The Royals and their subjects
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Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/11/13
The Royals


You are a member of the Royal Family, the future leaders of the realm. From the moment you were born, you were trained to fight, think, and plan ahead. Your earliest memory is from four or five years old, it is unclear; but you distinctly remember the weight of the wooden sword as you wacked the other kid with it.

It was a tough life cut out for you, and you have no idea who your real family is - or was. All you remember is just fighting, learning, and having to beat the other kids in everything.

Likely now, on reflection, you might have been from the army - after all, anyone who joins the army becomes property of the realm, in addition to their children.
It wasn't unusual for captains to have an arranged marriage to another notable soldier of some sort with talent. Maybe the realm indeed has some hidden agenda to producing the best breed of humans it can, and you are the result.
You perceived the relationship when your turned five and learned this particular information from a drunk royal guard. He never did tell you what happened to the children of such unions. From then on you suspected that your father and mother might have been famous military generals and war heroes.

There were other children before you of course, technically royal blood isn't what made you a prince/ss (as you found out when you were six). Which meant you could have just been a kid from some random soldiers who were clever and strong enough to be filtered out for it.

You qualified for it - in every sense of the word. And you survived to gain this title, amongst at least forty others, being the most clever of the bunch. You lied, you cheated, forged alliances, broke promises, even threw dust in the eyes of the world in order to win.
Victory, at any cost. Because you had no idea what happened if you lost.

There were others stronger, smarter, and better rounded to be royalty.
But you beat them all. Because out of all of them, you were the most ruthless.
At the age of twelve, the fighting stopped, and you were proclaimed the victor.
By then, only twenty-three of the kids had survived to the end of it. You never heard from them again until at age fifteen you looked into it.

All tacticians, strategists, and army men.
None of them Commanders or Captains of course - that title was reserved for noble blood, of which you had no idea if you were or not. It mattered little to you then, and least of all now.

You had eight years to prepare for the next war.
You laid down your alliances, and got to know your newest opponents.
Plans within plans, you predicted and fought in a terrible information war with them, all leading to this moment.

Now, at the age of twenty, it's time to once more enter the fight.
The last honest fight you'll ever know.
This time, you won't be up against the weak-minded kids you beat way back when.
You're up against each country's best and brightest, people who went just as far as you did.

And unlike with the kids, this time, the game is deadly.
With the other forty, death was usually accidental, incurred by wounds festering, or permanent damage to bones in training.
In this fight, the realm's message is clear: "We have enough super soldiers from the twenty-two others we obtained from your group. To lose four in this fight is a worthwhile investment."

Because, of course, there was a different atmosphere among the kids.
Death was always a shadow, a possibility. It could be dismissed quickly enough.
In this fight, it's ever present. And fear of death speeds up your thoughts greatly, tenses your body, and keeps yourself sane - failure to do so will result in meeting that shadow.

Only one may become the ruler of the realm.
And to be on this throne, you need to walk through a pool of your brothers' and sisters' blood.
And you intend to sit on that throne.

At all costs.

Starting Weapon: Saber/Sword, Horse (+30 Speed), Health Potion ( cures all wounds once)


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Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/11/13
War Heroes


You were never much to begin with, really.
Just a common farmer, woke up one morning to your town on fire.
Raiders from the north had attacked your village, they must have been getting desperate to strike so deep in the south.

Grabbing onto your pitchfork, you told your family to stay indoors and you ran off to assist. People called you all kinds of names for standing up to the raiders, some good, some bad. Men and women stood side by side with you, as a militia, and you fought them off.

Unfortunately, you lost. What chance did you have, you think now in hindsight.
You were a farmer with a pitchfork. You knew nothing about war and death as you do now.

So you ran. Into the forest, played dead with the dead when you could, climbed trees and cowered when you had to.
Eventually, they left.

And you came back home to find out there was no home to return to.
Empty, cleared of all wealth. Even your family was gone.

Vikings from the north often took slaves (in their language, they called them thralls) and stole off husbands and wives as well, depending on the gender of the Viking. It wasn't uncommon to see a woman with 3 thrall husbands at her beck and call, especially if that woman had multiple swords at her side and full battle armor looted from several long-dead soldiers.

So, alone and with nothing, you decided you would have revenge.
You brought together a group of survivors, and you became bandits in the woods.
Stealing from anything and everyone, just as you had been stolen from.

It's poetic really, how can you do any different than what's been done to you? Cursed to become the thing you hated.

Still, you learned to fight, and you learned how to fight hard.
And eventually, you took the fight to them. With your band, you waged war on the Vikings, becoming well known vigilantes, running from town to town nipping at the heels of the raiders from the north.

Soon, you had your first victory, and you made sure to check all the dead, and check all the tree tops. Not a single one managed to escape your wrath.
You moved with efficiency and might, town after town showered you with what little wealth they could manage if you would save from the raiders.

That was your life for a long time, until you got a royal decree to come to the capital. Apparently, army men in the higher ups had taken note of your actions; you did save them a lot of trouble, fighting the fights they should have.

In a political move, they asked you to join the army, claiming you were a war hero of their sect, a secret operative sent out to raid the raiders, commanded by them. You cared little who got the credit for the fights, so long as you had food to eat and northmen to kill.

Later on, you heard the Jarls of the north had joined the king and his men. It sickened you to no end that such filth was fighting on the same side, but by then you were just a war hero. You couldn't oppose the agreements made so far above your rank and blood.

But you were not alone in this fight.
And the Jarls are still alive and kicking.
Which is a problem that needs to be dealt with.

Your bitter feud with the Jarls had attracted the attention of people who could make mountains change - the Royals themselves.
Apparently, the Jarls are in their fight, and potential threats to their plans. They need people who can force the Jarls away from weaker targets, and you fit the bill to a T, along with a few other war heroes who had battled the north.

Finally, it seems like the higher-ups are realizing just who the enemy really is.

Enemy: Earls
Starting Weapon: Lance/Polearm

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22 / F
Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/11/13

Repeat after me: I don't understand anything about alchemy.
That's pretty much what you'd tell anyone who thought they knew even a bit of chemistry and had the audacity to mix the two branches.

Alchemy and Chemistry are just two roommates who barely tolerate each other.
To master one is to shun the other.

Alchemy, of course is the superior subject. While chemistry is all about the pursuit of understanding, alchemy is the pursuit of applying it; while chemists worry about the electron diagram of carbon, you're turning carbon into a potent, destructive force.
Turning things into gold is a fairy tale that can't stop chasing its own tail. That's another thing you'd often tell the ignorant nobles looking for quick money.
Turning things into better things that kill people is well within your abilities, however, and that you have no trouble selling.

The alchemists, the right hand of all military commanders.
No war is battled on solid steel swords alone and it's no wonder you became a key player in the royal battle.

Which is to be expected, of course. There's plenty of alchemists out there, and plenty of lesser folk too.
But you're not them. And they don't own a castle like you do either.
Nor do you owe any loyalty to commanders or captains - your skills are far too valuable for those lesser folk.

No sir, only a royal or emperor could hope to recruit you.
Luckily, several of them tried and only one succeeded.

Alchemists are the golden dream of all the common folk. Your blood didn't define who you would end up being.
But still, alchemy isn't for the weak, and the common folk know a pipe dream when they see it.

Enemy: Monks
Starting Weapon: Poisoned Dagger, Vial with poison, Health Potion ( Heals all wounds once)
Skills: Hidden


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22 / F
Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/11/13


What happens if you mix a noble with a tournament?
A knight of course.

You are an ordained knight, commander of a prestigious title, and all the affluence that comes with it.
And while you've learned to smile and wave at the crowd of commoners, you always feel a twinge of fear with every bout and every tournament. Unless you score well, the fate of your house lies in the balance.

Perhaps it's that fear that makes you better than the other knights.

You see, your house isn't exactly the richest.
You barely have any land, and what land you do have is being rented by only a handful of commoners, hardly the income you need to keep up appearances.

Many houses that are in this predicament have simply stopped showing their faces in the court and city. Not you, however.
You were tired of living in your rotting mansion, your decaying family.
All the family jewels had already been sold off, just to pay off debts and problems.
The income you got was enough to afford only one serving lady, who would work hard to keep the house cleaned and meals served.

It was hardly becoming of a noble, let alone you.
As you grew in your family, you realized at a young age they were contemplating just selling off the mansion and moving into the king's palace, at the cost of their vote. It wasn't official on paper, of course. But if the king allowed you to live as a guest in the palace, it would hardly be good manners to vote for anything he disapproved of.

Your family would simply become one with the machine, and there would be no return from such a place. It was known what happened to noble families such as that.

So you saved your coins, gained from swindling commoners, fighting off thieves, and thieving yourself. All behind the back of your family. What would they ever think of you, if they knew you ran a group of bandits around the hills?
And when you had enough money, and were old enough, you said your goodbyes and left your family stupefied as you ran to the capital city.

There you spent your life's saving, buying armor, a horse, and as good and honest of a weapon as you could get.
The first day you slept on a rooftop, clutching your items. The second day, you slept in the stables, right after buying your horse.

And the third day you slept in the king's palace, having been crowned a champion of the tournament.
It was easy, with all your skills gained from looting and fighting.
On two feet, you were unbeatable.
Jousting was the difficult part, but you were used to horseback. Wagon horses would often get good coin, so you'd bring them back with you.

In comparison, your opponents were in the tournament simply because they were bored. Only nobles could enter tournaments, and the ones here had more then enough to support themselves. They only saw this as entertainment, a way to kill time.

"Haha, jolly good strike lad!"
One had even grinned and patted your shoulder after the jousting match.
Armor wasn't even dented, though yours was heavily bruised.
Not because you got hit more then he did.
He simply had the best armor made for the tournament, as did all of them.
It was almost insulting how casually they would take on this tournament. As if it were a sport.

Not a single one felt any pain, or winced at any blows.
Fat cats, sitting on horses or playing soldier with dull swords.
To you, this was the only way you could make it out in this world.

Your parents were overjoyed when you sent them half your winnings.
And from that day on, you were a knight of the ring, a prisoner of the battle.
Of all your contestants, the tournament always ended with three other knights, just as good as you.

Together, you made a true band of brothers and sisters.
Each having similar reasons to fight, and each fighting just as fearlessly for the gold. Behind the arena, behind all the bars and betting you'd do against one another, you knew in your heart, these knights were the closest thing you had to friends in this world.

And then there was the commander. During one of your tournaments, you caught the commander's eye. That person saw more in you then any of the nobles ever saw.
Potential, integrity, a reason to fight other than sport.
You gave the tournaments your all and the commander noticed.

Quickly and almost overnight, you joined the army's ranks, as an honorary member, and loyal guard to the General - likely the only mentor figure in your entire life.
That was years ago. Today, the battle for the Royal Crown is waged, and you've vowed to make sure your General makes it through alive.

Enemy: Alchemists
Starting Weapon: Sword/Axe/Hammer&Shield


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22 / F
Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/12/13


You are from the north.
Viking, Hero, Jarl. All names that lead to the same person - you.

And the north has fallen since the first king of the north sat on his throne and the last king of the north ripped it apart (both of which were the same person, and only a few weeks in between). It's remained a god-forsaken, snow-filled landscape, where people don't survive off the land, but off one another.

Vikings were a noble profession in your culture.
A village would band together, the old and young putting every last log and wood towards building a ship, weapons and structure.

That ship would sail out, bearing the name of the village, destined for other villages in the southlands, where the land was wet and green and filled with honey.
The villagers would take what they could, fight bloodily and greedily, and return home to feed their families and wives.

The worse that could happen was the destruction of the ship. Then the village would simply disperse, since it's only source of life was sunk far off into the waters.
Some villages which had prospered because of a strong Viking ship usually had more than one ship to their names, handed down from generation to generation.

And these ships were led by one captain.
A Jarl, they would call that captain. A leader of several tribes, villages and towns, commanding a fleet of ships, each lovingly crafted and built for one destiny.
And you would be just that.

You raided the south in fury, bringing in more money and wealth to the mainland than anyone, you've seen your family grow and your sons and daughters grow proud. You've even gotten yourself wives (or husbands) taken from the southlands, as your due pay. Not even the King of the Sheep could stop you.

But you realized how the north was slowly dying. Lawless, villages sacking one another instead of the southland. The south was bleeding, and it would soon no longer support the north.

A king was needed again. In history, one man had stood up, and banded all the Jarls together. At the moment of his triumph, he claimed himself King of the North.
Then, as the south desperately mustered its army in fear and dread, the king went insane.
Tore down his own kingdom, and that was it for the north. The south won that war without lifting a single sword.

Hopelessly, you carried this thought with you throughout your exploits, until one person stood in your way. No more than 12 years old, looking at you with hard-set blue eyes - the eyes of the north.

A northern born, so far from the motherland.
And then you heard the greatest thing you've ever heard and even your jaded heart could not help but hope for your motherland.
"I am one of the royals in training. In one year I will surpass all the other children and become a true royal in waiting for the crown. Then, when I'm 20, I will fight two others, and I will win the throne of the south. From there, I will declare it part of the north, and I will take the glory we were due, but lost because of the late king's madness."

So honest, standing before you, with the town burning around, and your raiders surrounding the child. No fear. Just quiet, cold determination, as if no other response was expected than what you were about to do.
You drew your sword, aimed it high at the heavens, then at the child's throat. And slashed it into the ground, swearing fealty to the new king of the north, in front of all the raiders you commanded.

And while your charge is young, the plot and scheme is well-planned and intricate. And most of all, you believe he will win.
You signed an accordance with the south's king - an order from your new liege. You joined their ranks, and in return, the north was supplied with enough to live on. Not the greatest of treaties, but that wasn't the point. You and your soldiers needed to live on, until your charge was of age, where all your fury and might would be most needed.

In service to the king, you kept your real allegiance secret.
All your men and women know the score, all are loyal till the end.
No one may know that the royal you serve is a child of the north, not until it is too late for any of them to save their southlands. The deepest of all conspiracies, you and the other three Jarls serve the secret eye of the north.

Still, there are many who resent the north, even if you serve 'loyally' to the King. Foremost among those are the so called War Heroes. Those who battled against your raiders, and quite successfully too. These bands were known as the South's Bite, and four of their greatest leaders are in this city now.

You've no doubt they will be trouble now. The same way you nip at the guildmasters, the war heros will certainly be nipping at your feet.

Enemy: Knights
Starting Weapon: Double Swords, Double Axes


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22 / F
Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/11/13


Around five years ago, you remember sitting behind your desk, observing the shiny silver badge in your hand. Mint and completely virgin, it was yet to be worn by anyone or anything.

The sigil of your regiment, along with all your captains under your command. Chosen by you a long time ago, and designed by some artist who's probably living in the slums, albeit a tiny bit richer.
Commander-Captain, Regiment of 500 under your head.

Now, you sit behind a much bigger desk, clutching a gold badge.
Older, wiser, and still just as clueless about the bigger scheme of things.
They stopped calling you Commander-Captain after a year.
A year after that, even Commanders were nodding their heads in your direction when you walked by.
A few months ago, the title became official.

And now, you might even become Supreme Commander.

"We're going to put you on easy street. Promote you." they said.
"Great room, great respect, you'll have parades in your honor."
"We're going to glorify your exploits!"
"You'll raise war bonds, give speeches, and not have to lift a thumb other than to stamp the papers we ask you to to stamp every now and then."
"Yes, yes! It's a great life, all you've got to do is be our pal. Tell all your friends what a great job we're doing! Say nice things about us."

Pleasantries were shared, but it became obvious you weren't a churl.
No, you were clever, and knew when your soul was about to be sold.

"Oh for god's sake, don't you understand? We're going to come out of this war rich! "
You're going to come out rich, we're going to come out dead!
"Just take the badge, and sign these papers Commander, the bank is ready to follow behind and pull the right strings for you."

Supreme commander. The chair stands empty. Likely the supreme commander forgot who was pulling his strings. What do you do with a dog that bites it's owner's hand? You put it down. Body found floating in the docks.

You wonder if your turn will come up next. There are only 3 other commanders in the realm's domain that are worth any salt. All the rest are just primped up nobles who have never understood anything about war other than the fairy tales of glory and being "bold" like Commander Kelith.

Maybe Kelith was bold, sure. But that was 10% of it.
The other 90% was meticulous logistics and strategy, on top of dumb luck and frantic prayers that things would go well.
All terms likely completely erased from their vocabulary by now.

Not to mention, you suspect Kelith had his achievements... glorified.
The same way that's being offered to you.

Of course, if you became the supreme commander, you could make sure that the realm would never fall.
But what's the price you'd have to pay?
And what happens if you don't pay that price?
Body found floating in the docks.

You shudder slightly and wonder just what will happen in the future.
You bet it all with your Royal. If they won, you could be supreme commander, without any strings attached.
But then again, what happens if you die? Could you rely on the other commanders to keep invaders out of this realm?
Or what happens if your royal dies, do you honestly expect these men to play nice after you've so adamantly refused their kind proposal?

You gulp as you watch them leave the room.
Body found floating in the docks.

Enemy: War Heroes
Starting Weapon: Long sword, Horse (+30 Speed)


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22 / F
Posted 2/11/13 , edited 2/11/13


The Monks were always a group that had a lot of influence in the realm, both towards the people and the nobles. The common folk was close to the temples and their monks, to pray for good fortune, especially during times of war, while the nobles were often interested in, and funded by, the temples' riches and treasures.

And thus, many families who couldn't provide for their children due to poverty, sent them to such temples, to be trained into Monks, messengers of the Gods, warriors of light, who hone their mind and body. Despite their spirituality and their belief in peace, Monks are formidable warriors, having trained their bodies since they were young.

Not only that, but after studying the human body and years of meditation, they have learned how to control their chi, their life force or Inner Energy to heal wounds or improve the skills of their allies.

As such, their position was very important, until the Supreme Commander of 20 years ago, who was wary both towards the military force that were the monks of the temples and their riches, managed to exercise his influence and marginalize them, even fabricating a scandal. From that point, the Monks, while still respected by the common people, have lost much of their wealth and their influence in the court, and they still hold a grudge about it.

Enemy: Commanders
Starting Weapons: Staff, Steel Fists
Skills: Hidden
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