OIKEUS VAPAUS VASTUU
JUSTICE, LIBERTY, RESPONSIBILITY
rebellion in the Altalusian countryside
JUSTICE, LIBERTY, RESPONSIBILITY
rebellion in the Altalusian countryside
PREAMBLE
In the countryside, the marshes and the fields in the outskirts of Altalusia, temperance relents. The lords skirmish, caught in a deadlock over shifting borders, unable to negotiate. Men-at-arms, bored from sitting around in the mud and the cold forts, stranded but never far from another battle, grow restless and take it out on whatever and whoever they fancy. What is peace to a man who might never see it again, what is a slight worth when one’s very life is disposable, fodder in the ranks?
While the warring lot camp out in the fallows and the woods, the smallfolk provide as they always have — working the lands they do not own, opening their granaries to whom neither built or maintained them, dying for a war effort they do not benefit from. Terrorized by both enemy and ally, flimsy relations forged by lines that only men can see. Many have gone and fled. The woods stir and houses grow abandoned. They take folk to trial without evidence, give them a spear instead of the court martial’s favourite noose, claiming a life all the same. This stands, for we are at war.
For how long?
Justice is promised, but not delivered — will there ever be any, once the fighting is over? Will the claimants live? What of those who should’ve pillaged and lied — will they walk? What of the high and mighty who assumed the power to promise anything at all?
Spring is approaching, but how will the hungry sow, when boots trample the fields and swords turn the soil black with blood? When another hillfort yet rises, splintering the horizon that used to billow with but the tops of trees, stealing away more able and skilled hands from what needs doing. When the animals flee from way of armies and deserters that form bands in the woods, not stupid enough to seek return to their homes. Submit to a wretched life, but life none the less — more certain yet, than the alternative. For as the days stretch on, so does the shadow of dread that grows larger by every elapsing minute.
It’s getting late. Are they coming?
Dark is the night that descends with tales of the war geists, beings more feeling than flesh encased in armour whose mortality is debatable at best and doubtful at worst. In the cold, voices travel far and further yet, the revenants with their blades. Solitary spawns of war, they haunt the battlefields and thenon the roads in search of more, shambling on, twisted and stubborn as aged trees. A pale morning breaks and heavy hangs the mist that by noon fades, bound to reveal a yet another horror.
One of these days. Who’ll lose then? What does it matter to whom had nothing to begin with?
This will not stand.
PREMISE
North Ilica, Altalusian countryside
Local populace has grown tired and angry, worn down by another Winter and years worth of instability due warring Barons. Conflict of Borders and Birthright, dare we say even Principle and Honour? Who gives a Shit?
Not who looks ahead at another Spring, starving or worse, dreading the day that the Lords rouse from their Castles and Camps to start their battles anew. Around large tables, the plans have been drawn and riders scout the roads, waiting for thaw.
That is now. But though all waited, None stayed idle. Rife is the crisp air with whispers, so lend an ear — What calls to arms, unbidden? An invitation to challenge all orders, to march and to act under what has no banner. No flag, just cause.
Rebellion.
WITH WHOM DO YOU STAND?
There aren’t just two sides to this, never is. But we’ll all choose one.
The Peasants wish to go back to their farms and trades, laying claim to the lands they have turned from swamps to homes and fields. Independence, a life in peace and dignity free from who would but dine on another’s hard work, taking it for granted. Shouts turn to cudgels, threatening the camps and hillfort yet in construction, calling for both to be broken down. The armies will vacate the vicinity of villages, or suffer consequences.
As wind brings tale of this, growing louder, the Marsh Lords broker for hasty peace with one another. It’ll be an uneasy, fickle alliance, but one that should unite their individual camps to a larger force with many a seasoned sword. Meanwhile, as they bicker on, their opponents already march, leaving their humble huts to level demands to their faces.
The Lords’ callous reputation grants them no great Faith in how any negotiation shall go.
WANT IN?
Peasants, Nobles, Men-at-Arms, Artisans, Jesters, Travelers both Posh and Humble, Courtiers, Chevaliers, Historians, Magicians, Innocent Bystanders!
Whoever you are, there is a place for you. Name it and we'll make it happen, within the confines of the plot. Though it may sound large, we'll remain relatively confined to the Altalusian countryside, a comfortable distant from Crown's Hold.
The story will run for several threads, stage by stage as the conflict and politics therein develop. A list of them and summaries of each plot point will be listed down below (incl. currently involved characters), for everyone's tracking convenience. Though most of them will be DMed by the plot runner, there is space for people to make their own spin-offs within the premise, as long as their scale is limited. No actual battles or major character deaths are permitted out of bounds.
DM kris on discord or post below as for who you’d like to involve and for what possible position.
THREAD LIST
The Plot events Thus Far and Upcoming
STAGE I
Pieces settle on the Board.
The Plot events Thus Far and Upcoming
STAGE I
Pieces settle on the Board.
The man at Breakleg Castle
(Iivo Koskela & Trevor)
One of the peasant leaders, Iivo Koskela, is being held prisoner at Castle Murtohovi. He gets company.
a Bannerless Gaggle
(Camp Grennfelt & Ser Gregoryan Archambeau)
A lodge deep in the Grenns simmers with past weeks' new arrivals. One of them is about to earn himself quite the attention.
Friendship, Perchance
(Camp Rodhan & House Tourmalet)
Baron Rodhan's second son, Aukust Rodhan, takes it upon himself to meet with House Tourmalet on the road.
Loud descends the Storm
(Baron Hvithelm & Camp Lekander, Moina Iasis, Isambard Netherwisp)
Baron Lekander and company return to Hillfort Camp. Nothing is as it ought be.
Venture forth, Young Dawn
(Knights of Anathaeum, Pursuant Oliver with Sworn Knights Willard, Hector, Euphemia & Farren)
A scout makes a break for it.
None to point
In the thus far awfully peaceful Lekander Barony, trouble stirs
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
List expands as we go on. Allegiances may and will swift.
PEASANTS
Currently assembling, No Kings No Flags
List expands as we go on. Allegiances may and will swift.
PEASANTS
Currently assembling, No Kings No Flags
Frej Henriksson
One of the two notable Figureheads amongst the rural folk. Keeps his force scattered about the shelter of the Lords’ forests, which they poach without abandon. More concerned with driving the Marsh Lords out, than talking about it.
Iivo Koskela
Second Figurehead. Currently in custody at Breakleg Castle, victim to an old fashioned trap under the guise of negotiation. The Barons Murtohovi have refused to let him out. He named no second in command, but it has been partly assumed by his sister, Silja.
Silja Koskela
Organizes safe passage through the countryside and distributes supplies to whomever, focusing mainly on refugees and deserters who may have joined the peasants’ cause. Though people look up to her in her brother’s absence, she detests being put on a pedestal.
Hector Rookheart
Knight Sworn of Anathaeum
Euphemia Martell
Knight Sworn of Anathaeum
Willard
Knight Sworn of Anathaeum
Farren Lóthlindor
Knight Sworn of Anathaeum
Venla Thiel
An independent healer, not a fighter nor rebel. Based at Arrowdale.
Ser Gregoryan Archambeau
Hedge Knight for the Peasants. Granted a squad of fighting folk by a benefactor who'd rather their colours be left unflown.
Cooberry Coobird The Third
Just a small pigeon, here to help! Messenger.
MARSH LORDS
Ermines, Spurs, Cocks and a Gate
Baron Hvithelm
First party to the main Border dispute and, allegedly, the one who started it. He is twenty years junior to his main rival, with the pomp and daring of a man who has grown anxious about exiting the years of his prime without proper accomplishment. What better, than to finally expand and ‘take back’ what belongst to the vicious Ermine. The world to the bold and the cunning.
Coat of Arms & Banner: A white rampant ermine, with an orange drum strapped across its chest and sword in hand. Leaves of nettle frame it on both sides. Red and blue banner, with ermine tails.
Baron Rodhan
Second party to the main Border dispute, an older man with no fondness for bending over to who he considers his lessers. To him, this appears to be anyone short of the Queen herself, which makes the good Baron Hvithelm nothing more than ‘a mannerless little prick come knocking’. While he no longer partakes in battle and busywork of grinding down rivals and subjects beneath his heel, he has a host of offspring who will. All eager to prove themselves.
Coat of Arms & Banner: A rampant rabbit, with one armoured arm and spurs on its hindlegs. The ungauntleted paw holds a sunflower. Maroon rays on a gold base.
Baron Lekander
Considered an odd sort of bird — a reliable and savvy partner in battle, but unpredictable in a council chamber. She leads her own troops without exception in the vanguard, flying the flag all dressed in her signature suit of fluted armour with a fiery red plume on the helm, resembling a cockerel’s proud crest. Her men are fiercely loyal, as is she to them and her personal code of principles which reign supreme. Not even old political bonds are safe from her determination to hold onto them. More Heart than Reason.
Currently in camp Hvithelm, swayed to an allegiance by the man’s sister.
Coat of Arms & Banner: A silver cock with a small stone in its claws, posed over a gold fesse with a motif of upturned hammers that divides the lozenge shield in half. Gold stripe with black hammers on a white base.
Moina Iasis
Mercenary, Camp Lekander
Yaen
Healer, Camp Lekander
Isambard Netherwisp
A necroseer and scholar in residence, Camp Lekander
Barons Murtohovi
A triptych of siblings who rule in tandem, sequestered within their old castle on a rocky hilltop so nightmarish to traverse, the locals call it Breakleg Hill. In consequence, the impressive, tall towered keep is known as Breakleg Castle, to the Barons’ chagrin. It is a knowing insult, as the folk assume the Barons nothing more than unprincipled cowards whose allegiance is tied to naught else, but who they happen to be afraid of more. Currently, that honour belongs to Baron Rodhan.
Coat of Arms & Banner: A triangular mountain, with a closed gate at its center. A downturned, red chevron splits the shield in half.
Three triangles, overlaid by a red chevron, tapering out black stripes.
House Tourmalet
Lord Tourmalet has left his keep for the Marshes, assumed to harbour tentative allegiance with the Barons. His sister Lysanne Shard travels ahead of him with half their retinue, but to what end, remains uncertain.
UNALLIED
Baron Grennfelt
Keeper of a strategic position in the midst of a network of bridges in the deeper marshes (the Grenns) and under constant pressure for it. They are said to be harbouring deserters and other runaways in the shelter of the untraversable wetlands, which they have neither confirmed nor denied. They owe no one a word, let alone allegiance.
Coat of Arms & Banner: Two pikes, with their backs turned at one another. Gold oak leaves arch away from the center on a teal chief at the top of the crest. Red base, blending to teal waves.
Baron Rosthall
Appears a truly neutral party, lending hospitality to all and no actual support to anyone but herself and her own. This privilege has been granted to her by stockpiles of resources, provided by generational penchant for preparation and lands that have enjoyed bounty of both harvest and game for decades. Generous Lady of the Lakelands to those who love her, Mingy Old Hag to those who’d rather she pick a side.
Coat of Arms & Banner:
A golden rye sheaf in the middle of a green lozenge shield with red flanches. Two golden rhododendrons sit in the red fields, centered. Green with and ear of rye and gold quarterfoil.
Bands of DesertersNo leaders, no homes, no banners, no allegiance. Every man for himself.
For now.
Attachments
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and my historian there to scream about the follies of men of the past who are doomed to repeat le tragedies.
