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 Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 10:45 pm
Arkwright City “You overcomplicate things,” Esther Arkwright told her brother with a hint of a smile. She leaned on the back of his chair just so, obscuring his vision with her copper locks. This was taken with surprising patience, especially considering the empty Council chamber. “The Council has seen clearly. I don’t get why-” “The Council,” Isaiah told her icily, pushing her hair off his face, “has been listening to you too much. I know you like to see this in black or white, but it’s not that simple. The people have legitimate concerns, and the Council has legitimate reasons, and pretending one or the other isn’t true is a great way to make trouble.” Esther casually pushed off the chair. “If you say so. The people aren’t that bright, Isaiah, but hey, you’re the Chairman, not me.” She smirked as she walked away, toying with ideas. He really did overcomplicate things. She wouldn’t make that mistake. Isaiah watched her go, frustrated, tired, and under more stress than he had ever imagined. Esther’s casual destruction of the peace was frustrating. He wanted to love her. She was his sister. By her own hand it had become impossible. No trustworthiness could be ascribed her, and anything she had said, which was quite a lot, could not be trusted either. The Council wasn’t listening, the people weren’t listening. What would it take to get someone to listen? Was there something he was missing here? Esther couldn’t be trusted to tell him. There was, however, another option... --- “A task force?” Gerard Langley asked. “That’s the best he’s gonna do?” “I don’t think the Council is the main goal with this,” Jonathan Mason mused, playing with the ring on his right hand. “I think he’s hunting for a root cause, like this one. Trying to flush you out, if you understand.” “I suppose it’s possible. Either way, we need somebody on that. Not uh, on a fix, if you understand,” Gerard added. “Somebody on the team. Just one. Just enough to figure out what they’re up to, just enough to turn ‘em in the wrong direction, you know?” He shrugged. “Is one enough?” Michael Irwin spoke up. “What if they need to just take down the team?” “Then they call in another team,” Valentina Zolnerowich observed quietly, adjusting her glasses. “Much simpler that way. I think I know who you want, Gerard.” “I trust you,” he responded. “Make it happen. Meeting adjourned.” --- “He’s dead.” Johnson started at that. “Isaiah is dead?” Steven Johnson asked, disappointment evident in his voice. “Not sure yet. He’s missing for now,” the officer observed. “But in his office... well, there’s enough blood for two men his size. If he’s not dead, he will be soon.” “Who did this?” Steven asked. He was fifty-two, edging on way too old for something like this. Fly fighters for twelve years, play desk-jockey general for another six, then military advisor for the Arkwrights, and now this? Yeah, most men his age would still be working, but he was feeling a bit tired of it. “That’s the thing. There’s nothing on them. No fingerprints, no hair, no fabric from clothing. No forced doors, no nothing. No footprints in the blood, just... nothing.” Steven sighed. “Then why are you coming to me? I’m not a detective, spent most of my life getting shot at.” “Before he went, Isaiah was putting together some... investigators. You knew about that, right?” the officer asked. “Yeah, I knew,” Steven shrugged. “Well, we found something in his office. A letter.” The officer drew it from his jacket and handed it to Steven, who unfolded it and began reading. “It talks about the team he was putting together, and why. We don’t understand all of it, but you worked more with him, so-” “I’ll do it,” Steven snapped, quickly folding the letter and jamming it into his pocket. “I owe him that much.”
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 10:48 pm
A Brief History of Arkwright City The year is 1942. The world is consumed by a world war that leaves no corner of the planet untouched. Even the greatest strongholds suffer from the endless bombing campaigns and the ever-changing frontlines. Only one place is truly safe: Arkwright City.In 1924, Elijah Arkwright, at the time one of the most notable rising minds in the Free Nation of Arranolur, began discussing with his peers what he described as the end of the world. He declared with confidence that the world would see catastrophic war within the next six to eight years, citing economic trends and political tensions. Many people did not take him particularly seriously when he made this declaration; the scientific minds around him, however, saw the pattern emerging as well and stood by him. Elijah declared that the only way to reach safety was to take to the sky. Permanently.This was, of course, unthinkable. There was no engine great enough to provide the power, nor was there a propellor or rotor that could lift anything of this size. There were even questions about whether or not it could be made without collapsing upon itself. Could humans breath so high up? No one was sure. Elijah was not prepared to wait on any of this. First his people build a massive nuclear reactor, larger than any that had been before constructed, and possibly the first truly reliable source of nuclear power. Around this was built a massive frame, and within the frame massive ducted fans. Above this was built an entire urban center, an infrastructure, an entire city. In the course of two years Elijah Arkwright and his engineers built the first flying city. At about twenty thousand inhabitants, the city was bare, empty, and without burden as it made its maiden flight into the sky. The people on the land below laughed to themselves; Arkwright and his men had thrown their lives away over a fairy tale. Four years later the first bombs fell. Two days after that, Arkwright City repelled the first air assault. What had so recently been a joke was suddenly a beacon of hope to the people, and a threatening castle in the sky to the nations. Arkwright City opened its doors to six million carefully chosen immigrants, then cut the flow to a trickle. Their city populated with what Elijah described as the best minds and bodies of the century, Arkwright City sailed off into the sky, free from the horrors of war below. Elijah organized a Council of twelve men and a Chairman, all elected by the people. Elijah was selected as Chairman by popular vote, and he set about ruling his city, making sure all in it was orderly and safe. Under his command, Arkwright City ran just as he had envisioned, and the people saw fit to re-elect him every term; this peace, however, was not to last. Twelve years after his election, he died quietly of leukemia. An election was naturally held early so as to replace him; his son, Isaiah Arkwright, won a plurality of votes and was instated as Chairman.Instantly, the peace exploded. The people accused the Council (and Elijah) of rigging the election, some claiming that they had done it to instate a dynasty, while others proclaimed it a power grab by the Council via instating a weak Chairman. The Council promptly declared that the populace had clearly been infiltrated by hostile spies who were attempting to create insurrections and instability and ordered to the police to attempt to find and crack down on these spies. Isaiah was not prepared or experienced enough to know he had the power to stop it, and by the time he learned it was too late. Violent skirmishes broke out between police forces who were attempting to arrest suspected spies and angry citizens who were resisting the tyranny of the Council. Isaiah tried negotiating between the two, but the Council was firm and the people were angry. He proposed deals, but the Council rejected them as too lenient on the spies in the populace and the people rejected them as totalitarian schemes. For four years Isaiah tried to convince one side or the other to make concessions without luck, and all the while every man’s faith in his ability to lead waned. Finally Isaiah decided he had to put his foot down and see that the peace was established. A task force was put together to investigate the root causes of the instability, filled with members from all walks of life - private investigators, corporate managers, blue-collar workers, lawyers, soldiers, a group varied enough that none could claim a bias - and given this singular task. Before they could be deployed, however, Isaiah Arkwright disappeared from his office, leaving no evidence but a great deal of blood. His sister, Esther, honored what she could discover of his will: A command to the task force to investigate his death, signed with a Bible passage: ”Hearts of the fathers to their children, hearts of the children to their fathers.”The history shall be expanded upon when there is history to expand it with.
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 10:53 pm
A Brief Description of Arkwright City Arkwright City is more than simply a flying city; it is the penultimate city as far as wealth, design, and infrastructure are concerned. From above, the city is nearly perfectly circular, and is about 19.5 miles in diameter; in profile, it's an oval with many, many buildings sitting atop it. The city consists of two distinct portions: The Underground and The Skyward. The Underground The Underground contains most of the guts of the city - the sewers, the wiring, the water, the reactor, the propellers that keep the city flying - all of those things. Much of the Underground is simply sewers and supports that hold up the skyscrapers above, but near the center and towards the bottom is the Belly, which contains the reactor and the water purifiers, and is the mounting point for the massive ducted fans (collectively called the Main Engine) that support the city. The Belly, towards the edge, also contains the Balancing Engines, relatively medium-sized fans that do less heavy lifting but more balancing. The Belly is sealed to the general public for the safety of the city and is often guarded. The rest of the Underground is legendary for its sensible, linear public areas, and its impossibly complicated and maze-like inner workings. People have been known to get lost in the winding passageways, and although most eventually find their way out, some have disappeared entirely. It is also a well-known fact that criminals make dens in those twisting pathways, dens the police are rather afraid to try and sniff out. As mentioned, most who enter find their way out, but many of those who have disappeared were searching for these very hideouts. The Underground is not fully capable of infinitely sustaining itself or the city above, but the Belly occasionally receives traders via large transport aircraft, and the city dips down to the ocean every month or two to dump waste water and collect water to desalinate and reuse. The Skyward The Skyward is where most people spend most of their time, seeing as it is most of the city-part of the city. Consisting mostly of skyscrapers adapted to various purposes, the Skyward is an urban jungle of the thickest sort, filled near to the brim with people. The Underground is shaped in a rather rounded-disc fashion, leaving the central portions of the city slightly higher than the others, and the buildings towards the outer edges tend to be shorter anyway. The Skyward is also exposed to many of the fans involved in the Minor Engine, which help pull up on certain parts of the Underground and consequently provide structural stability. The Skyward is divided into four ring-like districts. The central-most is the smallest (at less than half a mile in diameter), is known as the Key, and is the seat of power, the highest point on the city, and home to City Hall, the single tallest (and most glassy and reflective) building in the city (by several stories) and the home of the Council (both their offices and their housing are located in City Hall). The Key and City Hall are isolated from the surrounding districts by a massive intake for the Main Engine called the Gap, which amounts to a donut-shaped chunk of the superstructure left open with a few foot bridges to the Key (and a few further down in the Underground.) The Key also serves as the nexus for the City Monorail System (also know as the Rail). Eight spokes (each with multiple rails) emerge from City Hall and cross the Gap, then fan out into various other routes, all running well above the streets, allowing transportation to most anywhere in the city. The Rail is a free public service, and it prevents the need for motor vehicles aboard the city. Around the Key is the Ring, the commercial district of the City. It is likewise filled with skyscrapers of varying heights, most of them towering over the outer districts. Corporations and businessmen work and occasionally live here, filling the streets with important-looking men carrying briefcases. Indeed, good hats and briefcases are easy ways to identify when you are in the Ring. The Ring has been, historically, nearly free of criminal activity, but in the chaos surrounding Elijah's death, the police have had less and less capability to deal with ever-growing crime, to the point that some parts of the Ring are completely under mob control. Beyond that is the Sunlight District, the industrial and agricultural core of the city. Basic hydroponics and extremely compact farming take place here on one side of the district, while the other side is filled with factories and refineries. This is where most of the food and materials for the ongoing survival of the city come from, and is therefore arguably the most important part. Like the Ring, the Sunlight District is historically not one prone to crime, but the police's power is focused elsewhere, so smaller-time criminals often make their hideouts here or in the Underground beneath this district. Finally there is the Edge, filled largely with housing in shorter and shorter buildings. Those who can’t afford to put themselves in the center of the city live here in apartment complexes or tenements (the design of Arkwright City allows for no single-family housing). The Edge is also home to the only airport aboard Arkwright City, which accepts trade via aircraft and simultaneously serves as a military airbase. The Edge is surprisingly clean, as it's completely free of any gang activity and criminals tend to have other hiding places. There are still parts you wouldn't want to walk at night, though. There is one final unofficial district, referred to as the Hanging Gardens. Arkwright City is filled to the brim and yet still accepts the occasional immigration wave. Those who can’t find places to live aboard the city are often forced to build their own; with almost no space left on top of the city, the houses are instead built on the side of the Underground, hanging over the abyss. A surprisingly small number of people are killed by the relatively low-safety housing, but these hive-like complexes (often referred to as Hives, in fact) are the “bad part,” of the city, serving as hiding places for criminals and breeding grounds for thugs and gangs. The police love to show up here and give the locals trouble, deserved or otherwise.
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 10:58 pm
A Brief Word on Life and Factions Aboard the City Arkwright, as one of the few cities with any semblance of peace remaining, is perhaps the last ideal city around. Shining skyscrapers, clean streets, the beautiful greenery all around the city - all of this is key to the city's image. The average citizen gets up on his average day, gets on the Rail for an average commute, goes to his average job, works his average hours, goes back to his average family, eats his average dinner, and returns to his average bed, unless he goes to his average nightclub to listen to average jazz and do some average dancing. His average kid goes to their average school, does his average homework, then spends his average night at the average movie theater. Everything is just as it should be - a bustling daylife and a rowdy nightlife. Then you take the time to look a little deeper, and the beautiful ideal falls apart. Arkwright City is massively polarized. The tension is not obvious in the sunnier parts of the city, but the political situation is tense to say the least. Many of the older people, especially those who weren't raised aboard the city, support the Council and the police actions it has taken. Most of these people believe there are spies aboard; those who don't simply believe the Council has the right and is better than any immediately available alternative. Conversely, the youth mostly stand against the Council, as well as the blue-collar workers, especially those in the industrial sections of the Sunlight District. There are a massive variety of sentiments expressed by those opposed to the Council, enough so that there's no identifiable leadership or actual organization; nonetheless, there is near unity in one belief: The Council has overstepped their bounds. Not everyone really cares either way, though. There's one more important group aboard the city: the Syndicates. Arkwright City is a massively popular place - it may be under continuous tension, but it's not under continuous bombing, which makes it better than any other city. Unfortunately, the City carefully limits its immigration, so the large majority of people can't get in. At least, not the legal way. Human trafficking is a huge business, run almost entirely out of the Underground (and often through the hangars in the Belly), and the various criminal syndicates involved in it have been growing in power, especially after Elijah's death. The police, far too tied up in other places, have had limited success in beating the syndicates back, let alone removing them. These mob lords couldn't care less who's in charge so long as no one gives them any trouble with their various illegal activities. Being unaligned with any of these is either a sign of a new immigrant or a sign of foolishness, as far as the city is concerned. These stigmas follow the undecided until they decide whose side they're on; anyone who ultimately refuses is pushed under the rug or removed from the city by some other 'coincidence'. There are some who live permanently in the Underground who have maintained neutrality, but only in the hidden depths of the city is it even possible. It is worth noting, then, that there are members from the task-force aligned with all three parties. This seems to have been a deliberate choice on Isaiah's part; he evidently wanted it to be impossible to accuse the group of favoritism, and selected his people accordingly.
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 10:59 pm
A Brief Word on the World and the Cutting Edge The year is, as mentioned, 1942, but the world is not what you might expect, coming from the world of the player. First off, it’s not Earth. The various nations have their various names for the planet - Mutterboden, Terra Magna, The Great Mother - but it is certainly not the familiar seven continents and seven seas of Earth, nor the familiar eight to nine planets and stars in the sky. If you’re not sure how the geography works, make it up. The only major powers you definitely need to know about are as follows: The Free State of Arranolur, the state of origin for Arkwright, well-known for being a democratic republic and its rather benevolent upper-class plutocracy; the Ositi Iriyan Confederacy, ally to Arranolur, notable for its technocracy and low regard for the value of human life (but high regard for skills, inherent or gained) and its highly advanced technology; the Urskotir Tsardom, a massive but unindustrialized nation under the Tsar’s iron fist, often reviled for its habit of invading people, and oft mocked for its inability to feed many of its own people; and the Arraclans Clannate, a large island nation with an unbelievably deadly array of fauna and flora, which breeds men tougher than rhinos and women stronger than bears. Second, it hasn’t followed Earth’s development. There are some suspicious parallels and indeed some things stolen outright from our Earth, but it’s definitely not the same. The differences are hard to describe in total, but the general feel we're seeking for is dieselpunk. As a dieselpunk tale goes, ours is fairly mundane - no magic, no rampant miracle tech; this world is simply further along. For the aesthetics of the city, we might look to the '30s or the '40s, at least for Arranolur - the metallic decorations, simple curves, and all things as we might see back then. In other parts of the city, though, we might see more industrial design, worn-down brick buildings, broken glass. The Underground is bare and utilitarian, containing mazes of pipes and wires with the occasionally gout of steam, often wet and unpleasant. If you want weapons of war, you need only watch a war movie set in the Second World War. The rifle, bolt-action or semi-automatic, is standard issue, the tank rules the open ground; still, mechanization is much easier and much greater, and air power an even more significant element of a war. Even the average infantryman (outside of the Tsardom, anyway) will spend less of his time marching and more of it riding in a half-track or an airplane. Zeppelins are not an uncommon sight, but they're extravagant things for extravagant people and all the more rare as the war grows longer. In the air, though, you'll almost certainly see tilt-rotor aircraft; everything modern and larger than interceptors (and even some interceptors) are equipped with this cutting edge technology. Indeed, anywhere you go you'll see swarms of aircraft, civilian and military, half of them flying straight ahead and the rest pretending at being helicopters. Mid-air refueling, too, has had major consequences for air travel - any aircraft can stay aloft indefinitely if it can be supplied with fuel in this way, and many companies and nations operate airborne gas stations, large cargo aircraft with massive fuel tanks and more than one pump for docking aircraft. On a more mundane level, the movie theater is the place to go for the youth (if it's not been bombed), there's a radio in every house (where you can hear about invasions before they happen), and every phone is still wired to the wall (assuming the wires haven't been cut). Though you won't see any aboard Arkwright City, the average car runs faster, farther, more reliably, and more efficiently than ever before. That goes double for motorcycles, probably the most popular vehicle for the up and coming young man. Medical science is more reliable and its results more successful (also ever more expensive), the average lifespan is higher (for death by natural causes, anyway), and in many ways the world is (or rather was) great. When inventing a character, then, keep in mind all of this as context, and remember that this is merely the surface. The differences are too deeply rooted for me to merely list them; instead, you're given the opportunity to imply them. Make the best of it.
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 11:00 pm
Citizenship Records: How To Register Everyone on Arkwright City has a personal record somewhere in City Hall. Nearly everyone, anyway. You certainly do, since you surely are an upright citizen. Right? Right. Be sure to PM your profiles to me under any title. I’ll let you know as soon as possible if you’re in, and if you’re not, I’ll try to help you fix whatever the problem is. When submitting your Citizenship Record, keep in mind the Golden Rule: If you can justify it to me, you can do it. You must, of course, justify in context of the world around you, but if you can manage it, make it happen! [b]Name[/b] - If you can justify a name to me, you can put it here. No other requirements.
[b]Age[/b] - Managing children would be difficult, so there’s a lower cap at about fourteen years of age. Still, remember the Golden Rule.
[b]Gender[/b] - Sadly, this is not a world wherein there is an Other.
[b]Physical[/b] - A brief (or long, I don’t care) physical description of your character. Ideally they can be envisioned by this description. I would recommend including something about their manner of dress, and more importantly summing any distinguishing features.
[b]Background[/b] - You may sum up your history here. If you’re inclined to keep secrets, lie wildly, or if you don’t want to reveal all, don’t include it - BUT remember the Golden Rule, and that your secrets might not fly.
[b]Skills[/b] - Most people on Arkwright City aren’t manual laborers. Sure, they’re there, but if you were a manual laborer, you wouldn’t be on an investigative task force assembled by the Chairman. What do you do? What don’t you do? What’s your job, what’s your hobby, are you talented at something? Give us a picture.
[b]Goals[/b] - Surely you want something. Maybe you want to try and get rich. Or maybe someone wronged you in the past and you want to get revenge. Maybe you’re an idealist and you just want to see peace on the city. Whatever it is, it’ll be relevant to your character and our overall plot sooner or later, so let us in on it! (Keep in mind with Skills and Goals that you can keep secrets as relevant to your background, but keep in mind that Golden Rule again, and that I’ll be ready to nix anything I don’t think is justified.)
[b]Tableau[/b] - This is the place to have some fun. Give a scene of your character in action, whatever that means. Whether that is negotiating a contract, investigating a crime, fighting a police officer, or even just relaxing at a pool, it doesn’t really matter. Paint a scene and show us how they act, how they speak, what they do and how. Show off quirks, if you like. Give us some extra flavor.
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 11:02 pm
Task Force Members Mr. Blackbird Lore Name - Camilla Enos Age - 28 Gender - Female Physical - Camilla's skin has been tanned vigorously by the merciless sun and pulled taut over the steely muscles forged in the deadly inferno that is Arraclan Island. She stands a couple inches shy of six feet. While clearly on the unattractive side of muscular, she lacks the revolting mass of a bodybuilder. Broad shoulders and hips make her appear nothing short of a warrior, born and bred (and some would argue that's rightly the case). A pair of B-cups appear all the more dismal on her wide build, registering as no more than minor blips in her shadow. If her mocha skin was parchment, her left arm was a memoir written in flesh by a man-eating plant: all along its length are scars, some darker, some lighter. At the crest of the shoulder the monster's John Hancock is prominently displayed, scrawled in wildly undulating script, a mountain range of gnarled scar tissue amidst smoothly rolling skin. When not in (and despising) blue blouse and black skirt comprising her uniform, Camilla tends toward practicality and plain clothing. Camilla's black hair has astoundingly soldiered through the conditions of her earlier life and retains its smooth and loose behavior. Her hazel eyes are bland, but always carry a serious intensity, even in casual situations. Background - Camilla was born in Enos, an unsophisticated village where the most technical pieces of machinery were the three hunting rifles. Born into a culture of pragmatism, she found herself treated equally with the boys in all regards; that she began to exceed them in skills deemed masculine by most societies was embraced and even encouraged. They could not bet their survival against sexism. And so it was that as Camilla displayed proficiency with a fishing net, machete, and rifle she was taken into the tutelage of the village's hunters and fishers at the age of eight. The fight for life was more than daily, it was constant; it steeled her nerves, quickened her reflexes, heightened her senses, and sharpened her wit. Every day became the same ritual, hunting to further the lives of her clan. It would have gone on indefinitely if it were not for traders- even the war was incapable of affecting her isolated hometown. The traders came offering tools, but their news of the outside world interested her far more. A man who built a flying city? Camilla knew much of modern life- of cities, cars, and the like- but this latest piece something far more than that. It was... It was like a story come true, a book come to life. She had to be there. At the age of sixteen she departed Enos for the greatest Arraclan metropolis- the Clannates do not possess a capital- Roanak. There she learned the language of Arkwright and applied her prior skills as a hunter to the military. For four years she tracked and hunted men amidst what could only be the lengthiest stalemate in the history of war. It was the first time Camilla realized the outside world was not all she had hope. When she returned to Roanak, age 20, she put in her application to Arkwright City and was promptly accepted. Her wildest dreams having come true, the glamor quickly faded. It was the second time the world managed to disappoint her. What had been touted as a bastion of security and a beacon of hope was just more of the same corruption and stupidity she had discovered in her enemies. The difference was that before it had been seen as through a telescope on a hazy night: she learned it secondhand from the distortion of men's words and the false mannerisms they exploited. In the floating realm she was confronted by it openly and blatantly. That anyone could be so selfish and conceited was simply beyond her comprehension; that a city could run rampant with such behavior led her to a reclusive lifestyle. Her opinions were harsh, developed through such a narrow scope of experience. They seeped first into her attitude, then her work, and eventually her 'casual' conversations began to sound like a judge issuing a capital punishment sentence- to everyone. During her first four years she served among the paramilitary. As the Council's behavior worsened- and the people were further provoked- Camilla came to a crossroads: continue on her path and become that which she despised, or shift careers and seek some sign that this beautiful city could be salvaged. Ever a hopeful person, she opted for the latter and became an infamous internal affairs liaison with zero tolerance for bullshit. It was during these latest four years of work that the Arraclan really began to beat people silly with her opinions (and bare hands, when she felt it necessary). Two months ago she was let off for going "too hard"- code for beating someone senseless- on the nephew of a Councilman. She remained jobless until the summons to the taskforce, keeping mostly to herself and venturing out only when necessary. Arkwright was a beautiful place, but the People insisted on thrashing mindlessly in their own muck like a blind orphan; meanwhile the Council sat in the corner, quaking in fear at all the ruckus, and lashing out when the People got close, but equally blind to the cause. It is Camilla's hope that this latest venture will bring things around for good. Skills - Tracking: if there are footprints in the dirt, or a paper trail to follow, Camilla can and will find her prey. Conversely, she is quite skilled at hiding and maintaining a low profile; Blade play: Her time as a hunter, fisher, and soldier have honed her skills with sharp weapons- in particular, the machete; General conflict: she's been through fistfights and gunfights, wrestled with animals twice her size, and tussled with man-eating flora. To say she's got the experience to handle any situation might just be the understatement of the year; Reading: Her only real hobby. Ever since she picked up her first book at the age of sixteen, Camilla has been unable to stop. They have everything! Tutorials, information, even entertainment! She often wonders how she had lived without them (the answer is: very carefully); Bilingual. Goals - Learn (via literature); Eliminate corruption; Reclaim peace; Kill the Council (maybe). Tableau Freddy Carson sat alone and anxiously awaiting what he had quaintly dubbed his Impending Doom. It- more specifically, the Deliverer of his Impending Doom- wore the perfectly maintained uniform of an Officer, declaring their imminent arrival with a staccato rhythm echoing through the hallways that would put a metronome to shame. Every step seemed planned to the finest minutiae, every sway of the hips preordained, every swing of the arms calculated to the millionth of a degree. In fact, everything about Carson's Impending Doom and its deliverance were predetermined: the time, the location, the messenger- all were arranged like a symphonic orchestra with keen precision. It was time for the Ode to Carson's End to begin. The door to the interrogation room opened on the first beat and closed with the fourth. The second measure was almost all rests as the exotic woman took her place at the opposite side of the table. She was all business, her uniform primly pressed, her hair in a tight bun, expression stern, and machete glinting by her thigh. Machete!?!"Frederick Carson!" "Y-yes ma'am!" "Did you go deaf?" "No ma'am." I was just REALLY distracted by your ******** machete!"Very well, then let's begin." Camilla Enos began, but Freddy wasn't listening. He was too busy ruminating on the rumors of Camilla the Clannate- the title used here derisively, to evoke the barbaric stereotype of her people. The rumors weren't pretty. She was the definition of hardass, and had a history as a cold-blooded killer. She spent a stint as a soldier before coming to Arkwright. The word was more deaths were owed to that machete than all the stockpiles of weaponry in Arkwright. Of course that had to be exaggeration of lore, but it wasn't hard for Freddy to believe when it was right ******** there glaring at him, cold steel reflecting his stupid and scared visage. "Frederick Carson!" "Yes ma'am!" "Very well, then. Let's start with why." Oh right. This was an interrogation. Could have fooled Freddy, what with the freshly sharpened machete and the warrior-woman hidden in the skirt suit. She was supposedly present to ask him about the woman he had struck (and killed, he refused to remind himself) out of anger. The fact that it wasn't his first time was being used by the public as evidence that it was a gender-driven hate crime. That she wasn't even eighteen yet only put him in darker light. "Clearly I don't have your attention," Camilla announced, slamming her scarred left hand on the table. Freddy's eyes trailed up her arm, wondering just what sort of horror could have left such a gratuitous wound. That must have been the intent- and indeed it was- because she reached to her sleeve, and hitched it over her shoulder to reveal the worst of it. He visibly cringed and gawked simultaneously. "You want to know how this happened?" He nodded, dumbstruck. "Where I come from, there are plants that will eat a man twice your size whole just because he looked the wrong way while walking home with his dinner. I made that mistake and it nearly cost me my arm... my life." Camilla flattened out the sleeve. "Want to know what else?" Another dumbfounded nod. "Where I come from, men who kill their own people are whipped for every year they've been alive. Only, we don't play nice like the Tsar's men. What do they do to traitors, hm? They give them fifty lashes, torture them for information, and then execute them." Camilla the Clannate shook her head. "Child's play. Our whips have nine tails, each of them steel-studded. Just think, Frederick: if you lived in my village, you'd be whipped twenty-two times for this crime." Freddy covered his mouth at this, his eyes wide, frightened of the idea. "But it doesn't stop there. We can't abide a murderer in our midst, but he also owes us for all the work he won't be doing. So we get all the hunters together, get the guns and the spears, and then throw the murderer into the ocean. That's salt water, Frederick, and it's certainly not going to feel like aloe on those ragged wounds." Freddy Carson is shaking his head, mortified, wanting nothing more to do with this story. "I'm not done, Frederick. Now all that blood in the water is going to attract company. Some crabs and a few shallow feeders, sure, but what we want- what we need is something else. We're waiting for the big one: the cull shark. Sometimes it takes an hour, but usually it's three or four. In any case, one of them catches a whiff of this fresh meal in the water and rushes to the shallows. And while it makes its meal of the bait, we make the kill." Camilla stepped away to let Freddy soak all that in. There weren't words to accurately articulate his sheer fear. He told Camilla everything, and when he was done, he told her about the first two victims. When he was done with that, he rambled on. Freddy talked about his mother, his rocky history of relationships, anything that came to mind gushed out of his mouth without hesitation. As she stepped from the interrogation room, one of the men in the surveillance room stepped out too. "Geezus, that's one wicked story, Enos. I gotta ask... Is it true? They do that sorta thing on Arraclan?" Camilla merely quirked an eyebrow and strode off, heels picking up the beat that the investigator had interrupted. Without looking back, she answered, "I couldn't invent a story if my life depended on it."
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 11:04 pm
A Brief Directory of Important NPCs Feel free to include these in your profile generation, still recalling the Golden Rule. Feel free to generate more of these in profile generation under the same restriction. Elijah Arkwright - Dead - 71,M - Founder and lead engineer of Arkwright City, which was named for him. Saw the impending war and escaped via his City. First Councilman. Died of leukemia in mid-late 1940. Isaiah Arkwright - MIA - 30,M - Son of Elijah Arkwright. Infamously a slacker before his father's death; unexpectedly elected as Chairman afterwards. Attempted to broker peace but lacked the experience and was met with stone walls. Went missing from his office a week ago and is likely dead. Esther Arkwright - Alive and Well - 26,F - Daughter of Elijah Arkwright. Infamously manipulative, rather vain and arrogant, and far too heavily involved in Arkwright City politics for anyone's good. Also far too familiar with the Council for anyone's good. Steven Johnson - Alive and Okay - 52,M - Ex-Arranolur Air Force general, former fighter pilot. Military adviser for the Council. Getting too old for this s**t. Doesn't do much besides advise and bother his daughter. Gregory Waffles - Alive and Annoyed - 37,M - Chief of Police aboard Arkwright City. Annoyed at just about everyone he works with or against. Historically not a man of great conviction in any particular direction; despite this, he's historically a man of great competency. Council Members - Alive and Bothersome - Varying - The various elected members of the Council. Outlined as encountered in-game or in profiles. Mostly upper-crust folk, and often old and crotchety. To be expanded upon as major NPCs are encountered or outlined.
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Posted: Mon May 28, 2012 11:13 pm
Held because I'm still a filthy wanker.
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