Date: Thu, 5 Nov 1998 )
My fellow players and GM;
Here is a completely optional story to get the ball rolling. :-)
My name is Gerry, although some of you only know me as [email protected]. Also, I have a cobweb site at www2.spindle.net/trexx. Some of you know me as a GM and fellow player, and I am looking forward to gaming with the rest of you as well as the ones I know.
With that said, I will step up to the plate and offer a round-robin story intro for the game. Anyone can join in if they wish. I have checked this out with Karen and it fits into the game as a supplement. I think this will be a good intro, it has both a physical challenge and a moral dilemma. It would also help to form alliances (at least superficially).
This little intro is set a few years before the current game, when Scion Louie (Pa to you and me) was still healthy enough to rule. Like the Zelazny books, I am writing this first person. However, I would like a chance to comment on the narrative with the experience of hindsight. So, I will intersperse the commentary with the comments of a third-person narrator, which could be Riddyl at a more mature age, one of his descendants, a court-appointed scribe, or someone else entirely. Out-Of-Character comments will be in parenthesis (OOC--like this :) )
"A Maturing Wine"
"In the final years of Scion Louis' reign, when the beloved ruler was capable of being a monarch in more than name, before the chaos and disarray a few years later, there was a festival throughout Ember to celebrate the Scion's birthday. During which, there was an incident that was a foreshadowing of the schisms to come, when blood opposed blood, and a family was rent asunder. One excellent source of information about this event was the journal of Riddyl, the (then) teen-aged son of the Scion, who was not only at the center of the trouble, but as no surprise, was also the cause of it.
From his journal entry of a few days later...,""I do not think it fair that Princes of Ember should suffer hangovers, hangovers are too common for such as us. It is only now that my physical wounds have healed and the hangover is gone that I feel like writing down how I have been wronged. And I will remind all of ~them~ of the mental bruising I have received decades from now, when ~they~ have forgotten, or think that I have...,
It was ~his~ birthday celebration, and I was envious of anyone whose birth had been celebrated. ~He~, my "beloved" father, had decreed that costumes and masks should be the theme of the festival. I chose a parody of the Scion, a patchwork caricature of mask and costume, the distinctive features of him distorted to the grotesque. Some had referred to my visage as a travesty of the monarch's countenance, so I chose this disguise to spite him, and to free myself of the mask of smiles and the cloak of meekness I had worn since I could remember anything. I half-hoped that someone would be shocked or offended, or, would laugh and agree with my assessment. But, beyond a few paling glances, I was left to myself.
Disappointed at the peasant's timidity, or their obtuseness, I sought to drown my sorrows in an inn of the commoners. One of my golden coins was enough to buy myself a week's worth of sorrows-drowning, a gasp from the assembled, and the faux-affection of several, weathered barmaids. I drank so much, I lost count. And then I drank enough to lose the ability to count. I felt like I had doubled the weight of my slight frame with peasant ale. Hours passed in a blurry numbness.
"A toast," cried out one gallant, dressed as a knight, "Long live the Scion." His toast was repeated enthusiastically around the bar.
An old man shook his head sadly, "Aye, but we know that will not be. The Scion will die soon. Perhaps we should toast his successor."
"To Caitlin," cried one.
"No, it is Gabrial Cygnus," cried another.
And then honest confusion broke out amongst the rabble. "Magnus Pao!"
"Or, ish it Missed," slurred one drunk.
"Myste," corrected his sober companion.
"Seyer, right?" asked a voice in the darkness.
"I did say her name right," the 'grammarian' snapped back. "Perhaps it is Simeon, then, there is no one else."
In costume, I turned my head to hear a denial, to have someone mention the name they had forgotten. I didn't hear it. I couldn't resist it, I had to say it, I had to know.
"Perhapz it ish Prince Riddyl," I offered, as best as the liquor would let me.
"The bastard?" said one man, dressed as an ox. I swore that I would tear off my mask and have him flogged.
"Who?" asked his companion, in all innocence, I would have ~him~ drawn and quartered.
"No, you are both wrong about Riddyl," said a young woman, stunning in ale-enhanced beauty. I looked at my defender. I would just ~have~ her. She was beautiful, dressed as a princess, or as much as her meager budget allowed. I would make her a princess in reality. I would kiss her, as soon as I could find a box to stand on.
"Riddyl cannot be a successor, he is but a whelp," she said with disdain. I almost choked on my ale. "Worse still, he is a half-breed, he could not further any line." A chorus of laughter crossed the bar in waves. To not further the line was to be only a waste of food and space in this day and age, especially for the monarchy.
My happiness changed from humiliation to white-hot anger. I wobbled up to the woman, and laid hands where a young man could catch a fatal case of...arrows.
"I could make you beg for the attempt, Mila---," I began to slobber sweet nothings into her ear.
My natural reflexes stopped her attempt at a slap, I smiled. Her experienced knee greatly threatened future extensions of the Riddyl dynasty, I gasped and, squeaking curses, fell back...
...into a line of huge strapping fellows, dressed as all of the forest animals you don't hunt alone. I straightened up and noticed several similarities amongst these fine fellows, a rather disagreeable expression, and a familiar resemblance to...,
"Our kinswoman, runt. You owe her a sincere apology," rasped the one dressed as a bear. It could have just as easily been a small mountain.
"Never, I will have her whipped, and her line dispossessed!" the mugs of courage in me spurring me into action. A casual sweep of his massive arm, and I was across the bar. There was a gasp as I got back up, my royal blood and heritage manifesting themselves. I tried not to show just how close to unconsciousness I really was; I only had some of the strength and power of my half-brethren, but my anger was giving me the energy to fight. I would fight them to the death, if I could. And those I couldn't kill, I would have slain the next day. A prince of Ember had been struck, and there was but one penalty I would accept.
There was a gasp around the entire inn, as I drew my sword, and prepared to meet the onrushing horde..."
(OOC--It is a costume party, for all I know, any PC could be there in costume. The PC's could ignore, watch, join in (either side), or anything that occurs to them. I think this encounter will help to define character morality, allegiances, and character. I look forward to hearing from you. You will notice that Riddyl can be a, well, --jerk. Do with it as you will. :) Gerry)
Caitlin stood up and removed her mask, one of a deer.
"Hold it!" she yells, using the practice field voice that anybody with arms training has developed. One of the clan facing off with Riddyl stops instantly, being a man who has trained with her for a long time.
She had been enjoying the festival away from the glitz and glitter that she hates, until Riddyl wandered into her inn. She was not happy with the disruption of her party, and particularly since it was her drunken and asinine sibling doing the disrupting. She moved forward to the front of the crowd, and took advantage of Riddyl's obvious drunkeness to knock his sword aside and face the crowd.
"That's enough for now. If this goes any further it could become a tragedy for a great many people. I'll take him home to sleep it off."
The Count, also there enjoying a 'real' party rather than a royal bore sponsored by prissy snobs, is amused by the disturbance. Still in costume, he waddles through his entourage of hanger-ons, and assumes his best "common" mannerism:
" 'ang on a minute. Let 'im fight it out. If he can take 'em, then he's got 'is father in 'im. Let's see if he can be Scion."
The Count thinks to himself, "If he does win, he could be a worthy contender to watch closely. And if he looses...well, that's one less heir as a possibility."
"Count, your amusement is not sufficient reason to put the lives of these people at risk, it is a festival, not a gladiatorial contest for your enjoyment. Drop the phony commoner act."
Caitlin scans the crowd, watching for anybody to get froggy, then turns to Riddyl and grabs for his arm to drag him out of there.
"Rey!" calls the bartender. Accustomed to the din, the skinny boy hears his father's voice and slips back to the bar.
"Yes, Pa?" Rey asks, placing the empty wine jugs on the serving counter.
"Go fetch the Sheriff and his men," Moh says. "Tell 'im that red-headed Coalie is drunk again. Run now. Quick!"
Glancing once at the standing Royals and the traders, Rey goes through the kitchen for the law. Moh, preparing for the probable, begins to pull down the bottle cupboard's wooden panels.
A lone figure in the corner of the bar---positioned just right so as to see the whole room, a common practice---sits with an undisguisable grace and dignity, even though in costume. The mask lowers ever so slightly to reveal, to any of those observant enough, an amused smile on Myste's lips. The mask quickly goes back in place and the smile disappears but for the sparkle in her eyes.
Did anybody notice her? This is the last place anyone would expect to see her, especially with such important dignitaries to entertain. She decides that no-one actually saw her and remains to see if the object of her interest will stay or leave.
Seyer has been watching the whole thing very quietly. She overhears the bartender telling his son to go get the Sheriff. She sees the boy go through the back door. Making her way through the crowd without being noticed, she goes through the side door of the bar and sees the boy running.
"Rey, stop!" she yells out. The boy turns around and sees a figure with a mask that looks like a blowfish. He starts to run again, but Seyer quickly removes the mask.
The boy looks again and says, "Hey, Seyer! I didn't know it was you."
She smiles and tells him, "That's the whole point." He asks her what she wants and she says, "I need a favor from you. I know you are going to the Sheriff. I don't want my brother getting into anymore trouble. He has had alot to drink and he isn't too aware of his actions."
The boy looks at her and says, "My father told me to go. If I don't, I'll really get in trouble."
Seyer looks at Rey then says, "Here's the deal. Give me just five minutes and I'll have my brother out of there. You go to the Sheriff and tell him whatever your Dad said except leave out my brother's name. Just say someone is causing a ruckus and leave it at that. Okay?"
Rey hesitates, then asks, "Okay. What do I get?"
Seyer looks at him and says, "I won't tell your father you've been sneaking out all of those whiskey bottles to your friends. Deal?"
Afraid, he hurriedly says "Deal," then runs off.
Seyer puts on her blowfish mask again and rushes back into the barroom. She sees that everyone is still there; Riddyl on the floor and dead weight. Caitlin is struggling to get him up. Seyer joins Caitlin's struggle, not revealing her true identity as yet.Although Rey intended to keep his deal with Seyer, the Sheriff and his men were around the corner and just down the street. It was only a minute until slowly resting his hand on the hilt of his katana, Magnus steps into the room, his guards taking positions directly to the sides of the main doorway out.
"I will assume that any and all involved in this...demonstration, are not really intending to start trouble this day? But instead, all here are merely putting up jest and merriment on this, my honored father's day of birth celebration."
A small smile lights his wizened face as he leans over towards one of the barmaids.
"Perhaps a round of drinks for everyone will help them see the wisdom of merriment today."
A gold coin with the visage of Roceki, flips over the heads of the room ....
Just as the coin reaches the bar and the last wooden shutter slams shut on the bottle cupboard, the room's occupants are stunned by the most brilliant light any could remember. A simultaneous thunder clap leaves several of the weaker clutching their bleeding ears and others vomiting.
"WHERE IS HE!!? WHERE IS THAT ABOMINATION OF A FAITHLESS, BASTARD SON THAT MOCKS HIS OWN FATHER'S NAME?!!!"
Without quite knowing how, everyone knew that Dworken, the King's Mage and closest friend had arrived. Several of the stronger stood dumbfounded as they watched matter transmute into the solid form of the mage in full rage. As the ether solidified, the form of the mage boiled and bubbled with Dworkens' features flowing like molten wax. The weaker fled into any escape available as men fainted, women ran and bowels loosened.
"WHERE IS RIDDYL?" Dworken bellows while his hands begin a complex pattern of movements. Suddenly a Trump deck appears in his hands and just as suddenly a single Trump card appears showing symbols of land, sea, flame, and phoenix arranged around the image of a red-headed boy with mis-matched eyes. Surprised as the few remaining members of the crowd were that they could recall so much of what happened so quickly, none could forget what happened next.
"THERE YOU ARE YOU SPOILED ROYAL SEED FESTERED IN THE TROUGH OF A COMMON WHORE!" Dworken says as he faces Ryddl. Dworken's features continue to transmogrify as he draws his writing hand back behind his head, then three feet farther back. He pauses, catching his breath, looks death upon the frozen figure of his Scion's son and whispers, "I cannot kill you, but I can mark you for all to see!"
Dworkin's fingers fly into a blur of pens, pencils, brushes and markers, descending upon the Trump, recasting it and the hapless Ryddl in the same instant. As suddenly as he appeared, Dworken disappears, leaving behind a stunned crowd and a loudly squealing piglet stumbling drunkenly around the feet of Caitlin, his sister, and someone in a blowfish mask.
As the squeals erupt from the small swine sitting on the floor of the bar, a young man enters the room, sword at his hip, and not in costume. He is easily recognizable as the youngest legitimate son of the king, Simeon. He stops, surveys the room, and speaks.
"Well, this makes my errand just that much easier. Cat, Mag, Seyer, I know it's you, you had your mask off outside; how do you think I knew you were in here? Anyway, our father, the King, is waiting for your arrival at the castle for the banquet tonight. You recall the fact that there is a state banquet tonight that Father wanted all of us to be at? I would hate to have to tell him you didn't love him enough to attend. By the way, have you seen that slacker Riddyl? For some reason, Father wants him there. And how about our mysterious sister, Miffed?"
Caitlin stares at Simeon, then looks down at the piglet. A snicker sneaks past her lips, then another, then suddenly she is laughing, uproariously! She leans back against the wall, holding her sides. Everytime she thinks she gets stopped, she looks at the pig and the surrounding animal costumes, and loses it again.
Finally she staggers toward the door, still laughing, turns briefly to wave goodbye to her drinking buddies, then heads up the street for the castle, still laughing.
The Count, his identity now betrayed, stands upright and removes his festive mask, revealing a countenance as young as any of the heirs. Watching Caitlin laugh her way out of the bar, he shakes his head in mock sadness.
"Oh, Caitlin. Among all of us with two faces on this festive day, it seems that yours goes much deeper... You do know how to spoil a party."
Grasping at an unseen pendant on a hidden necklace deep within the layers of his costume, the Count says "Riddyl, SCHANG!" Instantly, Riddyl is returned to his normal, albeit disoriented form. Snapping his fingers, two costumed servants from his traveling entourage run over and lift Riddyl to his unsteady feet.
The Count's saddened face turns into a wide grin. "Now, where were we... As an official royal ambassador on a diplomatic mission from the neighboring kingdom of Hichtenstein...", he exaggerates a bow and a roar of laughter comes from his party.
"... I feel it is in the best mutual interest of our bordering kingdoms," a pause and more snickers, " that we give the young lad an opportunity to demonstrate his worthiness as a blood-heir to the Scion... A DUEL!"
Before Magnus and the barkeep have time to respond, the Count holds up his hands in defense, "Not here, of course. And not at this time," this last said while waving a hand in front of Riddyl's blurry eyes. "Besides, I wouldn't want any of us to disappoint the Scion with our absence from the glorious banquet."
The Count grasps Riddyl around the shoulder and whispers in a serious tone, "Do you want to be a runt forever?"
"Who is great among you that will give us all a good show...err...ahem... give the heir a challenge to prove his mettle?"
"Who is great enough amongst you to fall for this obvious ploy?" Cygnus says walking up in a black/white lion mask.
"Still trying to get others to do that which you are not willing to do yourself?" he continues. "If you're so ready for a fight, then by all means challenge the boy, but see that the bloodshed is done on another day. I would not wish any sadness on Father's birth day."
The Count gives Cygnus a wink then turns and steps up onto a chair to get above the crowd.
"Once again, the proud siblings of the Scion muzzle their underprivileged, younger half-brother. I ask you people, do you not want to see if Riddyl is worthy to pump the blood of the Scion in his veins?!?!"
During this last part, the Count waves his hand behind his back, motioning to his entourage. Picking up the signal, they begin to slowly and quietly move about the bar, occasionally shouting "Yes!", "Prove him!", "Give us a duel!", "Show us he's worthy!", rallying the crowd. When mob mentality starts to take effect, the Count and his dispersed entourage prompt the crowd by chanting, "Riddyl! Riddyl! Riddyl! Riddyl!..."
Riddyl is in shock, perspectives constantly changing, world spinning, smells nauseating, .... is there a draft?
Unseen and unheard, the lone figure in the back utilizes the comotion to make an exit.
Cygnus throws a small cape around the Riddyl and gives him some advice. "Riddyl, I do believe the Count is challenging you. Take him on if you wish, but first I suggest you garb yourself".
He raises his hands as he walks towards the door, "Which reminds me I must away to get ready for the banquet."
"Me?" the Count replies. "Oh, no, no, no. I'm a diplomat, not a gladiator. I was referring to one of these animal clad warriors here."
Winding his way through the scattered persons, tables, chairs, benches and other items, Moh plants himself in front of the city's new Sheriff.
"Wait a minute 'ere. Are you going to let those gents continue to destroy my place? I pay me taxes that pay your salary. Do something!"
Magnus gently places a hand on Moh's shoulder."It looks to me, Moh, that nobody is attempting to destroy anything...EVERYONE HERE KNOWS THE KINGS EDICT, AND WOULDN'T WANT TO SPEND ANY TIME IN A CELL FOR DESTRUCTION OF ANY PROPERTY OR UNLAWFULL DUELLING. IF THE COUNT WISHES TO ISSUE A FORMAL CHALLENGE, AND THEN USE A CHAMPION TO CARRY IT OUT, HE CAN APPROACH HIS LAWFULL MAJESTY TO REQUEST IT OR SHOW JUST CAUSE TO ME FOR ANY SLIGHT DONE TO HIM, THAT DESERVES A DUEL. I am sure they ~all~ heard that, Moh."
Magnus turns his eyes on the Count."I wouldn't want any to assume they could go against the law, just to amuse themselves or the masses. This is the King's birthday, and I for one will not allow it to be tarnished by questionable behaviour. I can rely on you to HONOR this observation?"
A silent, and hidden, hand signal, snaps the watch to attention. They tense for action.
As Magnus speaks, a fully masked member of the crowd closest to Riddyl subtly reaches out a hand and gentle takes his wrist. The person smiles at him, eyes full of reassurance, and makes a very discrete gesture before Riddyl or anyone observant enough can do anything. The pair disappears before Magnus comes to a complete end with his speech.
Revised: January 16, 2001.
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