Fortunes of War - the RPPR Iron Heroes campaign

[+1 Hat]

I live!

Also, words cannot explain how much I'd love to play in this. Unfortunately, I have a class on Wednesday night. Damn you, responsibility!

[Setherick]

Like all RPPR campaigns now, I don't get to play. But here's an NPC that is based on the character concept I would have played.

Lucius Julius Agrippa or Wàirén (Hunter)

As a boy in my home country leagues to the west of the Jing Provinces, I had been trained in all of the martial formations and tactics that made our forces the strongest in the world. Or so we had thought.

My father had been a great military leader and statesman. He wished for nothing more than a son who would rise to equal stature. But no son of his would be given an advantage, he explained to me before I was old enough to really understand the meaning of the words. So despite my training, when I was a teenager, he had me conscripted as a common foot soldier so that I would learn the true meaning of combat before leading my own troops into battle.

 While serving in my first military campaign, my legion lost our baring and traveled much farther east than planned. Despite the unfamiliar terrain, we won a few minor skirmishes with foreign armies. Among the soldiers confidence in our leaders, our tactics, our country, could not have been higher. We thought ourselves invincible. We were destined to rule all.

We encountered the forces of General Xin at the edge of the Great Empire. Xin was young. He had not yet commanded the forces at the Battle of Red Cliff, he had not yet defeated the Warlord Cao Cao.

Our front ranks grew increasingly arrogant the more we learned of this man who pretended to lead against our forces, and Xin made a thousand of young men pay the price of their arrogance in blood. Fighting on known terrain and using tactics we had never encountered, nor could counter in combat, Xin defeated us soundly.

Defeated and broken, I was taken as a prisoner to the Jing Province. For years, I worked alongside farmers, but I did not forget my training nor did I forget my father’s wish. I considered my options and listened to all the political and military news that made its way to us. When stories of Xin’s conquests reached our village, I reveled in them as bringing greater glory to the Empire as any other villager.

The young boys in our village did not know the meaning of allegiance and glory however. When rumors of the rebellion reached our village, several boys went to join the rebels. The old were disheartened. They had listened to stories of Xin’s glory.

As soon as I heard that Xin needed mercenaries, I appealed to him to take me into his forces, to teach me the superior tactics that he had employed against my countrymen. I learned of others who had done the same.

Unfortunately, I never got the chance to fight with the man I had come to admire since he was ingloriously cut down by the bastardly rebels. My fealty to my new country, though, has earned me the respect of my village, and we are building our own militia force. I am training them with a fervor I had not felt since my first days a foot soldier. We are loyal to the Empire, but we must remain wary unless Jing Province falls.

[Jason]

I've been working on my back story and it got a little out of hand.  I'll need time to finish it up, but here's Part I

From the personal log of Ja'Qim al-Kehlat

I do not consider myself to be a good man, nor an evil one.  I make no excuses for my past, nor will I apologize.  I do what I must in the name of our Mother, Néshara—She who carried us from darkness into light and sustains us with her every breath.  Her voice guided my hand long before I knew Her words.  Indeed, She had been with me from the beginning, observing and directing events around me so I might go to Her.

My earliest memories blend together in terrifying nights and uncertain days.  I remember the unbearable stench of soiled garments and discarded linens; the coarse, ragged fabric rubbing my skin as I lay in a fitful sleep of hunger and fear; my mother gently rocking me, her reassuring humming lulling me back to sleep; the sounds of wild dogs fighting over leftover meat, the muffled sobbing of nearby children, and the quickly silenced sound of some poor soul pleading for mercy or help; and the ever-present coating of human waste accompanying the alleyways I called home, while others slept comfortably on feathered pillows and warm beds just on the other side of the walls. 

My mother would speak of better times, when she had worked with needle and thread in her parent's store.  Her mother had been a seamstress of some renown before her passing, while her father, a moderately wealthy merchant, sold rare herbs and spices to the nobles.  Sometimes my mother would stare off blankly, reliving those days, I believed, or perhaps longing for her fortune to change.  But these were wasteful dreams.  Unable to accept the dishonor she brought on his house, her father cast her out.  Her rape had stolen more than her purity and innocence; it had undone her father's schemes of marrying her off to further his business endeavors.  Thus, she found herself shunned, alone, and with child.

Despite the terrible circumstances fate forced upon her, my mother endured.  For the first year or so, her modest skills with the needle brought in some coin, while her knowledge of herbs from her father earned her a fair reputation among the poor.  However, fate would not relent.  Refusing to lose even a small measure of their profits, her competitors spread false rumors of her consorting with demons from the desert.  Moreover, many believed me to be the spawn of that dark union.  Threatening and cursing her, they forced my mother onto the streets.  The streets proved less than kind to her.  Begging rarely afforded her any sustenance and stealing seemed to risky, so she gave what little food she could to me.  Each day I watched a little more of the life seep from her bony frame.

Because I never knew a life of privilege, I adapted quicker to a life of begging for scraps, but more often than not, I took whatever I could pocket.  Thieving came naturally to me.  I figured if they had so much, they could easily share their wealth with those in need.  I alleviated their carts and stores of the excess, so they would not feel guilty when food would grow old.  I saw myself as doing a public service.  Of course, they disagreed and gave chase when they caught me.  I eluded them with ease and would distribute my bounty to our little homeless community.  And this worked for a time.

Unfortunately, my skills as a thief matured too late to save my mother.  By the time I was twelve, her health had deteriorated from malnutrition, insomnia, and finally ended with pneumonia, but I knew the actual causes of her predicament.  The disease had been a merciful release to a consigned death from her father and her rapist.  I had seen my grandfather many times from afar, and her rapist once.  My mother had pointed to a noble of a minor house—a sweaty, round man—and absently said, “That is your father.”  There had been no anger or malice in her voice.  She seemed almost disinterested, despondent perhaps, as if she were simply stating a matter of fact.  Or maybe she had already passed from this world long ago and her shade lingered.

Surprisingly, my grandfather had been a remarkably easy target, especially for my first kill.  His daily routine took less than a week to memorize; his locks were old and easy to pick.  As he slept soundly in his silk sheets, I tied him up and gagged him.  I poured his precious spices around him and dowsed him with lamp oil.  Lighting a torch and running its bottom across his face, I woke him with a greeting, “Hello, Grandfather.  You chose your spices over your own daughter, so I'm sending them with you.”  I hurled the torch on top of him and left.

Being a noble, her rapist proved more difficult.  Guards patrolled the grounds frequently, sometimes with hounds.  His routine varied from night to night, but he kept the same chambers every night, and sometimes drank in excess.  I followed him to the tavern frequently, tailing him for weeks.  Once he appeared deep in his cups, I made my way to his manor.  After sneaking past the guards, I patiently waited for him to return to his room.  In the late hours of the night, he swayed into his room, and without disrobing, fell onto his bed.  I quickly rolled him over, tied him to the bed and gagged him.  I wedged a chair against the door, so we would not be interrupted prematurely.  Then I turned toward the matter at hand.  He had indeed drank his fill, for I had to slap him several times and dump the contents of his chamber pot on him before he awoke.  At first, he seemed disoriented, but eventually he struggled against his bonds and tried to call out despite the gag.  I silenced him with a wave of my dagger and a glare.  “You raped my mother.”  I slid the dagger between his legs, splitting open his trousers.  “They you a noble, but your actions say otherwise.”  With a quick tug and flick of my wrist, I castrated him.  He howled beneath the gag.  I pulled the gag aside.  The scream echoed briefly throughout the manor before I forced his manhood in place.  “Choke on it, Father!”  I pressed all my weight on top of his face, holding his mouth shut.  Guards shouted from the other side of the door, but they received no response.  I watched the rapist's eyes roll back, and yet I still pressed myself over his face.  The guards began ramming the door open.  I remained fixated on my target until he finally stopped thrashing.  The chair cracked, the door burst open, and I leaped out the window.

I had no escape plan.  I had only planned the murder—the retribution for my mother.  Fleeing frantically, I twisted through passageways, knocking over carts and barrels in my wake.  The guards came after me with a ferocity and determination I had never witnessed.  But Néshara had been watching, and She had sent her servant to save me.  A cloaked figure snared me in a tight grip and pulled me indoors as I rounded a hovel.  “Shh, little one, Néshara will protect you.”

End Part I

[Jason]

Part II

The next five years I spent studying among my brothers and sisters in a hidden temple, learning the sacred tenets of our Mother and recognizing my venerable purpose in Her service.  The temple, a sanctuary from the hazards of the insatiable desert and the stifling oppression of Man's world, had been built in a majestic oasis, protectively nestled between two large mountains.  The natural cracks and surrounding weathered rock formations bore a striking resemblance to elegant female legs and feet, a clear manifestation of our Mother, and a not-so-subtle reminder that while Her shadow may shield us from the world, we are servants to Her will, owing our lives to Her grace.  I knew peace for the first time.  No longer would I need to fend off hunger or steal from others to survive.  And my peace lasted for a time.

I praised Néshara with every waking moment, thankful for Her divine intervention.  Spending most of my days in silent contemplation, I often reflected on my former life.  Although my actions appeared unseemly to some, I accepted they were borne of desperation, vengeance, and the rash reactions of youth.  However, I began to acknowledge Néshara's role in my life, past and present.  Certainly, many did not survive infancy or their first few years, especially for those born and raised without sufficient shelter, nourishment, or care.  My mother had sacrificed her health and life so I might thrive in those conditions.  Her gift was Néshara's gift—a mother's love.  In addition, my response to her death had been influenced by Néshara, for She knew of the unforgivable crimes against my mother.  Moreover, our most holy of laws decrees any harmful act against a female, whether in body or mind, is punishable by death.  In our eyes, the female form is the earthly representation of Néshara, and must always be honored.  Therefore, these men not only harmed my mother, they defiled our Mother.  While my mother's death ensured my life, her sacrifice needed balance, and the long-unanswered crimes of rape and betrayal needed a willing advocate for Her will, so I unknowingly became Her hand in my unquenchable desire for revenge.

With increasing clarity and a calm heart, I accepted my duty and pledged an oath to be Her agent in this world.  Not long after my decision, the Order of The Mother's Last Embrace, a shadow sect within the temple, witnessed my dedication, determined my worth through additional trials in my daily lessons, and recruited me into their ranks.  Their training proved arduous and more challenging than any I had ever experienced.  Over the course of many months, I endured more than the other recruits.  I survived  poisons, beatings, drownings, stabbings, and being bound to a pole, exposed to the desert for countless days.  Keeping Néshara foremost in my thoughts, I persevered while others crumbled beneath our trainer's hands, some renouncing our Mother.  Their deaths came quickly once the words left their mouths.  My trainers eventually yielded to my unwavering faith, embracing me as their brother.  Then the real challenge began as my trainers honed my skills of stealth and guile, transforming me from mere street thief to Néshara's swift hand of justice, Her knife in the dark. 

For years, I served our Mother, eliminating those who stood against Her.  I became a favorite of the High Matron, who would call on me for the more demanding tasks, whether it be a particularly sensitive target, a ruthless enemy, a crafty rival, or satisfying her in bed.  I obeyed her assignments as if our Mother spoke them directly into my ear.  Nobles, merchants, thieves, murderers, and cult leaders silently fell before me.  The High Matron's moans of pleasure quenched both my base sexual desires and fulfilled my oath of service, appeasing Néshara through my devotion.

While enemies filled my nights, my days consisted less of silent study and more of discussion with my peers, Ra'if chief among them.  We often pondered our Mother's teachings as we completed our daily assignments.  Although Ra'if and I belonged to the same order, he was more a scholar, than an assassin, deadlier with the pen than I with the blade.  Recording the names of Néshara's dead enemies, he chronicled our history.  He also translated a variety of ancient texts, ranging from forgotten philosophies and scriptures of our faith to those of lost civilizations.  We bonded over our dedication to our service, and the crucial, albeit controversial, belief that our service came by choice, rather than by Néshara's divine will.  For Ra'if and myself, service from free will offered an unshakable affection and allegiance to our Mother, one that could only be gained through loyalty, and could never be replicated through forceful obedience.  However, many of our sisters, the High Matron among them, believed  this to be heresy.  Women were made in Néshara's image.  Being men made us inferior.  I could never accept this, but I was content.  And my contentment lasted for a time.

My last assignment came from the High Matron.  A younger priestess had threatened her position, conspiring with enemies of Néshara to kill the High Matron.  I knew what this meant, killing a woman, especially a priestess of Néshara.  My life would be forfeit after I completed my charge.  Nonetheless, I did as I was bid.  Sneaking into her room late that night, I found the priestess sleeping peacefully in her bed.  So young, I thought, and so gorgeous.  Serene in her slumber, why would she try to kill our Holy Matron—she who is Néshara made flesh?  I moved forward, steeling myself for what must be done.  Truly Néshara has blessed her, for I have never seen such beauty.  And then, a voice spoke to me.  “She is not to die, Ja'Qim.”  I spun, but no one was there besides myself and the priestess.  “Look closer, my child.”  I examined the room carefully, my eyes drawn inextricably to the nightstand.  A rose and a note from a suitor lay gently upon its surface.  I read the name of the suitor and froze.  “Yes, Ja'Qim.  He is the one your High Matron has had her eye on for some time.  I did not speak this young one's name.  She is pure.”  Breathing heavy, I left the room in a state of shock.  Not only had I been betrayed, but I heard Her speak to me.  I knew not what to think.  Néshara only spoke to the High Matron . . . and never to men.  Did She speak to me, or have I gone mad?

Ra'if found me sometime later to inquire about my target, and reluctantly, I informed him of my failure.  I told him the High Matron intended for me to kill her romantic rival, and once the priestess had been dealt with, I would be killed immediately without any inquiry into the matter.  He closed his eyes, and I thought for a moment he would turn me over to the order for punishment.  Instead, he told me about his suspicions over the past year.  Ra'if believed the High Matron was using her station at her own whims, exerting her power to eliminate those who spoke out against her, solidifying her authority and gaining vast quantities of wealth. 

Without waiting to hear the rest, I foolishly stormed off to confront the High Matron.  She was not in her chambers, but her attendants informed me she had been called to an emergency meeting with the other Matrons and should not be disturbed.  Ignoring the guards at the doors to the council's meeting, I burst through the doors and shouted, “You dare defy our Mother with your own personal agenda?”  The High Matron stood to object, and the guards attempted to seize me, but I sprinted ahead, drawing my dagger.  “She was innocent!  You dishonor your station and our Mother.  Why?”

She glared at me.  “I am not the one whose honor is in question, Ja'Qim,” she said smoothly, eying the dagger.  “You interrupt a closed session and dare bear a blade against me?”

“I am not your pawn!”  I lunged forward, but she slipped out of my way.  In one fluid motion, she used my momentum against me, twisting my arm and pinning me to the ground.

She leaned forward, pressing her weight against me.  My arm popped, and I groaned, losing hold of my dagger.  “You should have killed her, Ja'Qim.  I might have been lenient in your punishment,” she whispered.  “Now I will enjoy drawing out your death.”  She motioned for the guards, who took me away.

Days passed.  I had been subjected to a deeper, more profound level of pain than ever before.  The High Matron delighted in torturing me, prolonging my pain, killing me, and then bringing me back.  I had failed, and she had won.  Even worse I had failed Néshara.  But before despair completely took me, I heard muffled sounds from my jailers and saw the cell door open.  Ra'if quickly entered and unlocked me from the manacles.  Calling me a fool and a few choice words, he helped me out of the cell.  I recall little after that as I kept slipping in and out of consciousness, but some distant part of me knew that Néshara had not abandoned me.  I could almost hear Her humming to me softly, like my mother did when I was a child. 

More days passed.  We fled the temple and the land we knew, getting as far away as possible.  As I gained my strength back, I asked Ra'if how he had managed to free me.  Looking back toward the way we had come, he told me others had helped in my escape, but trailed off before he finished.  I winced and said a quick prayer, knowing they were with our Mother now.  I wanted to return, to strike against the High Matron, and to wrest control of the temple from her corrupt hands.  But the thought was completely absurd.  We would never stand a chance, at least not now.

Soon we found ourselves in a foreign land, short on supplies, and out of gold.  Finding gainful employment proved difficult.  However, we eventually joined a band of mercenaries, hoping we could earn enough gold to sustain ourselves in the days to come.  And that worked for a time.

End Part II; Let the campaign begin!

[clockworkjoe]

Jason gets +3 glory points and the asset Defiant Tradition - +1d bonus on Sovereignty rolls if your company is under attack from an outside force.

[Cthuluzord]

Vo's Business Plan

Vo retreated down the alley, away from the noise of the so-called “Great” City. She preferred the screams and offal of the battlefield to the senseless, squalid cacophony of this place; at least a killing field offered some excuse for the unpleasantness. It appears the male architects had yet to realize they could build out as well as up. She was not surprised.

She’d discovered this sheltered path between buildings after she and the rest of the blood-sworn had been kicked into the streets as thanks for warning the Empire of the doom galloping towards them. Perplexed by their ingratitude and incensed at her removal from the army’s payroll, she’d wandered the muddy paths all night until the quiet of this place had struck her. It was the one spot quiet enough that she could hear her own voice, free from the chore of breaking the groping hands of unruly husbands in the market.

But her days of contemplation were growing short. The army would move soon and take her livelihood with it. How would she afford a ship home, not to mention one formidable enough to deter the slavers from her shores? Moreover, how could she ever hope to free Lok when the superstitious toms had threatened death if she fought the Grey Sky? She was a woman; her soul rested in her spear. How might she thrive without it?

Again, manly pride was caught gnawing at her strength. Even the youngest girl learns only the obstinate and arrogant left their bodies in such a position as might receive a blow. She vowed her mind would be no different. She would be like the Goddess Spirits, not all-powerful but all-knowing. She would be lithe and flow around the obstacles. She would slice at them from every direction save the one in which the killing blow waited. She would bleed out this strange land until it couldn’t stand but to be quit of her.

With her spear point, she drew her goals in the mud so that the deaf Spirits might know her intent. A Horse represented the Grey Sky riders that needed to die to reunite her house. A crude Ship held her hope of home and peace in the Valley.

Beneath that, standing in the way of her ascension, she depicted her struggles. A Coin went beneath the ship—one of those pieces of useless tin these madmen used instead of barter. She drew a Crow beneath the Horse, as the Empire’s maddening superstition forbade her from striking them directly.

Vo pondered, gnawing absent-mindedly at the butt of her spear. What could she bring to bear in this battle? She stood like this for many minutes, rousing only to shoo away beggars that threatened to shamble through her plans.

Drawing right at her feet now, a tiny Spear appeared—her prowess in the blood pageant was not to be discounted completely, even limited as it was. Next to it she placed a much larger Hammer.

The blacksmith Lao Man was quite skilled, one of the few she’d met here with the nurturing, soft hands befitting a man. When not forced to forge the crude cleavers demanded by the Empire’s footmen, he could craft weapons and armor as beautiful as they were pragmatic. His work had been the reason she’d chosen to warn him and his apprentices of the impending defeat right before her final push for freedom. Saving their lives had earned her the loyalty of his men’s swords and access to their friends, at least temporarily.

So how might she use these assets to strike against the Crow and the Coin? Lao would need metal to ply his craft, equipment, labor…yet they all had barely escaped the horde with blade and hide intact. How to bridge the gap between her goods and her reward? How to remove the Crow that blocked her Spear?

She could kill and take what she needed. It was a shame to end a man young enough to be a useful husband, but what was to stop her? Wait…what was to stop her indeed?

Vo smiled. She’d been thinking like a man: rigid, in a straight line, unyielding until broken. Eagerly, she scrawled her flanking maneuver in the mud.

Her spear would fly at the Coin--not the Crow--and slice off a small morsel to feed the Hammer. While they turned her prize into something not stained with blood, she would make her “crime” known to the other merchants; she was the one who could take, and was therefore the only one capable of stopping it. Their fear would bring tribute and stir the flames of Lao Man’s fire to life.

But no! Vo plunged her spear into ground in disgust. She was using sanity and logic to predict the actions of madmen, completely untrained in thought and obedience. She could plunge javelins through a company of their finest and still they would not recognize her as Queen. She’d choke on wave after wave of their dead as their pride ever-hungered for gratification. They’d never understand the wisdom of their betters.

These toms were stupid to the point of self-destruction, more prideful than a Joining Eve’s nightmare. First hand, Vo had seen their stubbornness lead armies into an obvious trap. She’d been scorned by their willingness to let the presence of birds on a perch and some bad news dictate military tactics. They were a superstitious, cowardly fen of boys, so prideful they were unwilling to ascribe their faults to anything less than a God….

That was it…the weapon she had been missing. Tentatively, Vo scratched out the Crow blocking the path to her enemies and redrew it next to her spear. A carrion bird has no message nor master; it merely goes where it may feed. She need only feed the Crow until it perch on her shoulder. The bird was the rein, and their superstitions the bit. With it, her Hammer was not a bauble for trade, but a divine gift. Her rule would not be a woman’s word, but a wrathful mandate thundering from on high.

Crow, Spear, and Hammer would take Coin, ransoming it for Ship. Then, together, they would kill the Horse and its rider.



She snatched up her spear and rushed towards the market, weaving through the stalls and criers like the gleeful Spirit of Grace itself. Lao had to know there was but one more trinket to forge before his artistry could thrive, and his men had to be assigned the first task of their blood debt...

Vo needed someone to feed to the Crow.

[clockworkjoe]

+5 reputation for Caleb's awesome plan

[crash2455]

This shall be the greatest game never played.

[clockworkjoe]

This shall be the greatest game never played.

WE PLAY TOMORROW NIGHT

[Setherick]

This shall be the greatest game never played.

WE PLAY TOMORROW NIGHT

I can't wait. I especially want to see how you play my character.

[Cthuluzord]

Quick note to help Ross calculate quality raises for companies:

Vo rolled 2X8 to gain market share in armaments.
Vo currently has 6X8 market share in the Crow amulet racket.
Vo has a 4 dice gambling operation from the Monkey King.
Before raises, all qualities are currently at two dice

I have one asset (Keen) and an additional title (The Undying Crow).

I've spent all my reputation on a Masterwork Spear. I have 6 glory unspent.

[PirateLawyer]

Vo has a 4 dice gambling operation from the Monkey King.

There's an NPC in this game named after Wolfgang Baur's alter ego?

[clockworkjoe]

Caleb you had a market share of 3 in Vice and 5 from the Crow Amulets - I had that noted.

Gan is the Pirate King not Monkey King

Aaron rolled a 2x6 for his increase market demand roll

I'm blanking on Jason and David's rolls.

[Jason]

I had a 4x7 on my Herbalist/Healer.  I believe David got a 3x3.

My Qualities before adding last night in are as follows:

Might 2
Influence 2
Treasury 1
Territory 1
Sovereign 3

I am also in charge of the Protection racket even though we didn't get to explore that last night

[PaperGangster]

This is David, and I did indeed roll a 3x3.

Originally, I was pursuing both common food and exotic food.  I am considering guard duty, or attempting to supply some resource/material that the Quartermaster also sells.