apocalypstick
First Post
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The Astronecrotic Heresy [Chapter 1] The Tempest Street Irregulars
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apocalypstick
First Post
Bleak times have come to the Known World.
It is the year 4218. The Kylearian Empire holds the whole of the world in its adamantium grip. More that two thousand years have passed since His Divine Regency, the Emperor Marcus Kylearius, conquered the Known World and placed himself upon the Throne Absolute – where he sits to this day. His reign is cold and cruel and complete; from the courts and magistrates to the farmers and tradesmen, there is no aspect of life that his functionaries do not watch over. The Emperor sees all, knows all; and the great bureaucratic machine of the Empire rolls ever onward, grinding the hopes and dreams of its citizenry into dust between its gears.
The power of the Empire is matched only by that which has existed before it, the One True Church, offering salvation to those who accept the teachings of Anselm, the Sun God, into their hearts. Yet deliverance has its price. The clergy peddles salvation like trade goods so that the Church might line its coffers with silver, and what once was spiritual has become political. To disobey the Holy Edicts are to condemn one’s soul to eternal damnation in the afterlife; the Church’s enemies are branded as heretics and hunted down by the Justicari, who can find evil within the purest heart, and purifies the wicked with flame and steel.
For time immemorial the people of the Known World have lived beneath the shadow of Church and Empire, afraid to act or speak without first considering how their deeds will be perceived by those who rule. And times are changing – for the worse. Over the course of the last ten years the skies have slowly become darker and the land has grown colder. Midday is no brighter than twilight and the night is blacker than pitch. The warmest day of summer caries with it an autumnal chill, and winter is longer than spring and summer combined. Trees grow short and stunted, flowers refuse to bloom, and meadows once bright and green have become dull and gray. Each year the farmlands yield a crop smaller than that of the year before, and only the wealthiest of men do not go hungry. Goblins and Ghuls lurk in the shadows, carrying off those who are not wary into their dark lairs. And the truth of an ancient heresy, long concealed by Church and Empire, can no longer be denied.
The sun is going out.
It is the year 4218. The Kylearian Empire holds the whole of the world in its adamantium grip. More that two thousand years have passed since His Divine Regency, the Emperor Marcus Kylearius, conquered the Known World and placed himself upon the Throne Absolute – where he sits to this day. His reign is cold and cruel and complete; from the courts and magistrates to the farmers and tradesmen, there is no aspect of life that his functionaries do not watch over. The Emperor sees all, knows all; and the great bureaucratic machine of the Empire rolls ever onward, grinding the hopes and dreams of its citizenry into dust between its gears.
The power of the Empire is matched only by that which has existed before it, the One True Church, offering salvation to those who accept the teachings of Anselm, the Sun God, into their hearts. Yet deliverance has its price. The clergy peddles salvation like trade goods so that the Church might line its coffers with silver, and what once was spiritual has become political. To disobey the Holy Edicts are to condemn one’s soul to eternal damnation in the afterlife; the Church’s enemies are branded as heretics and hunted down by the Justicari, who can find evil within the purest heart, and purifies the wicked with flame and steel.
For time immemorial the people of the Known World have lived beneath the shadow of Church and Empire, afraid to act or speak without first considering how their deeds will be perceived by those who rule. And times are changing – for the worse. Over the course of the last ten years the skies have slowly become darker and the land has grown colder. Midday is no brighter than twilight and the night is blacker than pitch. The warmest day of summer caries with it an autumnal chill, and winter is longer than spring and summer combined. Trees grow short and stunted, flowers refuse to bloom, and meadows once bright and green have become dull and gray. Each year the farmlands yield a crop smaller than that of the year before, and only the wealthiest of men do not go hungry. Goblins and Ghuls lurk in the shadows, carrying off those who are not wary into their dark lairs. And the truth of an ancient heresy, long concealed by Church and Empire, can no longer be denied.
The sun is going out.
apocalypstick
First Post
Valoran City.
It is an ancient place, a decrepit place; it is a stagnant place, and that is a comfort to those who dwell there – for routine, like a well-worn path, is far simpler to navigate than a new road forged into the unknown.
Standing atop the crested hills that overlook the Tamandrele and Locingald rivers, Valoran City is the center of trade and commerce for the Imperial Province of Myrikor. It is a city of grimy opulence and fading grandeur, a city that never lived up to the promise of its locale. Wealthy merchants and minor nobles rub shoulders with craftsmen and commoners upon the narrow, gas-lit streets, and rogues lurk in the darkness, eager to relieve them of their wealth. Large, multi-storied buildings of brick and black stone loom in over the labyrinthine avenues, cloaking the city in perpetual shadows. Gargoyles crouch upon steep slate roofs, and factories and warehouses line the cliffs that drop down sharply to the swift, cold rivers some seventy feet below; the faces of these cliffs are terraced with bridges and catwalks of stone and iron and wood.
Valoran City belches smoke and sweats oil. It stinks of sepulcher ash. Looking upward from the streets, it is difficult to make out the skies through the tangle of iron catwalks and insectile iron antennae - but then again, the skies are forever dark, and not much worth looking at anyway.
It is an ancient place, a decrepit place; it is a stagnant place, and that is a comfort to those who dwell there – for routine, like a well-worn path, is far simpler to navigate than a new road forged into the unknown.
Standing atop the crested hills that overlook the Tamandrele and Locingald rivers, Valoran City is the center of trade and commerce for the Imperial Province of Myrikor. It is a city of grimy opulence and fading grandeur, a city that never lived up to the promise of its locale. Wealthy merchants and minor nobles rub shoulders with craftsmen and commoners upon the narrow, gas-lit streets, and rogues lurk in the darkness, eager to relieve them of their wealth. Large, multi-storied buildings of brick and black stone loom in over the labyrinthine avenues, cloaking the city in perpetual shadows. Gargoyles crouch upon steep slate roofs, and factories and warehouses line the cliffs that drop down sharply to the swift, cold rivers some seventy feet below; the faces of these cliffs are terraced with bridges and catwalks of stone and iron and wood.
Valoran City belches smoke and sweats oil. It stinks of sepulcher ash. Looking upward from the streets, it is difficult to make out the skies through the tangle of iron catwalks and insectile iron antennae - but then again, the skies are forever dark, and not much worth looking at anyway.
apocalypstick
First Post
Imagine the forking river as an upside-down “Y.” Valoran City is split into three wards by the rivers – East Ward, West Ward, and South Ward, otherwise known as “the Hive.” These wards are connected only by well-guarded stone bridges with towered gatehouses and iron portcullises looming at either side. Traveling from one ward to another requires a Ward Pass.
West Ward is the home of the craftsmen, the minor merchants, the shopkeeps and the chimney-sweeps. Its most notable feature is a gargantuan mechanical lift, built of many cogs and winches and pulleys, which allows large freights to be raised and lowered between the warehouses and the docks. The people of West Ward are the middle-class, dreaming of something better but forever forced to struggle, to work harder and faster, just to keep what they already have from slipping through their fingers.
East Ward stands behind tall stone walls crested with crenellations and cannonades. Valoran Tower, the seat of the city’s governor and magistrates, stands upon a jutting cliff face overlooking the river. It is the home of the city’s well-to-do – the wealthy merchants, the noble families – these are those who have “made it.” It is said that the streets in East Ward are cleaner, wider, smoother and better-lit, that the homes are large and warm and no one ever goes hungry. That is what they say. But you wouldn’t know – no one gets into East Ward unless they belong there.
The Hive… that is where the Empire says you, and others of your ilk, belong. Buildings of pitted brick and crumbling plaster are packed tightly together, stacked atop one another in the fashion of a wasps’ nest. Ancient puddles of scummy, stagnant water stand in the cracks and gullies of the uneven cobblestone streets. The tight enclosing walls are streaked with grime. Beggars and lepers sleep beneath tattered blankets in the gutters; dirty-faced children play stickball in the road. The Imperials never come here and the only Hivers who manage to leave do so in pine boxes. The Hive is a scientific model of the theory of evolution – survival of the fittest.
Welcome to the end of the world.
Edited for clarity.
West Ward is the home of the craftsmen, the minor merchants, the shopkeeps and the chimney-sweeps. Its most notable feature is a gargantuan mechanical lift, built of many cogs and winches and pulleys, which allows large freights to be raised and lowered between the warehouses and the docks. The people of West Ward are the middle-class, dreaming of something better but forever forced to struggle, to work harder and faster, just to keep what they already have from slipping through their fingers.
East Ward stands behind tall stone walls crested with crenellations and cannonades. Valoran Tower, the seat of the city’s governor and magistrates, stands upon a jutting cliff face overlooking the river. It is the home of the city’s well-to-do – the wealthy merchants, the noble families – these are those who have “made it.” It is said that the streets in East Ward are cleaner, wider, smoother and better-lit, that the homes are large and warm and no one ever goes hungry. That is what they say. But you wouldn’t know – no one gets into East Ward unless they belong there.
The Hive… that is where the Empire says you, and others of your ilk, belong. Buildings of pitted brick and crumbling plaster are packed tightly together, stacked atop one another in the fashion of a wasps’ nest. Ancient puddles of scummy, stagnant water stand in the cracks and gullies of the uneven cobblestone streets. The tight enclosing walls are streaked with grime. Beggars and lepers sleep beneath tattered blankets in the gutters; dirty-faced children play stickball in the road. The Imperials never come here and the only Hivers who manage to leave do so in pine boxes. The Hive is a scientific model of the theory of evolution – survival of the fittest.
Welcome to the end of the world.
Edited for clarity.
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apocalypstick
First Post
{Date: October 19th, 4218}
{Valoran City: The Hive}
“All things move toward their end,” the jongleur on the street corner sings as he picks out a mournful tune on his mandolin, “of that you can be sure.” A felt hat lies at his feet, but the few coppers within it will not feed his family this day. The rumbling of a metro train rolling by on elevated iron rails shakes the very cobblestones beneath your feet, drowns out the jongleur’s plaintive dirge.
Evening is falling upon Valoran City, which only means that the permanent twilight is deepening, and you have come to “The Corners” – the intersection of Sparrow Road and Hangman’s Alley. Flickering, guttering streetlamps stand upon each corner; old bits of newspaper and other assorted litter tumble along the sidewalks, buffeted about by a cold, sharp wind. A rat-faced man with jaundiced skin leans against the brick wall of the local pub, The Hangman’s Grin, peddling devil-weed and mushroom powder from the pockets of his greasy woolen overcoat. Across the road from him a pair of forlorn lovers, the fires in their eyes long gone cold, sit upon the stoop of an apartment building and drink rotgut liquor from a shared bottle.
The night is quiet. That’s never a good thing.
{Valoran City: The Hive}
“All things move toward their end,” the jongleur on the street corner sings as he picks out a mournful tune on his mandolin, “of that you can be sure.” A felt hat lies at his feet, but the few coppers within it will not feed his family this day. The rumbling of a metro train rolling by on elevated iron rails shakes the very cobblestones beneath your feet, drowns out the jongleur’s plaintive dirge.
Evening is falling upon Valoran City, which only means that the permanent twilight is deepening, and you have come to “The Corners” – the intersection of Sparrow Road and Hangman’s Alley. Flickering, guttering streetlamps stand upon each corner; old bits of newspaper and other assorted litter tumble along the sidewalks, buffeted about by a cold, sharp wind. A rat-faced man with jaundiced skin leans against the brick wall of the local pub, The Hangman’s Grin, peddling devil-weed and mushroom powder from the pockets of his greasy woolen overcoat. Across the road from him a pair of forlorn lovers, the fires in their eyes long gone cold, sit upon the stoop of an apartment building and drink rotgut liquor from a shared bottle.
The night is quiet. That’s never a good thing.
Argent Silvermage
First Post
Intro: Alex
Alexander Starbuck stood stock still in the gathering gloom. His gang mates had all been slaughtered but the few he was with now. The Irregulars had decided war was a good idea, bad planning for them. Alex was not a fighter by any means but no one screwed with his friends. He pulled his tattered jacket tight around him and hefted his guitar. Alex’s long frame moved into the light. He stood 6’4” and 180 pounds, his light blond hair framing his face like a halo and his sharp hazel eyes looking for comprehension. “Well, where do we go from here?” he said to the others.
Alexander Starbuck stood stock still in the gathering gloom. His gang mates had all been slaughtered but the few he was with now. The Irregulars had decided war was a good idea, bad planning for them. Alex was not a fighter by any means but no one screwed with his friends. He pulled his tattered jacket tight around him and hefted his guitar. Alex’s long frame moved into the light. He stood 6’4” and 180 pounds, his light blond hair framing his face like a halo and his sharp hazel eyes looking for comprehension. “Well, where do we go from here?” he said to the others.
Farrel closed the door to the apartment building and pulled his jacket closer around himself. "Evening Clarke, Victoria." He twanged. A curt nod was the only response he got. Or expected.
Nobody cares 'bout nobody here. 'Less they weak or rich.
Sizeing up the people on the street, Farrel began to cross towards the Hangman. This apartment would be intolerable, if there wasn't a waterin' hole so close.
Making sure to avoid eye contact with the busker, he made his way to the bar. Never let anyone see you have "Spare Change". 2 copper for the music and 5 gold for a beating. The darkness had begun to turn his mood cynical. That and the shrinking weight of his purse.
The prices of room and board were sick. And until he could find work, he had to stay on the cheap. Farrel knew that his options were getting thin. He had no real access to the jobs in West Ward. And the work people were offering in the Hive, he wasn't sure if that was his thing. Well, best to go see if the barkeep had any word on some honest work.
"Clive." Farrel says with a tip of the hat. Always good to be polite to the dealers. Makes them think you may buy their junk. Customers are better investments than victims.
Nobody cares 'bout nobody here. 'Less they weak or rich.
Sizeing up the people on the street, Farrel began to cross towards the Hangman. This apartment would be intolerable, if there wasn't a waterin' hole so close.
Making sure to avoid eye contact with the busker, he made his way to the bar. Never let anyone see you have "Spare Change". 2 copper for the music and 5 gold for a beating. The darkness had begun to turn his mood cynical. That and the shrinking weight of his purse.
The prices of room and board were sick. And until he could find work, he had to stay on the cheap. Farrel knew that his options were getting thin. He had no real access to the jobs in West Ward. And the work people were offering in the Hive, he wasn't sure if that was his thing. Well, best to go see if the barkeep had any word on some honest work.
"Clive." Farrel says with a tip of the hat. Always good to be polite to the dealers. Makes them think you may buy their junk. Customers are better investments than victims.
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Zerth
First Post
Daniel Nova
Dan surveyed the ever darkening street scene with his trained eyes. His gaze wandered around slowly from the drinking couple to to the man leaning against the pub wall. Everything looked quiet, there was no sign of the hated Irregulars. Dan glanced at Alexander from under his hood, which was part of his ragged and loose brown robe.
"No sign of the damn Irregulars, maybe they had enough for one day." Dan paused and looked at both Alexander and Isaac in turn. "You know I don't touch that over-priced sewage they are selling as beer, but looks to me you two could use a drink." He nods in the direction of the pub entrance.
Dan surveyed the ever darkening street scene with his trained eyes. His gaze wandered around slowly from the drinking couple to to the man leaning against the pub wall. Everything looked quiet, there was no sign of the hated Irregulars. Dan glanced at Alexander from under his hood, which was part of his ragged and loose brown robe.
"No sign of the damn Irregulars, maybe they had enough for one day." Dan paused and looked at both Alexander and Isaac in turn. "You know I don't touch that over-priced sewage they are selling as beer, but looks to me you two could use a drink." He nods in the direction of the pub entrance.
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Kamard
First Post
Isaac looks up at the darkened sky mournfully, then energetically sprints to the jongleur and drops a copper into his hat.
"Oi, yer song. Tis a cheehrful one nodoubt, and tis perfect for t'day methinks! A thousand blessins on yer household, but none frah Anselm-dog, eh? Ha!"
He sprints back to the assembled party.
"Well my erstwhile folk and ne'er-do-wells, what does our latest day 'old for such-as-us? Shall it be the liquor-vicar that hears our prayers and holds the sermon, this early? Oi've no regard either way. Tis nothing better to do...nor nothing t'see, nor nothing, well, at-all! Ha!
Though, he thinks to himself, I wish we DID have something better to do...
He runs his hands through his filthy, graying, thinning hair and straightens out his actually decaying smoking jacket, before pulling up his bladebelt and looking about the group with his piercing blue eyes.
"Oi, yer song. Tis a cheehrful one nodoubt, and tis perfect for t'day methinks! A thousand blessins on yer household, but none frah Anselm-dog, eh? Ha!"
He sprints back to the assembled party.
"Well my erstwhile folk and ne'er-do-wells, what does our latest day 'old for such-as-us? Shall it be the liquor-vicar that hears our prayers and holds the sermon, this early? Oi've no regard either way. Tis nothing better to do...nor nothing t'see, nor nothing, well, at-all! Ha!
Though, he thinks to himself, I wish we DID have something better to do...
He runs his hands through his filthy, graying, thinning hair and straightens out his actually decaying smoking jacket, before pulling up his bladebelt and looking about the group with his piercing blue eyes.
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apocalypstick
First Post
The jongleur favors Issac with a grin, displaying chipped and rotting teeth, as he continues to play.
***
Clive, the pusher, responds to Farrel's tip of the hat with an imperceptible nod of his own.
"You pallin' round with 'em over there?" he quietly asks Farrel, indicating Alex, Issac, and Dan with a sharp darting glance from the corners of his beady eyes. "Buncha remnants, broken boys; best watchyer step if you are, lad. Irregulars drinkin' in the Grin... walkin' this turf like it's theirs, now... guess it is."
He shrugs. "Matters not to me; not much, anyways... just a different lot to pay protection to." He runs his appraising eyes up and down Farrel's body. "You're lookin' a litle thin - hungry, maybe?"
***
The lovers, upon spying the "remnants" coming up to the Corners, stand up and head inside the apartment building - hurriedly, but not too hurriedly. Victoria, the dak-haired, waifish lass, dares a quick and nervous glance back over her shoulder at Dan, Issac, and Alex before vanishing into the darkened building and shutting its door tight behind her.
***
Clive, the pusher, responds to Farrel's tip of the hat with an imperceptible nod of his own.
"You pallin' round with 'em over there?" he quietly asks Farrel, indicating Alex, Issac, and Dan with a sharp darting glance from the corners of his beady eyes. "Buncha remnants, broken boys; best watchyer step if you are, lad. Irregulars drinkin' in the Grin... walkin' this turf like it's theirs, now... guess it is."
He shrugs. "Matters not to me; not much, anyways... just a different lot to pay protection to." He runs his appraising eyes up and down Farrel's body. "You're lookin' a litle thin - hungry, maybe?"
***
The lovers, upon spying the "remnants" coming up to the Corners, stand up and head inside the apartment building - hurriedly, but not too hurriedly. Victoria, the dak-haired, waifish lass, dares a quick and nervous glance back over her shoulder at Dan, Issac, and Alex before vanishing into the darkened building and shutting its door tight behind her.
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