. My associates have notified me that the iron is hot and that the hour has come to strike." The masked figured declared, eliciting hoots of approval from the Balkan Boys.
"Aw sheeit, we finally finna pop a cap in some crakkas."
"Indeed. We are on the cusp of popping caps in a great many crakkas. I have received directions from my superiors and they have elected to open the initial salvos of the war to end Italian imperialism at the city of Ioannina. There you, with the support of General Kebadzic and the Greek Partisanry, will oust the Italian garrison from the city and give Kebadzic and his forces a foothold from which to dismantle Italian hegemony of Greece."
"Ya'll Armee muthafuckas best be givin us some heavy ass artillery if we finna throw down."
"Fret not. You will be well equipped in that regard. Our contacts with Proyekt are standing by now to airlift materiel from the Crimaea."
"Ch'yeah, mufugga!" The Balkan Boys cheered.
"But vhat about Italy's air superiority?" General Kebadzic butted in. "Vithout air support from Proyekt our offensive vill be utterly destroyed before ve even begin!"
"I will ensure our contacts with Proyekt can provide ample aerial-suppression before the liberation of Ioannina. The Italians will be stripped of their aerial superiority. This I can assure you."
"Glorious!" Kebadzic declared. "Let us remove filthy Italian from premises!"
Nope. I'd have posted again but this week is busy. Aaron, Vilage, and friends are all caught up in that stupid Empire Earth shit at the moment on top of that.
No one else noticed how gorgen predicted my faction? It's as if he knew someone would make a cartel ran Mexico. I didn't even know of the Balkon Boyz until after I made my initial app.
Though I wonder if I made them a bit too sophisticated despite my faction being in effect a military dictatorship that relies in selling tons of drugs to buy weapons with.
Great minds think alike.
Also, you can have all of Mexico. The Balkan Boyz didn't take any land. Only did drive-bys and smoked a shitton of stolen brick weed.
Also, as I have been learning with politics... nations don't spontaneously group together at the drop of a hat. You're going to need a better reason than "they thought they were too weak divided." Remember how hard it was to get the thirteen American colonies to work together?
"B-b-but muh empire!"
Also, think of some better names than this alphabet soup bullshit. They all look exactly the same as one another. Just call yourself Oceania, Australia or whatever.
Group Name: The Balkan Boyz (Armée sans Nations affiliated)
Leader: Da-shawn "Dismal Dan" Jones
Activities: Bustin' crackas/Terrorism/Mercenary Group
History: Da-shawn and his crew were naught but street thugs from Compton prior to the outbreak of the third world war. When the United States was mired in madness and destruction alongside the rest of the world in 2014, Da-shawn and his boys fought to protect the mean streets of Compton from the myriad opportunists and invaders that assaulted the greater Los Angeles area. With the military preoccupied, Mexican drug cartels armed to the teeth pressed into Southern California. Upon arriving in Los Angeles, the cartels met stiff resistance from a loose coalition of formerly-rival gangs and were beaten back. Da-shawn and his crew pressed their advantage and led an assault south of the border into Tijuana. While raiding the cartels on their own turf, Da-shawn and his boys missed the bombing that decimated most of Southern California, including Compton.
With their streets a smoldering crater and no hood left to fight for, Da-shawn and his crew armed with weapons seized from the cartels carved a bloody swathe across Northern Mexico. His lack of mercy and empathy during his rampage across Mexico earned him respect from his boys and fear from the Mexican people. For the duration of the war, Da-shawn and his small army of Compton gangsters raided cartel strongholds, pillaged towns, and evaded capture by the cartels that had assumed total dominance of Mexico during the chaos of the war. His brutality and lack of empathy gave rise to his new moniker: Dismal Dan.
By the official close of the war, Dismal Dan and what remained of his crew had been chased into what remained of New Mexico. It was here that an associated of Alban Cônté contacted Da-shawn. Recognizing Dismal Dan's ability to conduct what was essentially a guerrilla war for several years without support or direction, the ASN contact offered Dismal Dan and his crew a new opportunity to raise Hell with significant financial backing and powerful weaponry. Da-shawn proved receptive to the offer, responding with "Sheeit, long as a nigga get to kill some crackas."
ASN affiliates proceeded to spirit Da-shawn and his crew out of the Southwest on a cargo plane to Italian-occupied Greece. With APCs and artillery provided by the ASN and Greek partisan groups, Dismal Dan and his crew were given a single objective: wage guerrilla warfare against the New Italian Republic and weaken their Mediterranean Empire. Dismal Dan and his crew of ex-Comptonians and Greek nationalists now mobilize for war as the Balkan Boyz.
Aurelius sat crosslegged on the floor of an expansive grotto cut from the sandstone by the constant erosion of water, watching the reflection of his face as he gazed into the surface of the desert spring that fed the elven citadel. The rippling reflection of torchlight shimmered against the organic curves of the cavern walls as the firelight scattered off the glittering surface of a deep pool of clear water situated in the center of the chamber. The orange sandstone of the pool gradually melded into a deep, dark hole of blue as one looked father down into the pure waters of the spring. From the ceiling of the grotto, gouts of falling water dribbled vigorously down and fed the underground oasis.
With the sharpened point of his shortsword, Aurelius grabbed a fistful of the small beard that had formed on his chin and aligned the blade's edge against his chin. He glanced at his reflection to be sure he wouldn't cut his jugular and ran the blade through his beard and the nappy mass of black hair tumbled down into his lap. Mirrors and glassy surfaces of water were luxuries Aurelius rarely came across at Visuna Hold, and so he took advantage today of the shimmering oasis as an opportunity to tame his facial hair.
The Basilean had cut off all of his beard down to stubble length when he was joined by an elven man; following behind him into the grotto a neat line was a group of elven children dressed in crisp white robes - all appearing about six or seven years old by Aurelius' guess. The teacher paid the Basilean little heed, but the children gawked shamelessly at Aurelius as they filed past and he in turn looked over his shoulder back at them. None of them had ever seen a human before, let alone facial hair. Their minder looked back at the twelve or so children and, upon noticing them watching the Basilean, said something softly in elven to them. Immediately the elven boys and girls tore their gaze from Aurelius and paid him no more attention as they followed their elder to the opposite side of the spring. Now Aurelius gawked at them.
The children stood at the bank of the spring, staring intently into the beads of water gushing from the ceiling into the water as their minder kept watch over them. In unison, the children fell to their knees on the water's edge and continued to watch the falling water with an intensity and concentration that unnerved Aurelius. The children, he noticed, were almost never blinking as they watched with such stillness and vigilance that they would put Emperor Marcsus' honor guard to shame. What in the name of the Gods' could they be doing?
Aurelius was so absorbed with the children watching the falling water that he failed to notice Master Neras' daughter approach him.
"I have been looking for you." Aryel whispered into his ear. "Master Neras wanted that I seek you out. He wishes for you to prepare yourself for the Icewalker hunt tomorrow."
"What are they doing?" Aurelius asked, pointing at the children across the pool, ignoring whatever it was that she had said before. Immediately, Aryel shushed him.
"Be silent! They are watching the falling of water."
"I see that." Aurelius said, this time in a whisper. "But why?"
"Izrhal." She responded in solemn elven. "They are practicing the art of bending time."
"Bending time?"
"They watch the falling drops of water until they can control the speed they witness the beads falling. When they can do this at will, they have bent time. Before the war between man and elf, its practice was kept only among the greatest warriors of our people under pain of death."
"But now we must all be the greatest warriors if our people are to survive. Now even children must become adept at the art of izrhal." Aurelius nodded with newfound understanding and awe for the children as they learned to control the passage of time itself.
"Now you must come with me, Son of Baszil." Aryel commanded. "If you are to join the Icewalker hunt, you will need your firearm back, and we must go and retrieve that now."
Aurelius stood up and quietly sheathed his sword in its scabbard behind his duster cape. "Where then is my blunderbuss?"
"In Erigos' possession." She whispered. "That is why you will need me there with you."
I've started a Diplomacy game again, this time open to all RP citizens (because everyone in PoW is a bitch and won't join). We need another five people to join up before we can begin.
If you're interested, Diplomacy's basically a game of online Risk. You've got a map and little pieces. But in order to take a territory you need to have an army/navy with another army's support. There's no chance in this game so it's pure strategy and trying to fuck with your fellow players in messages/Steam to get them to do what you want. There's a lot of backstabbing involved so that's always fun.
If you want to join, go to http://www.playdiplomacy.com/games.php?subpage=joinable and make an account (it takes like 5 seconds). Then join the game "Roleplaying" with the password "gorgiscool". Hugs and I will tell you about all the details as we go. Now join, dammit.
Ethereal alto voices of prepubescent choir boys echoed through the colonnades and high points of the Catedral de la Almudena - one of Europe's finest gothic cathedrals. Beams of sunlight shone down in glowing beams through the incense-laden air, shining down upon the altar. On the steps of the marble dais, a score of young boys dressed in white robes concluded Sunday's mass with an ancient Latin hymn.
"And so our mass today is ended." Arzobispo Mitre, the archbishop of Madrid, declared genially once the final note had left the choir's lips. "Go now to love and serve the Lord."
"Amen." The congregation responded in unison. Seated within the pillar-punctuated pews of the Almudena was a rather homogenous crowd. Madrid's upper crust, donning pressed tuxedos and expensive dresses, comprised today's congregation. Here they gathered to give praise to their Lord from the warmth of Madrid's most exquisite cathedral, blithely ignorant to the thousands of desperately poor and homeless just outside Almudena's gilded spires.
"Before we take our leave, I would like to honor a very special guest who has very kindly agreed to join us for mass this morning. Joining us today is our very own Prime Minister."
The congregation turned to see Alfonso Sotelo, seated in the far back of the pews. Applause broke out briefly before the choir boys started once again with a solemn rendition of the Second Republic's national anthem: Triunfaremos.
Spain's republican hymn was hardly a suitable tune for a house of God. It was a martial, energetic number and its words hostile and jingoistic. The statue of Mary standing upon the altar with the baby Christ in her arms could only watch as the choir desecrated her temple with this song commanding the people of Spain to "slay with righteous fury and unstoppable will those who would be obstacles in the People's path to greatness". Nonetheless, the parishioners and the archbishop seemed quite content with this patriotic display from the young boys and clapped enthusiastically before filing out to the exits. A crowd soon formed around Alfonso Sotelo, just as one always did when he made a public appearance.
Sotelo despised these situations, almost as much as he hated attending mass in the first place. The Prime Minister, when pressed on the subject, claimed to be a man of God and led prayer when appropriate. Personally, Sotelo avoided mass whenever possible and today's service was the first that he had attended since his campaign against Miguel Tejero where he felt the need to demonstrate he was a religious man.
It all just felt such a waste of time. As someone who was regularly debriefed on all of the atrocities transpiring across the world every morning, Sotelo was certain there was no God at work on this world. After the insanity of the past decade how could there be?
In between the meaningless introductions and handshakes from the parishioners, a choir boy, dressed in white slid through the crowd and appeared before the Prime Minister.
"Hello Senor Alfonso So- I mean, Excellency!" The boy stuttered.
"Why, hello young man." The Prime Minister responded, looking down upon the boy with an air of condescension. He never knew how to react around children. He was never particularly fond of them and so he avoided dealing with them whenever possible. "How are we this morning?"
"I'm great, Excellency! Great because you were here to listen to us. Thank you for coming today, Excellency."
"The pleasure was all mine..."
"We think you're great, Excellency. We really do. Thank you so much for coming today."
"Yes, of course." Sotelo nodded absent-mindedly. What patience he had for this little urchin was nearly exausted. "That is... delightful, young man."
"We think you're great, Excellency. So do my mom and dad!"
"Go away, damn you." Sotelo, grumbled under his breath.
"My dad really likes you. He said you were a shameless tyrant. But what does that mean, Excellency? Do you know?"
Sotelo's feigned smile collapsed in a sneer. But before the child could say anything else a hand belonging to one of his advisers grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the crowd, directing him out of earshot near a font of holy water.
"Do not touch me!" Sotelo snarled, smacking the adviser's hands away from his shoulder as he patted out the creases on his jacket. "You are fortunate I was needing a way out of that mess... but could you not have simply whispered in my ear?"
"My m-most sincere, apo-pologies, Excellency." The prime minister's startled lackey spat out. "It's just that it is extremely urgent. I trust you are aware of the bank robbery that transpired the night before."
"I am. Bank robberies occur at times. That is the nature of things. It is unfortunate when they do but they do not constitute urgent matters on my part."
"I'm afraid they do, Excellency, when the robbers make off with a significant portion of this nation's bullion."
"They stole what exactly?!"
"Roughly 6% of the Republic's total supply of gold bullion... among other things. Obviously, this represents a very real economic threat. We've been sent to have you debriefed on the matter with the Jefe de Policia. We need you to come with us, Excellency."
As the adviser and few other lackeys led Sotelo to the exit, the Prime Minister lost control of his rage. His balled fist smashed into the surface of the font, sending holy water splattering loudly against the marble tile. The eyes of everyone in the church fell upon him.
"GODDAMNIT!" Sotelo screamed.
Castilla y Leon, Spain
Morning light filtered down through the needly foliage of pine trees onto the bullet-pocked hull of a massive earthmoving truck - the same one that had served as the getaway vehicle for the great bank robbery in Madrid the night before. Despite a hundred police cars and a squadron of helicopters closely following the dump truck's tail following the heist, the robbers had pulled off the nigh-impossible and escaped. Their companions in assistant getaway cars blockaded bridges and narrow points on thoroughfares behind the main vehicle to hold off the swarm of police vehicles following in hot pursuit. Bursts of automatic weapons fire kept the helicopters at bay as the truck went offroad in the pinelands of the mountains north of Madrid - disappearing into the nighttime foliage.
Ever since, the team of bank robbers had worked to open the massive vault sitting in the bed of the truck. Slav-faced sentries armed with assault rifles watched carefully among the pines for any intruders who might disturb them as the others worked to pry the bank vault open. The distant roar of police helicopters swooping overhead frequently interrupted them, but they worked on, counting upon the cover of the pines. The police knew the gunmen were in the area; it was but a matter of time before they were found out. Time was running out.
Throughout the night and well into the morning, the blonde and his Russian goons worked to pry the gigantic safe open. The combination was a mystery and the lock's failsafe mechanisms certainly activated when the banks alarms went off. Though the intricate lock could no longer be opened, the robbers knew that sufficient brute force could open even the most secure vault. Blowtorches hissed angrily as their flames pointed down into the side of the vault while jackhammers focused their efforts into a single point at the top of the vault. A warped, pulverized crater that had taken eight hours to carve into the vault's side was slowly yet steadily growing.
At last, the tempered alloy of the safe could withstand no more. A jackhammer finally punched its way through the tortured vault, prompting the other robbers to redouble their efforts and increase the size of the breach such that a man could just barely squeeze through. Another hour and a half of work produced a hole that a thin man could slide through with difficulty.
The blonde-headed leader of the operation assumed the honors of being the first to witness the treasure sealed within the vault. He climbed to the top of the mighty safe and shooed the Russians away as he slid his legs in first into the deep hole in the vault and then dropped the rest of his body into the blackness within. The gunmen atop the safe watching their leader drop down into the unknown heard the Scandinavian hit the bottom with the sound of clinking metal.
"What is down there?" One of the gunmen called down into the hole. "What can you see?"
A pale column of light shone down from above him. It was a pile of metal - not Peseta notes as he expected. Coins perhaps? He produced a lighter from his breast pocket and illuminated the room with the dancing flame that sprung up as it opened. Sparkles of orangish-yellow light caught his eye in every direction he glanced.
He sat upon a pile of solid gold and silver that had been dislodged from their neat arrangement during the heist. Bars of gold and silver - necklaces and rings encrusted with priceless gemstones. And right under his bottom were a cluster of what felt like coins. The blonde plucked one from underneath his crotch and examined it more thoroughly under the lighter's glow. Pressed unevenly into a disk of pure gold was a skull surrounded by a winged serpent; Aztec gold carried across the Atlantic four centuries ago on the galleons of the Spanish treasure fleet. He and his goons sat now upon a portion of the treasure horde of the wealthiest nation on Earth.
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This.
Japan's history is a crock of unintelligible bullshit. If you think you'll be joining us for the long haul, you can pretty much write whatever history you want so long as it includes the 1950ish Sino-Japanese war, Unit 731, the treaty with China, and that weird bit about the Ottoman excursion into New Guinea. Everything else can basically be up to you.
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I could be persuaded to join if this got a bigger following of committed RP'ers.
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Again, if you have questions about a specific country/region, feel free to ask. Trying to read the whole thread would literally take you months and various portions have been declared non-canon or have been modified to better agree with the story; it's way easier for all parties for us to give you the gist of what you're curious about.
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A high vaulted chamber within the interior of the elven citadel which served as its stables bristled with activity as the denizens of Zuyelan Nur prepared for the Icewalker hunt. Elven farriers drew glowing rods of iron from open pits of glowing coals and hammered them into horseshoes on anvils, adding percussive clanking to the commotion of the pre-hunt preparation. Riders twirled lance-sized spears in the air, inspecting their bifurcated points and polishing their razor edges with sharpening stones. The young warriors in training assisted the farriers in holding the horses steady as hot horseshoes were hammered into their hooves. Steam hissed from the hooves and the acrid smell of burnt hair wafted across the stables.
Among this nexus of bustling activity came Aryel and Aurelius who drew uncertain stares from the hunters. By this time, the presence of the Basilean in their midst was well known to them, as was Master Neras' discussion with him behind closed doors. While his presence had the blessing of their master, Neras' plans for him were unknown to them. This did nothing to soothe the palpable tension Aurelius could feel in the presence of any elf but Neras or his daughter Aryel.
Erigos, accompanied by a giant of an elf carrying one of the mighty-two pronged spears in one of his hands, saw Aurelius and Aryel and approached them with hostile demeanor. Aurelius immediately knew that nothing good would come of this discussion with the elven captain.
"What manner of insanity is this?" Erigos huffed, pointing accusatorily at Aurelius. "Now he is free to traipse about the citadel as he so pleases?"
"Do not complain to me about this, Erigos." Aryel snapped. "If you are distressed by the Baszili-rayel, voice them with Master Neras. I tire of your complaint."
"Wherefore do you bring the Son of Baszil into my stable, Aryel?" The giant elf demanded, resting the butt of his great spear on the dusty floor. Before his capture, Aurelius thought all elves slender, gracile creatures, but the stablemaster proved an exception. A muscular chest and arms bulged from underneath overlapping sheets of leather armor. Aurelius might have almost mistaken him for a wereman were it not for his smooth, hairless face and, of course, his long ears.
"Erigos is in possession of his musket, and the Son of Baszil needs his weapon back." Aryel responded. "He will need a weapon if he is to join the hunt."
"He will do no such thing." The stablemaster boomed.
"He will join the hunt, Sartye. Master Neras commands it." The eyes of all three fell upon Erigos, who stood dumbstruck by Master Neras' order.
"Fetch the Son of Baszil his musket, Erigos." Sartye commanded.
Realizing he had no choice nor say in the matter, Erigos huffed and stormed away. "This is folly!" He roared back at Aryel. "And lunacy!" With that, the stablemaster returned his view back to Aurelius, who stood a full head and shoulders beneath him.
"It matters not if Erigos returns your musket to your or not. Potent a weapon your firedust is may be, it will do nothing against the beasts we hunt." An Icewalker's hide is thick; calloused by the northern winds of their land. Musketballs and arrows will not pierce their skin." Sartye spun the spear in his hand down to his side, showing Aurelius the dual spearpoints. It reminded Aurelius of the hayforks he used to pitch hay as a boy, only far sharper and flattened into a blade.
"We hunt with these: spears with two points like the fangs of the Swordteeth that share our quarry. Only strength of arms and a weapon such as this will bring down our prey. You must ride alongside the beast as they scatter across the land, bring your spear to bear..." Sartye, with perfect fluidity, spun the point around Aurelius' head and thrust it forcefully up to the cieling, only missing the Basilean's head by inches.
"And take its life." The stablemaster finished coldly as Aurelius flinched from the spearpoint sailing just past his face.
"It is a dangerous enterprise to feed our people." The stablemaster warned solemnly as he returned the spear to his side. "I have seen many good warriors die on the hunt. I warn you, Son of Baszil: Do not put my warriors in any more danger than they are already."
"Understood." Aurelius acknowledged. It was then that Erigos returned with the blunderbuss he and his cohort had confiscated from him at the Singing Stones. Without uttering so much as a word, Erigos shoved the firearm into Aurelius' plated chest and walked past. The Ventator twirled the blunderbuss in his hand, inspecting it. At last, he did not feel so vulnerable with his weapon of choice back in his arms.
"Now go, Son of Baszil." Sartye ordered. "Rest well today, for tomorrow we ride North, to the land of the Icewalkers."
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Perched in the hills above the verdant Konitsa Valley, looking northward across the bottomlands toward the Albanian border, stood a lonely farmhouse amidst a grove of spindly trees stuccoed in white lime as was fashionable in the north of Greece. The mountain homestead's surroundings were placid, but the goings on within the home were anything but peaceful. The rumbling of heavy bass speakers could be heard from the gravel road up to the house, and profuse amounts of gray smoke billowed softly from open windows. The Balkan Boys, it would seem, were home.
"Sheeeit, that some dank ass bud, *****." One of the Balkan Boys exclaimed in between coughs laden with THC fumes.
"I know it, *****. Good kush be a bitch to find these days."
Indeed, global cannabis production had declined sharply after the war. Brushfire war in Latin America and Subsaharan Africa had destroyed much of the Earth's capacity to produce marihuana. Among the war's survivors, with their battered bodies and broken spirits, demand for the drug was higher than any point in human history. Cannabis was now in far greater demand than could possibly be met, leaving most of the world to resort to synthetic, mind-addling substitutes such as the notorious krokodil and low-quality amphetamines. The Balkan Boys were well compensated; they could afford to have their fill of their drug of choice.
They lounged about on a cluster of sofas and couches that had been placed haphazardly around a giant flatscreen television flanked on either side by towers of speakers in what was meant to be the farmhouse's living room. Beautiful terra cotta tiling on the floor had quickly been covered in a mat of extension cords, swisher butts, and ash as the ex-Comptonites of the farmhouse spent their days idly watching prewar rap music videos and smoking.
The Balkan Boys, in a marihuana induced torpor, failed to notice a man enter the room from elsewhere in the house clad in a pressed lapeled jacket of a general. The general was a short man with a thick, blocky jaw and a thick, hooked nose that jutted outward from underneath his officer's cap.
"Excuse me, gentlemen." The general grunted with a phleghmy, raspy voice of the Serbian people. "Ve must have your attention!" The Balkan Boys failed to acknolwedge his existance, lounging lazily in the warm glow of the plasma screen as some black woman bounced her ass around to the sound of booming rap.
A second figure entered the room from behind the general - towering well above him and everything else in the Balkan Boys' lounge. A black trenchcoat wrapped itself around him down to his knees covered in tight black slacks. Everything that covered his body was black, save for his face. A laughing theatrical mask sporting an unsettlingly wide smile grinned menacingly at all those who looked upon his face. Without uttering a sound, the masked being drew a silenced firearm from underneath his jacket and peppered the speakers with bullets, immediately silencing the tower speakers and leaving only a dull hum in place of the booming rap music.
The Balkan Boys snarled and swore angrily at the interruption, and their leader stood up.
"I heard yo white ass the first time." Da-shawn, the ringleader of the Balkan Boys snarled. He was a dark, fat black man with the dusting of hair atop his head shaved into cornrows. His gapingly wide nose and thick eyebrows folded into a disapproving frown.
"Then perhaps you should have paid him heed when he asked it of you." The masked man shot back unapologetically as he stowed the sidearm somewhere underneath his jacket, standing directly in the way of the television which continued to show twerking dancers and rappers showing off oversized necklaces of gold.
"Creepy-ass muthafucka." A lankier Balkan Boy hissed.
"No more will you lounge about watching television all hours of the day like spoiled children. My associates have notified me that the iron is hot and that the hour has come to strike." The masked figured declared, eliciting hoots of approval from the Balkan Boys.
"Aw sheeit, we finally finna pop a cap in some crakkas."
"Indeed. We are on the cusp of popping caps in a great many crakkas. I have received directions from my superiors and they have elected to open the initial salvos of the war to end Italian imperialism at the city of Ioannina. There you, with the support of General Kebadzic and the Greek Partisanry, will oust the Italian garrison from the city and give Kebadzic and his forces a foothold from which to dismantle Italian hegemony of Greece."
"Ya'll Armee muthafuckas best be givin us some heavy ass artillery if we finna throw down."
"Fret not. You will be well equipped in that regard. Our contacts with Proyekt are standing by now to airlift materiel from the Crimaea."
"Ch'yeah, mufugga!" The Balkan Boys cheered.
"But vhat about Italy's air superiority?" General Kebadzic butted in. "Vithout air support from Proyekt our offensive vill be utterly destroyed before ve even begin!"
"I will ensure our contacts with Proyekt can provide ample aerial-suppression before the liberation of Ioannina. The Italians will be stripped of their aerial superiority. This I can assure you."
"Glorious!" Kebadzic declared. "Let us remove filthy Italian from premises!"
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Great minds think alike.
Also, you can have all of Mexico. The Balkan Boyz didn't take any land. Only did drive-bys and smoked a shitton of stolen brick weed.
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"B-b-but muh empire!"
Also, think of some better names than this alphabet soup bullshit. They all look exactly the same as one another. Just call yourself Oceania, Australia or whatever.
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Leader: Da-shawn "Dismal Dan" Jones
Activities: Bustin' crackas/Terrorism/Mercenary Group
History: Da-shawn and his crew were naught but street thugs from Compton prior to the outbreak of the third world war. When the United States was mired in madness and destruction alongside the rest of the world in 2014, Da-shawn and his boys fought to protect the mean streets of Compton from the myriad opportunists and invaders that assaulted the greater Los Angeles area. With the military preoccupied, Mexican drug cartels armed to the teeth pressed into Southern California. Upon arriving in Los Angeles, the cartels met stiff resistance from a loose coalition of formerly-rival gangs and were beaten back. Da-shawn and his crew pressed their advantage and led an assault south of the border into Tijuana. While raiding the cartels on their own turf, Da-shawn and his boys missed the bombing that decimated most of Southern California, including Compton.
With their streets a smoldering crater and no hood left to fight for, Da-shawn and his crew armed with weapons seized from the cartels carved a bloody swathe across Northern Mexico. His lack of mercy and empathy during his rampage across Mexico earned him respect from his boys and fear from the Mexican people. For the duration of the war, Da-shawn and his small army of Compton gangsters raided cartel strongholds, pillaged towns, and evaded capture by the cartels that had assumed total dominance of Mexico during the chaos of the war. His brutality and lack of empathy gave rise to his new moniker: Dismal Dan.
By the official close of the war, Dismal Dan and what remained of his crew had been chased into what remained of New Mexico. It was here that an associated of Alban Cônté contacted Da-shawn. Recognizing Dismal Dan's ability to conduct what was essentially a guerrilla war for several years without support or direction, the ASN contact offered Dismal Dan and his crew a new opportunity to raise Hell with significant financial backing and powerful weaponry. Da-shawn proved receptive to the offer, responding with "Sheeit, long as a nigga get to kill some crackas."
ASN affiliates proceeded to spirit Da-shawn and his crew out of the Southwest on a cargo plane to Italian-occupied Greece. With APCs and artillery provided by the ASN and Greek partisan groups, Dismal Dan and his crew were given a single objective: wage guerrilla warfare against the New Italian Republic and weaken their Mediterranean Empire. Dismal Dan and his crew of ex-Comptonians and Greek nationalists now mobilize for war as the Balkan Boyz.
Theme Song:
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Aurelius sat crosslegged on the floor of an expansive grotto cut from the sandstone by the constant erosion of water, watching the reflection of his face as he gazed into the surface of the desert spring that fed the elven citadel. The rippling reflection of torchlight shimmered against the organic curves of the cavern walls as the firelight scattered off the glittering surface of a deep pool of clear water situated in the center of the chamber. The orange sandstone of the pool gradually melded into a deep, dark hole of blue as one looked father down into the pure waters of the spring. From the ceiling of the grotto, gouts of falling water dribbled vigorously down and fed the underground oasis.
With the sharpened point of his shortsword, Aurelius grabbed a fistful of the small beard that had formed on his chin and aligned the blade's edge against his chin. He glanced at his reflection to be sure he wouldn't cut his jugular and ran the blade through his beard and the nappy mass of black hair tumbled down into his lap. Mirrors and glassy surfaces of water were luxuries Aurelius rarely came across at Visuna Hold, and so he took advantage today of the shimmering oasis as an opportunity to tame his facial hair.
The Basilean had cut off all of his beard down to stubble length when he was joined by an elven man; following behind him into the grotto a neat line was a group of elven children dressed in crisp white robes - all appearing about six or seven years old by Aurelius' guess. The teacher paid the Basilean little heed, but the children gawked shamelessly at Aurelius as they filed past and he in turn looked over his shoulder back at them. None of them had ever seen a human before, let alone facial hair. Their minder looked back at the twelve or so children and, upon noticing them watching the Basilean, said something softly in elven to them. Immediately the elven boys and girls tore their gaze from Aurelius and paid him no more attention as they followed their elder to the opposite side of the spring. Now Aurelius gawked at them.
The children stood at the bank of the spring, staring intently into the beads of water gushing from the ceiling into the water as their minder kept watch over them. In unison, the children fell to their knees on the water's edge and continued to watch the falling water with an intensity and concentration that unnerved Aurelius. The children, he noticed, were almost never blinking as they watched with such stillness and vigilance that they would put Emperor Marcsus' honor guard to shame. What in the name of the Gods' could they be doing?
Aurelius was so absorbed with the children watching the falling water that he failed to notice Master Neras' daughter approach him.
"I have been looking for you." Aryel whispered into his ear. "Master Neras wanted that I seek you out. He wishes for you to prepare yourself for the Icewalker hunt tomorrow."
"What are they doing?" Aurelius asked, pointing at the children across the pool, ignoring whatever it was that she had said before. Immediately, Aryel shushed him.
"Be silent! They are watching the falling of water."
"I see that." Aurelius said, this time in a whisper. "But why?"
"Izrhal." She responded in solemn elven. "They are practicing the art of bending time."
"Bending time?"
"They watch the falling drops of water until they can control the speed they witness the beads falling. When they can do this at will, they have bent time. Before the war between man and elf, its practice was kept only among the greatest warriors of our people under pain of death."
"But now we must all be the greatest warriors if our people are to survive. Now even children must become adept at the art of izrhal." Aurelius nodded with newfound understanding and awe for the children as they learned to control the passage of time itself.
"Now you must come with me, Son of Baszil." Aryel commanded. "If you are to join the Icewalker hunt, you will need your firearm back, and we must go and retrieve that now."
Aurelius stood up and quietly sheathed his sword in its scabbard behind his duster cape. "Where then is my blunderbuss?"
"In Erigos' possession." She whispered. "That is why you will need me there with you."
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I've started a Diplomacy game again, this time open to all RP citizens (because everyone in PoW is a bitch and won't join). We need another five people to join up before we can begin.
If you're interested, Diplomacy's basically a game of online Risk. You've got a map and little pieces. But in order to take a territory you need to have an army/navy with another army's support. There's no chance in this game so it's pure strategy and trying to fuck with your fellow players in messages/Steam to get them to do what you want. There's a lot of backstabbing involved so that's always fun.
If you want to join, go to http://www.playdiplomacy.com/games.php?subpage=joinable and make an account (it takes like 5 seconds). Then join the game "Roleplaying" with the password "gorgiscool". Hugs and I will tell you about all the details as we go. Now join, dammit.
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Ethereal alto voices of prepubescent choir boys echoed through the colonnades and high points of the Catedral de la Almudena - one of Europe's finest gothic cathedrals. Beams of sunlight shone down in glowing beams through the incense-laden air, shining down upon the altar. On the steps of the marble dais, a score of young boys dressed in white robes concluded Sunday's mass with an ancient Latin hymn.
"And so our mass today is ended." Arzobispo Mitre, the archbishop of Madrid, declared genially once the final note had left the choir's lips. "Go now to love and serve the Lord."
"Amen." The congregation responded in unison. Seated within the pillar-punctuated pews of the Almudena was a rather homogenous crowd. Madrid's upper crust, donning pressed tuxedos and expensive dresses, comprised today's congregation. Here they gathered to give praise to their Lord from the warmth of Madrid's most exquisite cathedral, blithely ignorant to the thousands of desperately poor and homeless just outside Almudena's gilded spires.
"Before we take our leave, I would like to honor a very special guest who has very kindly agreed to join us for mass this morning. Joining us today is our very own Prime Minister."
The congregation turned to see Alfonso Sotelo, seated in the far back of the pews. Applause broke out briefly before the choir boys started once again with a solemn rendition of the Second Republic's national anthem: Triunfaremos.
Spain's republican hymn was hardly a suitable tune for a house of God. It was a martial, energetic number and its words hostile and jingoistic. The statue of Mary standing upon the altar with the baby Christ in her arms could only watch as the choir desecrated her temple with this song commanding the people of Spain to "slay with righteous fury and unstoppable will those who would be obstacles in the People's path to greatness". Nonetheless, the parishioners and the archbishop seemed quite content with this patriotic display from the young boys and clapped enthusiastically before filing out to the exits. A crowd soon formed around Alfonso Sotelo, just as one always did when he made a public appearance.
Sotelo despised these situations, almost as much as he hated attending mass in the first place. The Prime Minister, when pressed on the subject, claimed to be a man of God and led prayer when appropriate. Personally, Sotelo avoided mass whenever possible and today's service was the first that he had attended since his campaign against Miguel Tejero where he felt the need to demonstrate he was a religious man.
It all just felt such a waste of time. As someone who was regularly debriefed on all of the atrocities transpiring across the world every morning, Sotelo was certain there was no God at work on this world. After the insanity of the past decade how could there be?
In between the meaningless introductions and handshakes from the parishioners, a choir boy, dressed in white slid through the crowd and appeared before the Prime Minister.
"Hello Senor Alfonso So- I mean, Excellency!" The boy stuttered.
"Why, hello young man." The Prime Minister responded, looking down upon the boy with an air of condescension. He never knew how to react around children. He was never particularly fond of them and so he avoided dealing with them whenever possible. "How are we this morning?"
"I'm great, Excellency! Great because you were here to listen to us. Thank you for coming today, Excellency."
"The pleasure was all mine..."
"We think you're great, Excellency. We really do. Thank you so much for coming today."
"Yes, of course." Sotelo nodded absent-mindedly. What patience he had for this little urchin was nearly exausted. "That is... delightful, young man."
"We think you're great, Excellency. So do my mom and dad!"
"Go away, damn you." Sotelo, grumbled under his breath.
"My dad really likes you. He said you were a shameless tyrant. But what does that mean, Excellency? Do you know?"
Sotelo's feigned smile collapsed in a sneer. But before the child could say anything else a hand belonging to one of his advisers grasped him by the shoulder and pulled him away from the crowd, directing him out of earshot near a font of holy water.
"Do not touch me!" Sotelo snarled, smacking the adviser's hands away from his shoulder as he patted out the creases on his jacket. "You are fortunate I was needing a way out of that mess... but could you not have simply whispered in my ear?"
"My m-most sincere, apo-pologies, Excellency." The prime minister's startled lackey spat out. "It's just that it is extremely urgent. I trust you are aware of the bank robbery that transpired the night before."
"I am. Bank robberies occur at times. That is the nature of things. It is unfortunate when they do but they do not constitute urgent matters on my part."
"I'm afraid they do, Excellency, when the robbers make off with a significant portion of this nation's bullion."
"They stole what exactly?!"
"Roughly 6% of the Republic's total supply of gold bullion... among other things. Obviously, this represents a very real economic threat. We've been sent to have you debriefed on the matter with the Jefe de Policia. We need you to come with us, Excellency."
As the adviser and few other lackeys led Sotelo to the exit, the Prime Minister lost control of his rage. His balled fist smashed into the surface of the font, sending holy water splattering loudly against the marble tile. The eyes of everyone in the church fell upon him.
"GODDAMNIT!" Sotelo screamed.
Castilla y Leon, Spain
Morning light filtered down through the needly foliage of pine trees onto the bullet-pocked hull of a massive earthmoving truck - the same one that had served as the getaway vehicle for the great bank robbery in Madrid the night before. Despite a hundred police cars and a squadron of helicopters closely following the dump truck's tail following the heist, the robbers had pulled off the nigh-impossible and escaped. Their companions in assistant getaway cars blockaded bridges and narrow points on thoroughfares behind the main vehicle to hold off the swarm of police vehicles following in hot pursuit. Bursts of automatic weapons fire kept the helicopters at bay as the truck went offroad in the pinelands of the mountains north of Madrid - disappearing into the nighttime foliage.
Ever since, the team of bank robbers had worked to open the massive vault sitting in the bed of the truck. Slav-faced sentries armed with assault rifles watched carefully among the pines for any intruders who might disturb them as the others worked to pry the bank vault open. The distant roar of police helicopters swooping overhead frequently interrupted them, but they worked on, counting upon the cover of the pines. The police knew the gunmen were in the area; it was but a matter of time before they were found out. Time was running out.
Throughout the night and well into the morning, the blonde and his Russian goons worked to pry the gigantic safe open. The combination was a mystery and the lock's failsafe mechanisms certainly activated when the banks alarms went off. Though the intricate lock could no longer be opened, the robbers knew that sufficient brute force could open even the most secure vault. Blowtorches hissed angrily as their flames pointed down into the side of the vault while jackhammers focused their efforts into a single point at the top of the vault. A warped, pulverized crater that had taken eight hours to carve into the vault's side was slowly yet steadily growing.
At last, the tempered alloy of the safe could withstand no more. A jackhammer finally punched its way through the tortured vault, prompting the other robbers to redouble their efforts and increase the size of the breach such that a man could just barely squeeze through. Another hour and a half of work produced a hole that a thin man could slide through with difficulty.
The blonde-headed leader of the operation assumed the honors of being the first to witness the treasure sealed within the vault. He climbed to the top of the mighty safe and shooed the Russians away as he slid his legs in first into the deep hole in the vault and then dropped the rest of his body into the blackness within. The gunmen atop the safe watching their leader drop down into the unknown heard the Scandinavian hit the bottom with the sound of clinking metal.
"What is down there?" One of the gunmen called down into the hole. "What can you see?"
A pale column of light shone down from above him. It was a pile of metal - not Peseta notes as he expected. Coins perhaps? He produced a lighter from his breast pocket and illuminated the room with the dancing flame that sprung up as it opened. Sparkles of orangish-yellow light caught his eye in every direction he glanced.
He sat upon a pile of solid gold and silver that had been dislodged from their neat arrangement during the heist. Bars of gold and silver - necklaces and rings encrusted with priceless gemstones. And right under his bottom were a cluster of what felt like coins. The blonde plucked one from underneath his crotch and examined it more thoroughly under the lighter's glow. Pressed unevenly into a disk of pure gold was a skull surrounded by a winged serpent; Aztec gold carried across the Atlantic four centuries ago on the galleons of the Spanish treasure fleet. He and his goons sat now upon a portion of the treasure horde of the wealthiest nation on Earth.
"Paska..." He swore dumbfoundedly.