Return of the Herculoids
Setting
It is the year 3030, and The Herculoids have returned from deep space to find a world where Total Control has surrounded the earth in an Anti-Hip Hop field. Unable to enter, The Herculoids granted a fraction of their power to the Heroes to seek out the Four Pillars. Only when the four pillars are brought together can the Herculoids return and bring peace to the earth.
The System
Return of the Herculoids uses 6-sided dice. Heroes roll a number of 6-sided dice equal to the relevant Pillar of Hip Hop. The Game Master of Ceremonies (GM) rolls a number of d6 against the Hero depending on the difficulty of the challenge. 1 for easy, 2 for medium, 3 for hard, 4 for impossible. Whoever rolls highest wins.
The Pillars
MCing – Mastery of Will (Negotiation, Intimidation, Persuasion)
DJing – Mastery of Technical (Picking Locks, Hacking Computers, Fixing the Broken)
B-Boying – Mastery of Physical (Lifting, Climbing, Breaking)
Graffiti – Mastery of Written (Knowledge, Investigation, Survival)
Hero Creation
Heroes start with 0 in each Pillar and 4 hit points.
Step 1: Where you’re from
Write down your stomping grounds, and add 1 to two pillars of your choice.
EXAMPLE – Brooklyn Subways: +1 to B-Boying and Graffiti
Monster Island:+1 to MCing and DJing
West Linn, Oregon: +1 to DJing and Graffiti
Character Creation (contd.)
Step 2: Occupation
Before the Return of the Herculoids, what did Total Control’s Aptitude Testing assign your Hero as an occupation? Add 1 to 1 pillar which currently has a zero.
Example – Salt Miner: +1 B-Boying
Anti-Communist League: +1MCing
Data Analyst: +1 Djing
Step 3: Your Patron
The Herculoids have reached out to your Hero, and the experience has eternally marked you with 1 of the 4 pillars. Choose a Patron, and add 2 to 1 pillar of your choice.
Example – Biz Markie: +2 MCing
Jazzy Jay: +2 Djing
DONDI: +2 Graffiti
MR. WAVE: +2 B-Boying
Destiny Chooses You: Alternative Character Creation
At each step of character creation, each player (including the GM) writes their answer on a slip of paper, places it in a hat, and each player randomly chooses one and applies it to their Hero.
Combat:
Everyone rolls a D6. Whoever rolls highest starts, and turns go around the table clockwise. Combat is handled like any other challenge – the Hero chooses their pillar, and roll against the Master of Ceremonies. Whichever side fails loses 1 hitpoint. At zero hitpoints, the character dies.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Caravan, Pt 3
“Do you know the story of the Hero Arendt?”
The Magister did not look up. The question was not worth answering. Everyone knew the story of The Hero. He had been taken as a child to become a scribe to the Emperor, a life spent in figures and in constant worship of The Hero that he may rise to become a God.
“He delivered us from the yolk of Earth, you know. They came from the Earth without faces, and ordered us to build more and more solar arrays and grow more and more food. But Arendt knew that without our food and without our solar power, they couldn’t come any more.”
“By the time they found him, hidden deep in the cathedral at Archimedes, it was already too late. He had taken the satellites and turned them, and bathed the surface of the earth in radiation and microwaves. They say that all at once, the lights went out. The seas began to boil and dark clouds blotted out the sun. They say the darkness overwhelmed them. All their crops died, and the air began to choke them. Billions of people died, unable to escape the choking air. The Hero cast them into a dark age from which they may never escape.”
At this the magister looked up. A slip of the tongue, a small heresy almost undetectable. Surely it was a mistake.
“Will never escape, madam.” He corrected.
She did not respond, lost in thought. It was improper to think on the topic, but at one time Arendt had been a boy. Records show he studied at the university at Copernicus, under corporate tutorship. There was rumor that he had been able to journey to the surface of the earth – they thought him clever and loyal, and he was to be given a small kingdom. And in gratitude, he built for them a way to capture the energy of the sun, and do with it as he willed. He willed it to burn the earth. Nobody knows why.
How different life would be, if he had simply taken their riches. His family would probably own half of the lunar face by now. They would all still be out in the fields, swinging scythes under the watchful eyes of soldiers from distant lands. And now she looked at her life.
The emperor had taken everything. She had a year, maybe, before the local vice lords would grow tired of her new taxes and would burn down buildings until the Emperor replaced her. Her family would be cast down, and she would be executed before the lot of them. It was a clever trap, from which there was no clever escape.
But perhaps the emperor assumed she did not know how to claw her way out – or perhaps it had been so long since someone tried that he had forgotten what it looked like. The pistol in her lap had always felt so heavy before, but sitting in her lap obscured by the folds of her dress it was simply an extension of her hand.
The Magister did not look up. The question was not worth answering. Everyone knew the story of The Hero. He had been taken as a child to become a scribe to the Emperor, a life spent in figures and in constant worship of The Hero that he may rise to become a God.
“He delivered us from the yolk of Earth, you know. They came from the Earth without faces, and ordered us to build more and more solar arrays and grow more and more food. But Arendt knew that without our food and without our solar power, they couldn’t come any more.”
“By the time they found him, hidden deep in the cathedral at Archimedes, it was already too late. He had taken the satellites and turned them, and bathed the surface of the earth in radiation and microwaves. They say that all at once, the lights went out. The seas began to boil and dark clouds blotted out the sun. They say the darkness overwhelmed them. All their crops died, and the air began to choke them. Billions of people died, unable to escape the choking air. The Hero cast them into a dark age from which they may never escape.”
At this the magister looked up. A slip of the tongue, a small heresy almost undetectable. Surely it was a mistake.
“Will never escape, madam.” He corrected.
She did not respond, lost in thought. It was improper to think on the topic, but at one time Arendt had been a boy. Records show he studied at the university at Copernicus, under corporate tutorship. There was rumor that he had been able to journey to the surface of the earth – they thought him clever and loyal, and he was to be given a small kingdom. And in gratitude, he built for them a way to capture the energy of the sun, and do with it as he willed. He willed it to burn the earth. Nobody knows why.
How different life would be, if he had simply taken their riches. His family would probably own half of the lunar face by now. They would all still be out in the fields, swinging scythes under the watchful eyes of soldiers from distant lands. And now she looked at her life.
The emperor had taken everything. She had a year, maybe, before the local vice lords would grow tired of her new taxes and would burn down buildings until the Emperor replaced her. Her family would be cast down, and she would be executed before the lot of them. It was a clever trap, from which there was no clever escape.
But perhaps the emperor assumed she did not know how to claw her way out – or perhaps it had been so long since someone tried that he had forgotten what it looked like. The pistol in her lap had always felt so heavy before, but sitting in her lap obscured by the folds of her dress it was simply an extension of her hand.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Caravan pt 2
Continued from The Caravan, pt 1
The interior of the Marchioness’ private carriage is tasteful, lined with soft fabrics and curtained from the blowing dust. She sits perfectly still in the relative cool of her personal cave, dressed modestly in black from head to toe. She has been riding for days around the sea of Tranquility to pay respects to the Emperor in Copernicus and to discuss the fate of their noble house now that her husband has suddenly died. She will ride for days more, the sun growing higher and higher as they near the capital, central to the light side of the moon. As is the fashion of courtiers, she sits with a lapdog brought at great expense from the surface of the leaden earth. Unlike the product of the royal kennels he is a hunter, born and trained to hunt vermin in a much harsher environment than its present royal surroundings. His narrow eyes are focused on the imperial magister sitting across from them.
The magister requested to join the Marchioness’ caravan, and how could she refuse the hand of the emperor. Magister Mubarak was responsible for a long list of duties to the emperor, who has always known that the prohibition on spirits and narcotics have been loosely enforced in Taruntius. Unable to spare the troops required to rid the sea of Crisis of its privateers, he has wisely chosen to simply drown the crater in demands for tribute. While it is impossible to know the exact wages of sin, Mubarak knows what will be required to make this new Marchioness squeeze harder on the casinos and drug dens under her purview. Mubarak the magister is entirely consumed by these figures. He is professional, precise, and adept at his work. However, Mubarak the assassin takes unnecessary risks, inefficient, and worst of all unaware of these faults. For these reasons, the Marchioness is entirely aware of the hands which poisoned her husband’s rum. Her quiet rage permeates the carriage, which only seems to satisfy her companion. He knows she is completely unaware of the primary purpose of his trip. Her preoccupation with the untimely death of her husband has blinded her to the jealous eyes on her family coffers. Even now he casually checks his math, divvying up the Tamar holdings to ensure she is just at the cusp of leisure, quite unable to take her house renegade, unable to pay her way out of the situation.
Nino Tamar was a simple court girl once, 3rd daughter to a cousin of The Hero. She was a girl then, and had a girls interests in the rumors and intrigue at the palace. Oh, how she had pouted when he took her away, over the sea to his father’s wooden city. There she found another kind of intrigue – one of rum runners and opium dens. Gambling houses and love hotels. Privateers and assassins. Her father in law had been a spiteful sonofabitch, and her husband had been a heartless bastard. Now she wondered if she had learned enough from either of them to survive the trials to come.
The interior of the Marchioness’ private carriage is tasteful, lined with soft fabrics and curtained from the blowing dust. She sits perfectly still in the relative cool of her personal cave, dressed modestly in black from head to toe. She has been riding for days around the sea of Tranquility to pay respects to the Emperor in Copernicus and to discuss the fate of their noble house now that her husband has suddenly died. She will ride for days more, the sun growing higher and higher as they near the capital, central to the light side of the moon. As is the fashion of courtiers, she sits with a lapdog brought at great expense from the surface of the leaden earth. Unlike the product of the royal kennels he is a hunter, born and trained to hunt vermin in a much harsher environment than its present royal surroundings. His narrow eyes are focused on the imperial magister sitting across from them.
The magister requested to join the Marchioness’ caravan, and how could she refuse the hand of the emperor. Magister Mubarak was responsible for a long list of duties to the emperor, who has always known that the prohibition on spirits and narcotics have been loosely enforced in Taruntius. Unable to spare the troops required to rid the sea of Crisis of its privateers, he has wisely chosen to simply drown the crater in demands for tribute. While it is impossible to know the exact wages of sin, Mubarak knows what will be required to make this new Marchioness squeeze harder on the casinos and drug dens under her purview. Mubarak the magister is entirely consumed by these figures. He is professional, precise, and adept at his work. However, Mubarak the assassin takes unnecessary risks, inefficient, and worst of all unaware of these faults. For these reasons, the Marchioness is entirely aware of the hands which poisoned her husband’s rum. Her quiet rage permeates the carriage, which only seems to satisfy her companion. He knows she is completely unaware of the primary purpose of his trip. Her preoccupation with the untimely death of her husband has blinded her to the jealous eyes on her family coffers. Even now he casually checks his math, divvying up the Tamar holdings to ensure she is just at the cusp of leisure, quite unable to take her house renegade, unable to pay her way out of the situation.
Nino Tamar was a simple court girl once, 3rd daughter to a cousin of The Hero. She was a girl then, and had a girls interests in the rumors and intrigue at the palace. Oh, how she had pouted when he took her away, over the sea to his father’s wooden city. There she found another kind of intrigue – one of rum runners and opium dens. Gambling houses and love hotels. Privateers and assassins. Her father in law had been a spiteful sonofabitch, and her husband had been a heartless bastard. Now she wondered if she had learned enough from either of them to survive the trials to come.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Caravan pt 1
The Caravan set out from Cassini at dawn, a long train of wagons draped in brightly colored sheets of canvas and flanked by guards and mercenary auxiliaries brought by the traders or poorer noblemen. Riding on camels and protected from the blazing sun only by helmets wrapped into a turban, they scanned the distant ridges for a chance to claim reward for spotting the first signs of attack. Behind them, The Marchioness’’ personal guard rode along on two-wheeled engines, flanked by pressured canisters of steam and holding saber and pistol akimbo. Under helmet and plates of armor, they looked forward calm and at the ready, which only served to send tremors of panic through their mercenary shield.
Grinding into the hard-packed earth, oxen and slaves brought from earth’s leaden landscape hurled their bulk against their yolks, pulling the carts and wagons under the watching buzzards. Given every comfort, Gladiators watch through the bars of their cage hoping for a chance to pound their freedom from a wave of marauders invariably peering between the scrub bushes. Fanatics of the Imperial cult walk behind them, their feet unprotected from the stones and eyes bare to the burning dust. Their parched throats sing discordant hymns for the apotheosis of the recently slain hero-king of their suzerainty in Copernicus. Above them, swinging choking incense and resplendent in purple and gold stands a lama. He will stand over his charge, completely unarmed and protected from harm only by the fanaticism of his followers.
Below him, the incense filters into the eyes of wretches behind iron masks, bound by iron chains to the iron scaffolds of the imperial cult’s altar. Men and women write naked, willing and unwilling alike, in penance to his will. Some few of them will walk home in a hair shirt, returning to Cassini with a clean soul. Many of them will never leave the temple at the trade city of Archimedes. They will be sacrificed to the hero-king or enslaved in her service to build wonders in her name.
They are watched by the piercing stares of heretic children, brought from the far northern craters as slaves to the empire in lieu of taxes. They sit in wide-eyed silence under the auspices of a dead-eyed crone who watches every blink and fidget to divine who will join the clergy, who will take up the rifle, who will fill the bureaucracy. She speaks of the Hero-Emperor and her great deeds, and the deeds they will do in her name. An endless supply of children raised to worship the sun or the moon will comprise the fingers of the 3 arms of empire. They nod, eager to please, leaving behind a dirt-floor hut ravaged daily by barbarians in the perpetual twilight of the far far north of Anaxagoras or Baillaud or Scoresby.
A child, large for his age and with a hunter’s sharp eye, hazards a glance away from his teacher to his future. A wall of Janissaries, warrior-slaves loyal to the empire and the corpse of its Hero King glides silently, armed with rifles and spears. Behind this impregnable wall 2 dozen adepts pull the noblewoman’s caravan. They are dressed in fine cloth and protected by a hard turban and the knowledge that if one should fall the rest will not stop pulling. The wheels behind him bear the seal of the hero, assuring that they will die knowing that even the weak know glory as a sacrifice to her return.
Above the menacing wheels the guard captain discusses philosophy with a wandering monk. The captain, under gilded plate and helm, behind tower shield and deadly blade, rubs his pale chin in deep thought while the monk, protected only by a hunting spear and the leather of his skin, lectures on the 8 types of murder which can be done in the heroes name. He can cite great epics from memory, and his Geas will be complete only when he has avenged the murder of a thousand priests. He will travel south to where it is rumored a rectory has been sacked and burned down near the fort of a barbarian king.
Grinding into the hard-packed earth, oxen and slaves brought from earth’s leaden landscape hurled their bulk against their yolks, pulling the carts and wagons under the watching buzzards. Given every comfort, Gladiators watch through the bars of their cage hoping for a chance to pound their freedom from a wave of marauders invariably peering between the scrub bushes. Fanatics of the Imperial cult walk behind them, their feet unprotected from the stones and eyes bare to the burning dust. Their parched throats sing discordant hymns for the apotheosis of the recently slain hero-king of their suzerainty in Copernicus. Above them, swinging choking incense and resplendent in purple and gold stands a lama. He will stand over his charge, completely unarmed and protected from harm only by the fanaticism of his followers.
Below him, the incense filters into the eyes of wretches behind iron masks, bound by iron chains to the iron scaffolds of the imperial cult’s altar. Men and women write naked, willing and unwilling alike, in penance to his will. Some few of them will walk home in a hair shirt, returning to Cassini with a clean soul. Many of them will never leave the temple at the trade city of Archimedes. They will be sacrificed to the hero-king or enslaved in her service to build wonders in her name.
They are watched by the piercing stares of heretic children, brought from the far northern craters as slaves to the empire in lieu of taxes. They sit in wide-eyed silence under the auspices of a dead-eyed crone who watches every blink and fidget to divine who will join the clergy, who will take up the rifle, who will fill the bureaucracy. She speaks of the Hero-Emperor and her great deeds, and the deeds they will do in her name. An endless supply of children raised to worship the sun or the moon will comprise the fingers of the 3 arms of empire. They nod, eager to please, leaving behind a dirt-floor hut ravaged daily by barbarians in the perpetual twilight of the far far north of Anaxagoras or Baillaud or Scoresby.
A child, large for his age and with a hunter’s sharp eye, hazards a glance away from his teacher to his future. A wall of Janissaries, warrior-slaves loyal to the empire and the corpse of its Hero King glides silently, armed with rifles and spears. Behind this impregnable wall 2 dozen adepts pull the noblewoman’s caravan. They are dressed in fine cloth and protected by a hard turban and the knowledge that if one should fall the rest will not stop pulling. The wheels behind him bear the seal of the hero, assuring that they will die knowing that even the weak know glory as a sacrifice to her return.
Above the menacing wheels the guard captain discusses philosophy with a wandering monk. The captain, under gilded plate and helm, behind tower shield and deadly blade, rubs his pale chin in deep thought while the monk, protected only by a hunting spear and the leather of his skin, lectures on the 8 types of murder which can be done in the heroes name. He can cite great epics from memory, and his Geas will be complete only when he has avenged the murder of a thousand priests. He will travel south to where it is rumored a rectory has been sacked and burned down near the fort of a barbarian king.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
In the Library at Rosetta Estates
Albert Goodfrey, dressed in a 3-piece suit, climbed the steps in groups of two. His face, impassive and stern, did not betray his mood which had been quite lightened throughout his trip home. Immediately after the private awards ceremony where he was promoted to Staff Sergeant, commended for valour, and given a medal for sacrificing his eye he had taken a shuttle to the landing pad at copernicus city and begun the long train ride over the shallow bay to the Rosetta Estate. His heart had lifted as the small city of Taruntius, on the sea of Crisis, had loomed over the horizon. And here he was, at the door of his grandfather's master's home - theirs in writing, his in heart.
The door echoed when he knocked, and he waited patiently as the warmth of the afternoon and no scheduled meetings slowed service. The maid hugged him, relief washing over decorum however briefly, and he was led through the halls to his private chambers. His father was still at the dig site with Peter Rosetta, so he spent a moment transferring his clothing to the closet and was pleased to discover no evidence that his quarters had been used or changed in his four year absence.
He found one of the new Valets, hired in his absence to look after one of the younger siblings no doubt, and swallowed his incredulity when told that the young master was in the family library. The room was cavernous and lined with old tomes. A central tower tastefully displayed a series of hard drives, copied long ago from the Rosetta's first successful digs but kept for posterity, a reminder of humbler beginnings. He found the young man hunched over a leather-bound tome, magnifying glass in hand, under a dusty beam of sunlight.
"I have returned from the front, Master Rosetta, Sir."
Young Jacob Rosetta stood as if in the presence of his father or a ghost. He barely kept the chair from clattering to the floor. With family safely away and the help safely tending to the maintainence of the grounds his face broke into a wide grin and he embraced his childhood friend.
"My God, man! Look at you! You look as strong as an Ox! Has it really been four years?"
Albert nodded in agreement, patting his patron's back.
"We've been following you on the feeds, you know. Richard and I. When he heard about your promotion, you should have seen his face! He was so sure CORPORAL Bridges would outrank you in the end just because they're an old navy family. But we knew, my father and I, the Goodfrey's always get the job done. Staff Sergent in one tour." He whistled, impressed that his friend, valet, and second in battle no matter how hypothetical was one of the few to rank so high. Those families that made their money in banking or opium who looked down on him for a family whose noble title came from digging ancient servers out of the dirt, well, they'd be singing a different tune now that his personal servant was so decorated.
"Merely doing my duty, sir."
Rosetta waved his hand, dismissing the modesty. "My father will be home soon, of course. You'll have to wait until he gets back before you start regaling us with war stories, but I admit I'm simply dying to know. Oh, and I'm certain your father will be pleased as well!"
"Of course, Sir. I see you've been keeping yourself busy?" He gestured to the book, and altogether unknown quantity in the life of a younger Jacob Rosetta.
"Oh! Yes. Of course. As soon as I heard about your promotion I set to fulfilling my promise to you. I've gotten a job!"
Albert was many things. A successful soldier, a tireless valet, an excellent cook, and an empathetic listener. He was not, however, divine and as such was unable to keep his eyebrows from raising in a combination of delight, doubt, and overwhelming surprise.
"A Job, Sir?" Best to make sure he'd heard that clearly.
"Oh, Yes." Jacob nodded enthusiastically. "I told my father before he left, I told him 'Father, I'd like to continue the family business!' and since he left to go oversee the new dig in Oregon I've been getting to know the library and meeting with some of father's associates."
"Well, I'm quite happy for you sir. However, unless my eyes deceive me, the tome before you appears to be rather more about Earth's European History. Quite a heady topic, and one unlikely to serve you well in the business of prospecting for information if you don't mind my saying."
Jacob looked confused for a minute, and then laughed. "Of course! Since there's terribly little to do before I can begin following father on his business doings, I have resolved, also, to become a patron of the arts."
"Have you, sir?"
"Indeed, I have! Just last night, Reggie and I - Reggie's a friend from school at Copernicus, you see - Reggie and I went to this horribly dull little party at a beach house by Crisis. He left almost immediately, but one of the owners is an Artist! He and a friend of his are working to write fictional stories from old times, using real characters. They say it will make for entertaining reading, and divulge truths about the nature in which we view history, or so I'm told. They say, when its published, I can use a 'nom d'plume' for my work as a researcher and writer. Its all terribly exciting."
There was a pregnant pause.
"Well, the research itself is actually quite dull, but I helped them write up a story of Winston Churchill and Jack Churchill fighting side by side in one of the more dramatic battles of the Second World War. Seeing the work completed is a great deal more exciting than the reading that must go into it, but i've found it quite gratifying."
"Well, that is very good news, sir. You had mentioned that it is to be published? Will your father be involving himself?"
"Oh no, that's the best part! I still have most of the family money from after I graduated Copernicus, and I'm resolved to publish the thing myself. They don't know about that, of course. They're resolved to do the thing for the art of it, and I don't want to spoil that. I told them, if we could get a finished product I was sure I could get it published, but I don't think they believe me. Just think how excited they'll be! Perhaps I'll be able to start my own book publishing company, and then we can print all of father's server data without having to pay such outlandish fees!"
"Ah, I see your plan now, Sir. I hope it turns out well for you."
The door echoed when he knocked, and he waited patiently as the warmth of the afternoon and no scheduled meetings slowed service. The maid hugged him, relief washing over decorum however briefly, and he was led through the halls to his private chambers. His father was still at the dig site with Peter Rosetta, so he spent a moment transferring his clothing to the closet and was pleased to discover no evidence that his quarters had been used or changed in his four year absence.
He found one of the new Valets, hired in his absence to look after one of the younger siblings no doubt, and swallowed his incredulity when told that the young master was in the family library. The room was cavernous and lined with old tomes. A central tower tastefully displayed a series of hard drives, copied long ago from the Rosetta's first successful digs but kept for posterity, a reminder of humbler beginnings. He found the young man hunched over a leather-bound tome, magnifying glass in hand, under a dusty beam of sunlight.
"I have returned from the front, Master Rosetta, Sir."
Young Jacob Rosetta stood as if in the presence of his father or a ghost. He barely kept the chair from clattering to the floor. With family safely away and the help safely tending to the maintainence of the grounds his face broke into a wide grin and he embraced his childhood friend.
"My God, man! Look at you! You look as strong as an Ox! Has it really been four years?"
Albert nodded in agreement, patting his patron's back.
"We've been following you on the feeds, you know. Richard and I. When he heard about your promotion, you should have seen his face! He was so sure CORPORAL Bridges would outrank you in the end just because they're an old navy family. But we knew, my father and I, the Goodfrey's always get the job done. Staff Sergent in one tour." He whistled, impressed that his friend, valet, and second in battle no matter how hypothetical was one of the few to rank so high. Those families that made their money in banking or opium who looked down on him for a family whose noble title came from digging ancient servers out of the dirt, well, they'd be singing a different tune now that his personal servant was so decorated.
"Merely doing my duty, sir."
Rosetta waved his hand, dismissing the modesty. "My father will be home soon, of course. You'll have to wait until he gets back before you start regaling us with war stories, but I admit I'm simply dying to know. Oh, and I'm certain your father will be pleased as well!"
"Of course, Sir. I see you've been keeping yourself busy?" He gestured to the book, and altogether unknown quantity in the life of a younger Jacob Rosetta.
"Oh! Yes. Of course. As soon as I heard about your promotion I set to fulfilling my promise to you. I've gotten a job!"
Albert was many things. A successful soldier, a tireless valet, an excellent cook, and an empathetic listener. He was not, however, divine and as such was unable to keep his eyebrows from raising in a combination of delight, doubt, and overwhelming surprise.
"A Job, Sir?" Best to make sure he'd heard that clearly.
"Oh, Yes." Jacob nodded enthusiastically. "I told my father before he left, I told him 'Father, I'd like to continue the family business!' and since he left to go oversee the new dig in Oregon I've been getting to know the library and meeting with some of father's associates."
"Well, I'm quite happy for you sir. However, unless my eyes deceive me, the tome before you appears to be rather more about Earth's European History. Quite a heady topic, and one unlikely to serve you well in the business of prospecting for information if you don't mind my saying."
Jacob looked confused for a minute, and then laughed. "Of course! Since there's terribly little to do before I can begin following father on his business doings, I have resolved, also, to become a patron of the arts."
"Have you, sir?"
"Indeed, I have! Just last night, Reggie and I - Reggie's a friend from school at Copernicus, you see - Reggie and I went to this horribly dull little party at a beach house by Crisis. He left almost immediately, but one of the owners is an Artist! He and a friend of his are working to write fictional stories from old times, using real characters. They say it will make for entertaining reading, and divulge truths about the nature in which we view history, or so I'm told. They say, when its published, I can use a 'nom d'plume' for my work as a researcher and writer. Its all terribly exciting."
There was a pregnant pause.
"Well, the research itself is actually quite dull, but I helped them write up a story of Winston Churchill and Jack Churchill fighting side by side in one of the more dramatic battles of the Second World War. Seeing the work completed is a great deal more exciting than the reading that must go into it, but i've found it quite gratifying."
"Well, that is very good news, sir. You had mentioned that it is to be published? Will your father be involving himself?"
"Oh no, that's the best part! I still have most of the family money from after I graduated Copernicus, and I'm resolved to publish the thing myself. They don't know about that, of course. They're resolved to do the thing for the art of it, and I don't want to spoil that. I told them, if we could get a finished product I was sure I could get it published, but I don't think they believe me. Just think how excited they'll be! Perhaps I'll be able to start my own book publishing company, and then we can print all of father's server data without having to pay such outlandish fees!"
"Ah, I see your plan now, Sir. I hope it turns out well for you."
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
At a party somewhere.
Jack's eyes narrowed. He'd come to this party in good faith, bearing a sixer of a microbrew from New Orleans under the assumption that an evening of pleasant social interaction was to be had. He had told himself that the objective here was a wider social circle, and there was nothing to be gained by being judgemental. In many ways it had paid off. The music wasn't what he'd put on, but it was pleasant and carried a straightforward beat at a volume that allowed a modicum of privacy in the small pockets of conversation. The drinks were mostly Do It Yourself 2-part cocktails in the form of various 2-liter bottles of juice and various handles of bottom to mid-shelf liqours. He'd played a bit of scrabble until it had gotten heated, and he'd learned about the local anarchist bookstore, which would give him something to do tomorrow. The house, a sort of commune for 5 or 6 residents who preferred quality of life over privacy, had a back yard complete with 5 guys and a dog arguing over when to flip the hamburgers. There were weed-infused sub-parties upstairs, though following one of those crowds seemed an imposition given the acquaintence who he'd come with had left at eleven under a flimsy pretense. He was flying solo, breaking ice where he could, and so far that had gotten him tied up in a knot with 3 or 4 young men and women who clearly shared an office. They had pounced, in the way he had suspected they would from the start of the conversation, like social raptors sensing prey. So, Jack, what do YOU do?
He pretended to be struggling with a particularly difficult swallow of vodka and tonic, and weighed his options.
"Bullshit, mostly. Anyone want a drink?"
Ignoring requests for reinforcements, he sullenly walked back to the haphazardly organized table of bottles. He'd been working those 3 for what had seemed like half an hour. He'd casually walked by, pretended to take an interest in some fragment of conversation, lurked in the periphery, waited for an opportunity to be clever. Lacking a generous soul, he'd parted the waters by force before being treated to a treatise on Carla from HR, the filthy whore. They were on the precipice of a conversation about the latest weird-for-the-sake-of-truth movie offering when hairgel over there had rather violently shifted the conversation to what we do in exchange for money.
"Can I make you something?"
Jack snapped out of it. A rather charming young man was playing bartender. He introduced himself as Oscar, a resident of the home, and it was an absolute pleasure to meet him. And yes, he had vermouth, along with an altogether better class of gin, and for the modest price of listening to him nerd out about drinks he'd gladly share. This last bit he actually said, word for word. A queen sized bed, picture of a significant other, and second wardobe revealed he was, in point of fact, a giant if unknowing tease. But the drinks were good, and when the usual suspects of conversation subsided he turned to a hasty sketch tacked to the wall.
"Thanks, I'm a little proud of that one. A friend of mine and I are working on a project." He trailed off, until given permission to speak at length.
"Well, we're working on writing and illustrating a couple of hero stories. Just for fun, we haven't talked to a publisher or anything, but I'm hoping we can turn it into a graphic novel. We're using people who really existed, though. We want to use real figures, and just make it as pulpy as possible. Like, what if Churchill had actually gone ahead and stormed Normandy with the troops? Tommy guns and all."
Jack pointed, "Maybe he should be teamed up with Fightin' Jack Churchill."
When quizzed, he revealed that Jack Churchill was the only soldier to kill someone with a Longbow in the whole of WW2, that he'd been disappointed with the use of atomic weapons because it ended the war sooner, and kept him from getting to fight more. Oscar was rapt, letting the ice in his glass melt as he was regaled with tales of a larger than life personality behaving like some kind of Mongolian raider on the steppe.
He was handed a card, and told to contact the writer who was, unfortunately, not in attendance. Drinks concluded, Jack was ushered to a literal social circle and introduced to other residents to enjoy the rest of his evening before stumbling out into the crisp early morning air.
He pretended to be struggling with a particularly difficult swallow of vodka and tonic, and weighed his options.
"Bullshit, mostly. Anyone want a drink?"
Ignoring requests for reinforcements, he sullenly walked back to the haphazardly organized table of bottles. He'd been working those 3 for what had seemed like half an hour. He'd casually walked by, pretended to take an interest in some fragment of conversation, lurked in the periphery, waited for an opportunity to be clever. Lacking a generous soul, he'd parted the waters by force before being treated to a treatise on Carla from HR, the filthy whore. They were on the precipice of a conversation about the latest weird-for-the-sake-of-truth movie offering when hairgel over there had rather violently shifted the conversation to what we do in exchange for money.
"Can I make you something?"
Jack snapped out of it. A rather charming young man was playing bartender. He introduced himself as Oscar, a resident of the home, and it was an absolute pleasure to meet him. And yes, he had vermouth, along with an altogether better class of gin, and for the modest price of listening to him nerd out about drinks he'd gladly share. This last bit he actually said, word for word. A queen sized bed, picture of a significant other, and second wardobe revealed he was, in point of fact, a giant if unknowing tease. But the drinks were good, and when the usual suspects of conversation subsided he turned to a hasty sketch tacked to the wall.
"Thanks, I'm a little proud of that one. A friend of mine and I are working on a project." He trailed off, until given permission to speak at length.
"Well, we're working on writing and illustrating a couple of hero stories. Just for fun, we haven't talked to a publisher or anything, but I'm hoping we can turn it into a graphic novel. We're using people who really existed, though. We want to use real figures, and just make it as pulpy as possible. Like, what if Churchill had actually gone ahead and stormed Normandy with the troops? Tommy guns and all."
Jack pointed, "Maybe he should be teamed up with Fightin' Jack Churchill."
When quizzed, he revealed that Jack Churchill was the only soldier to kill someone with a Longbow in the whole of WW2, that he'd been disappointed with the use of atomic weapons because it ended the war sooner, and kept him from getting to fight more. Oscar was rapt, letting the ice in his glass melt as he was regaled with tales of a larger than life personality behaving like some kind of Mongolian raider on the steppe.
He was handed a card, and told to contact the writer who was, unfortunately, not in attendance. Drinks concluded, Jack was ushered to a literal social circle and introduced to other residents to enjoy the rest of his evening before stumbling out into the crisp early morning air.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Somewhere on the Dark Side of the Moon
"So, when we come back to life, what's it going to feel like?"
Maria sighed. A squad of almost 30 soldiers were sitting cross-legged around him like a class of kindergartners. They had no uniform aside from the tattered state of their clothes. The fire illuminated their hungry expressions through the perpetual evening of the Dark Side. The stars were out, and beautiful. Under their blanket, groups of tents representing The War-God's mercenary army swayed in the bitter wind. Many of these men hadn't known normal life for over four years, living off tribute from the small farms nearby.
Officer Vega was having a difficult time. When the revolutionaries had stormed her family estate she had been traveling through North Africa as a student. Her attempts to find any trace of them had been a frustrating waste of the years. The end of the Tsar's reign had taken from her a life as a member of court. All she had now was her trade. The hulking thrall that loomed behind her was proof of that. And today, she had been attached to a squadron of the Baron's finest infantrymen. Or so he had said. They didn't look like soldiers worth bringing back from the grave to keep up the fight.
"You won't feel anything." She said. This did not seem to calm anyone down.
A round-faced boy with a mouth like a perfect O pointed at the Revenant who was presently staring at the sky. "We're gonna look like that?
She sighed again. "No, you will not look like Boris. In life, Boris was a Bear."
There was a general murmur of understanding at this. The silence that followed was absolute. Boris turned to the flames with glassy, unblinking eyes. The Baron had told her these men would be proud to be so valued, but she doubted he would care about their concern. Soon, they would be laying siege to the walled city of Daedalus. Their first attack had been a shambles, even though the shamans had declared the date auspicious. They had burned the whole supply of wood, making 3 campfires for every soldier. They must look terrifying in the dark.
Maria sighed. A squad of almost 30 soldiers were sitting cross-legged around him like a class of kindergartners. They had no uniform aside from the tattered state of their clothes. The fire illuminated their hungry expressions through the perpetual evening of the Dark Side. The stars were out, and beautiful. Under their blanket, groups of tents representing The War-God's mercenary army swayed in the bitter wind. Many of these men hadn't known normal life for over four years, living off tribute from the small farms nearby.
Officer Vega was having a difficult time. When the revolutionaries had stormed her family estate she had been traveling through North Africa as a student. Her attempts to find any trace of them had been a frustrating waste of the years. The end of the Tsar's reign had taken from her a life as a member of court. All she had now was her trade. The hulking thrall that loomed behind her was proof of that. And today, she had been attached to a squadron of the Baron's finest infantrymen. Or so he had said. They didn't look like soldiers worth bringing back from the grave to keep up the fight.
"You won't feel anything." She said. This did not seem to calm anyone down.
A round-faced boy with a mouth like a perfect O pointed at the Revenant who was presently staring at the sky. "We're gonna look like that?
She sighed again. "No, you will not look like Boris. In life, Boris was a Bear."
There was a general murmur of understanding at this. The silence that followed was absolute. Boris turned to the flames with glassy, unblinking eyes. The Baron had told her these men would be proud to be so valued, but she doubted he would care about their concern. Soon, they would be laying siege to the walled city of Daedalus. Their first attack had been a shambles, even though the shamans had declared the date auspicious. They had burned the whole supply of wood, making 3 campfires for every soldier. They must look terrifying in the dark.
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