Fantasy Hail the Victorious Dead [ALWAYS OPEN!]

[capMARVELOUS]

"Tonight we remember those who gave their blood to defend this country. Hail the victorious dead!"
--The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers--

The war between the Martyrs and the Crimson Battalion has raged on for nigh eighty years. No one is left to remember what exactly each side is fighting for. All anyone knows is that, supposedly, the Martyrs are the good guys and the Crimson Battalion are the bad guys.
Both sides have sustained heavy losses, but neither has achieved any significant victories in the campaign. Both armies are dwindling.
As a new year dawns on the realm, the Martyrs and the Crimson Battalion gather their few remaining forces for another clash. Will this be the one to decide the victor and finally end the war?

HAIL THE VICTORIOUS DEAD
Interest Group | Main Gameplay Thread | Character Factory | Chat Club

Welcome to Hail the Victorious Dead. Where mythology meets harsh mortality.
Sharpen your swords.
It's going to be a long campaign.

WHAT TO EXPECT:
Hail the Victorious Dead is an open-world, sandbox-esque roleplay with healthy amounts of survival and choose-your-own-adventure thrown into the mix. The setting itself is a mixture of the fantastical and unique characters of Lord of the Rings, and the moral ambiguity and brutal bloodshed of Game of Thrones. Throughout the course of the game, players can exchange tales around campfires, backstab teammates, murder children, and learn arcane forms of magic, all while on a military campaign to face off against the opposing faction.

HOW TO PLAY:
This section assumes that you've expressed interest in the Interest Group and made your character(s) in the Character Factory. If you have not done either of those, please do so.
Being a text-based roleplay, the events of Hail the Victorious Dead will proceed through- you guessed it- the players' text. Words are your controls, sentences your actions. Everything that your character does, says, thinks, and feels is described through your writing. It’s like writing a little bit of a narrative every time you post. You are playing the part of your character by writing about them.
Please begin each post by placing your character's name at the top. After that, write your character’s actions, speech, thoughts, feelings, etc. Many people prefer to write these in the third person, but some write in the first person. You are free to write in whichever person you feel comfortable with. If interacting with other players' characters, tag the player(s) of the characters at the bottom of your post, as shown below. This will make it easier for everyone to keep track of who's interacting with who.
( capMARVELOUS )
Repeat the process for each of your characters, if you have more than one.

OTHER ASSORTED RULES:
1.) All RPNation policies apply.
2.) Even in a world full of elemental manipulation and mythical creatures, logic still applies. I can't stress this enough.
3.) As characters, you can be as much of an asshole to other characters as you want, but as players, please be respectful to your fellow players.

TAKE LUCK, AND WEAR YOUR SEATBELT.​

 

[Khanmon]

A vision--

A tall gentleman, shaking hands with some armored general.
He passes a hefty pouch of gold to him, then nudges a younger man forward.
The younger man appears to be his son, and also appears to be a gift.
The general rests a hand on the boy's shoulder, and nods to the gentleman.

This general, from a time long past--

Roland's eyes opened, a gesture more symbolic than anything else, as he saw nothing. He exhaled slowly, and as he did so, his Blindsight began to materialize. He could see his room - the bamboo mat on which he currently meditated, the cot in the corner, the loveseat beside the dresser, and the sword stand for his silver blade. He couldn't see it with his eyes, but his mind. And the details were arguably clearer in this manner - sight came with the unfortunate byproduct of peripheral vision, one which Roland no longer suffered with.

He rose to his feet, procuring a long piece of cloth from his belt, and tied it around his head as a blindfold. He methodically walked to his sword stand, lifting the Tjin-Korai blade from its resting place, and fastening it to his belt, scabbard and all.

A knock at the door interrupted this daily routine. Roland turned his head slightly, almost whispering, "Yes?"
To that, a muffled voice from the hallway responded, "Ser Vismarth, Lieutenant Armitage requests your presence at the forward outpost, with haste."

As the response finished, the door swung open, bringing the anxious messenger face to face with a superior officer - Roland Vismarth, the Unseer, Echo of the Tjin-Korai, Warrant Officer of the Crimson Battalion. "Very well, then," Roland responded as he brushed past the man and proceeded downstairs, "seeing as you've already intruded upon my meditations." The messenger followed behind, quickly trying to keep step with Roland, "Y-Yes, ser, but I thought I heard you getting ready, so I merely assumed you were preparing to leave anyway-" with that, Roland slowed to a stop. The messenger immediately felt a lump in his throat as he struggled to swallow. Crimson Battalion officers were not a kind breed.

Roland placed his hand on the messenger's shoulder, "Meditations do not always require closed eyes. Find your inner peace in routine - polishing your armor, applying oil to your blade, lighting incense or praying or reading. Meditation is giving your idle body a task to free your mind to think."

He turned and proceeded out the door, leaving behind the messenger, who was initially relieved that he wasn't disciplined by this officer. After a moment, he looked to the ground, seemingly deep in thought.



There was a light rain outside, pattering away on the tents and structures within the fort's walls as Roland strode through camp. If anything, the rain made the immediate surroundings easier to distinguish, as Roland quickly heard two soldiers pass nearby with a crate of armor, and sidestepped them accordingly. More long-distance details seemed to be lost in the white noise, however. Reaching the forward outpost, he ducked into the tent, soon met by Lieutenant Armitage. "Ah, and here you are." The man began, peering at the officer from his map. "The Martyrs are on the move again. It seems they're trying to rally support within the village of Drumleth, just southwest of here, across the Jhinto River." The lieutenant gingerly pointed to a mark on his map.

"Simply put, I want you to neutralize the commanding officer of this little contingent. Understood?"

Roland cocked his head to the side, and even with a blindfold across his eyes, Armitage could still sense the swordsman's furrowed brow. "Lieutenant, what do we gain from forcing them out of Drumleth? In my eyes, that would further alienate them from our cause," he paused a moment, "... whatever our cause is."

Armitage sighed, "In your eyes, Roland? I doubt we can trust that observation of yours, then. Simply do as I ask, alright? Much is riding on this campaign, and we are in desperate need of public support. Your assignment begins now; good luck, as always."

"It will be done."

 

[capMARVELOUS]

Halter Dorn
The Jhinto River Coast

The area about the Jhinto River was always usually marshy, but with the rainy season well underway, the distinction between river and riverbank blurred, and the landscape became a veritable swamp. And it was across this swamp that a small band of Martyrs trudged, heading for the narrowest point of the river that would take them over to the village of Drumleth. They were a ramshackle crew, with hardly anything uniform between them, save for the heavy packs that burdened the backs of infantryman and horse alike, and even those varied wildly in their contents.

Near the head of the pack trudged Halter Dorn, one of the few remaining senior infantrymen. A hand shadowed his brow as he peered through the drizzle and fog, trying to locate any landmarks that could indicate they were going in the right direction. So far, nothing. He swatted at a small swarm of midges, scattering them; he wiped his brow on his already-damp sleeve. He was not at all used to these conditions, having been born and raised in the plains region of Sjoland, but he didn't have to like them. He just had to put up with them until the Martyrs moved on to a new landscape.

Shifting his pack up higher on his shoulders, Dorn returned his hand to its spot over his eyebrows... and there. There it was, just on the edge of sight. The Black Post, an out-of-commission gallows that was now used to mark the point where the Jhinto River started to narrow. They were on the right track. He nudged the leg of his commanding officer, Salagar Jayel- The One-Handed, they called him- astride his muddy brown battlehorse, and pointed to the Black Post. In response, Officer Jayel reigned in his horse and held up his remaining fist, halting the procession. "We stop here," he growled loudly. "Get some rest, all of you. We continue at the end of an hour."

His declaration was met with some grumbling; some of the more superstitious Martyrs held the belief that the area about the Black Post was unlucky. For his part, Dorn was just happy to shed his pack and maybe change out of his soaked boots.

 

[Khanmon]

Another vision--

A lithe assassin, lurking in the shadows; high in the rafters.
The armored general coaches a much older boy, no longer an adolescent.
The assassin emerges from the darkness, met with steel and flame; he makes a desperate move.
He falls, casting a vial of poison, but alas, it strikes the wrong target.

The armored general turns to his ward, who frantically claws at his eyes as he writhes on the floor--


The rains from the north slowly transitioned into a mist so thick, that Roland could swear he was walking through water. Though much more elegant and free-flowing further east toward the Elderglade Mountains, the Jhinto River here was partially merged with the dense bog upon which Drumleth rested. The dirt path toward the village was muddied and viscous, and the blind swordsman made a point to stay in the wild grass beside it. Procuring a map from his pocket, Roland scanned the details with his blindsight, comparing it to his immediate surroundings.

"Ah," he whispered to himself, "the Black Post."

He took another step forward, but his foot never touched the ground. Instead, he froze in place for a moment, suddenly dropping to a deep crouch. Voices, by the gallows. A small force, perhaps a dozen men? A few dozen? It was hard to distinguish, even with heightened senses, but Roland recognized the speech patterns and jargon. These were Martyrs... but they were also exhausted Martyrs. Stealthing past them would not prove challenging, as they were currently preoccupied setting up camp, from the sounds of it.

Roland unwound a spool of tripwire from his belt, clipping it off in pieces, and using it to tie the lacquered plates of his Tjin-Korai armor to his arms and legs, reducing the inevitable clanking. He pulled his long traveling cloak taut, masking his sound and vaguely hiding his appearance. He set off, ducking below the gallows of the Black Post. He could feel the wind whistling through the waterlogged planks, and nimbly avoided any loose object or item as he crossed the river outpost.

Having crossed the Jhinto, Roland followed a tributary further south, which according to his map would lead him directly to Drumleth.


Not more than ten minutes later, Roland identified the distinctive churning of a watermill. He was close. The swordsman untied his blindfold, fashioning it into a scarf; after which he drew his fingers along his eyelids, conjuring a minor illusion, appearing to give him colored and visible eyes, as opposed to the usually haunting whites that greeted most people. This illusion would take great concentration, but should suffice while the swordsman searched for lodging. As he continued, he heard the mild bustling of villagers, though his blindsight was diminished in his elsewise focused state. He had reached Drumleth, and now he needed to make preparations to find the Martyr's local officer.

He heard some drunkard stumble out of a nearby building, and as its door swung open, he was met with the dull roar of tavern ambiance. This place would do just fine.

Roland strode in, accidentally bumping into the same drunkard, but quickly turning to pat his back, "Apologies, man." He proceeded to the counter, where the tavern's owner stood, preoccupied with cleaning out a mug. "Excuse me, friend," Roland began, using a thicker and more confident voice than his usual one, "I have been long out on the road, and need a room for the night. Think you could oblige?" The owner merely gave him a glance, to which Roland responded by placing a pouch of coins on the counter. Two of them spilled from the pouch, lightly clattering. They were silver coins, common currency, but more intriguing... they were clean, nigh polished.


"Hmph, where'd you get silvers like that, lad?" The man mused.

"Aye, a fine question. Privateering out on the Baltha Sea, mostly. Hauling, protecting cargo. Made a small profit back in those days, but that's long behind me."

"Truly? My cousin, Deorg, privateered out there as well. I pray you didn't run with that nasty Kypwe band, did ye?"

Sounds familiar... well, it's worth a shot, Roland thought to himself, before replying in his disguised voice:
"Nasty band? Hah! You're related to auld Deorg Kypwe, then? Well, I suppose we're kin without even knowing it! I'll be - 'tis a small world!"

A sudden clap startled some nearby patrons as Roland and the tavern owner shook hands. Shortly thereafter, the owner took the two coins that had slipped out of Roland's pouch, exclaiming, "This is payment enough, my friend. Consider it a discount for all the seafaring stories my old friend used to tell me!" Roland smiled, pocketing his coinpurse, receiving his room key from the man, and proceeding upstairs to prepare for the night.

As soon as he closed his door, he dropped the illusion, restoring his eyes to their usual state, and allowed his innate blindsight to return. The headache he experienced from concentrating so long began to fade. He removed his cloak, and set to work.

 

[Slav]

Elwin Sarqen

Elwin noticed a mysterious man enter the tavern. He seemed familiar but he couldn't figure out who he was. He studied him for a moment then went back to sipping his coffee. The coffee tasted like trash but what do you expect from a place like this. He sat in a dark corner of the tavern, resting as he finally had some downtime from helping the Crimson Battalion. Elwin resided here today because he was traveling around for more work. Usually he was able to find work but right now, he was not occupied. The man went up stairs probably to sleep. That's good idea but Elwin just couldn't sleep. He had too many things on his mind.

If that man is here, something is probably gonna go down is this area. He continued to sip on his coffee til he realized the cup was empty. He asked the waiter for another round of coffee. Elwin ignored the drunks, who were making fun of his ears. No use to waste energy on a drunk. Alcohol poisons the mind, there just too dumb to know it. Elwin started to think about the man again. What kinda work is this man doing? he wondered. Elwin decided that in order to meet this man, he'd probably have to stay up to meet him. Elwin didn't mind though, he is used to going days without sleep. He just hoped that the mysterious man was a early riser, so he wouldn't have to wait many hours.