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Borderlands - History and Game Thread
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Montresor
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PostPosted: Mon Jan 21, 2008 12:51 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

TURN FIVE

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

Man’s great wars had stripped the earth bare, transformed most of it into a vast and impenetrable desert, and left few of the natural shelters and barriers against the predations and fury of nature’s all encompassing might. Rain fell infrequently and, when it did, it was as often something to be feared as something to be treasured. Storms were less common, though they were almost always terrible to behold, and murderous to be victim of. And yet, of all these horrors of nature, none could strike fear into the soul of the waste and its unloved inhabitants more so than a sand storm.

Where it had begun, none were certain. Wanderers would tell tales afterwards of how they had seen the first sands flicker of the Great Dust Storm, how they had managed to escape by the narrowest sliver, and of how a few gusts of sand had become akin to the wrath of God. It is of little importance where the actual storm began. Perhaps it was the coalescence of several smaller dust storms which whipped into a hellish fury, and thence found its way to the shelters of man.

The storm, at its height, ripped flesh from bone, tore whole crops of bloated grain into the sky, levelled copses of trees, or stripped cliff faces bare. We can only wonder at the death toll it inflicted. In the deepest deserts, where nomads cross in search of fresh water, or where a few oases harbour small settlements, the storm no doubt slaughtered men and women by the score. Many of those caught camping in the open were never able to find shelter soon enough to avoid their fates. For those few who died, and weren’t buried under mountains of sand, their skeletons were discovered, arms thrown about their faces, ineffectually warding off the holocaust.

Many shelters took extreme damage, and much that had been once gained in the waste was lost. A few, however, benefited by an influx of nomads into their settlements, desperate to escape the beast from the deserts.

It had been the greatest storm any could recall in living memory, and it had buried much of the remnants of man’s already vanishing history. Even in the aftermath, life would only become more challenging.

The rag-tag last survivors of the continent’s original inhabitants, The Patwa, had vanished into history in the Great Dust Storm. Stories emerged that they had been forced to retreat to lands far from their settlements to escape extinction from the sands, but I had not ever heard tales of their return.

[Game Effect – ALL SCROUNGING suffers a major penalty for the reminder of the month, due to much being buried in sand and debris. Other effects listed in individual reports]
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PostPosted: Tue Jan 22, 2008 1:49 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

TRANSMISSION BROADCAST ON FREQUENCY 150.6, DETECTED IN THE WAKE OF THE GREAT DUST STORM, AND REPEATED THREE TIMES PER DAY

### This is the Republican Union. The office of Colonel Artemis Benton, the elected head of civilisation, has issued this decree.

In light of the advent of the calamity known as the Great Dust Storm, all vassals of the RU are required to contribute material to the reconstruction of damaged areas in settlements under our direct governance. Failure to comply is treason.

Tithes shall be deducted from the major representatives of the Borderlands in a circuit fashion. These tithes shall be extracted at the end of the month. Three factions shall be contacted. Expected payment shall be fuel and scrap material. Failure to comply is treason.

Collusion with anti-RU conspirators, such as the NWUL, shall be dealt with harshly. Conspiracy against the state is treason.

Await further transmissions. ###
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PostPosted: Mon Jan 28, 2008 6:42 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

"And who is this 'Republican Union' brother Sassoon?" asked Father Yperite from behind his ancient desk.

Brother Sassoon sat at the chair rigidly, despite his massive obesity. The chair creaked in protest every time the priest moved. The head of Sanctus Spiritus occasionally glanced at him in annoyance, more so at the reason for being undeserving of the priest's patron saint than for his weight. "They are the remnants of an ancient government, Father."

Father Yperite sighed. "And would the Papal Court proclaim that they are the representatives of Imperium Romana?"

The fat brother shook his head slowly from side to side. "No Father, they would not."

"I do not recognise the Republican Union. They are merely beggars in the desert of vice. Inform the Sanctus Militans that the RU is not to enter our lands. If they request resources, like before, we will deny them."

"Yes, Father."
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"Oh of course," the Navigator said with faint mocking in his voice, "you have probably heard of House Praetus. We have a palace on Holy Terra. Like all powerful groups, we also have our enemies. Do you honestly think someone like you matters?" - A dissolute noble.
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PostPosted: Wed Jan 30, 2008 1:48 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Static

*Click*


To survivors of the holocaust of the Great War.

I, Lt Adler of The Liberation Salvation Front, am broadcasting this message on behalf of our esteemed leader, Grand Marshal A.R. Nevin. The broadcasts of the Republican Union have brought the existence of other factions to our attention, and thus The L.S.F would like to make itself known.

The Liberation Salvation Front is a strong community of peoples who survived the holocaust in the protection of large fallout shelters. We have access to technology predating the nuclear winter and are extremely proud of this. As such we are doing our utmost to rebuild a grand society to the way it was before the wars.

As such, we would like to open our borders to trade. We are in need of building materials for our efforts. If anyone has such materials in abundance, we would be glad to hear from you.

Also, we would be very glad to hear from other groups about their views towards our own and other factions, the RU in particular. To ignore politics is folly, as proven by our fore fathers.

Of particular interest to us are the groups surrounding the following coordinates;

X24
N22
C12

If your are situated near these coordinates, we ask you to send us a secure message, stating your location and political views, and what, if anything, you are willing to trade.

One final point we wish to make.

The Liberation Salvation Front will not stand for deliberate attacks or strong arm tactics against us. Any attempt at force against us will be met with extreme prejudice. Take this as a generous warning.

Lt Adler over and out.


*Click*
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PostPosted: Wed Jan 30, 2008 11:34 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

The camp was in a complete uproar over the RU's broadcast. Surviving in this death infested hell is hard enough, without having to worry about tithes or such nonsense. Immediately after the broadcast a runner had been dispatched to Antons position outside camp to deliver the news, Elone was awaiting a reply, it should arrive sometime soon, the broadcast was a few days ago. She had her hands full keppeing her lot under control, let alone the staff Anton left. Fortunately none have done anything too stupid yet, and are mostly full of idle threats. The worst being a few people lingering about the armoury.

A loud bang echoed about, Elone stood with a smoking barrell pointed in the air. “The next one who goes near my armoury without my permission will be strapped to a sheet of metal and left in the sun!” she yelled at the latest fool. Staring at her in fear, the interloper then ran away as fast as his legs could carry. Elone wasn't the person to cross, unless you had a death wish, or were just plain stupid.

She spent the rest of the day staring at her crudely drawn map, thinking hard at what to do next, growling in frustration she then gazed out the window. She could see some of the recent scroungings being dragged to the resource area, making a mental note to record what arrived.

Waking up with a start Elone looked out the window, the sun had fallen lower, taking a geuss she figured she had been out for an hour. Sighing heavily she glanced back at her papers, and quickly finished her plans for the week.

Wood creaked under her feet as she stood to go and issue the orders to the slacking people, who after her threat of a very painful event just huddled in small groups whispering amongst themselves, trying to avoid inviting her wrath.

While walking to a particular group she noticed someone dashing toward the command building, upon closer inspection it was the running she sent to Anton, she jogged over to cut him off.

“Whats your message?” She asked

Between laboured breaths the runner replied “He shares your view, however, he asks if we can afford such an action at this point, do we have enough manpower.”

Sighing heavily she replied “As much as I hate to admit it, he may just be right on that one.. anything else?”

“Well.. there is one more message, for your eyes only” the runner then handed over a piece of paper covered in Antons writing, before retreating to another area of the camp to rest.

Sitting back down in her chair in the command building, Elone read the note, as she walked to the radio room, another broadast could be heard.

“Shit.. whats with all the activity lately..” She sighed, then turning to face the layabout who was left in charge of monitoring the radio, she ordered

“Find another runner, and get them to relay this message to Anton, ill watch the radio until you return”
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PostPosted: Wed Feb 13, 2008 9:49 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

TURN SEVEN

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

On the Cults of the Wasteland,

The Rise of the Sanctus Spiritus,


A thousand cults ebbed and flowed after the Old War, tides of faith lapping at the eroded shores of man's mind. The Cloven Brotherhood, The Disciples of Nah-Sah, Children of the Oblivion, Devotees of the Blood Serpent, and a dozen more. The names still resonate, and some remain even today. Some are whispered about campfires, while the illimitable dark of the waste lurks ever at the fire’s edge. One of the cults whose name is unlikely to be forgotten for some time is the Church of the Sanctus Spiritus, the keepers of the blessed air.

Their faith was deemed by many as a profanity, a misguided perversion of a vanished church’s creed. An insidious falsehood which distorted the history of the apocalypse and spread ideas formed on the altar of untruth. Yet others saw them as the scions of a former age, the descendant’s of man’s greatest faith, and man’s greatest church. Wanderers flocked to them, broke bread with them, and heard their daily sermons. They offered protection, succour, guidance. They had already established their reputation as annihilators of the wicked and corrupt, and they had soon after established a reputation as benefactors of the poor and desperate.

What more had been added to their reputation when they baptised the weary soldiers of Captain Orson’s Soldiers of Valour? Captain Orson, a name which still features in tales of heroism in certain backwaters, was almost a myth himself while he still lived. His company of seasoned veterans had sold their services to dozens of bidders, and fought in numerous skirmishes and battles across the wastes. They had held fast at the Battle of Haunted Gorge, when the missiles of the Republican Union had obliterated almost all who stood with them. They had purged the Temple of Immaculate Enhancement, wiped out the deranged proponents of that faith and those who flocked to them for decrepit cybernetic appendages. Captain Orson had, in reality, died in one of their earliest engagements, though his name had always been kept by the company as a badge of honour. Despite every successive leader's own name, upon ascension to command, they were henceforward known as Captain Orson.

Much fighting and privation in the Great Northern Desert had reduced the company to less than thirty men. The Soldiers of Valour were tired, demoralised, and desperate for supplies when they stumbled upon Sanctus Specus, the home of the Sanctus Spiritus. They had only wanted a few supplies in exchange for the last of their fuel, though Father Yperite had offered them at least three times as much as they wished. Overwhelmed by the largesse of the mysterious priests of the order, the last of Captain Orson’s Soldiers of Valour asked to become members of the community. Baptised the following day, they pledged their great experience and exceptional equipment to the service of the brotherhood.

The news spread like the Great Dust Storm of just a few weeks before. Upon the tongue of near every wanderer in the region was the word that the great and celebrated heroes of Haunted Gorge had settled at last. The question was soon asked, how much greater must the Sanctus Spiritus be to warrant such favour?

[NB: Unrelated game effect - all PEOPLE growth will be doubled in TURN EIGHT to illustrate the influx of stragglers fearful of the emergence of another Great Dust Storm]
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PostPosted: Fri Feb 15, 2008 6:09 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

On the Cults of the Wasteland,

The Rise of the Sisters of Solace,


Contemporaries of the Sanctus Spiritus, and also located in the lands designated the Borderlands, the Sisterhood of Solace arose to prominence within the same period of turmoil and strife. The Sisters had slowly established a reputation amongst the wasteland for offering aid and medical assistance to those who sought it. Rumours circulated that they favoured the strong, and there were those few nomads who gave the commune a wide berth, claiming to have heard tales of men vanishing without trace after being given succour by the order. Tales, of course, can sometimes have no basis in fact, and the order remained popular with those who sought a faith to comfort them.


The Sisters were located in a region of the wastes notorious for bandits, murderers, thieves, slavers, and gun merchants. They had for some time managed to survive without open hostility against them. But when fame grows, so too does envy. Jras Nil's Marauders had been eyeing the growing settlements of the order, and biding their time for an opportune strike. Envy, of course, is no friend of patience, and Jras Nil’s raiders were infuriated when a struggling community joined the sisterhood. Thinking that easy supplies were soon going to vanish, the raiders struck with full force.

Jras Nil is not a name anyone but this historian recalls. From what little can be surmised of his band, they were cruel and tortuous slaughterers who robbed, slew, and sold the innocent into slavery. Jras Nil himself was arrogant, and believed himself inherently superior to all other waste dwellers. He had been accustomed to priviledge, and he had grown decadent. Evidently, he was also unwise. Their advance was heralded by the plumes of dust their dune raiders kicked up. Their vehicles were light and fast, and allowed platforms for gunners. Perhaps they would have won, had not the celebrated warrior of the order, Jaegar Atarax, been ready with his company to meet them. Within five minutes, the raiders were surrounded and overwhelmed, before they even knew they had been anticipated. A devastating enfilade of fire tore through the vehicles, slaying a half dozen. One dune raider exploded in a shower of flame and metal, incinerating its crew. The others were caught amongst the order’s faithful and, trying to fight and extricate themselves, they were annihilated.

Stories which passed around of the fury of the melee mention a group of sisters, armed only with pistols and elegant knives, leaping amongst the marauders, and carving them to pieces. Jras Nil himself died spurting blood from a half dozen wounds, vainly trying to hold together a ruptured jugular.

In less than five minutes, the raiders had been slaughtered. Not a man or a woman had fallen amongst the faithful of the Sisterhood. Word spread not only to those in the wastes seeking shelter that great warriors were to be found amongst the Sisters of Solace, but also there were tales heard by others in the region who had once felt the same envious lust of Jras Nil’s Marauders.. It was a certainty that the Sisterhood were to be safe, for sometime afterward, by the predations of thieves and slaughterers.
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PostPosted: Sun Feb 17, 2008 11:15 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

The Inheritors of Civilisation,

Part Five, the LSF


The Liberal Salvation Front, an organisation who, though certainly a front, were neither liberal, nor much interested in the salvation of others. Led by the charismatic militarist, Grand Marshal Nevin, they were the inheritors of some of the last technological and social vestiges of the 21st century. At some stage prior to their forced emergence to the waste, the LSF had become dominated by a fascist clique of hard-line soldiers and scientists. Well-equipped and exceptionally motivated, the men and women of the LSF began to establish a reputation for cunning and martial valour. Avoided by many of the waste nomads as exclusionists and xenophobes, the LSF nevertheless grew in power alike its contemporary competitors.

The first time that many of the waste dwellers had heard of this organisation, their name was being mentioned in association with the Scions of the Apocalypse. By some miracle of fate or, perhaps, misfortune, an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile silo had escaped destruction during the war. Discovered a five years before advance elements of the LSF became aware of it, the ICBM remained in the hands of the Scions of the Apocalypse. These deranged and dangerous fanatics had been tirelessly trying to arm and prepare the entire remaining payload of missiles for launch. Their central philosophy was that only the wickedest of mankind had been spared elimination in the Old War and, thus, it was their duty to eradicate the last traces of humanity.

Far to the East of the Republican Union’s stronghold, the Scions had possession of the silo, and were slowly preparing for the final oblivion. How they had avoided detection by the RU was a mystery, though many believed the RU too over-stretched to be able to consider stopping the Scions, if they even knew of their existence. Whether the cult could achieve its goal was, if anything, only a question of time. Of course, having been discovered by elements of the LSF, the question which soon superseded that fear was, would things be worse if the technological armies of the Liberal Salvation Front seized it from them?
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PostPosted: Sun Feb 17, 2008 11:35 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

The Paradise Project


Before the destruction wrought by the Old War, global corporations, royalty, and many of the independently wealthy withdrew from the increasingly depressing world of international politics and obligations, and sought refuge in a life of luxury and indulgence. Wealthy enough to finance the construction of a number of underground shelters, these groups began the Paradise Project.

Shelters were constructed in numerous locations in what was once known as the Western World, and they became retreats for the wealthy, who’s every whim and fancy would be catered to. The structures allowed for permanent residences, and many left the real world and fled underground long before the war forced others to do the same. Anything the client wanted would be satisfied in a Paradise shelter. Drugs were readily available. Every sexual fetish could be garnered, if only one had enough money. Though still governed by the moral and social laws of the day, the Paradise shelters were under investigation for becoming dens of enervated perversion. Each shelter was governed by a central figure – the Pleasure Master – who decided who would receive comfort, and who would provide it. Before any conclusions were made about the iniquities of the Paradise Project, the apocalypse happened, and nothing more was ever heard of them.

Nothing, that is, until a small group of followers of the Sanctus Spiritus came upon the open entrance of Paradise-7, in the northern Borderlands. Paradise-7 is the only shelter from the project which has ever been found. We must assume that the others were not as safe from holocaust as thought, and were destroyed or, otherwise, the other project shelters remain sealed, somewhere in the wastes. If so, I caution the overly curious to stay away. Paradise-7 has now entered the imagination of the waste nomads as a mythical hell – a place where people vanished, never to be seen again, and a place where, somewhere in the depths of the vast subterranean structure, something terrible dwelt.

Nonetheless, like Paradise-7, if another shelter is ever found, I have little doubt that greed shall prevail in the mind of man as it ever has. The shelters of the Paradise Project offered the best technology and equipment that was available. Alike great tombs of treasure, it would be best for the traveller to think them cursed, and steer far clear.
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PostPosted: Tue Feb 19, 2008 12:35 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

In the distance, snarls, howls, and yelps of scavenging dogs echoed off the brooding hills. The chill night air drew a shiver from Sister Marcella, and she wrapped her traveling cloak tighter. She cast her eyes towards the Abbatoir, where the dog farmers the Sisterhood traded with made their home. Mean, ugly people there, she thought. Why Mother Succour sent her with her corps of the Sisters of Mercy here was beyond her ken. These settlers were hard, Wastes-strong stock. There were no ill, infirm, or injured here. Yet the strong have their purpose as well.

Not withstanding, the Sisters of Mercy had arrived earlier in the day, and set up their infirmary tents and base camp. There was nary a sign of welcome from the dog farmers throughout the day, so the Sisters went about their business, as they have whenever they set camp in their travels throughout the Wastes. Yet, having a settlement so close with no contact was unusual. The Sisters were generally at least coolly welcomed whenever they came across a settlement, and had their work at treating those of the settlements cut out for them when they arrived. But such was not the case at this Abbatoir.

The Sisterhood was not unknown to these dog farmers. They had traded with each other for years, and appeals to have them become members of the Order had been offered in the past. But they had held strong to their independence. Mother Succour despaired upon hearing of their injuries whenever they fell under attack from those who scavenged off such small communities, knowing they refused the protection of the forces of the Sisterhood time and again. So on the morrow she herself was coming to appeal to the dog farmers to join the Sisterhood. And Marcella and her corps were there to show the dog farmers one of the benefits of belonging to the Order, and to offer a small measure of protection to the Holy Mother.

The howling of the wind combined with that of the dogs, blowing mournfully across the Wastes. Sister Marcella decided she needed comfort from her childhood. She found the Wastes too despairing this night.

Finding her bedroll, she reached for her personal belongings, seeking the one treasured heirloom her family handed down to her that the Order allowed her to keep upon her ascendance. She knew taking such a relic out was risky, in all her travels, she had never seen another. Like the mythical grand libraries of books of the past, such as hers had been burned for warmth in the days after the Great War. Why her family held on to the one she now owned, she did not know. But she was grateful for the comfort it brought her on nights such as these.

Making her way back to the fire, she sat down and slowly tuned the cat-gut strings of the rosewood guitar. Faded, barely legible on the head by the tuning pegs, the word Martin was just decipherable. Her fingers expertly depressing the strings on to the ebony fret board, the mellow chords infused the camp with peace, and the rest of the Sisters of Mercy came to the campfire to relax and unwind.

An hour or so passed with Marcella plucking and strumming various tunes on the guitar, with others humming or singing the ancient lyrics which held no real meaning to any of them, other than as a source of companionship and comfort. A scuffling sound was suddenly heard beyond the circle of the fire’s light. Instantly on alert, the Sisters looked in the direction of the sound. There, about halfway between the camp and the Abbatoir, the entire settlement had emerged to listen. The look on their faces made it clear that none, not one of them, had ever heard such a sound before. Mixed among them were fear, joy, puzzlement, and rapture. None moved to come closer. None spoke at all.

Marcella slightly moved her hand, beckoning them to come closer to the fire and listen. That seemed to break whatever hold the music had on them, and slowly turning around still without a word, the dog farmers made there way back to the Abbatoir. Marcella glanced at her companions. Most were leaving the fire and making their way to their bed rolls for the night. She sighed, and getting up from the fire tucked the guitar carefully away. Settling herself on the ground, she resigned herself to an uncomfortable night.

Mother Succour would arrive in the morning.
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PostPosted: Fri Mar 07, 2008 1:24 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

TURN EIGHT

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

On Slavery,

Today, slavery is an institution that is alive and well. The principal resource of the slave market are the weaker settlements, primarily of nomads, who are unable to defend themselves against aggressive traders. Yet, I had even heard it said that, only three years ago, the diminished remnants of a nuclear shelter far to the north were seized by slavers and sold en masse to the highest bidder. Women always seem to fetch the highest price in most markets, and children the lowest. Indeed, sometimes, if the slavers have not enough chains or cargo space, infants are left behind to fend for themselves. Such is the world we abide.

Few slavers today, however, evoke the same repulsion and fear as the the traders of Ma' Jass - the Bloated She-bitch of Fetter in the Northern Borderlands. Her 'hounds', as she called them - with no little cruel affection - would scour the wastes and plunder the weak to supply the demands of her buyers. Fetter itself had a vast amphitheatre, one half left for bloodsports; the other known as the Pit of Degradation, where some of the most attractive slaves were used for the amusement of the crowd, until they were totally spent and lifeless.

Ma' Jass was a creature of pure amorality, who created her own settlement founded on vice, hate, and greed. Long suspected to be an RU collaborator, it was perhaps little surprise that, some twenty years ago, the slavers of Ma Jass, and the people of the NWUL Collective were first mentioned together in opposition.

The story has faded into the dusty horizon of the waste now, yet, at the time, it achieved no small impact. So the tale goes, a group of desperate nomads, fleeing from the rapacity of Ma' Jass' slavers stumbled upon settlers and warriors of the NWUL. The NWUL, led by the visionary and determined engineer, Aiden Gale, had already gained a reputation for rugged survival and genius. When the nomads came upon them, they begged the NWUL to help them make a stand against the slavers slavering on their trail.

And thus, a small but brutal stand was made. A pitched battle erupted somewhere in a fetid swampland, on the site of an ancient battle ground of the Old War. The slavers, cunning and seasoned, began with the upper hand, coming on with murderous - near lustful - fury, and trying their savage best to close to a bloody melee with the nomads and the NWUL. Yet, they had not counted on the trump card of the NWUL. As luck had it, their armoured train was present at the battle, and its cannon tore through the ranks of the slavers, stunning their battle line and shifting the fortune of war instantly in the NWUL's favour.

Slaughtered almost to the last half-dozen men in a determined counter-attack, the slavers fled. The NWUL not only gained the thanks of the nomads they saved, who joined their cause, but impressed upon those who heard the tale of the strength of this obscure faction. The story, of course, reached the ears of the RU, and only time would tell if and how they would react.
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PostPosted: Fri Mar 07, 2008 1:53 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

TRANSMISSION BROADCAST ON FREQUENCY 150.6

### This is the Republican Union. Colonel Artemis Benton has been newly appointed as the elected head of the Republican Union. The office of Colonel Artemis Benton has issued this statement.

The Sanctus Spiritus are traitors in collusion with the NWUL. They seek to displace the harmony of the RU's rule, and to bring about the ruin of civilisation. Father Yperite will be given a chance to issue a public apology, to condemn the NWUL, and to pay the requested tithe. Failure to do so is treason.

The Myrkta, and the Utopian States of America have shown faith and honour in dealing with the Republican Union. As such, to these two factions, we offer the sale of the technology for Solar Panels, so that their workshops and factories may be powered without the expense of precious fuel. The LSF and the Sisters of Solace are invited to purchse this technology at a higher price. We shall sell the technology to only one faction. Bids may be submitted publicly or privately.

The LSF and Sisters of Solace will soon be contacted concerning the payment of the tithe to the Republican Union.

This is will of the RU. Transgression is treason. Treason is punishable by death. ###
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"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!" - Edgar Allan Poe, The Cask of Amontillado.

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PostPosted: Fri Mar 07, 2008 2:53 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

"Helen, frequency 150.6. Now!"

"Yes, Sister..."

*feedback*

"...sorry Sister..."

*click*

"This is Lucretia Sora of the Sisters of Solace. We are in receipt of your lastest transmission. At this moment, we do not recognize your sovereignty over us.

"What authority, besides your words, grants you rule over us? What benefit, besides the chance of trading items at a cheaper rate, which if the tithes are taken in to account wind up costing more than for a faction who does not pay the tithes, does tithing to the RU generate?

"An over ruling government enters in to an agreeable social contract with both parties. Send an official to negotiate said contract to the Convent of the Overflowing Chalice in a month. Mother Succour is unavailable to meet with you for talks until then."


*click*
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PostPosted: Tue Mar 11, 2008 1:29 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

TRANSMISSION BROADCAST ON FREQUENCY 150.6

### This is the Republican Union. There is no question of our legal authority. All those who refuse the dues owed to the RU are enemies of civilisation, and will be eradicated. There is no forum for debate; no contract between the governors and the governed. Disputes shall be settled by the Army of the Union. Factions of the Borderlands may choose either compliance or elimination. ###
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PostPosted: Tue Mar 11, 2008 2:03 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

~OoC~
...damn...
Figures

~IC~

*click*

This is Lucretia Sora of The Sisters of Solace.

Mother Succour is still out visiting our parishioners in the Wastes. But she has left me here with the authority to respond if such an answer was forthcoming.

If there is no benefit to tithing to the RU, other than to try and dispel fear of military action against us, then we refuse to recognize your sovereignty over us. We are a group of humble Sisters who have founded and have held the Convent of the Overflowing Chalice since before the Great Wars, and threats from such an unknown insignificant group as the RU will not command our allegiance.

Lucretia Sora, out.


*click*
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PostPosted: Tue Mar 11, 2008 1:29 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Mother Succour sat with the Sisters outside their infirmary tents and surreptitiously glanced towards the dining hall of the Abbatoir. Yet another meeting of the original members of this settlement. That disgruntled one, Peton Vhale, would bear closer surveillance. The others have a long way to go in embracing the Order’s ways, but that one may never come around…

*curt nod*
Yes, surveillance of Peton Vhale is definitely the order of the day.
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PostPosted: Sun Mar 16, 2008 3:38 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Paradise 7 fundamentally disturbed Brother Grignard, not because of the unnerving reports or that it represented a major problem for the Eccliarsarchy as its existence contradicted the writings of the Sanctus Spiritus, but because it had dangerous potential.

As the brother left Father Yperite's office, the letter in his pale hands felt like an explosive, timed to destroy Sanctus Specus and the rest of the world.

Against his pride, he couldn't help but walk briskly to leave the ancient building and hand the document to Captain Orson. The sooner he did so, the quicker could he retreat to his librarium and his learned brothers; Father Phosgene would provide much needed succour through tasks and his soothing voice.

A crisis was looming.

Ten long minutes past before the shaken priest was standing at the Tithe gate. Looking down from the high walls was Sanctus Militans officer, surveying the open plains beyond the gate - gazing with caution at the disposessed, the vainly hopeful, and the large military company of Captain Orson. The army had settled outside the massive complex that was Sanctus Specus, building temporary shelters amid the broken huts of those seeking the church's beneficence. Upon seeing the army, Brother Grignard hurried through crowds, passing piles of supplies, until some moments later he was standing at the centre of the military camp.

Captain Orson stood some seven feet tall, and was built like a machine - heavy bones and powerful muscles covered in armour and the spoils of war and survival. Like a machine, he operated efficiently and without mercy. Without humanity, some whispered. To the priest's eyes, he seemed ideally suited to shake the wastelands precarious existence and doom them all.

Brother Grignard had his orders. He nodded when he met Orson's iron gaze, and when the soldier motioned for him to come closer he stepped forward and stretched out the hand holding Father Yperite's orders. A second later, Orson snatched the letter from his hand mechanically. The soldier then quickly glanced at it - enough time to read the bleak commands - and then turned on the spot to face his officers.

The priest hurried away, his heart either beating fast with the contents of the letter or the need to reach sanctuary. The holy gas mask wasn't allowing him to draw in enough air, so he was light headed and terrified. The Great War started with a gunshot and default alliances. What Father Yperite meant to do would plunge the world into a disaster worse than the war that scoured the lands.

Had Yperite acted in order to allow for Revelations to happen, knowing that Judgement Day had not come in 1918? Father De Soya would have spoken wisely to him and said not to risk it.

Paradise 7 terrified Brother Grignard. The world was not worth the price of Yperite's schemes.
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"Oh of course," the Navigator said with faint mocking in his voice, "you have probably heard of House Praetus. We have a palace on Holy Terra. Like all powerful groups, we also have our enemies. Do you honestly think someone like you matters?" - A dissolute noble.
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PostPosted: Sun Mar 16, 2008 1:27 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

TURN NINE

TRANSMISSION BROADCAST ON FREQUENCY 150.6

### This is the Republican Union. Treason shall not be tolerated.

The NWUL are beyond redemption. The Sanctus Spiritus and the Sisters of Solace may yet be pardoned. Both factions have had planes from the RU airforce fly above their home bases, identifying targets. Within one week, both factions shall see those planes return to strike those targets. This can be avoided. If the Sanctus Spiritus and the Sisters of Solace offer a public apology, and pay the requested tithe, there will be no unnecessary deaths. This is a final warning. ###
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PostPosted: Mon Mar 24, 2008 2:42 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

TURN TEN

[Broadcast on the morning of the fourth day of the week]

TRANSMISSION BROADCAST ON FREQUENCY 150.6

### This is the Republican Union. We hold the banner of civilisation, and prevail against the barbarity of the wasteland.

Yesterday morning, factions of the Borderlands learnt the folly of standing against the will of the RU. The Sanctus Spiritus and the Sisters of Solace preferred to offer insult than to trade. They may well ask the relatives of the many dead in their settlements whether resistance against the RU was worth the slaughter. Further assaults by the RU airforce will be scheduled if the aforementioned cults do not offer appropriate recompense.

This is the will of the Republican Union. To oppose the will of the RU is to commit treason.###

[Rumours emerge that, some time in the last few weeks, an immense ocean liner sailed westwards across the sea to new lands, carrying hundreds of men and women.

Winter is beginning to set in in the wastes. Days are drawing colder and shorter, and the night is becoming intolerably chill
]
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PostPosted: Sun Mar 30, 2008 8:43 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

TURN ELEVEN

From A History of the Decline of Man, by Alexei Vallis

Curiosities and Legends,

The Wolf of Bulvai


I include this particular tale, not because its veracity is beyond question – certainly it is not – but because it is an indication of the numerous folk myths which have emerged in the last few decades. The Wolf of Bulvai ranks as one of the most famous. According to some accounts, the Wolf was indeed the last of its breed. Wolves, referring to the sources I have consulted, are not creatures indigenous to this continent. Therefore, if indeed the beast was a wolf, it may have been the descendant of one of its kind kept in a zoo; somehow the line surviving through the nuclear winter until, finally, the most savage and cunning of the species emerged. If it was something else as those with an eye for the fantastic are want to claim - a demon, a devil, a mutant dog, or degenerate madman – then its potential origins are yet more obscure.

Depending on which story you believe, the monster was either half the height of a man, or taller than two. It could leap twenty feet, or fifty. It had eyes red and piercing, or ones which blazed with fire.

I have read reliable accounts of wolves reaching great physical size, though nothing as impressive as the legends tell. Therefore, I dismiss the vast majority of the accounts as unreliable. One account I do hold some stock in comes from the first attack it made against workers of the Liberal Salvation Front, one night while they were tending to their crops. The LSF archives are usually scrupulous in their factual truth and, when they do lie, the stench of propaganda is easy to detect. The report was taken by an officer who heard the account of the attack as given by another worker. It reads thus:

Eleventh Week following Ascension Day, Sergeant Feldman’s Report #5.023.6

M.N. Laeder arrived at the main shelter this morning with a tale describing a massacre which took place at the Farm 43-51.521. Laeder, though terrified, appears sane and responded favourably to Dr Benedict’s Solution Z51. By his account, last night one work team had remained behind to meet with their deadline. Shortly before they were to return, screams and the sound of growling were heard. One of the waste women we have taken into our protection claimed to have seen an immense canine form prowling in the darkness outside the farmstead shortly after the attack ceased. Upon investigation, it was discovered that the entire team of workers, 4 men and 3 women had been torn apart, as if by a wild animal. Though it is improbable that only one beast could have done this, tracks seem to indicate that a single canine was involved. Some of the workers have yet to be fully recovered.


Startling in its matter-of-fact style, and lack of any fanciful references, it is still easy to see why one beast capable of such slaughter could excite such fear. And thus, with this act of horrendous violence, the legend began to grow of the terrible eater of men, the Wolf of Bulvai.
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