Right then, let's begin.
The newest RP from Fistpunch Productions


The Sons Always Rise



The winds are harsh on the border of the Lost Province, the air brushed with a faint scent of something indescribable, both unnerving and exciting in its other-worldliness. Invigorating to the senses, the winds of adventure blow through the plains, the warm sunlight of mid-afternoon just beginning the slow descent into fire-streaked sunset.

On the edge of Confederation-Cleoni territory, the small town of Middenton stakes out a wary existence, eyes fixed on the border of the forsaken lands beyond, many of their own sons lured away by the siren song of that ancient land. A village of perhaps six hundred souls, now straining under the weight of recent visitors.

They are a thrifty folk, these Middentons, fitting, given their nominal Confederate allegiance, tight-fisted in all things, self-reliant, and proud in the manner of frontier folk, yet the Cleoni influence is strong here. No proper churches or temples to be seen, true, but small shrines and offering tables to matters divine or spiritual dot street corners and huddle on stoops.

Homesteads and farmers dot the surrounding area, livestock, produce and other bounties of the harvest make their way into town by rugged trails, marked by occasional wooden posts to show the way, the roads marked more by the passing of many steps over many years, vegetation worn away by travelers.

Tailors and grocers and butchers circle the center of town, profit mingling with that spice of Cleoni influence, some spices from the great plantation-monasteries in their interior are found, alongside proud Confederate staples, runic sigils dot the stalls, bringing cooling air, wafting the scent of cooking meat, enticing interested noses.

No grand artistry are these mystic inscriptions, they are in the focused, workmanlike manner of the Confederation, chiseled briskly and put to work for practical purposes, smiths and scribes in coarse, working clothes, rather than inscribed aprons and flowing robes more common in the older cities of Europa.

Still, today is a busy day for these townsfolk, as they have a great many guests.

A legion of tents, organized in neat, sectioned rows is adjacent to the town, banners bearing the Black-and-Gold flap in the gusts, close-faced men with well-maintained armor and weaponry stand at attention around the perimeter.

A Free Company, one of the many ragged descendants of Legion men left abandoned by the Imperial Collapse, but too proud to follow Cleon's call, they are a familiar sight in Confederate lands, many older men, wizened and scarred, nod in approval at the organized soldiery, they do their predecessors proud.

They, you, have been camped here for several days, waiting to rendezvous with a Cleoni force and enter the lands beyond.

The brief rest is appreciated by your fellow Sons, many still nursing injuries from the recent One Month War, some hundred leagues westward, and already some farmhands and idle sons and daughters have approached you, seeking adventure or asylum, to the displeasure of some of the more fortunate in the area.

Still, you haven't quite warn out your welcome, thanks to your Help Board and patrols driving off the monster raids, and the Cleoni are due within the day. So the Captain, in their infinite wisdom and benevolence, has eased the iron grip on discipline and advanced some pay to allow for some liberty in the village for personal interests and entertainment.

The Goldenwrought
Afternoon
Venn, Lyr, Lorraine

Heinmeyer eyed the dark-clad soldiery with wary eyes, fighting men were trouble, typically, but these types seemed to know their business well, and as much as he cursed them for luring away some of his barmaids, they paid quickly and generously.

Still, the recent entries were new, the typically empty tavern filled with a small horde of gilded crows, his brows furrowing as he noted the slim figures of women filling many of the seats, with the occasional brawny man dotted here and there, particularly the taciturn young man who, though the aging barman hadn't heard a word from him, was clearly in charge.

Lucky bastard.

He was pretty sure the slip of a girl next to him was too young to drink, but what did he care?

He poured more of his Appled Ale into another tankard and thanked the stars that he'd at least gotten a new waitress, cute too, even, eager to serve, and unaccompanied.

Maybe he'd have some better luck with that one.

Still... She did have her share of quirks, as he watched her gracefully step across the lightly stained floor, tray perched atop her head, hands gripping it tightly.

She wouldn't let go of that damned thing, for one.

"Hello-hello! You asked for more jugs?"

Ah, the main table, with the grumpy-looking guy and the teenager.

Maybe he should pay some attention, keep losing track of that blonde with the annoying voice, runers were always trouble.

Market Square
Afternoon
Farrah, Mordred, Gunda

"Mysteries here! Lost relics from the Lost Province! Helradian goods and recovered artifacts, rumored to be from one of the mystical Magisteriums of the Old Empire, runic knowledge, forbidden lore, all right here for low, low prices!"

The crier bellowed her cant into the square, grimacing at the unimpressed looks her fellow merchants shot her as she continued, mixing it up here and there.

Friggin yokels, stop in their boonie town for a couple days and they start riding your ass, should be damned grateful! They should be so luck as to be blessed with her presence, the presence of Margaret, Merchant Supreme!

Or perhaps Shopkeep Supreme? She did need to work on branding, it might give her a few days when the constables catch up with her.

She smiled through her worries and her heart soared when a group of one of those up-jumped swords-for-hire ambled into the square, they hadn't heard it all yet, maybe she could make a sale?

Get rid of some of this junk, maybe, it's not doing her any good.

Smiley up front's got all sorts of nick-knacks hanging off her, maybe she'd be interested in a few more bits and bobs. Though she eyed the looming presence of the Automaton warily, and the broad with the glowy bits hanging off of her was giving her a discerning eye.

Yeesh, another miser.

She beamed her sales-smile even brighter, "Come on over, strangers! Got meself some rare things on sale! I've picked up all sorts of secreted loot from over the border, even some of the recovered stuff from Veranza's last expedition! Low prices, cause I got to get this stuff gone quick!"

Wise-up! The One-Month War
A group of petty lords rose up against their rich, profligate liege, and displeased with the initial concessions given, rallied their retinues and the many Free Companies that dotted the land to their banners.

You had the misfortune, due to having provided security during the negotiations, of being caught on a side that was going to lose, the Honorable Duke Henrik gifting you many a wereglid for the many fallen Sons that lined the fields, for all the good it did, cut off as you were from profiteers.

Still, you showed why the Blackened Gold of the Revenant Sons was to be feared on the battlefield, and was it not for the key intervention of the Count Heathrow, called 'Skyflame', on the third week, the War may have quickly become unprofitable for the enemy coalition.

Still, in respect for your efforts, he allowed you to pass from his new lands peacefully, gifting you a great many of his own finely bred steeds, 'to speed you on your travels'.

You got the message, the severed head of your employer helped.

The Duke's family hostage, his head on a pike, you chose to rise again another day, and departed in good order.

You lost a good couple hundred in casualties, perhaps a third of that again in desertions, some officers among them.

You are reduced to perhaps half-strength, maybe two-thirds, if all were pressed.

You needed work, and as luck would have it, perhaps a god smiled on you, for the Cleoni presented an offer...